OCR Text |
Show 52 a meat pie from a vendor and a cup of ale from a brewer, I wandered through the East Gate along the straight narrow pathway which led to Calvary Mountain. After a while my steps took me to where a stone cross stood, the last station on the pilgrimage route my mother had taken. Halting before the cross I noticed how weathered it was - had it looked the same way when my mother was there? With my finger I traced the roses carved into the cross - had she touched these very stone roses, just as I was doing? What had brought my mother on her pilgrimage, I wondered. Was she performing a penance? Perhaps she'd had bodily knowledge of my father before they were married, or perhaps they had not been married at all. Maybe they could not marry because my father was a nobleman and my mother a commoner. I slammed my fist against the stone cross - it was silly to make up stories about my parentage. The truth was that I was an orphan of unknown ancestry. The day was perfectly still except for the buzzing of flies and the call of birds. More clouds pushed against one another overhead, until the few blue patches of sky were crowded out. "It can't rain," I told myself. "Gast said it wouldn't rain until after the celebration." Then I jerked my head angrily, realizing how foolish that thought was. How could Gast know when it would rain? I felt dull and heavy. My body craved sleep. I didn't want to lie on the ground because my new clothes might get dirty, but several minutes walk beyond the stone cross, just at the base of Calvary Mountain, |