The Poisoned Pilgrim

11

THE ANDECHS FOREST, EARLY THE MORNING OF FRIDAY, JUNE 18, 1666 AD

Leaving the turmoil behind, the family hiked along the monastery wall that followed the Kien Valley northeast. The hangman’s grandchildren took turns riding on his shoulders, where, rocking like ships on the ocean, they looked down in amazement into the valley-and occasionally pulled their grandfather’s hair. Simon and Magdalena walked ahead, and the hangman’s daughter, especially, couldn’t refrain from looking around cautiously. It wasn’t easy to find a quiet place to talk in a pilgrimage site as busy as Andechs.

“I haven’t had a moment of peace since I learned that that madman is still running around,” Magdalena confessed with a sigh. “Perhaps we should have chosen the church or the tavern for our conversation. At least that’s a busy place.”

“So anyone could eavesdrop on our conversation?” Simon shook his head. “Until we know who’s responsible for these strange events, it’s better that as few people as possible know what we’re up to. I don’t trust anyone in the monastery anymore. These priests are just liars and schemers.”

They continued in silence along the weathered monastery wall. Despite the early hour, pilgrims streamed toward them as they returned from washing their eyes in the healing waters of St. Elizabeth’s chapel nearby. The little stream was reputed to cure blindness and all kinds of visual impairments. Simon felt his tired eyes could use a refreshing splash of water, too. He’d been awake until late, leafing through the Andechs chronicle, but found no clue about who might be behind the abduction of the watchmaker Virgilius.

Finally they came to a rusty gate in the wall. Simon pushed down on the latch, and it swung open with a squeak. Inside, long rows of weathered, crooked stone crosses stood amid ivy-covered mounds of dirt.

“The Andechs Monastery cemetery,” Simon murmured. “Wonderful. Nobody will disturb us here.”

And in fact there was not a soul present in this place overgrown with grass, meadow flowers, and poppies. A few wild pigeons settled down on the crosses, and the children chased after them, laughing. In the middle of the yard, at the edge of an abandoned well, a few salamanders were dozing in the sun. And silence had settled over the area, which seemed both peaceful and surreal after all the pilgrims’ noise and commotion.

Kuisl headed for a stone bench not far from the monastery wall, took out his pipe, knocked out the cold ashes, and motioned to Simon and Magdalena to join him. “The best place to hold an undisturbed conversation is among the dead,” he said. “Now let’s think about how we can help the abbot and Nepomuk.”

Simon took a seat alongside his father-in-law while Magdalena found an overturned gravestone where she could keep an eye on the children.

“We still don’t know what this madman intends to do with the hosts,” Simon began. “So far, it seems he wants to spread fear and anxiety in the monastery. The gruesome murders, the disappearance of the automaton, and now the stolen relics…” He sighed. “One thing is clear: if the hosts aren’t found in two days, unrest among the pilgrims will only grow. It will be viewed as a bad sign; it’s even possible that panic will break out.”

“Well, at least for now they think they’ve found their villain in Nepomuk,” the hangman said. “They’ll torture and execute him as soon as possible to get this case behind them.”

Magdalena angrily tossed a stone at the cemetery wall. “But it’s clear Nepomuk couldn’t have stolen the hosts,” she retorted. “He was already in the dungeon by then.”

Her father grunted and calmly continued stuffing his pipe. “They’ll just say Nepomuk magically escaped from the prison. Believe me, nobody cares about that. The main thing is they have a scapegoat to keep peace among the people.”

“If it wasn’t Nepomuk, who else would it be?” Simon counted off suspects on his fingers. “First, of course, the prior. After all, he wants to become abbot, and after what’s happened thus far, he’ll soon be taking Rambeck’s place.”

Magdalena raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know. All that trouble just to discredit the present abbot?”

“Let me finish,” Simon said. “So first the prior; then the old librarian. He behaved very strangely toward me up in the Andechs library. He did everything he could to keep me from poking around. He’s a member of the monastery council, and thus also among the inner circle who knows the monastery’s secrets.”

