The Poisoned Pilgrim

18

SHORTLY AFTER NIGHTFALL ON SUNDAY, JUNE 20, 1666 AD

Simon cringed as the man from the underworld bent over him almost solicitously. His humpback looked almost like a little animal bulging out of his black Benedictine robe. In his right hand, he grasped the silver pommel of his walking stick.

This isn’t possible, Simon thought. You’re dead. I saw you-a charred corpse-with my own eyes in the cemetery.

But unlike the shriveled black corpse the medicus had examined just two days ago, this Virgilius was most definitely alive. His face was twisted into an insane grimace, and he cocked his head to one side as if observing his patient’s paralysis with great interest.

“Am I mistaken or did I just see a tiny movement?” the watchmaker said in a hoarse voice. “It would be interesting to see if the effect of the poison lessens over time, but unfortunately we’ll not be able to continue this experiment.”

“Nnnnn…” For the first time Simon was able to summon up all his strength and produce a sound. He had to strain so hard he almost passed out.

“Papa?” Peter asked anxiously. He kneeled with his brother on the stone floor, both of them running their fingers back and forth across their father’s face. “Papa is sick?”

“Your father isn’t sick; he’s just resting before going on a very long trip.”

Virgilius rose and, supported by his walking stick, hobbled over to the puppet still standing in the middle of the room. Its mouth had fallen silent, and the rattling and clicking had ceased, as well. It was nothing more than a lifeless automaton whose mechanism had stopped.

“Here I thought the little bathhouse surgeon would remain stiff forever,” Virgilius said regretfully. He turned to Aurora. “I thought I could make a playmate for you, a puppet for the time when you yourself are no longer a puppet. What do you say?” With a playful, surprised look, he gazed at Aurora, as if awaiting an answer. “Do you think me impolite? I haven’t introduced you yet? Excuse me; you are absolutely right.”

Virgilius bowed slightly in Simon’s direction and pointed at the grinning automaton. “My dear bathhouse surgeon: this is Elisabeth, the most beautiful and charming creature I’ve ever been privileged to meet in my life. I call her Aurora, meaning dawn. A suitable name, don’t you think?” He smiled, but Simon could see tears in his eyes.

“Shall I tell him a bit about us, Elisabeth?” Virgilius continued. “Really? Very well, as you wish…” He paused briefly before continuing.

“I met my beloved Dawn when I was a young student at the Benedictine university in Salzburg, where my older brother, Maurus, also studied. He always chided me for neglecting my studies and spending all my time with Elisabeth. The stupid fellow. Even today, he still doesn’t understand what she means to me. She was-no, she is my life.”

Virgilius paused for a long time, staring vacantly at the dead skulls, the jewels, the astrolabe, and the music boxes on the shelves.

“What are you saying?” he asked, astonished. “Do you really want me to tell this nice, open-minded bathhouse surgeon our little secret? But… you know how it hurts me to do that.” He nodded with determination. “Very well then, if you say so. I have, in fact, remained silent much too long. It deadens the soul to keep secrets too long, doesn’t it?”

Virgilius’s face suddenly turned grim, as if dark clouds were gathering behind his eyes.

“Elisabeth died,” he said softly. “Just like a rose in winter. It was the Plague that took her from me thirty years ago. I… I tried everything at the time, but all my knowledge, all the cleverness I was so proud of, wasn’t enough to cure her.”

With a sudden sweep of his cane, Virgilius brushed the astrolabe and a few other technical devices off the shelves and onto the floor, where they broke apart with a loud crash that echoed through the subterranean passageways.

“What use is all this damned science if we can’t save the one life that means something to us,” he shouted so loudly that the children started to cry and clung tightly to their father. Tears rolled like little pearls down the watchmaker’s face. “What an evil trick God has played on us by giving us reason but no control. After Elisabeth’s death I traveled the entire world-Africa, Arabia, the distant West Indies-looking for something that would give me back my life. But all I brought back was this… this rubbish.”

Disgusted, the watchmaker took the long pointed horn from the shelf. Simon thought he intended to stab him with it at first, but instead Virgilius just cast it aside carelessly, then proceeded to furiously pound the other shelves with his cane.

“Nothing but rubbish to fill up my little cabinet of curiosities,” he ranted. “Nothing but trash! Things that amuse us. But we’re unable to create natural, living things themselves. Everything is a cheap imitation of God’s works. Everything…”

He paused and suddenly dropped his walking stick. In the silence that followed, all that could be heard was the wailing of the children, who still clung to their father and stared up anxiously at the angry little hunchback.

“I… I’m sorry, Elisabeth,” he said, again very softly. “I… I didn’t want to frighten the little ones. Can you comfort them again? I know you can.”

He walked over to the puppet and turned a few little wheels in its back. At once Aurora started to play her sad familiar melody again as she rolled around, clattering in a little circle. It looked as if she was going to dance. The children did settle down for a while; Paul even giggled when the puppet winked its metal eyelids.

