The Poisoned Pilgrim

17

THE EVENING OF SUNDAY, JUNE 20, 1666 AD

The first thing Simon heard was the chirping of a bird, one so lovely he thought he was in a beautiful garden, if not in paradise.

He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were stuck shut as if they were smeared with honey. Startled, Simon tried to get up, but something kept pulling him down. His arms had to be bound-he couldn’t lift them even an inch-and the harder he tried, the more it seemed to him his limbs were not bound but somehow baked into a hard cast. His feet, his legs, his entire upper body, felt like it was under a layer of clay that he couldn’t break through.

This must be a dream; in a moment I’ll wake up alongside Magdalena, bathed in sweat but healthy, and we’ll both laugh about my silly nightmare. Then we’ll look in on the two children, and then…

His train of thought came to an abrupt halt when he recalled what had happened in the hours before. He’d had to run from the guards with Kuisl; then he fell off a cliff; and finally he found this cave in the forest, where he heard the automaton’s music. He’d entered the cave, and then… What had happened then?

Simon tried to remember, but from that moment on, he just drew a blank.

Again he struggled to move, but he still couldn’t lift a finger. All the while the bird kept singing; its chirping sounded like that of a nightingale, if somewhat strange and metallic.

Simon tried to breathe calmly. He’d had dreams like this before and knew he would wake up as soon as he could move just a bit. He tensed his muscles until he could feel cold sweat running down his forehead-but all in vain. Making one last desperate try, he was relieved to find his eyelids had opened at least a crack. Light shone through the narrow slits, a harsh light that shot through him and made him wince. Once more he struggled to open his lids, but he felt as if he was trying to move heavy boulders.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he managed to open his eyes completely. It took a while for them to get used to the dazzling light, but he could now make out-at first vaguely, then more and more clearly-part of a room. He stared up at a birdcage hanging from the rock ceiling with a little silver-colored bird inside chirping merrily away. Simon’s back felt slightly cold; apparently he was lying directly on the stone floor.

With great effort, he rolled his eyes downward and to the side, where he could make out more of the room. Now he noticed a weathered wooden door and bookshelves on either side holding the strangest objects: some appeared to be technical devices, while others were apparently natural in origin. In the torchlight, the objects seemed as eerie as if they’d come directly from hell.

Or is this place hell itself?

A mummified skull no larger than a fist bared its teeth and grinned at him from atop a dusty velvet pillow, while a yard-long curved horn reminded the medicus of the legends about unicorns. Alongside these lay huge, strange animal skulls, one of which had a sort of thorn where a nose should have been. There was also a brownish egg the size of a child’s head, carved mussels, jewelry boxes decorated in ivory, a few crystal glasses, but also a golden astrolabe and one of those famous globes that depict the world in the form of a sphere.

Simon wished he could pinch himself, but for that he would have needed to move his hands. He tried to open his mouth to cry for help but could barely manage to raise his lip in a nervous spasm, like a wolf baring its fangs. Grimacing convulsively, he now heard a sound quickly approaching.

The now familiar melody of the automaton.

The music was accompanied by a squeak and clatter, and after a while Simon realized these sounds came from the little wheels of the automaton Aurora, the same one that had been rolling around in the watchmaker’s workshop a few days ago. At that time, Simon had found the automaton, and also the music, remarkable, a technological wonder. Now the song sounded so frightening that, despite his paralysis, the little hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Rolling his eyes, Simon could see the door opening as the life-size automaton rumbled into the room. Aurora still looked as beautiful as the first time they’d met in the watchmaker’s house. Her red ball gown fluttered around her copper legs, her hair was put up artfully, and her lips were the color of fresh blood.

The lifelike doll rolled a few more yards, then stopped in the middle of the room as the music slowed, then finally stopped.

With a stiff grin, Simon could move his eyes far enough down to see the automaton. For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still; the only sound was the soft chirping of the bird.

The figure smiled but remained silent.

Finally it began to twitch. There was a cracking and rattling inside it as the upper body of the narrow-waisted dress teetered back and forth. For a moment, it seemed the machine might tip over, but then the lips suddenly opened like the blades of a pair of scissors.

Simon tried to scream, but not a word came out. He could only watch as his worst fears took shape.

From inside the puppet came a squeaking, like that of a clock that hadn’t been oiled in a long time, then a high-pitched, gravelly voice sounded.

“Greetings, bathhouse surgeon. I have waited a long time for someone to help me while away the time. You’ll make a nice toy, don’t you think?”

With that, Aurora had begun to speak.

Shivering, Magdalena and her father ran through the low-ceilinged passageway that led them deeper and deeper into the mountain.

Perhaps a good half hour had passed since they’d entered the cave, though the hangman’s daughter couldn’t be sure. Down here, time seemed to run slower. In addition, it was pitch black; the only light came from a small, warm circle around her father, who ran ahead with the torch. Behind them, all was engulfed in darkness again.

Until now, they hadn’t encountered anything unusual. At the far end of the cave occupied by the hermit woman, a tunnel and a flight of stairs led downward. For a while they proceeded straight ahead, occasionally passing niches holding rotted pieces of wood, rusty iron implements, and whitened bones, but neither Jakob nor Magdalena stopped to examine them. She was sure that her children were down here somewhere-abducted by the same madman who’d been stalking her. And now it seemed this person had also captured her husband.