“You could say the same of the cellarer and the novitiate master,” Magdalena groaned. “The circle of suspects just gets larger and larger.” She looked up at the church tower where bells were just ringing in the next hour. “But I know one thing now: the man in the bell tower who pushed me was not the abbot. I was confused yesterday by the black robe. It was a younger man-young and athletic.”

“Then perhaps it was indeed the novitiate master? This is all just getting more confusing.” Simon rubbed his temples, exhausted. “Or perhaps it was some entirely different person and we’re heading up a blind alley. Damn!”

“Didn’t you see anything in that book that might give us a clue?” Magdalena asked. “You sat there with that book half the night while I sang Paul to sleep three times.”

Simon ignored the implicit criticism. “The Andechs chronicle is written in a very ancient form of Latin,” he explained. “It takes time, and so far, all I’ve learned is that a castle once stood here belonging to the counts of Andechs and Meranien. It was later destroyed by the Wittelsbachs, who ruled over Bavaria, as well as Andechs. That’s why Count Wartenberg has one of the three keys to the relics room.”

“Just a moment,” Magdalena interjected. “Isn’t it possible the Wittelsbachs wanted to take the hosts? It must anger them that the hosts are still kept in the monastery even though their ancestors conquered this land centuries ago.”

“The Wittelsbachs have indeed tried over and over to have the relics moved to Munich,” Simon replied. “A few hundred years ago, the hosts were even kept in the duke’s chapel for some time. Up to sixty thousand pilgrims were said to have gone there to see them every week-it was a big source of income for the state. But I don’t think the count would steal the hosts,” the medicus said, shaking his head. “He might have put someone up to it-I’m not sure-but what would be the point of taking the hosts to Munich if they couldn’t be displayed there? It would be obvious they were stolen.”

“Just thinking out loud,” Magdalena pouted. “Maybe you can come up with a better idea.”

“Damn. We won’t get anywhere like this,” said Kuisl, who, until now, had been silently filling his pipe. “We’re groping around like a fellow looking for the shithouse in the dark. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” He pointed to Simon. “You get more information about this count. Perhaps my daughter’s idea isn’t as foolish as it seems. And I’ll slip into this goddamned monk’s robe again and look around the monastery.”

“And what about me?” Magdalena asked curiously.

“You’ll start taking care of your kids.” With his smoking pipe clenched between his teeth, he stood up. “It’s about time the little brats learn to behave,” he said, pointing toward the children. “It looks like they’re digging up a corpse right now.”

In fact, the two boys were digging in the earth of a fresh grave with their hands, and Peter had already carved out a rather deep hole.

“Stop!” Magdalena shouted, running toward the astonished children, who had no idea they were doing anything wrong.

“Are you crazy?” she scolded, tearing them from the gravesite. “What if the monks see you brats digging up one of their Brothers…?” She hesitated as she read the name on the wooden cross at the fresh grave.

REQUIESCAT IN PACE, FILIUS VITALIS, 9-14-1648-6-15-1666

The grave of the young watchmaker’s assistant.

“Look,” Magdalena whispered. “Someone was in a hurry to bury the poor fellow. It can’t have been a big burial service.”

Beside the excavated mound was a second fresh grave, and Magdalena wasn’t surprised to see the name on that wooden cross marked the burial site of novitiate Coelestin, the apothecary’s assistant. She motioned to Simon and her father, and together they stared down quietly for a while at the two graves.

“Damn,” Simon hissed. “They must have been buried quickly yesterday. I wanted to examine their wounds again, as well as that remarkable phosphorus glow. Perhaps I missed something in my first examination.”

Magdalena gave the two boys a slap and ran after them as they started climbing over another burial mound. “It was surely the work of the prior,” she shouted as she dashed off. “He doesn’t want us poking around here any longer, but he can forget about that.”

“You’ve got your hands full if you want to poke around here,” Kuisl grumbled, looking out over the cemetery. “Have you noticed all the suspicious deaths here recently? I count six, or rather seven, fresh graves.”

“That’s surely because of the damned fever,” Simon replied with a shrug. “Just yesterday two pilgrims in my care died, and they were probably buried in haste to avoid any excitement.”

“And how about this one?” Kuisl walked ahead a few yards, stopping in front of a fresh grave covered with black, damp soil.

“What are you trying to say?” Simon asked. “Another grave. So what?”