“I swear by God, I tried to forget Elisabeth,” Virgilius muttered, leaning against the wall next to Simon and staring into space. “All those many summers and winters. But I couldn’t do it. Outwardly, I was calm and reasonable, but inwardly I was still seething. After many years of travel, my brother obtained this position in the monastery for me. As a foolish watchmaker. Maurus no doubt thought I’d finally been cured of my spiritual distress.” He laughed softly. “I started building automata for these dumb monks, toys they could put in their gardens and enjoy. I made a hellish, burning powder, as well as muskets that shot bullets silently, propelled by nothing but air pressure, and chirping birds made of metal. And I did it all to not have to think of her. Finally when madness had practically consumed me, I had a stroke of insight that saved me. I built myself a new Aurora. From the deepest recesses of my memory, I built myself an automaton that looked and acted just like her.”

Slowly, Virgilius began to rock his head back and forth in time with the melody; then his legs started moving as well. As the hunchbacked little man hobbled around the room, he took the puppet by the arms and spun around with it in a courtly dance.

“One, two… one, two…” he sang in time with the music.

Simon felt the paralysis beginning to wear off; with a struggle he could even wiggle a few fingers. Discreetly he moved his arms and legs and hoped the crazed watchmaker wouldn’t notice.

When the machine’s movements and melody finally slowed down and stopped, Virgilius bowed politely to Aurora and uttered a deep sigh.

“Yes, I know, Elisabeth,” he said with a disparaging wave of his hand. “This is just make-believe. You say you’re not alive, that this clever bathhouse surgeon knows that, as well, but can I tell you what he doesn’t know?” He winked at Simon, who could now move his right arm again.

“What he doesn’t know is that we’ve found a way to bring you back to life,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “That ugly apothecary showed me how. Lightning. Yes, lightning. Even in ancient writings we learn that lightning is the finger of God. For years I’ve been looking for a force that can breathe life back into you, and finally, finally, I found it.” Virgilius closed his eyes and folded his hands as if he were praying.

“What do you say to that, Elisabeth?” he exclaimed. “That this stupid apothecary hadn’t quite thought it all through? That something was missing to bring you back to life?” Virgilius cocked his head to one side as if listening with rapt attention for his lover’s reply. “Shall I really disclose our greatest secret to this bathhouse surgeon?” He burst into a hysterical giggle. “Because he won’t be able to tell anyone anyway? You’re right about that.”

Virgilius proudly limped to the other side of the room. By now Simon was able to move his head far enough to make out a sort of small stone altar in the corner. On top of it stood a gold-rimmed glass with three tiny brownish discs inside.

The three sacred hosts, Simon realized in a flash. Virgilius was the one who stole them from the monstrance and brought them here.

“I observed the clouds, dearest Aurora,” Virgilius said, carefully plucking the hard discs out of the glass. “The weather today is most favorable for us, and so soon after the Festival of the Three Hosts. That’s a good sign. Tonight, faith will finally unite with science.” Virgilius cast a longing though deeply sad look at his stiffly grinning beloved. “Your long wait will be over. You will return to the land of the living.”

The watchmaker crushed the hosts to a fine powder with his fingers, and the remains fluttered into the glass.

Huge black thunderclouds were gathering above Lake Ammer, advancing from the west across the water and extending their long, dark fingers toward the monastery. Even though it was just six in the evening, darkness lay over the mountain, silencing all life. The birds took shelter under branches, the foxes and badgers huddled in their holes, and even the wolves drew in their tails and crowded into packs, as if in this way they might better withstand the imminent danger.

High in the sky, the first bolts of lightning appeared, illuminating the clouds that had risen like towers above the lake. Small waves lapping the shoreline were whipped up by a wind blowing down from the Hoher Pei?enberg, bringing a freshness to the air and welcome relief from the oppressive heat of this June day. Trees bent in the wind, groaning and creaking. Though they’d withstood many such storms in the past, this one promised to be especially violent.

One that men would long remember.

In the calm before the storm, the first claps of thunder sounded loud enough to burst the world apart. The sound rolled across the land, whistled through the trees, and battered the walls of the monastery.

Then the rain came.

Count Leopold von Wartenberg stood atop the stairway holding his head erect and watching as his soldiers tied up the two stunned monks. When the bailiffs finally turned to Kuisl and his daughter, the count raised his hand. Suspiciously he stared down at the Schongau hangman.

“At first I thought these scoundrels had found two willing accomplices for their counterfeiting scheme,” he said softly, as if to himself. “But now I remember how the Schongau burgomaster just today told me how angry he was with his hangman. The hangman, he said, was here on the Holy Mountain despite his dishonorable station, and had been caught snooping around in the monastery. This afternoon, he threw one of the hunters into the gorge while trying to flee.” The count raised an eyebrow and looked Kuisl over from head to foot. “From his description, you could be the hangman. Is that true?”

Kuisl folded his arms in front of his broad chest. “I am the one, but I have nothing to do with the dark deeds of these charlatans. I’m only looking for my grandchildren.”

