Hannes took a small drink from his nearly empty water flask, then wiped his sweat-streaked face with the sleeve of his rough linen shirt. The day's march had been hot and dusty, and the little army had been on its long pilgrimage for many weeks. In the passion of the early days after they gathered at the summons of Prince Vilmar, Hannes had not tried to keep count. Now the days were a tired blur in his mind, and all Hannes knew was that this dry plain was somewhere in the Kingdom of Hungary. Somewhere still far short of the Byzantine Empire where they would meet the Muslim Turks who were threatening Constantinople.

Hannes sat in the thin shade of a lone tree, along with his friend Jurgen and several of the others from his village who had banded together to join the Prince's army. He looked out over the field as he shook some of the accumulated dust from the sleeves and pantlegs of his coarse homespun clothing. In the early days of the march his eyes would have seen a proud army of young soldiers, carrying the Pope's banner in the cause of freeing the Holy City of Jerusalem from the hands of the Muslim enemy. His untrained eyes still did not see the absence of military discipline, the lack of experience for such a mission. But now he saw through his own weariness the perfunctory way they moved through the camp preparations and their evening meal, and all but dropped in their tracks for their night's rest. Even the Prince's colorful pavilion had begun to look shabby. And most of Hannes's fellows no longer saw to the care of the blades they had whetted keen each day with such pride and anticipation in the first weeks of the march.

Hannes looked at Jurgen. His friend had shaken his clothes and laid out his bedding, and now in his methodical way was wiping down the steel shortsword his father had given him. He was using a piece of oiled cloth he kept in a small pouch just for this purpose, which Jurgen had made a daily ritual.

Jurgen was the son of the village carter. The sword he treated with such care had belonged to an uncle who had fought in one of their region's feudal wars a generation earlier. Hannes was two years younger than Jurgen, and the son of a farmer. To Hannes, the skills with cutting tools that Jurgen displayed, learned from practicing his father's craft, and his inherited tool of war, combined to help make Jurgen's ploddingly methodical character seem the exemplar of soldiery, steadfast in his devotion to their cause.

Hannes drew out his own shortsword, wiped it carefully with his shirt tail, and studied it. His sword had come out of the Prince's armory. It seemed sturdy enough, though it had not been made with any great care and the cross-guard had a tendency to work loose. Hannes tested its edge with his thumb. He was sure it would cut grain as well as the scythe he favored for his work in his father's fields. He wasn't as confident of its use on Turkish soldiers.

Hannes's mind turned reluctantly toward thoughts of killing and death. He had an older brother who had gone into the priesthood. Occasionally this brother came home to visit, and on those occasions Hannes had often talked with him at length about the Church and the Will of God, the teachings of Christ and God's purpose for His faithful. Hannes had even considered going into the Church himself, but he had been needed at home to tend the livestock and help with the crops.

Then Pope Urban had given the call to arms. To Hannes it had been another chance to answer the call of the Church. In the passion of the day his father could not refuse to let him go. Now that passion had been dulled by the long march, and Hannes was no longer sure that this was the answer for him. There had been much boastful talk and waving of swords in mock combat when the march began, but Hannes was beginning to see that the reality might be quite different.

"Jurgen," he asked, "What do you suppose it is like to kill a man?"

"I suppose it is much like killing a pig," his friend replied.

"But a pig has no soul."

"Nor does a Turk, as we've been told."

"When I kill a pig, I take care to make sure it does not know my intention. That may not be so easy with a Turk."

"Do you fear that the Turk might kill you instead?"

"No. I am confident that the Hand of God will guide and protect me. But if a pig knows I have come to kill it, it runs away, or does other things to make the task difficult for me. I suppose the Turks might do the same."

"Let the Turks run all the way to Jerusalem if they will. When they can run no further, we will kill them there."

"I would not think it right to defile the Holy City so. Our purpose is to drive the Muslims from that place, not into it."

"God's Will shall prevail."

"Even so, there have been pigs I would rather not have killed."

Jurgen did not reply. Night had gathered while they spoke, and presently sounds of deep breathing rose from Jurgen's blankets, telling Hannes that his friend was asleep.

Weary as he was, Hannes could not sleep so easily. He watched the moon rise, and new thoughts about the Church and their Holy Mission seemed to rise with it. What was God's plan for him? Was soldiery truly the best way for him to serve the Church? At heart Hannes was of a peaceful nature. He had always shied away from the village street brawls some of his rowdier friends seemed to enjoy.