“Have a look at the cross.”

Only now did the medicus notice the crooked cross half hidden behind the mound of dirt. Squinting hard, he was able to make out the name on the plaque.

R.I.P., PATER QUIRIN, 12-7-1608-5-2-1666

“I still can’t see what you find unusual there,” Simon replied. “The man was buried at the venerable age of almost sixty years, and-”

“The ground on top is fresh,” Kuisl interrupted. “How can it be fresh when the man was buried more than a month ago?”

Simon stood still a moment with his mouth open wide. “You’re… you’re right,” he whispered. “It looks as if the grave was dug just yesterday.”

“Or it was excavated again. Look.” The hangman pointed to a place alongside the grave. “Here a little grass has already grown back, but beside that the ground is black and moist. And there are tracks here.”

“Tracks?” Simon bent down and noticed shoeprints at the edge of the grave, leading into the tall grass some distance off.

Then, the medicus noticed something white shining in the high grass. He bent down and picked up a handkerchief wet with dew and rain. Made of the finest quality silk, it was embroidered with a tiny monogram in one corner.

A.

Simon shuddered when he realized what this letter reminded him of.

A for Aurora.

“My God,” he whispered. “Is it possible?” With the handkerchief in hand, he rushed back to the hangman and told him what he’d begun to fear.

“Do you really think this kerchief comes from the automaton?” Kuisl asked skeptically. “That this golem was here last night and dug up the corpse?”

Simon rubbed the wet cloth between his fingers, trying to figure out what it all meant. The cloth still smelled slightly of perfume. “I know it sounds crazy,” he said, “but perhaps there really is something to this talk about golems. Perhaps the puppet really is haunting the monastery.”

“Nonsense,” the hangman scoffed. “I believe in evil, but not in ghosts. Only we humans can be evil; we don’t need ghosts for that. You’ll see… there’s an explanation for all this.” He drew so hard on his pipe that Simon could hear the crackling embers and sensed his father-in-law seething inside. This was the sound of the hangman deep in thought.

“Now put that damned kerchief away before you drive your wife crazy. She’s already scared to death of this sorcerer.” Kuisl stomped over to the exit gate where Magdalena was already waiting with the children.

Shuddering, Simon tucked the handkerchief inside his jacket and ran after the hangman. They’d barely made it through the gate when they ran into the Schongau alderman, Jakob Schreevogl. The patrician was panting and needed some time to catch his breath.

“Here you are, Fronwieser,” he finally gasped. “I’ve looked for you everywhere. Fortunately one of the pilgrims down by the wall noticed you passing by. You must come with me at once.”

“Are there more sick people?” Simon asked apprehensively.

The alderman nodded. “Indeed, but this time it’s no less than the count’s son. Hurry, Fronwieser. The count isn’t especially patient. And God forbid that the boy dies in your hands,” he said, lowering his voice. “Many other doctors have been hanged for incompetence.”

Simon followed Schreevogl down the shortest path to the living quarters in the monastery. Magdalena, her father, and the children were soon far behind, so Simon called back to them to meet him later at the knacker’s house. For better or worse, this was one house call he’d have to make alone.

The count awaited them in the Prince’s Quarters on the third floor of the east wing-an area set aside for the exclusive use of the Wittelsbachs. Flanked by two guards, a high doorway opened onto a corridor decorated in stucco with doors leading to several rooms. Schreevogl led Simon into the rear room on the right, which had a full six-foot mirror, a bed with a baldachin, and soft down pillows. The air was redolent of thyme and mint. After the days Simon had spent in the provisional hospital converted from a horse stable, this room was a palace.

The poor die on flea-infested straw, and the rich on down pillows, Simon thought. But no matter where they are, people die. Death makes no exceptions.

In the middle of the bed lay Count Wartenberg’s younger son under a mountain of blankets and pillows. About four years old, he was so pale it looked as if the Grim Reaper might carry him off at any moment. His chubby pink cheeks were sunken, his long lashes closed over his eyes, and he trembled all over as he let out little periodic cries for help. The grief-stricken count knelt before him, holding the boy’s hand, and when he caught sight of the medicus, he rose to his feet angrily.