Grinning, the count turned to his soldiers. “Did you hear that? He’s only looking for his grandchildren. Unfortunately the sweet little things have lost their way in the subterranean passageways-the same ones, by chance, in which the counterfeiters were up to no good.” The guards roared, but Count Wartenberg interrupted their laughter with an abrupt gesture. “Nonsense. Do you really think I’ll fall for these lies, hangman?”

“But it’s the truth,” Magdalena interrupted. “My children were abducted by this sorcerer. They’re probably still down here somewhere and-”

“Just a moment,” the count said, raising his hand for silence. “What is all this talk about a sorcerer? If there really is one, then it’s this apothecary waiting to be burned at the stake in Weilheim. Who are you, anyway, woman?”

Magdalena straightened up in anger and stuck out her chin. “I’m Magdalena of Schongau,” she replied coolly. “Daughter of the hangman Jakob Kuisl and wife of the bathhouse surgeon Simon Fronwieser. People say we’re dishonorable, but we do have names.”

“Fronwieser?” For the first time there was a note of astonishment in the count’s voice. “The Fronwieser who cured my son?”

Magdalena smiled wanly. “I’m happy to hear that the little lad is doing better.”

“Well, he’s not cured yet, but the fever is actually going down. Unfortunately I had to leave his bedside a few hours ago on account of these gallows birds.” Wartenberg slowly descended the stairs. The two Benedictines were now lying on the ground, tied up, the guards’ boots pressing their faces into the dirt so they could hardly breathe. The crossbow bolt was still protruding from Brother Jeremias’s upper arm.

“For years we’ve known that something fishy was going on with the Andechs relics,” the count continued as he examined the tables loaded with cheap metal and the encrusted crucible. “There were rumors, stories, but no proof. Nevertheless, we Wittelsbachs couldn’t allow the electorate’s greatest treasure, which actually belongs to us, to be drained off through dubious channels. The elector asked me to look into this, but I couldn’t find anything in the holy chapel, nor could I the second time I asked to be admitted. But then I discovered a map in the librarian’s cell…”

Brother Benedikt’s head quickly shot up. His cheeks were smeared with mud, and blood ran down over his face, but beneath it all, his eyes flashed wildly.

“So you stole my map,” he hissed. “I thought the sorcerer did, but it was just one of you Wittelsbach snoops.”

“Silence, monk!” The count kicked the old man in the side so that he gasped and writhed about. “Think instead about what the Weilheim executioner will be doing with you soon. The punishment for falsifying relics is torture on the rack, but if you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll make sure Master Hans pulls out your guts first.” He pointed at the lifeless Brother Eckhart whose head lay in a pool of blood. “Your friend can count himself lucky to be spared all this.”

Brother Benedikt coughed but remained silent. The prior who lay tied up next to him seemed to have already resigned himself to his fate, closing his eyes tightly as if he were already in another world. He murmured a Latin prayer as the blood oozed out of his wound and formed a dark stain on his robe.

“I’ll admit the map made me curious,” Wartenberg continued without bothering to look at either of the monks anymore. “So I went looking until I finally found the underground passage leading from the beer cellar to this place. And what did I find at the end? A huge counterfeiting workshop. All I needed to do was to catch the perpetrators in the act. When they slipped away and came down here, we followed them. But two other people were here…”

Now he turned back to Magdalena and her father. “Your husband, this little bathhouse surgeon, did good work, hangman’s daughter,” he said. “For this reason, I’m prepared to listen to you. Also because I want to know how you got here without our noticing it. But be brief and think carefully about what you say.”

“Damn it, I’ll do that if only for the sake of my children, you pompous ass,” she murmured softly enough that only her father beside her could hear. Then in a much louder voice she continued: “The apothecary Brother Johannes is innocent. The real sorcerer is somewhere down below.”

Briefly she told him about the ransom note she’d received from the unknown person, and about the search through the underground passages.

“This man abducted my children because he’s afraid we were on his trail,” she concluded. “He’s probably still down there with them. Please, you must help us!”

Leopold von Wartenberg looked at her suspiciously, without a trace of sympathy. “So… a mysterious sorcerer is haunting these passageways,” he finally said smugly. “What in the world do you think this unknown devil is trying to accomplish with his murders?”

“We don’t yet know what his plan is,” she replied, “but his victims stood in his way, and they knew something he didn’t want to come to light.” She stepped up to the count and looked at him, pleading. “Please let your men come along with us, and let’s go back down again. My children’s lives are at stake. You have a child yourself.”

Leopold von Wartenberg paused and seemed to be considering what she’d said. He closed his eyes and rubbed his nostrils for a while before replying. “It’s not so simple. I need my soldiers to take these scoundrels away. Besides, there’s an enormous storm raging up there at present, and I need all hands to react promptly to any possible fires. It’s almost as if hell itself has opened its doors-”

“Good Lord in Heaven, a thunderstorm?”