It upset Magdalena to think that the abductor evidently assumed they knew more about him, but so far they didn’t have any idea who the Andechs sorcerer could be. The prior? The Wittelsbach count? Or perhaps someone else they didn’t even know?

Magdalena choked with fear for her children and for Simon. She ran along behind her father as if in a trance, hitting her head from time to time on the low ceiling but not feeling the pain. Kuisl also seemed half-crazed; never had she seen him so angry.

“If he’s done anything to the two young ones, then God help him,” he growled as they again passed a few rotted beams and bones covered with moss. “He’ll wish he’d never been born, the scoundrel.”

It occurred to Magdalena that the old hermit woman outside the cave had spoken of a helper. Would her father be able to take on two abductors? The Schongau hangman had seen more than fifty summers come and go, and even if tried to hide it, his movements were no longer as effortless as they used to be. When the hermit woman had cursed him earlier, he looked old to Magdalena for the first time.

Suddenly Kuisl stopped. In front of them, two similar-looking corridors forked off. From one, a slightly moldy odor emanated, and from the other, fresh air.

“Now what?” Magdalena asked, turning to her father. “Shall we split up?”

Kuisl looked at her skeptically. “So you can run right into this sorcerer’s arms?” he grumbled. “Forget it. It’s enough if I’ve lost my grandchildren and my chicken-hearted son-in-law to this scoundrel, without losing my daughter, as well.”

Kuisl thought for a moment, then continued: “These are no doubt the old forgotten escape routes from the Andechs castle.” He pointed at a human skull with a bashed-in forehead that grimaced at them from atop a pile of rubbish. “Now at least we know how the castle was stormed. Someone betrayed the defenders and revealed the location of the escape tunnels. With all these bones lying about, it was certainly an ungodly massacre.” The hangman held up the torch and looked into the left-, then the right-hand tunnel. “The sorcerer uses these escape tunnels as a hiding place, no doubt,” he mused. “But to hide what? In any case it’s clear why the unfortunate Laurentius was found with the monstrance in the forest. The sorcerer dragged him here, but the Brother was able to escape and get at least partway back.” Kuisl spat on the ground angrily. “If your husband hadn’t fallen asleep, then perhaps he would have told us and we’d have known much sooner where to look.”

“Your ranting and raving won’t get us anywhere,” Magdalena replied, annoyed. “Tell me instead which corridor to take.”

Her father scowled. “We’ll take the one on the right,” he said finally, “the one with the moldy smell. It seems to go deeper into the mountain, and besides, it heads directly toward the monastery.”

“How can you know down here what direction we’re headed?” Magdalena asked, surprised.

With a grin, the hangman tapped his long, hooked nose. “This here always tells me the right direction. I’m like a blind old dog that always finds its way back home.”

Without another word, Kuisl entered the right-hand corridor, and Magdalena followed, shrugging. She had given up trying to understand her father. In most cases she had to admit reluctantly that his quirky hunches were right.

The moldy odor became stronger as they proceeded, until finally Magdalena thought she could place the smell: an old chamber pot that had been standing for a long time unemptied under a bed. The stench was so strong now her throat felt as if it were burning.

Turning up her nose, she hurried along behind her father. Were they somewhere near a huge cesspool? Instinctively she looked up at the ceiling, thinking a load of feces might come falling down on them at any moment. The hangman forged ahead with determination, and a few times Magdalena thought she could see him nodding grimly in the dim light.

“The entrance to hell,” Kuisl growled. “The old woman in Kien Valley was right. It stinks here as if Satan were just around the next corner. At least I think we’re close to solving the first of many riddles.”

“What do you mean when you say…” Magdalena stopped suddenly, spotting a faint light reflecting from the wall on their left, pulsing like a poisonous cloud in the gloom.

“My God, what is that?” she gasped.

“That?” The hangman grinned. “That’s one of our riddles, even if it stinks to high heaven.”

He approached the shining light and suddenly seemed to vanish inside it.

“Father!” Magdalena cried out in horror. “Where are you?”

Her heart pounding, she ran after Kuisl and realized the shimmering was coming through a narrow passageway. Stepping through a low doorway, she found herself in a basin-shaped area glowing in a soft green light. She had to look again before realizing it wasn’t the room itself shining, but just a few objects in it. On the left was a rough-hewn table with an open book on top, and alongside that, some bowls, flasks, and crucibles, all giving off that strange light. More books with heavy leather bindings stood there, and the table was strewn with small glowing chunks.

The strongest light came from the opposite side of the room, where a pile of waste two yards high glowed a ghostly green, as if hundreds of glowworms were crawling over it. The stench was so strong that Magdalena thought she was going to be sick.

“Beautiful,” Kuisl grumbled. “We’ve found the latrine in the old castle.”

Magdalena was so fascinated by the glimmering light that it took her a while to understand what her father had just said. “The what?” she asked, confused.

“The latrine, or rather the cesspool beneath it.” The hangman walked toward the pile and began poking around. Black clumps oozed between his fingers. Looking up, Kuisl saw a round, encrusted hole in the ceiling.