“Here you are finally,” he snapped, his anger directed more at Schreevogl than Simon while his eyes flashed coldly beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I can only hope the wait has been worth it. In the meanwhile, I could just as easily have taken Martin to Munich for examination by a real doctor.”

“In his condition, I don’t think that’s advisable, Your Excellency,” Schreevogl replied in a firm voice. “Besides, Master Fronwieser is one of most competent doctors in the entire Priests’ Corner.”

“Perhaps in the Priests’ Corner,” the count replied condescendingly as a strong scent of soap and expensive perfume wafted toward Simon. “In this wilderness of stupid peasants, a traveling bathhouse doctor might easily be thought of as a miracle worker, but in Munich he’d be considered nothing more than a quack.”

Simon cleared his throat. The count’s arrogance made him flush with anger, but he tried to remain calm. “Your Excellency should feel free to take his boys to Munich if he doesn’t trust my capabilities,” he replied. “There are certainly trained doctors there who will give the boy a purgative or bleed him for a hefty fee.”

Not until that moment did the count notice Simon. Wheeling around, he eyed the medicus suspiciously. Still, for a long while, no one said a thing.

“Would you bleed my son?” the count finally asked.

Simon leaned over the boy, then looked questioningly at the count. “May I have a look?”

When Wartenberg nodded, Simon opened the boy’s sweaty shirt and felt for the heartbeat. He looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes and had him show him his tongue, which was just as gray and yellow as that of the other sick people. The reddish dots on his chest were the same, too. Finally Simon shook his head determinedly.

“No, I wouldn’t bleed him,” he answered confidently. “The boy seems extremely weakened by the fever and needs every drop of his blood to regain his health.”

“Interesting.” Count Wartenberg rubbed his narrow lips thoughtfully as he continued staring intently at Simon. “But the most famous, reputed doctors bleed their patients all the time to drain the bad fluids. Are they perhaps all wrong?”

“Galen’s teachings about the four bodily fluids may be useful in treating some illnesses,” Simon replied cautiously, “but with a fever it’s better to draw off the heat with cold compresses. At least that’s what I do with my patients.” He reached down again to feel the boy’s pulse, which was as weak as a little bird’s. “Heat, by the way, is not harmful. The body is fighting an illness, and that makes his temperature rise. I would give Martin lots of liquids and perhaps a potion of angelica, buckbeans, and elderberries or yarrow and fennel. I’d experiment to see what he responds to.”

Count Wartenberg raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “You really seem to know a lot about medicine. Master Schreevogl evidently didn’t overstate his case when he recommended you to me today in the tavern.”

And got me into this mess, Simon thought. Thanks so much, Master Schreevogl. If the boy dies in my care, I’ll be sent to the scaffold along with Nepomuk.

But then he remembered he wanted to learn more about the count and his intentions; perhaps divine providence had sent this boy to him as a patient. In the course of the treatment he would surely learn something. In any case, the count’s son wasn’t much older than Peter, and hadn’t he and Magdalena come to Andechs to thank the Savior for saving their own two sons?

“I would gladly treat the sick child,” he finally said to the count. “Will you allow me?”

The boy cried out in his sleep as Wartenberg looked on anxiously; he then squeezed the boy’s hand and stroked his feverish cheek. “Do I have any choice?” he murmured. “You’re right, Fronwieser. In Munich I’m surrounded by greedy bloodsuckers and pompous asses who confuse theory with healing. And I don’t think the boy would survive the trip back there, so I’ll have to entrust him to your care.” He stood up abruptly. “Everything is up to you, and money is no object. If you need money for medicine or any other expenses, let me know. You also have free access to this room day and night.” Suddenly the count came so close the medicus could once again smell his strong perfume. “But if the boy dies, I’ll have you hanged as a fraud from atop the monastery’s battlements as a warning for future cases,” he said softly. “And I’ll see to it that you’ll wriggle and thrash around for a long time. Do you understand?”

Simon blanched and nodded. “You… you can depend on me, Your Excellency,” he replied. “I’ll do everything I can to save the life of your child, but allow me first to make a quick visit to the hospital to fetch the necessary medication.”

Count Wartenberg dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and bowing repeatedly, Simon left the building with Schreevogl.