Leopold von Wartenberg looked indignantly at the hangman who had so rudely interrupted him. But Kuisl remained undeterred. “You spoke of a thunderstorm,” the hangman continued brashly. “Is it an especially violent one? Tell me!”

“It’s the most violent one I’ve seen in years,” the count replied, looking Kuisl up and down like a strange, exotic animal. “The lightning bolts are striking like cannonballs all around the monastery, and we can only pray they don’t set fire to any of the roofs. Why do you ask?”

“The lightning bolts,” Kuisl exclaimed excitedly. “This all has something to do with lightning. This madman wanted to learn more about lightning from Nepomuk. He stole Nepomuk’s sketches, and down in the corridors below we read about lightning again.”

He fetched the sorcerer’s tattered notebook from his pack and began to leaf through it furiously. Finally he let out a raucous shout. “We were so foolish,” he cried. “So damned stupid! Why didn’t we see this before?”

“What are you talking about?” Magdalena asked, perplexed. Her father simply held the book open for her to see. There, she recognized a humanoid figure attached to wires that ended in jagged lines resembling lightning bolts. Beneath the sketch stood a Latin phrase.

Credo, ergo sum.

“I believe, therefore I am,” Magdalena murmured.

“Think back,” her father said softly, “to the first time you were up in the steeple. That strange apparatus. Didn’t it look something like what you see in the sketches?”

“You’re right.” Magdalena once again examined the lines in the drawing. “It looked like that. But why-”

“What does all this mean?” the count interrupted impatiently. “What kind of book is this and what are you talking about, hangman?”

“Virgilius!” Kuisl cried out. “The automaton builder. He’s trying to use lightning to bring his blasted puppet back to life.”

“What do you mean…? What puppet?” Wartenberg asked, confused.

“My God, is everyone here so dense? The automaton that disappeared with him, of course. Virgilius took it along and now probably believes he can bring it back to life. It must have something to do with those damned hosts. Evidently he needs them to complete his experiment.”

The hangman pointed excitedly at the pages of the open book. “Credo, ergo sum… I believe, therefore I am. Virgilius evidently thinks that belief in the hosts, together with the lightning, can breathe life back into his clattering, squeaking automaton. What a lot of goddamned madness.”

“But father, that… that can’t be true,” Magdalena interrupted, confused. “Virgilius is dead. Simon himself saw his body beside the well in the cemetery.”

“Your husband saw a burned body and, beside it, the walking stick of the poor victim. But was it really Virgilius? Think about that, child.” Kuisl shook his head grimly and burst out laughing. Magdalena felt how the sudden revelations made her head spin. “Do you mean he… he wanted us to believe he was dead?” she gasped. “Just as he wanted us to believe he’d been abducted?”

Kuisl nodded. “He abducted himself in order to get his hands on those accursed hosts. He knew his brother would only give him the hosts if he played some sort of trick on him. The severed finger probably came from a corpse, perhaps even from Vitalis, just to frighten Maurus a bit. Everything was planned from the very start. When Virgilius noticed we were closing in on him, he faked his own death to divert suspicion.” The hangman rubbed his huge nose, lost in thought. “The fresh grave that Simon and I discovered at the cemetery, the footprints in the ground-everything fits. Virgilius himself dug up the dead monk, burned him with phosphorus until he was almost unrecognizable, and threw him into the well. The footprints beside the grave were his own. And…” He hesitated a moment to give the count a chance to say something.

“Do I understand this all correctly? This watchmaker only pretended he’d been abducted?” Wartenberg asked, skeptically. “And now he’s prowling around somewhere down in those passageways?”

“That damned Virgilius,” screeched the librarian, lying fettered on the floor. “I always knew he would bring misfortune to the monastery. If we’d only taken over the monastery sooner, we would have long gotten rid of that fellow. The only one still standing up for him was the abbot.”

“Your opinion is of no importance here,” the count snapped, signaling to one of the guards. “Take these two to the same dungeon the apothecary was in. They’ll have until morning there to think about the agony that still awaits them. I’ll be along soon.”

The bailiffs seized the monks under the arms and dragged them up the stairway like sacks of flour.

“Please, Your Excellency,” Magdalena said, “give us at least two of your men to help look for my children down below. I know they’re down there somewhere.”

“Magdalena, remember what the count just said,” her father interrupted. “Up above the very storm is raging that Virgilius was trying to conjure up in his book. He has the hosts, he has the automaton, and believe me, he’s somewhere out there. And if I were him, I’d take the children along. There are no better hostages for his plan.”

“And… how about my husband?” Magdalena could feel tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh, God, I just don’t know what to do.”

By now two of the guards had disappeared in the corridor with the ranting librarian and the softly praying prior. A long silence settled over the group. Finally the hangman spoke.

“Your Excellency,” he began. It was immediately clear to Magdalena how difficult it was for him to say these words. “I beg you, not for my sake, but for the sake of my family: send your remaining men down there to check. With your permission, my daughter and I will go up above where the storm is raging.”

“Damn it!” Magdalena burst out. “How often do I have to tell you, you can’t tell me what to do. I’m going down below. I know that Simon and the children are down there.”