“No doubt there was at one time a secret room up there for Their Excellencies.” Kuisl grinned. “On the toilet, we’re all the same, aren’t we? Nobleman, monk, and knacker.”

Magdalena looked at him, puzzled. “But why is everything glowing here? The table, the bowls, these clumps…?”

“This is where the sorcerer made his hellfire,” Kuisl replied. “Both the assistant Vitalis and Brother Laurentius had phosphorus poured over them. Remember what Simon saw when he went to inspect the corpses in the beer cellar.”

“The glowing!” Magdalena cried. “Of course! You spoke about this phosphorus. It shines in a green light and burns like tinder. But what’s a cesspit got to do with it?”

“Because phosphorus is made from urine vapor.” Disgusted, he dropped the hardened feces he was holding. “It takes lots of urine. This is probably the urine of at least a dozen generations of nobility. The sorcerer must have found this pit and used it for his purposes.”

Magdalena approached curiously with her torch, but her father held her back. “Be careful,” he said. “This stuff catches fire faster than you can say amen. And with this much lying around, you could blow up the whole mountain.”

Kuisl turned to inspect the table. He glanced at the mortars, flasks, crucibles, and finally the books, picking up an especially worn one at random.

“This one here is written in hieroglyphics and appears to be very old,” he mumbled. “Strange, I’ve never seen anything like it…” He put it aside and reached for another, also written in an unfamiliar language. Finally, he turned to a book right in front of him bound in calf’s leather. Leafing through it, he whistled softly through his teeth.

“If I didn’t know this work was written by a murderer and madman, I would bow down to the man. See for yourself.”

Curiously, Magdalena approached and studied the beautiful writing. There were Latin notes in blood-red letters and sweeping initials, illustrations of puppets, individual human limbs, and mysterious apparatuses whose functions were unclear. On other pages, there were strange formulas, calculations, and recipes. It all seemed to Magdalena like Satan’s personal Bible.

“Remarkable,” Kuisl whispered almost reverentially. “This is a collection of all sorts of mysterious knowledge, something like the De occulta philosophia by Agrippa, but much more mysterious. I’ve never seen anything like it, and whoever wrote it…”

He stopped short, pointing excitedly at one of the last pages with illustrations of lightning striking the roof of a house. A sort of rope or wire led along the wall to the figure of a man, and under it were three Latin words: Tornitrua et fulgura.

Lightning and thunder.

“Nepomuk’s idea of a lightning rod,” the hangman exclaimed. “He told me about it in the dungeon, remember? This is just the way he described the rods to me at that time, and these are the same Latin words he used. That can only mean…” Excitedly he rummaged through the pile of books until he finally found another notebook, which he held up triumphantly.

“Ha! As I thought,” he cried out. “Nepomuk’s notebook. I recognize his writing.”

Magdalena frowned. The stinging odor made it hard for her to think. “Nepomuk’s notebook?” she asked. “But Nepomuk is in the dungeon over in Weilheim. How did that little book get here?”

“Good old Nepomuk told me back then that the watchmaker Virgilius was very interested in the lightning rod,” Kuisl replied. “They even argued about it; Nepomuk didn’t want to tell anyone. Virgilius, however, knew someone who wanted to know more about it, and evidently that someone also stole the notebook.”

“The sorcerer,” Magdalena shivered in the cold, moldy air. “But would he kill Virgilius and the two assistants, and make sure Nepomuk would burn for it, all because he was interested in lightning rods?”

The hangman shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he finally responded. “Until now our man has done everything possible to get a hold of the three hosts. How does that all fit together?” He sighed. “A shame the abducted watchmaker was found dead in the well; I’m sure he could have explained it for us.”

Magdalena was just about to reply when they heard a distant banging and scraping farther down the corridor.

“It appears we have a visitor,” Kuisl grumbled, reaching for the cudgel still hanging on his belt next to the hunting knife. “Well, let’s greet our guest properly.”

Paralyzed with fear, Simon watched the life-size puppet in the middle of the room move its red lips. It clattered and rattled as the words came out of its mouth, sounding very human.

“This poison is astonishing, isn’t it?” Aurora said. Her high voice sounded strangely hoarse, almost squeaking. Simon was sure he’d heard it somewhere before, but in his fear he couldn’t remember when or where.

“I brought it back from one of my many travels,” the puppet continued. “The poison comes from the West Indies. The natives there use it in hunting, but also against other men. Usually it brings immediate death, but apparently it didn’t survive the long trip unscathed-which makes it actually all the more interesting.”

Aurora’s mouth flapped as if she were gasping for air. “I’m actually considering whether to try my experiment first on you,” the automaton said. “After all, you’re rather like a lifeless puppet in your present condition, and it would be interesting to see whether I can breathe life into you. But I probably wouldn’t have the time. The moment at which nature and faith meet in this unique synthesis is simply too brief.”

Once again Simon tried to raise his arms and legs from the cold, hard stone floor, or to at least raise his head, but it was impossible. His whole body was paralyzed; he could see the automaton only out of the corner of his eye. He was so horrified it was almost impossible for him to think rationally.