“What have you gotten me into?” Simon hissed at the alderman when they were finally out of earshot. “As if I don’t have enough worries already.”

Schreevogl squeezed the medicus’s hand. “Master Fronwieser,” he said, “did you see how red the count’s eyes were? This man is just a father anxious about his child, just as I was back then with my Clara. Do you remember?”

Simon nodded hesitantly. Some years ago he had in fact cured Schreevogl’s beloved step-daughter of a similar severe flu with the help of an unusual remedy he happened to have on hand. This time he would have to make do with the usual medications.

“When the count asked me this morning in the monastery tavern whether I knew of a good doctor, I mentioned your name at once,” Schreevogl continued. “I had to; I’m sure you’ll heal the child.”

“Ah, but how about the other patients, who aren’t so fortunate as to have a count as a father?” Simon replied angrily. “Who’s going to care for the poor while I spoon-feed the spoiled kid with tea and honey?”

“I thought your wife-” Schreevogl started.

“Forget about my wife. She has to watch our two children.”

The patrician smiled. “Then your humble servant will have to help out.”

“You?” Simon looked at the patrician skeptically. “A councilman serving as a bathhouse surgeon’s helper?”

“I’d rather be doing God’s work in the clinic than running around the church praying,” Schreevogl answered dryly. “And didn’t your wife herself say that caring for the sick is not all that hard? Besides, I’ve even developed a taste for it. It feels… well…” He hesitated, looking for the right word. “It feels useful. At least more so than sitting in a backroom negotiating contracts for the delivery of crockery.”

Simon couldn’t help laughing. “You’re probably right. Caring for the sick is more exciting than that, and I really can use the help.” He held out his hand to the alderman. “Then here’s to our collaboration, my dear bathhouse assistant. Let’s hope this nightmare will soon be over and we can return to Schongau.”

Schreevogl’s smile suddenly faded, and he crossed himself. “Let’s pray together and ask for God’s help. This place indeed harbors more evil than a single monastery can cope with.”

After her father donned his monk’s robe and left hurriedly to look around some more, Magdalena wandered aimlessly with her children through the busy streets in front of the monastery. She alone seemed to have nothing to do and was annoyed Simon had taken off so quickly, even though she realized he was the only one caring for the count’s son. Still she wished he would spend more time with his family.

With a sigh Magdalena let Peter drag her along to one of the many stands displaying pictures of saints, candles, and little rosaries. In the last few days, shops like this had shot up all around the Holy Mountain like mushrooms out of the ground. They sold small hand-size votive tablets for the devotional corner in homes, overpriced glass pictures of the monastery, candles, rosaries, badly printed Bible verses, and little charm necklaces with prayers for divine intercession attached. Magdalena remembered a conversation with Jakob Schreevogl some time ago in which he told her that both the Schongau burgomaster and the count were doing a brisk business with these religious knickknacks, but if the count’s son was really as sick as everyone feared, all this would be for naught for the Wittelsbachs. No one had ever been able to buy off death with money.

Magdalena caught Peter just as he was reaching for a rosary. “For God’s sake, keep your hands off that,” she scolded. “That’s nothing to play with.” When she pulled her elder son away from the stand more roughly than intended, he began to cry, and then the younger boy joined in.

“Father! Where’s Father?” Paul whined. “I want my father and grandfather.”

“I’ve got to disappoint you,” Magdalena snapped. “Those high-and-mighty gentlemen are occupied with more important things now, so you’ll have to settle for your mother.”

When the crying didn’t stop, she reached frantically into her jacket pocket and pulled out a few candied fruits to quiet them down. She continued alongside a flock of pilgrims in gray penitential robes who were singing and praying in the monastery square in preparation for the next mass.

Magdalena clenched her teeth to keep from cursing. She felt so worthless. It seemed that everyone around her had something to do; only she was condemned to care for the children. To make matters worse, she had been feeling ill again all morning but had said nothing to Simon so as not to upset him even more. Secretly she’d examined her tongue in a polished copper dish and was relieved to see no tell-tale grayish-yellow sheen. Whatever was bothering her, then, seemed not to be the nervous fever.