Perhaps it had been wrong for him to leave home. His father had given in to Hannes's argument that his younger brothers were growing old enough to handle all of his chores, but perhaps it had been unfair of him to put that burden on them.

One in seven, the Prince had said. Hannes had thought those words applied peculiarly well to his family, and clearly he was the One. The two older brothers who had not joined the Church were both married and had farms of their own. His three younger brothers, although they were strong enough for farm chores, were certainly not ready to be sent to war.

So it had to be Hannes who was singled out. But why? Was it truly right for him to do this? Had he understood God's Will for him correctly?

Hannes grew more and more restless, and when the moon's crescent was high and bright he stood up, shaking his clouded head. The night was chill, and he pulled the woolen cloak which served him for a blanket around his shoulders. He drew a long breath. The night chill had brought a welcome smell of moisture to the air that had been absent in the heat of day. Hannes meant to take a walk in the moonlight, hoping to clear his troubled mind that he might sleep. With half a thought for defense against prowling animals, he strapped his sword to his hip, then set off.

For a while Hannes wandered aimlessly, but eventually he became aware that he was drifting westward, with the moon at his back so that it illuminated the path in front of him. There was a dark forest in that direction, at the edge of the valley they had been marching through, and the scent of it on the night breeze seemed to lure him toward it. He looked back over his left shoulder at the broad crescent of the moon still rising behind him. He could make out the small stand of trees where the army was camped, and the dull glow of campfires that had not yet died. He felt sure he would have no trouble finding his way back later on. Not quite knowing why, he set off again toward the forest with more purpose.

It was not long before he reached the forest edge, and the ancient oaks were towering over him. They stood out black in the moonlight like primeval guardians, with tendrils of white mist drifting about their bases. The mist told Hannes there might be a stream of some kind within the forest, and suddenly he was thirsty and wanted to find it. He looked back at the moon once more, then ducked in under the trees.

Hannes stared straight ahead, letting his eyes adjust to the deeper dark, and slowly he made out a lighter patch in front of him. That would be a clearing, possibly cut by the stream he was looking for. He headed toward it.

The clearing turned out to be small, just enough of a break in the twining oak branches overhead to let in a stray beam of moonlight. He stepped across it with a small pang of disappointment, and looked again. There was another patch of light ahead, and he went on, tugging impatiently when his cloak snagged in the brush.

Again Hannes was met with disappointment, but as he stood silently looking still deeper into the forest, he thought he heard faintly the sound of running water. Now his modest thirst became almost a craving, and he plunged heedlessly further into the dark woods, stopping only briefly now and again to relocate the sound.

Before long his search was rewarded. There was another lightening of the gloom ahead of him, and the burble of running water grew more distinct. The swirling mist thickened and brightened, and soon he stepped from among the silent oaks onto the grassy margin of a rippling brook. Without hesitation, Hannes knelt on the low earthy bank to scoop up handfuls of the cool sweet water from a pool among mossy stones. His thirst slaked, Hannes laved his grimy face and forearms. Only then, as he wiped his face with a corner of his cloak, did he look around him at the clearing he had entered. And there, so indistinct to his eyes at first that he stared in an attempt to bring it clearer, stood a Vision. Faintly, he thought he made out the slender shape of a woman standing among the oaks.

As he peered into the darkness at that far edge of the mist, doubting his eyes, she stepped forward, so that the moonlight streamed down upon her more fully, illuminating her pale form and sculpting it with shadows. She moved with a grace that belied the fact of motion, yet Hannes knew she had drawn nearer, for her features became more distinct.

Her long hair, pale in the moonlight, draped itself over her bare white arms and shoulders. She was clothed in a simple dress of some gossamer fabric that flowed with her form from where it was caught up at one shoulder down to where it merged into the dark grass at her feet. In her pallor she seemed one with the mist and the moonlight, but she was as real as the edges of shadow that sculpted for Hannes the shape of her cheek and chin, the form of her mouth that curved in a gentle smile, the fullness of her breast and thigh, and the direction of her shaded gaze, which was full upon him.

She moved one slender hand in a small gesture of encouragement, and said "Rise, Hannes, and speak to me."

Hannes straightened, but rose only as far as his knees. He could not trust his trembling legs to hold him upright. But he spoke as she requested, saying "My Lady, you know my name!"

"Yes, Hannes. And you know mine. Say it, Hannes. Who am I?"

Hannes's mind was in turmoil. From some depth of awareness he hadn't known existed within himself, he drew up a fearful recognition of this being who stood before him.