This is impossible, an insistent, distraught voice inside his head told him. An automaton can’t think and speak, can it? Is this the notorious golem conjured up by its master, Virgilius, who has now become its victim?

As Simon stared up at the ceiling, where the bird was still chirping, he finally realized what had been bothering him all this time. The bird’s call was a series of identical tones, and the silver nightingale wasn’t a living creature but just a pretty toy. The lifeless skulls of nameless monsters glared at him from their places on the shelves, and the technical apparatuses among them seemed as cold and hostile as if they’d come from another planet.

Suddenly Simon could hear soft whimpers nearby-cries and moans that were all too familiar to him. His heart skipped a beat when he realized where they came from.

Peter and Paul! My God, my children are over there.

He wanted to call their names, but they literally stuck in his throat-not a sound came out.

“Oh, it appears the two children have awakened from their deep sleep,” Aurora said, smiling. “Don’t worry, my loyal assistant gave them only a few poppy-seed cakes. After all, I still need the children. You never know what your stubborn grandfather has up his sleeve, do you?” The puppet’s voice now became shriller and more hateful-quite out of character with its delicate appearance. “You’ve brought this all on yourself,” it screamed. “Why do you have to stick your noses in things that don’t concern you? All I needed was the hosts. But no, you felt compelled to persuade good old Maurus to let you continue snooping around.”

As the children’s whimpering grew louder, it became clear they were in the next room. Simon listened as Peter started to cry loudly and Paul shouted for his mother. The medicus thought his chest would explode. His children were terribly afraid; they were right nearby, and he couldn’t help them.

“The poor little fellows,” Aurora’s voice sounded full of pity, even though the smile remained fixed on her face. “The little ones are calling for their mother, that bitch. A few times my helper almost got her-once up in the tower, then with the rifle, and finally with the sack of lime. Why didn’t she understand my warnings? Evidently she’s just as stubborn as her father.”

Then Simon had an idea. Until that point, Aurora’s face had been just a vague shadow he could see out of the corner of his eye. Now he succeeded in turning his head a fraction of an inch to get a better look at her. What he saw stunned him.

The puppet’s mouth moved even when it wasn’t talking.

“I think we should allow the two little ones to see their father now,” a hoarse voice said close to where the automaton was standing. “What do you think, Aurora? You be good and stay here, and I’ll let the children out of their cage. I wonder what they’ll say to a father who’s become nothing more than a stiff puppet?”

There was a sound of receding footsteps. As Aurora’s mouth continued flapping up and down, Simon could see the shadow of a man heading into the next room at the edge of his field of vision.

Aurora crackled, squeaked, and rattled, her lips moving up and down, but she didn’t speak.

It had been the sorcerer speaking the whole time.

Magdalena held her breath and listened as the banging and scraping started in again. She was still standing with her father in the ancient cesspit of Andechs castle. He’d quickly stashed Nepomuk’s little notebook in his pack, along with the book with the remarkable drawings, and now he listened closely, too.

“It’s not coming any closer,” he said. “It sounds like someone moving a few heavy crates.” He turned to the arched doorway and said, “Come, let’s have a look. Perhaps the sorcerer is trying to move out and taking his whole laboratory with him.”

As they ran down the low-ceilinged passageway, it seemed to Magdalena as if they’d crossed half the length of the Kien Valley. Where might they be now? Under the monastery? Somewhere deep below the forest? She couldn’t imagine how her father could keep his bearings in these surroundings. The hangman was clearly too large for these narrow, low passageways. His huge body kept banging against the rock, and his shirt and trousers had taken on the color of lime, dirt, and stone.

Now the scraping sound got louder, until finally it seemed to be directly above them. They turned another corner and came to a sudden stop.

They had reached the end of the corridor.

The hangman’s daughter stared at the hard granite wall. A small trickle of water emerged from the stone in front of them, accumulating in a dirty pool at their feet as tiny pebbles fell from the ceiling.

“Great,” she panted. “We’ve come to a dead end. We’d better turn around and-”

Magdalena stopped short as her father put his finger to his lips and pointed up. Turning and looking up, she could see a stone slab in the rock directly above her. In contrast with the stone around it, it was strangely light in color, as if it had been just placed there recently. The dragging sound came from above.

“I think I know where we are,” the hangman whispered, pointing at the solid granite all around them. “If this used to be the escape tunnel for the castle, then we are in all probability directly beneath the former cellar of the keep.” Briefly he stared into space. “Back in the war, we stormed a castle up in Saxony,” he continued in a low voice. “There was so much screaming and butchering. The last inhabitants of the castle were as stubborn as mules and withdrew to the solid rock keep. When we finally broke through after two weeks, we found no one there. They had all fled through a tunnel like this.”

“Now what do you suggest?” Magdalena asked impatiently. She didn’t like when her father started telling old war stories. “We can hardly attack them as you did back then, with shouts and rattling sabers. Especially since the stone slab overhead looks so heavy.”

The hangman shrugged. “Your father is no longer a youngster,” he growled. “But as long as I can lift my executioner’s sword, I can lift a slab of stone like that. Step aside.”