Magdalena was so absorbed in her thoughts that it took her a few moments to notice a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she turned around and found herself looking into the smiling face of Matthias. He rocked his head coquettishly and made a face that caused the children to break out in loud laughter.

Magdalena, too, had to smile. The boys seemed to have really taken a shine to the mute fellow, just as she had, she admitted to herself again.

“Good day, Matthias,” Magdalena said brightly, even though she knew she wouldn’t receive a reply. “What are you doing? Looking for a nice rosary for your sweetheart?” she teased.

Matthias grunted and rolled his eyes, as if to say all women got on his nerves. Magdalena laughed loudly. She loved the silent assistant’s expressions, which reminded her of the magicians who visited Schongau once a year.

“Would you like to go for a walk with me on the meadow behind the monastery?” she asked impulsively. It was still early in the day, the children weren’t tired yet, and she wanted to get away from all the people who stank of incense and frightened her with their excessive humility and fear of God. “Come along, we’ll pick a bouquet of flowers for your girl, if you have one.”

Matthias hesitated briefly, then let out a throaty laugh and took the cheering children onto his broad shoulders. Together they walked through the small north gate, then turned left onto the flowery meadow beside the forest, where the boys chased beetles and dragonflies buzzing around in the tall grass.

Magdalena absent-mindedly picked a few daisies, thinking dolefully, I should give these to Simon, but that’s out of the question.

When she finally looked up again, she found herself a few yards from a wall that was perhaps six feet high. The rough-hewn stones enclosed a small rectangular area directly bordering the forest, with steep cliffs rising up behind it. The entrance was a rusty gate entwined with ivy and secured with a huge lock. Magdalena had started to walk over to the wall when she heard Matthias approach from behind, grunting and shaking his head in warning.

“Is it forbidden to enter?” Magdalena asked curiously. “Why?”

Matthias thought for a while, then tore up a few weeds, smelled them with a pleased expression, then finally pointed to the monastery. “Urbe uf onstry,” he stammered.

“This is the monastery’s herb garden?” Magdalena asked. “Is that what you are trying to say?”

When the mute man nodded, Magdalena shrugged. “And why shouldn’t I go in? Are the priests always so secretive about their healing plants? Let me tell you, Matthias, in Schongau, I’m a midwife, and I probably know more about the herbs in there than all the monks in Andechs together.” She took her children by the hand and led them up to the gate. “Come along, Mama will show you a magic garden.”

Matthias shook his head furiously, but Magdalena’s curiosity had been awakened. If this really was the monastery herb garden, she was interested to see what was growing inside. Perhaps she’d find a few healing plants she didn’t know or were hard to find in the forest.

Magdalena ignored the angry sounds of the knacker’s assistant and turned the handle of the gate. She was happy to see it was not locked and opened with a soft squeak. Scarcely had she stepped inside when she was surrounded by the bewitching fragrances of chamomile, sage, and mint. From inside, the garden seemed much larger than it appeared from the meadow-perhaps due to the many climbing trellises of beans and gourds beside the beds, which turned the garden into a labyrinth. Lizards dozed in the sun on little walls covered with blooming alyssum, which seemed like pleasant places to rest. Inside, small beds of shrubs and herbs were carefully divided according to type. Magdalena recognized the usual healing plants, such as rue, wormwood, and fennel, but discovered other, stranger plants. She rubbed the aromatic leaves of sticklewort and ambrosia between her fingers and smelled the intoxicating, overwhelming fragrance of the iris blossoms.

In the meanwhile, the children were frolicking on the little walls, chasing lizards. Magdalena tried not to lose sight of them. Even if this garden seemed like paradise on earth, she knew that forbidden fruits grew in this paradise as well. Many of the plants here were highly poisonous and used only in small doses for medicinal purposes.

Gradually she moved deeper and deeper into the garden. The mute Matthias hadn’t followed her; evidently something here frightened him, even though she had no idea what. Perhaps he was just respectful of the monks who obviously kept a close eye on their monastery garden.

In the middle of the garden a surprise awaited her.

Behind some rosebushes, she found a stone water basin surrounded by four benches. In the basin itself stood a full-size marble statue of a mythical beast-a bearded man with the hooves and horns of a goat, his lips pursed scornfully and blowing on a strange flute. With dead eyes, he looked out at the forest where steep cliffs led down to the garden.