"Are you?... you are... you must be...the Holy Mother," Hannes said with deepening awe, and he prostrated himself again at her feet.

"Hannes, Hannes," she said with a gentle laugh, "You do know me, and yet, you do not know me well enough! Come now, rise up and look at me, and learn."

Her voice was comforting, and Hannes grew bolder. He rose again to his knees, and he asked, "Are you truly Mary, the Mother of Christ?"

An aura of power emanated from her then that crowded all other thoughts out of Hannes's mind, and filled his whole perception with her presence, so that he was left with no doubts when she spoke and said to him "I am the Mother of God, and I am the Mother of the Son of God. So it has been, so it shall be again for as long as the World endures. For I am the All-Mother, ever renewed. A thousand thousand names are mine, and many of them are older than this Earth."

Hannes understood, and yet he did not understand. His mind was incapable of fully encompassing the revelation her words seemed to offer him, and reduced his response to the more mundane, the more immediate question.

"Holy Mother! Did you summon me here tonight because of the doubts I have had about killing Turkmen in the name of God? Will you tell me whether it is right that we should do so? May it not be enough simply to drive them before us from the Holy City?"

"Hannes, it has ever been that men and the sons of men, Gods and the Sons of Gods, have died for My sake. Gods and men must ever die, that other gods and other men may rise in their place.

That is the Way of all things. The Cycle must go on. Were it not for that, the world would stagnate and decay."

Something akin to fear kindled in Hannes as she spoke, and something akin to longing. She went on.

"Those who die strong, beget strong sons. And the women who bear those sons, bear them in My name, and life evolves as it must. Today, it is Turks who must die. And it is you who must slay them. Draw your sword for me, Hannes."

Hannes, still on his knees, did so, and he held it before him, upright, like a cross.

"Go forth, Hannes, in My name, and in the Name of the Son whose sign you hold before you. His sacrifice has not been in vain; His death brought new life into the world. But now new sacrifice is needed, lest that life He brought grow stale. Go forth, Hannes, in My name and His, and lead your armies into battle. And be assured that those who are sacrificed to this cause will give birth to a new age for Man."

Hannes knelt before her, tears of ecstasy streaming down his face. He bent his head until his brow rested on the hilt of his sword, which he still held by the blade before him like a crucifix, heedless of the edges which had bitten into his palms, or of the blood which ran down from there to mingle with the earth below.

When Hannes raised his head again, the Lady was once more standing at the opposite edge of the clearing, indistinct in the deeper shadows. Through his tear-filled eyes he could not tell if she walked off into the woods, or simply faded into the mist and moonlight.

Heart and Soul filled with a passion that would never fade, Hannes made his way back to the little army camp. When his erstwhile companions roused themselves sleepily in the morning, they found Hannes standing at the edge of camp, wearing his tattered cloak like a prophet's robe, and staring into the east as if he were summoning the dawn. The Pope's red cross blazoned on the back of his cloak stood out like a bloody dagger.

As the day's march began, Hannes spoke to them of his experience, and his passion gave him a compelling eloquence that stirred a new and powerful commitment in his fellows. Searching for words that they would understand, he told them that the Mother Mary had come to him, and given him a message for them all. The message, he said, was that their army must lead the way into Jerusalem, that the Turks must fall before them to the greater glory of God, that their cause was just in His sight, and that their reward would be a better life for everyone. This change in Hannes from a humble farmboy to a prophet of war astounded Jurgen, and won his belief and steadfast support.

Prince Vilmar, too, was stirred by this new passion in Hannes, and listened to his appeal privately at length. From that day forth, Hannes became the bearer of the Holy Standard under which the Army of the Faithful marched. Eventually they met the Turks. The Turks had grown complacent, almost decadent, since the days of their great conquests. They could not match the enthusiasm for battle displayed by these Crusaders, and retreated before them. After Prince Vilmar fell in battle, his little army was absorbed into the remaining ranks of the forces led by Godfrey of Bouillon. In the years that followed, Hannes carried the Church's red on white banner of the Crucifix at the head of all the armies of the Crusade. In time, Jerusalem was taken. Muslims and Jews remaining there were put to the sword, and Godfrey of Bouillon declared himself Defender of the Holy Sepulcher.

And the order of the world did change. The Crusading armies returned to Europe with awakened awareness of the sophisticated cultures of the East, and of their own differences. A new age of possibilities was opened up, perhaps heralding the eventual return of the eternal Virgin Goddess, Mother of All Things, to Her proper station.