Kuisl stuck the torch into a crack in the rock, looked around for some large stones, and piled them up on the floor of the passageway, getting dirtier and dirtier in the process. When he judged it high enough, he climbed carefully on top and pushed against the stone slab with both hands. With a mixture of tension and horror, Magdalena watched, listening all the while in vain for sounds of crying children. The banging and scraping drowned out everything, however.

“And what happens when the sorcerer, or whoever it is, sees the slab being pushed aside?” she asked her father anxiously.

“Smart-ass woman,” Kuisl gasped, as the veins in his upper arms bulged out like little cords and beads of sweat ran down his muddy forehead. “Do you have a better idea? If not, shut up.”

After a while the stone plate rose up with a grinding sound, and the hangman pushed it slightly to one side. Then he waved at Magdalena.

“Quick, climb on my shoulders and tell me what you see,” he whispered.

After a brief hesitation, Magdalena climbed up on her father’s back, just as she had as a child. His shoulders were still just as broad and strong as the yoke of an ox. She wavered a bit, then gaining her balance, carefully stuck her head up through the crack.

“Well?” Kuisl whispered down below. “Do you see the children?”

It took a while for her eyes to get used to the bright light above after the darkness in the tunnel. Finally she could make out a huge circular room with walls of rough-hewn granite. The ten-feet-high arched ceiling was also made of stone. At least a dozen torches illuminated a chaotic jumble of crates, chests, and tables, where a number of mysterious, nondescript objects stood. Three men in black robes, evidently monks from the monastery, scurried around amid the boxes.

Two of them had just nailed a cover on one of the containers and now, groaning and gasping, were dragging it up a spiral staircase hewn into the rock to a doorway just beneath the ceiling. Another man was inspecting the contents of boxes that were still open. All three were turned away, so Magdalena couldn’t recognize them. The stone slab was situated in the middle of the room but half concealed behind boxes, so the monks hadn’t yet noticed it had been pushed aside.

“Damn. Hurry up,” said the shrill voice of the monk standing closest to Magdalena. He was clinging to one of the crates, gasping, obviously exhausted. “It’s high time for us to get out of here. Evening mass is beginning soon.”

“If you had helped us carry these, we would have finished a lot sooner,” said one of the monks standing on the staircase. “Besides, as I’ve told you a dozen times already, I’m sick of taking orders from you.”

“Well, excuse me, but who had the idea of moving the stuff away?” complained the first. “That was you, you chicken-hearted coward.” He laughed hysterically, a high-pitched, girlish ring in his voice. “I can hear the golem already; he’s coming to get us.”

“Stop,” cried the second monk on the staircase. He sounded like an anxious, whining child. Magdalena thought she’d heard the voice before. “That… that scares me. There’s something down there. I can feel it. We… we mustn’t disturb it unnecessarily.” Suddenly he let go of the chest and fell to his knees. The monk on the other side had trouble holding onto the heavy chest by himself.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” whined the kneeling monk. “Maybe the rumors about the golem are true. What does it say in the old stories? It’s a creature made of dirt and clay that came to life when a damned Jewish rabbi breathed life into it. Surely the golem feels right at home in these underground passageways. Let’s pray that-”

In the next moment the other monk on the staircase cursed loudly and dropped the heavy chest. It tumbled down the stairs, turning over several times before finally landing a few steps away from the stone slab, where it burst apart, scattering bones, broken glass, and shreds of cloth across the floor.

A golden crucifix landed directly in front of Magdalena. It had been dented in the fall, and the surface had peeled away in places.

Beneath it was tarnished green copper.

“The relics,” one of the men shouted down in the keep. “The beautiful relics! You superstitious ninny; now all this work was in vain.”

The hangman’s daughter rubbed the dust from her eyes as her father staggered below like a stubborn packhorse.

“Damn it,” Kuisl complained softly. “What’s going on up there? Say something.”

“I… I’m not sure whether one of these three is the sorcerer,” she whispered, “but at least we’re onto another riddle here in the monastery. The relics-” She froze when she noticed the man closest to her had heard her voice.

“What the hell…?” the monk cursed.

The other two men were now staring down at her, as well-gawking at her as if she were a creature from the underworld. When she finally made out their faces in the torchlight, she let out a scream of terror.

They were Brother Eckhart, the prior Jeremias, and the old, stooped librarian.

“That’s… the hangman’s girl,” the prior exclaimed, recovering from the shock. “What’s she doing here?”

“It doesn’t matter; she’s seen us,” the librarian said ominously. “And that’s bad, very bad.” He hesitated briefly, then motioned to the fat Brother Eckhart.

“Look for yourself, Brother. It’s not a golem, just a damned woman. Take her, and do with her what you did with all the other women.” His voice became soft and mellifluous. “Give free rein to your devilish impulses, Eckhart. She deserves it. The prior himself will grant you absolution, and we’ll see to it that no one ever finds the sinful woman.”

The horror in Eckhart’s eyes vanished, giving way to a lewd grin.

“As you command, Benedikt,” he replied softly, licking his fleshy lips. “I’ve already told the lewd woman she has no business in certain places. Those who don’t listen have to find out the hard way.”

Rigid with fear, Magdalena watched the fat monk slowly descend the stairs, his huge hands reaching out in front of him and his mouth murmuring a soft prayer.