“And I tell you, you’re coming with me, and at once.”

The count raised his hand. “For heaven’s sake, just stop fighting. All right, I agree. You can have two of my men to go down there and look around, even if I put no faith in all these ghost stories.”

“Thank you, thank you, Your Excellency.” Magdalena bowed slightly and hurried back to the hole that led down below. “Let’s not lose any time.”

“Damn it, I said you’re coming with me,” the hangman growled. “I’m still your father, so stop contradicting me all the time.”

But Magdalena had already crawled down into the hole. The two guards stood on the staircase looking uncertainly at the Wittelsbach count.

“What’s the matter with you?” Wartenberg asked. “Are you rooted to the spot? Follow that crazy woman right now.” Then he turned to Kuisl with a grin. “You should have disciplined your daughter better when she was a child, but now it’s probably too late. She’s a damned stubborn girl.”

“It runs in the family,” Kuisl grumbled as he climbed the stairs from the keep with a shrug. “When she comes out from down there, I’ll give her a good spanking. Now let’s head back to the surface before Virgilius rides away on a lightning bolt, never to be seen again.”

Gradually Simon could feel strength returning to his limbs. Though his arms and legs itched as if a thousand ants were crawling over them and his heart raced, he tried not to move. It wasn’t clear what Virgilius would do with him if he realized his victim was not as defenseless as he thought. Simon’s children still clung to the motionless, stiff body of their father, staring wide-eyed at the strange hunchback before them.

Simon was still trying to figure out how he could have been so easily deceived. The burned corpse in the cemetery well wasn’t Virgilius, but the monk from the third fresh grave. The watchmaker had set out the bait for them, and they had swallowed it.

The handkerchief with Aurora’s monogram. Virgilius himself must have dropped it there. The footprints were his own. Why had Simon been so foolish as to believe in golems and witchcraft?

Now the watchmaker dissolved the hosts in a glass and poured the cloudy water into a small bottle. He studied it, absorbed in thought.

“Voila! This is what I call the true aqua vitae, the water of life,” he murmured. “A potion as strong as dreams, fears, and the desires of thousands of pilgrims. The sacred hosts have been venerated for many centuries, infused with the faith of generations of pilgrims. These crushed wafers are the focal point of one of Europe’s greatest pilgrimage sites.”

Virgilius laughed under his breath, shaking the bottle so the tiny crumbs in the water began to dance. “Isn’t this amazing? Actually it’s no more than baked flour, as lifeless as all the other relics. Rusty pieces of metal, worthless bones, and spotted old shrouds that have almost crumbled to dust. But we humans breathe new life into them through of our faith.” Longingly he turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “How many years have I been searching in vain for the key to bringing back my Aurora. Just yesterday in the monastery library I came upon an ancient book dealing with conjuring golems and creating life. I made copies, studied numerology, the Talmud… and finally I understood.”

Virgilius leaned over toward Simon, whose lips and facial muscles had started to twitch uncontrollably. The medicus suddenly recalled the Jewish book he’d seen a few days ago on the abbot’s desk. That must have been the work that Virgilius was citing with such solemn fervor.

“Do you know how rabbis instilled life into their mud and clay golems?” the monk whispered, bending down farther over Simon’s twitching face. “They placed a piece of paper inscribed with the name of God in their mouths. Then they recited the last paragraph from the story of creation.” The monk closed his eyes as if praying. “And God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living soul,” he recited softly.

Virgilius stood up again, giggling. “Do you understand? Only God, not man, can perform this miracle. But we can help. The Jews understood this far earlier than we Christians. I’ve studied the scriptures and written my own book. Now, finally, I know what to do.”

Humming, he walked over to a closed chest, opened it, and pulled out a silk cape and a bonnet decorated with artificial flowers. Lovingly he placed the cape over Aurora’s shoulders and fastened the bonnet atop her wig.

“The great day is at hand, Aurora,” he whispered solemnly. “How long have I waited for this. Faith and science, the lightning and the hosts-together they’ll create new life.” He pulled out a comb and proceeded to tenderly brush his automaton’s hair. Smiling awkwardly under its bonnet, the puppet offered no resistance.

“That stubborn apothecary didn’t want to listen”-he mumbled as if to himself-“and didn’t want to tell me anything more about his experiments with lightning. So I decided to steal his notes and study them in peace. I told Vitalis about my plans, but that stupid apothecary’s assistant Coelestin was watching us up in the tower. The nosy little weasel was watching us experiment with wire and a dead goat.” The watchmaker’s frantic movements became even more erratic as some of the puppet’s stuffing started coming out.

“Tell me yourself, Aurora,” he whispered. “Didn’t I have every right to get rid of him? There was too much at stake. And when that coward Vitalis wanted to go to the abbot, didn’t I have to get rid of him, as well? For you! I did it all only for you. Tell me, how can anyone call me a murderer when I’ve acted only out of love?”