Magdalena sat on one of the benches and gazed at the statue in astonishment. She’d never seen anything like it before. The creature seemed a bit like the devil in the frightening depictions of hell in the churches of the Priests’ Corner, but in contrast to them, this figure had a roguish smile and seemed almost friendly. What in the world was such a statue doing in the monastery?

The hangman’s daughter suddenly froze. It was surely just her imagination, but for a moment the head of the statue seemed to turn just slightly in her direction. The creature’s smile seemed no longer friendly, but more like that of a goblin looking to play a wicked prank.

And then Magdalena was certain-the statue’s head was moving.

The stone devil turned its head toward her. Slowly, unrelentingly, its gaze enveloped her-almost as if it were struggling to tell her something. Had its mouth opened just a bit? Magdalena sat rooted to the bench, wondering whether the creature would suddenly begin to speak.

In the next moment a slender stream of water shot out of the devil’s mouth, striking her right in the face.

With a scream, Magdalena fell backward off the bench, and the frightened children turned around to look at her. Her bodice was soaked and her backside ached from her sudden fall into the herb garden, but otherwise she was uninjured.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to frighten you so,” a voice said behind the trellises. “But the temptation was just too great. My brother always enjoyed himself immensely with this performance.”

Magdalena turned toward where the voice was coming from and saw none other than the abbot himself walk out from behind the trellises.

“But Your Excellency,” she began hesitantly. “I mean… how is it that-”

“I came here to think a bit,” the abbot interrupted with a smile. “About myself and my brother. Actually pilgrims aren’t permitted in the garden, so anyone who enters has to be prepared for surprises like this.”

In the meantime, Magdalena had gotten a hold of herself again. Straightening her wet bodice, she took a seat alongside her children on the stone bench.

“Excuse me,” she said, embarrassed. “But as a midwife, I was just interested in knowing what sort of herbs grew in your garden. I must say I’m impressed.”

The abbot chuckled. “By what? By the herbs or by our faun?”

“Faun?” Magdalena asked, perplexed.

Rambeck pointed at the statue with the horns and goat hooves. “That’s what the Romans used to call this creature. A wild man of the forest who loves drinking and dancing. There are people who compare him to our devil, but that’s naturally nonsense.” He sat down beside Magdalena. “My brother had it brought here over the Alps, and… well… he changed it a bit,” he said, winking at Magdalena. “There’s a device for moving the head in any direction, and the stream of water from his mouth works by a complicated system of pumps. But you mustn’t ask me for details. Such water devices were always my brother’s hobby.” Rambeck stood up and took Magdalena by the hand. “Come along. I’ll show you something that the children will also enjoy.”

They walked together through the labyrinth of trellises and walls until they found themselves in front of a little grotto at the bottom of the cliffs. In the dim light of the cave, Magdalena could make out another basin with around a dozen waist-high statuettes around its edge. Like the faun, they were strange and different-out of place at a monastery. One figure grasped a trident in its hand; another a bolt of lightning; and beautiful women, carrying mirrors and hunting spears, stood beside them.

“The ancient Greek gods,” Rambeck declared. “Naturally just imaginary figures, but they add a certain character to our garden. Virgilius designed this grotto, as well as the faun and a few other devices in our little enchanted herb garden-all according to the plans of long-deceased scholars.” He leaned in toward Magdalena. “There are those who say that civilization was far more advanced in those days, not only in the healing arts but also in the other sciences. Virgilius loved being here in this remote spot, devoting himself to his hobby-building automata. See for yourself.”

The abbot pulled a concealed iron lever inside the grotto, and as if by magic, the figures began dancing around the basin on an invisible track, all to the soft notes of a glockenspiel. The children laughed and pointed their little fingers at the spectacle; only Magdalena felt uneasy, and it took her a while before she knew why.

“That’s the music I heard that night,” she cried out in shock finally, “When someone tried to shoot me near the wall of the monastery.”

“Shoot you?” The abbot looked at her in astonishment.

“The sorcerer, or whatever he is, has already tried to kill me twice.” Magdalena told Rambeck briefly what had happened to her in the last few days.