At the same moment, the hangman’s daughter could feel herself slowly being raised up from below. Her father was pulling himself up on the edge of the opening. To the three monks in the cellar of the keep, Magdalena must have looked like an angel slowly ascending.

“What in the world…” Brother Eckhart started to say. Then he saw the upper body of the hangman, covered with lime and dirt, emerging from the hole, groaning and growling like a wounded bear.

“My God, the golem,” shrieked the fat monk, tumbling back several paces. “It’s really the golem rising up from the underworld.”

Finally Kuisl had hoisted himself up far enough that Magdalena could jump from his shoulders. He pulled himself completely out of the hole then and stood before the monks at his full six feet, his body smeared with mud and clay, brown streaks across his face.

He looked indeed like a creature arisen directly from hell.

The rigid life-size puppet stared down at Simon, who was still struggling desperately to move.

By now he’d succeeded in turning his head far enough on the stone floor to look directly at the door on the other side of the room. His eyes were open, but so dried out they burned like fire. Nevertheless, he kept looking to the entrance where he could hear the soft pitter-patter of little feet. A moment later his two children appeared, their eyes red from crying, their shirts torn and filthy, but otherwise unharmed.

“Papa!” Peter cried out, stumbling toward Simon. He stretched out his little hands as if expecting his father to jump up at any moment and take him in his arms. But Simon could only lie there, his face distorted in a grimace.

“Papa?” Peter stood in front of him now, passing his little fingers over Simon’s sweaty brow. The medicus’s eyes were still wide open. “Papa, are you asleep?”

Little Paul had arrived now, as well. He crawled onto Simon’s chest and pressed his head tenderly against it. Simon always caressed him until he fell asleep, but now he lay beneath his son like a piece of dead meat. Paul began to cry.

“Don’t be sad, children,” said the hoarse voice from the other side of the corridor. “You have much to learn in your lives. Everyone must die, even your father. But at least come and have a good look at him, and remember him this way. I, too, had to watch over my dearest a long time before God finally took her away from me. This time, however, the trick is on God. Say goodbye, children; it’s time for you to go.”

The voice became louder as the stranger entered the room, approaching from the side so that Simon recognized his face only at the last moment.

The medicus tried to scream, and this time he was so terrified that, despite his paralysis, a brief, stifled squawk emerged.

The man standing above him did actually come from the underworld.

With a mixture of awe and horror Magdalena watched as her father, smeared with clay and lime, took out his cudgel and advanced menacingly toward Brother Eckhart.

“Where are the children?” he growled. “Speak up, you fat, black-robed rascal, before I send the whole bunch of you straight to hell.”

“What… what children?” Brother Eckhart was clearly confused. Until this point, he’d been firmly convinced a genuine golem was standing in front of him. Now this golem was posing curious questions, and in the thickest Bavarian accent. Magdalena could see clearly the monk’s mind working.

The wizened librarian had ascended the staircase and was now standing alongside Brother Jeremias, looking down incredulously at the scene below. Finally, he began to laugh hysterically.

“Damn, Eckhart,” he cried out. “That’s no golem; it’s the same man I caught snooping around Laurentius’s cell-that stubborn Schongau hangman, a man of flesh and blood. I was almost believing that nonsense about a golem myself.”

The Andechs prior seemed to have pulled himself together now, as well. He glanced nervously at the door, as if he were considering running away, but then he evidently made a decision. Reaching inside his robe, he suddenly pulled out a pistol.

“Stay where you are, hangman,” he shouted down into the keep. “We haven’t toiled away all these years to have everything ruined by a filthy country bumpkin. One step closer, and I’ll blow you away like a mad dog.”

The old librarian at Jeremias’s side seemed stunned for a moment by his colleague, but then a thin smile passed over his lips. “Well, well, Jeremias,” he purred, “I never thought you had it in you. Perhaps I’ve underestimated you all these years. Where does an impoverished monk get a hold of such a beautiful weapon?”

“That’s beside the point,” the prior snapped. “The important thing is that this girl and her father don’t give us away. So put down your cudgel, hangman.”

Until now, Kuisl had listened to the two Benedictines in silence. Now he lowered his weapon and stepped back. “A nice toy you have there, little monk,” he growled. “A genuine Flemish flintlock pistol, if I’m not mistaken. Must have cost a heap of money. Unfortunately, it fires only one shot, and there are two of us.”

“Brother Eckhart can take care of the girl all by himself,” the prior snarled, pointing at the fat cellarer still standing uncertainly on the floor of the keep. “He’s been looking forward to dealing with that girl so long, and we don’t want to disappoint him, do we?”

Until then, Magdalena had been standing behind one of the closed crates, observing the three Benedictines. Now she stepped forward angrily.

“Some fine monks you are,” she shouted up to the prior on the staircase. “Is this what our Savior understood by brotherly love? Rape and murder?”

“Silence, woman,” Father Benedict chimed in. “You don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I don’t understand?” Magdalena pointed at the crates around her. In the torchlight, she saw rusty crucifixes lying around on the tables, along with jawbones, colorful glass stones, and cheap tin chalices. “I’ll tell you what I understand. You’re making counterfeit relics here. I’ve no idea what you’re doing with them, but certainly you’re not putting the fake chalices in your own chapel.”