Virgilius’s voice cracked. Breathing heavily, beside himself with anger, he threw the comb on the ground. It took him a while to calm down again, but then a thin smile appeared on his lips.

“After I killed Vitalis, the bright idea came to me that saved the day,” he continued with a giggle. “The idea that allowed me to dispose of all my cares at once. I poured phosphorus over Vitalis, faked my own abduction, and blamed it all on the apothecary. His eyepiece lay right alongside the documents; all I had to do was to place it beside Vitalis’s charred body.” Virgilius nodded as if replying to something the automaton had said. “You’re right, Aurora. Johannes deserved his punishment, the damned fiend. Just like Laurentius. Why did that nosy novitiate master have to spy on me and discover these passageways? He almost managed to flee with the monstrance, but I caught him at the last moment. I hope that good-for-nothing sodomite burns in hell forever.”

With a slight bow, he turned to Simon. “I really have you to thank for this, bathhouse surgeon. Without you, these stupid monks would probably not have fallen for my trap. But with your help I quickly dispatched the apothecary. My thanks to you. You would have been a good new assistant, but unfortunately I have no more time for that.” He seized Aurora by her stiff hands and squeezed them hard. “Our new life together begins as yours is ending.”

With a sigh, Virgilius turned to the back wall where a rope hung from the ceiling. When he pulled on it, a soft bell rang somewhere.

“Believe me, I don’t really want you to die,” the watchmaker said. “Just as I didn’t really want the death of the others, either; but each time it was unavoidable. Tell me yourself: how can I take a paralyzed person with me? My servant will have his hands full carrying my beloved Aurora.”

Humming softly he removed a small chest from one of the shelves that was still intact and spread a white powder on the floor.

“I hope you understand that I must destroy these passageways,” Virgilius continued. “My knowledge mustn’t fall into the wrong hands, and certainly not those of this stupid, narrow-minded prior who people say will soon be replacing my brother as abbot. I’ve always produced this phosphorus powder with the thought it could someday cleanse everything here in a great conflagration.”

Simon struggled in vain to rise. By now he no longer cared whether Virgilius became suspicious. If he didn’t move soon, both he and his children would be consumed here in a truly apocalyptic sea of fire. Simon had seen what the phosphorus did to Vitalis, Laurentius, and the corpse of the monk in the cemetery. The powder already spread on the ground would be enough to turn the room into one huge fireball. Desperately, Simon looked over at Peter and Paul, who had begun to cry again. Virgilius followed Simon’s gaze and passed his hand through his thinning hair contemplatively.

“Ah, yes, the children,” he said sadly. “Hm, what shall we do with the children? I am an old, hunchbacked man and I’m sure you understand I can’t carry the two of them through the passageways. But perhaps one of them?” He smiled slyly. “You tell me-which of the boys shall I take with me? The little one or the big one?”

Once again Simon tried to reply in a croaking voice, but Virgilius interrupted him with an angry wave of his hand. “I have no more time for your babble. I’ll take the little one along; he’s lighter. The older one can accompany his father on his last voyage.”

The monk pulled a cookie out of his robe and beckoned to Paul. Trustingly the two-year-old crawled to Virgilius, reached for the cookie, and let the hunchbacked old man pick him up. “Very well,” Virgilius purred, stroking Paul’s tousled hair as the child stuffed the treat in his mouth. “I’ve got even more sweets where that came from. Shall we have the woman sing again?”

Simon watched in horror as Virgilius rocked the boy in his arms. The child was delighted by the singing automaton, which the watchmaker had just wound up again. After a while, heavy steps could be heard approaching in the corridor.

“Ah, my servant,” Virgilius said with relief, pulling a lever on the back of the automaton that made it suddenly fall silent. “Enough dancing. I thought we’d never leave.” Abruptly he raised his finger, then turned to Peter. “You’ll be good and stay with your father, won’t you? He needs you now. Do you understand? You won’t leave.”

The three-year-old boy nodded earnestly as he held his father’s wet, cold fingers firmly in his little hand

“Wonderful. Then let’s go now, but first my helper and I have to do just a few things.”

Virgilius turned toward the exit where a figure drenched from the heavy rain had just appeared. His clothing was steaming in the warmth of the cave, and with the back of his broad, hairy hands he wiped the rain from his face. When Simon finally recognized him, he quivered like a fish out of water, but he could only watch helplessly as his sons opened their arms to the new arrival, greeting him with shrieks of delight.

“See, I always knew my servant had a heart of gold,” Virgilius said. “Sometimes it’s even an advantage to lack a tongue, to not be able to talk back.”

Gasping, Simon stretched out his hand toward the man, but his arm fell limply to the ground.

Standing in the darkness of the cave was the mute Matthias.

Cautiously, Magdalena slipped into the dark hole while the two guards followed, grumbling softly.

It was clear the men could think of better things to do than to descend into the utter darkness beneath the former Andechs castle. Cursing under their breath, they jumped down onto the stones the hangman had piled up there just half an hour before. They lit up the end of the tunnel with their torches and stared anxiously into the darkness in front of them.