When she finished, he looked at her skeptically. “Do you really believe it’s the same person who kidnapped my brother?”

Magdalena nodded as she continued listening to the sound of the glockenspiel. “The same person-even if we don’t know why he’s so anxious to have the hosts.” She hesitated, remembering her conversation that morning with her father and Simon at the cemetery. “Or the same creature.” Perhaps there really was a golem or some animated automaton haunting the castle. After pausing briefly, she pointed to the circle of spinning statues in front of them. “Your brother was very interested in automata, wasn’t he? All of this here, and the one at home. What did his colleagues have to say about that?”

The abbot smiled. “You can put up with anything-even the devil-if he looks out for you. Virgilius did much for the monastery. He provided running water in the cells and built a furnace that heats most of the building. His glockenspiel and dancing figures often added a touch of lightness to the gloomiest days here.” Rambeck stared off into space. “Recently he’d taken an interest in lightning,” he said. “Brother Johannes did some research in this area, and they were exchanging ideas. It was unfortunate that lightning struck the steeple again just at that time.”

“Ah, I know,” Magdalena replied. “A really unfortunate coincidence. It’s a shame there’s still no way to ward off lightning strikes.” She remembered what her father told her about his conversation with Nepomuk, but she decided to keep silent and not incriminate the apothecary even more.

The abbot sighed. “I’m sure Virgilius had a solution for it.”

Magdalena tried to steer the conversation in another direction. “As a watchmaker, did he have an enemy in the monastery?”

“One enemy?” Rambeck chuckled. “Superstition is a widespread affliction among monks, and as long as I’ve been here in the monastery, I’ve tried to protect Virgilius from it. But there was a lot of gossiping behind his back. Brother Eckhart, our present cellarer, for example, considers even a clock in the belfry the work of the devil.” He frowned. “Later, when I was called back to the university in Salzburg, it was our librarian for the most part who made his life difficult, though such a learned man as Brother Benedikt, who has read so much in his long life, surely knew better.”

The eleven o’clock bell tolled from the church belfry, and Rambeck slapped his forehead. “What a fool I’ve been, wasting time here while my colleagues have been waiting. I must return to the sacristy to prepare the liturgy.”

Once more he forced a smile. “As long as I’m abbot, I’ll see to it that everything follows its usual course. No one will be able to say afterwards that I was a bad superior.”

“But what about the hosts and the monstrance?” Magdalena replied. “If the relic hasn’t been returned before the festival begins-”

“The relic will be back,” the abbot interrupted. “And if not in this monstrance, then in another, with other hosts. It’s faith that makes these things sacred, isn’t it? Faith… love… hope… These are the Christian virtues to which we must cling.”

“You mean the Festival of the Three Hosts will take place the day after tomorrow no matter what?” Magdalena asked.

Rambeck looked astonished. “Of course. It has always taken place. We can’t disappoint all the faithful.” He sighed. “Though this time I will not be presiding at the mass. The district judge in Weilheim made it clear to me that, in the future, he wants Brother Jeremias to take over more responsibilities in the monastery.” He shrugged and turned away. “But really I don’t mind. Until my brother’s fate has been decided, nothing else seems important.”

He pulled another hidden lever on the wall, and the statuettes squeaked to a stop, along with the music.

“I must ask you to leave now,” the abbot said.

Leading the way, Rambeck beckoned Magdalena and the children to follow. “It’s better for you to come behind me. The garden may be small, but it’s a labyrinth nonetheless.”

They strode past overgrown trellises and sun-baked little walls until they arrived back at the gate.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, hangman’s daughter,” said Rambeck, though his thoughts still seemed far away. “Perhaps the next time we can stay and chat a bit longer here in the garden-and not about such gloomy things, but just about herbs and medicines.”

Magdalena bowed formally. “Who can say? Perhaps with your brother, too?”

The abbot smiled, but he was staring off into space. “Who knows? I’ll pray for that.” Taking out a heavy key, he locked the gate, then turned silently and walked back through the flowering meadow toward the monastery.

Magdalena watched him for a long time, until his grief-stricken figure finally disappeared in the shadows of the church tower.