The librarian laughed again. “Didn’t I tell you, stupid hangman’s girl, that you really don’t understand?”

Magdalena looked at him incredulously. “Does that mean-”

“I’ll tell you what it means,” her father interrupted, swinging his cudgel. “The three of them are probably selling the genuine relics and putting the counterfeit ones in the holy chapel. Isn’t that right? You’re selling all the beautiful chalices, monstrances, and crucifixes, and the people in Andechs are praying to tin-plated counterfeits?”

Magdalena looked back again at the tables with the glass stones and rolls of fabric. To the right stood a brazier with a small bellows, and alongside them a few sparkling gold figurines.

“You’re… you’re melting down the chalices and crucifixes?” she cried out in horror. “You’re destroying the sacred treasures of Andechs Monastery and selling them as gold bars? Everything up there is nothing but cheap imitations?”

“Stupid brat.” The prior rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Of course not everything. Do you have any idea how many relics have been accumulating up there? Hundreds! Nobody notices when one or two relics are replaced by cheap imitations. The bones and cloth are returned. We change only the containers, so to speak, and the contents remain the same.”

He smiled broadly and continued pointing the pistol at Kuisl. The weapon seemed to lend him an enormous degree of self-confidence, and Magdalena could positively feel how the prior was enjoying this scene.

“Believe us, we didn’t plan it this way,” Jeremias continued almost apologetically. “During the Great War, hordes of mercenaries descended on us looking for our relics, and Benedikt and I had to hide them again and again. We hid the treasures deep down below the monastery. Then one day, we happened to find a walled-over section in the beer cellar. We broke through the wall and the passage led us here.”

“To the buried keep of Andechs Castle,” Magdalena murmured. “How many of these underground passageways do you think are still here?”

“We never looked any farther,” said the librarian, rubbing his tired little eyes. “It didn’t interest us. We were happy to find a good hiding place during the war.” His voice turned shrill and hatred gleamed in his eyes. “In any case, our own soldiers were worse than the enemy mercenaries. The elector always demanded money for his expensive military campaigns. Where do you think we got that? We melted down some of our relics and replaced them with cheap tin and glass stones. Nobody noticed a thing-on the contrary. The worse the war became, the more pilgrims came here, and they didn’t care what they were worshipping-tin or gold. The only thing they needed was faith.”

“And then after the war you simply carried on and pocketed the money yourselves,” the hangman snorted. “Greedy little monks. You’re all the same.” Warily he eyed the muzzle of the pistol, but Brother Jeremias didn’t let Kuisl out of his sight for a minute.

The old librarian smiled wanly. “I knew a stupid, dishonorable hangman would see it that way,” he finally replied. “But if you really want to know-no, we didn’t pocket the money ourselves. We used it to buy books, valuable knowledge that would otherwise be lost to history, and we’re saving it to make this monastery into something great someday. Soon we can begin with our new construction, isn’t that right, Brother Jeremias?”

The prior nodded. “The war taught us that faith doesn’t need money. What’s the point of all the bric-a-brac that just collects dust in the chests of the holy chapel? A few times each year, we display some of them from the bay window of the church and people are happy-they pray just as fervently even if these objects are just glass stones and cheap metal. And they will be even happier when the monastery is decked out in new splendor. Our actions are God’s work.”

Kuisl laughed out loud. “Damn it, you really think you’re doing the right thing, don’t you?” he chuckled. “You’re so muddled you can’t see how removed you are from your Savior. You have one foot in hell and really believe you’re working for paradise.” Kuisl nodded grimly. “Your kind was always the worst type I had to string up-those who believed to the end that they were just doing good.”

“I don’t give a damn what you think, hangman,” the prior shouted. “We’ve almost reached our goal. I waited a long time to be named abbot. Everything seemed to be going my way, and then they sent Rambeck from Salzburg University back to the monastery. What a scandal. But under my leadership this monastery will shine again in renewed splendor. And now, Eckhart, grab that woman and-”

Suddenly Kuisl lunged forward, striking the cellarer on the shoulder. The monk grunted with surprise, staggered back, and tipped over a table, spilling glass stones and little bones onto the ground.

“Eckhart, grab him,” the librarian shouted. “He mustn’t escape.”

As the black-robed monk regained his balance, a strange fire gleamed in his eyes, as if the blow he’d received had awakened in him long-forgotten memories of bar-house brawls and beatings. Magdalena sensed his life before taking on the Benedictine order must have been distinctly unchristian. With his bald head, bullish neck, and flabby but muscular upper arms, he looked more like a waterfront thug than a monk. Growling, he charged Kuisl, who deftly stepped aside. Nevertheless Eckhart landed a passing blow, and Magdalena watched in horror as her father stumbled. Kuisl was just able to grab one of the crates to steady himself.

He’s really starting to show his age, she thought. Only a few years ago he would have wiped up the floor of the keep with the fat monk.

As if divining her thoughts, Kuisl rose up defiantly, seized his cudgel, and approached the cellarer like an angry bull.

“Say your prayers, brother,” he growled. “You won’t have to flagellate yourself any more for your sins. I’ll take care of that now.”