“We have to go back quite a way,” Magdalena said, brushing the dirt from her hair. “Farther ahead, another corridor branches off that I haven’t explored yet. Quickly now; we have no time to lose.”

“I can’t believe we’re taking orders from a dishonorable hangman’s daughter,” the older soldier complained. He appeared to be sweating profusely under a beaten helmet and an equally battered cuirass.

“You’re right, Hans,” the other agreed. “How did it ever come to this, crawling around down here like rats in this filth? Did you raise your skirt for the count?”

“Should I repeat that to His Excellency, or would you rather tell him yourself?” Magdalena responded coolly.

“God forbid. I… I…” the guard stammered.

“Good. Then we can get moving.” Magdalena took the torch from the hands of the astonished soldier and trudged on ahead. Cursing softly, the two guards followed while the hangman’s daughter tried to hold back her tears and her anger.

It was hard for Magdalena to rein in her emotions. Her heart pounded as she thought about what this sorcerer might have done to her children and her husband, but she had learned from her father that it was sometimes necessary to control one’s feelings to reach a desired goal. If she cried and complained now, the men wouldn’t follow her. They might take a few steps into the passageway, so as not to disobey their superior’s orders, but then quickly return to the surface. So whether she wanted to or not, she would have to keep control of herself.

After they had groped through the darkness for several minutes, the odor of rot and urine grew stronger. The older guard turned up his nose in disgust.

“It stinks here like the devil’s latrine,” one of them growled. “Good God, what is that?”

“It is the devil’s latrine,” Magdalena said. “But we mustn’t worry about that. All we have to do is-”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The young guard stopped suddenly, his mouth open wide as he pointed at the light green glimmer in front of them. “Look for yourself. Ghosts! They’re luring us to our doom. By all the saints, let’s turn around at once.”

Angry at herself for having forgotten the shining phosphorus in the old latrine, Magdalena closed her eyes. She should have prepared the men for this. Now they seemed ready to dash off frantically.

“Ah, that’s a little hard to explain,” she began. “But they aren’t ghosts, they’re only…”

“The dead-who find no rest,” Hans wailed, crossing himself and pounding loudly on his cuirass. “What sort of hellish place have you lured us into, hangman’s daughter?”

“Damn! Listen to me. My father explained it all to me. It’s a powder that…”

“Look over there! It’s coming from that room,” the young guard wailed, pointing at the passage leading to the latrine. “And do you hear that? That music? By God, the dead are having a dance.”

In fact, the automaton’s familiar melody could be heard far off. Magdalena’s heart beat faster. Evidently Virgilius was still down here with his automaton. Were her children and husband down here with him? Listening closely, she tried to make out where the music was coming from-it seemed not to be coming from the adjacent latrine, but from somewhere in front of them, from another passage. She thought she could hear another soft noise now, as well.

The wailing of children.

With a trembling voice, she turned to the guards. “Do you hear that? We’re getting closer. Let’s move along as fast as we can…”

But the passage behind her was empty. The guards had already turned around and were running back toward the keep. All she could hear now was the sound of their running feet echoing through the darkness.

“I’ll tell the count about this, you superstitious cowards,” she cried after them. “My father will whip you for this until you see stars of every color. He’ll…”

With a sigh she fell silent and continued trudging through the passageway alone, always listening for the barely audible music and the whimpering children. More than once she cursed the two guards who had abandoned her so shamefully. It looked now as if she was on her own, and the very thought of that made her shudder. She could probably handle Virgilius by herself, but how about the helper the crazy woman had spoken of? Was he down here somewhere, as well?

Magdalena wrapped her shawl around her neck and tried not to tremble. At least she still had one of the soldiers’ torches, which would give her about another half-hour of light. She didn’t want to think what would happen after that. Only fear for her children and her husband drove her on.

She stopped for a moment and listened intently. Had she just imagined the crying? She picked up her pace, stumbled several times, got up again, gasping, and groped her way down the corridor littered with stones, beams, and scattered bones.

After a while, it seemed that a green glow was coming from the floor of the tunnel, as well. Traces of the white powder that she and her father had seen only in the former latrine appeared here, as well, though she couldn’t remember seeing it in the passageway before. Still, she was in too much of a hurry to attach any great significance to this discovery.

After what seemed like an eternity, she came to the branch in the tunnel where they’d previously decided to turn right. She closed her eyes and tried to listen for the soft sound of the music and the crying children, but was distressed now to find she could hear nothing.

All around her, the silence was almost palpable, interrupted only by drops of water falling from the ceiling.

She swallowed hard, then decided to throw all caution to the wind and call out. “Peter? Paul? Are you here somewhere? Can you hear me?”

At first the only response was the soft sound of dripping water, but all of a sudden she heard something in the second passageway that she didn’t recognize at first. It sounded like the distant growling of a bear; it was a while before she realized it was someone moaning. A moment later she heard a voice that brought tears to her eyes.

“Mama? Mama? Where are you?”

“My God, Peter!” She raced frantically down the passageway while she could hear footsteps receding in the darkness in front of her. She thought she could see a few shadowy figures far off, but they’d soon vanished.

“Peter!” she shouted. “Is it you?”

“Mama, over here! Here I am!”

The voice of her older son didn’t come from where she’d seen the shadowy figures but from somewhere behind the wall. As she rounded another turn, she saw a round entrance on her left framed by large blocks of stone. The moaning was now close at hand, interrupted only by the wailing of her child. She stumbled through the portal to enter a low vault filled with a splendid four-poster canopy bed, a chest decorated with roses and ornaments, and a dressing table-all furniture like that owned by noble ladies in Augsburg and Munich. The cavelike room, covered with dirt and the soot from the torches, looked like a perverse parody of a ladies’ boudoir.

What in heaven’s name have I stumbled across here? she thought. Is this the automaton’s bedroom? Virgilius must have loved this automaton more than anyone could imagine.

Frantically she looked around. On the other side of the vault, a second passageway led to another room from which the crying and moaning were coming.

“Peter! Simon, Paul! Where are you?”

Her heart pounding, she entered the second vault-and let out a loud shriek.

The room looked as if it had been vandalized by an angry devil.

Shelves had been knocked down and the floor was strewn with curious apparatuses, broken horns, stones, and bits of bone. Some traces of greenish phosphorus glimmered in the torchlight, and in some places, there were even large piles of it. On a kind of black altar stood a tiny stump of a flickering candle that cast bizarre, dancing shadows on the wall behind.

But all this was only of passing interest to Magdalena. In the far right corner of the room, her husband lay on the floor, his once so fashionable tailored jacket torn to shreds and his face deathly pale and contorted. Alongside him stood Peter, who came running to his mother now with open arms. His clothes were filthy, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.

“Oh God, Peter,” Magdalena exclaimed, taking her boy in her arms. “I… I was so worried about you. Where is your brother? And what has this crazy man done to your father?”

She set the boy down and turned to Simon, who lay in a strangely contorted position on the bare stone floor, his whole body twitching. He turned his head toward her and struggled to speak, but Magdalena couldn’t understand a word that came out of his mouth.

“Annal,” he mumbled again and again. “Annal…”

As she bent down to him and stroked his sweaty brow, his eyes rolled wildly and his fingers splayed out like cat’s claws. The entire rest of his body seemed paralyzed.

As she looked at Simon, she couldn’t help thinking of a young Schongau farm lad whom her father had tried to cure many years ago. The strapping young man, who had scratched himself on a rusty nail, was overcome by a strange paralysis-just like Simon now-and shortly later suffered a seizure and died. Magdalena’s father had been unable to help him. Did the same fate await her husband?

“My God, Simon,” she cried, “what did this madman do to you? And where is Paul? Please say something. I don’t know what to do.”

“Annal, annal,” was all he could say. Still Magdalena had no idea what that might mean. In her despair, she finally turned to her three-year-old son.

“Peter, can you tell me what happened to Paul?”

The boy nodded eagerly. “Paul is playing with Matthias,” he said cheerfully.

“With… Matthias?” Magdalena gasped in horror. “But… but does that mean…”

“Matthias and Paul left with the bad man,” he exclaimed. “The man said I had to stay here and keep an eye on Papa.”

“That’s… that’s very good,” she stammered. “You’re a good boy, a really good boy.”

Magdalena’s mind was racing. She still couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Was it possible that the good-natured Matthias, the man she’d so often entrusted with her children, was conspiring with Virgilius? That he was Virgilius’s helper?

“Do you know where Paul went with… with Matthias?” she asked in a soft voice.

“The bad man said he would show them both the garden,” Peter announced cheerfully. Since Magdalena’s arrival, his fear seemed to have vanished. “I want to go back to the garden, too. I want to play with the doll.”

“We… we’ll go to the garden, I promise. But first we must get out of here, do you understand?”

Magdalena tried to smile, but she could feel big tears rolling down her cheeks. Her younger son had disappeared, abducted by Virgilius and a man she’d trusted blindly, and her husband seemed to have swallowed a deadly poison. She felt sadder and more forlorn than ever before in her life.

“Annal…”

Startled out of her feeling of depression and helplessness, Magdalena turned to her husband again. She was relieved to see he was now able to raise his right hand; the paralysis seemed to not be so serious after all. Then she realized he was struggling to point to something specific: the little altar where the tiny stump of a candle was swimming in a pool of wax. The wick was leaning precariously to one side. Clearly it would fall onto the altar soon and the candle would go out.

“Annal,” Simon gasped, and Magdalena cringed. Candle.

Beside the pool of wax, she saw granules forming a trail from the altar to the ground and, from there, to some larger mounds of glowing greenish powder.

My God, she realized in a flash. The phosphorus. We’ll all be blown up.

Annal… annal.

The flame flickered, caught in a slight draft and, for a moment, it seemed it might go out.

Then the burning wick touched the powder strewn on the altar.