With hateful little eyes, Brother Eckhart gazed at Kuisl and groped for something on a table behind him. With his huge hands, he finally seized a golden crucifix which he held up before him.

“Even if you’re not a golem, you come straight from hell,” he hissed. “Vade, Satanas, vade! Die, you devil!”

With a scream the monk swung the cross, aiming for the top of Kuisl’s head, but at the last moment Kuisl dodged, raised his cudgel, and brought it down with full force on Eckhart’s skull.

The monk collapsed like an ox struck between the eyes by a bolt from a crossbow. Blood trickled across the dirty floor of the keep as Brother Eckhart twitched one final time, then passed away. The hangman wiped sweat from his forehead.

“You can be glad it’s over for you, little monk,” he gasped. “The punishment for counterfeiting relics is a much more painful death.”

Magdalena, who had been watching the fight from behind one of the crates, was about to rush out to help her father when she was grabbed by the neck from behind and felt something sharp and cold press against her right temple.

“Drop the club right now, hangman,” the prior hissed. He’d snuck down the stairway and was now holding the cool barrel of the pistol against Magdalena’s head. “Or your daughter will roast in hell even before you.”

Kuisl turned toward his daughter, and when he saw the weapon in the prior’s hand, he immediately lowered his cudgel. Magdalena could now see fear in her father’s eyes.

He had trouble concealing his anger. “Listen, monk,” he began, “I don’t care what you do with me-I’ve lived a full life-but keep my daughter out of this.”

“Run with the dogs, die with the dogs,” Brother Benedikt jeered as he stepped out from behind the prior, looking like a hungry old crow. He glanced down at the dead Eckhart. “That fat rapist is no great loss,” he hissed. “He was evil and sick, but we needed him to move the heavy crates. Just as we needed Laurentius. The novitiate master, with his delicate fingers, was the only one who could make convincing counterfeits out of stone and metal.” Benedikt sighed. “A real artist. It’s a shame we lost him.”

“Such a hypocrite,” Magdalena snapped as the prior pressed the mouth of the pistol so hard against her temple that a small trickle of blood ran down her cheek. She continued, undeterred. “You probably killed Laurentius yourself because he was afraid and was about to betray you.”

“You’re wrong, girl,” Brother Benedikt replied coolly. “We ourselves don’t know who did that to the good fellow.” He pointed at the hole in the floor. “There’s something lurking around down there. We covered the opening with the stone slab, but you removed it. So tell me. You came from down there. What did you see?”

“We didn’t find a golem or a sorcerer,” the hangman interrupted in his deep bass voice. “We were just looking for my grandchildren.”

“Your… grandchildren?” The librarian paused briefly then started cackling like a chicken. “Ha! Don’t tell me all this is happening just because the dumb girl’s brats ran away on her.”

“The sorcerer abducted them, you old fool,” Magdalena shouted as angry tears ran down her face. “If none of you is the sorcerer, who is? Speak up! Who knows what this madman is doing with my children?”

But Brother Benedikt just continued laughing, his scornful, hysterical cackle echoing loudly through the cellar of the keep. Finally, he stopped and wiped his face. “That’s so funny,” he replied, breathlessly. “You really believe that one of us is the sorcerer-and all this time, we thought it was one of you. And while we stand here beating up on each other, the real sorcerer goes happily about his business. That’s just precious.”

Magdalena hesitated. It didn’t seem Brother Benedikt was just trying to fool her. “And… and you have nothing to do with the hosts that were stolen and have now reappeared?” she asked uncertainly.

“God, no!” The librarian shrugged. “Why should we be interested in a few old wafers? They can’t be melted down. But in one regard, I must disappoint you-the hosts still haven’t reappeared. The monstrance that the unfortunate Laurentius brought with him from the forest was empty.”

“Just as I thought,” Kuisl cursed. “The sorcerer had already removed the hosts. What in God’s name does he want with them?”

“That, my good fellow, is something you’ll never learn,” Prior Jeremias hissed, pointing the flintlock pistol directly into Kuisl’s face. “You’re right. There’s only one bullet in the gun, but after we’ve taken care of you, we’ll deal with your daughter. Strange, isn’t it, that this is all starting to really amuse me.” In a flash, he picked up a stiletto from one of the tables and held it to Magdalena’s throat. “Perhaps we’ll take a little time with the girl, but you’re on your way to hell now, hangman. Farewell.”

As the pistol clicked, Kuisl dodged to one side, but the fatal shot never came.

Horrified, the Andechs prior stared at a crossbow bolt protruding from his upper right arm. His fingers went limp, and the pistol clattered to the ground. The face of the old librarian beside him turned white, and his eyes were glued to the top of the stairway leading to the exit above.

“Don’t kill her. I want her alive.”

Turning, Magdalena saw four unfamiliar soldiers in uniforms at the top of the staircase. Their leather cuirasses were emblazoned with a coat of arms depicting a golden lion in a black field. Two of the men aimed crossbows at the two Benedictines.

Between the soldiers stood Count Leopold von Wartenberg. “Behold! We’ve finally found the nest of the relics thieves,” he said coldly. “The executioner in Weilheim can really look forward to a good year. Two little execution pyres won’t suffice for this dreadful crime.”