The Poisoned Pilgrim

5

SCHONGAU, LATE EVENING, MONDAY, JUNE 14, 1666, AD

The Schongau hangman stared at the letter in his hand and felt his pulse quicken. It was rare that a messenger brought him a message in person. Just touching an executioner could in some regions cost an honorable man his reputation and his job. So this document had to be important.

“Where does it come from?” Kuisl asked the courier, who had arrived on horseback and stood before him now looking down at the ground, crossing himself in a gesture meant to ward off evil spirits. His coat was dripping from the thunderstorm that had just passed through Schongau.

“From… from Andechs,” the messenger mumbled. “From the Holy Mountain. The letter is from your daughter.”

Kuisl grinned. “Then she surely had to pay you something extra to come down here to the hangman’s house.”

“I was on my way to Schongau anyway,” the messenger answered hesitantly. “First thing tomorrow I head out for Augsburg. In any case, your daughter has astonishing… powers of persuasion. Not at all like…”

“Like a dull hangman’s girl? Is that what you wanted to say?”

The messenger winced. “Oh, God, no! Quite the contrary. She’s an extremely talkative and very attractive young lady.”

“She gets that from her mother,” Kuisl growled, somewhat more obligingly. “Talking all the time, even when there’s absolutely nothing to talk about.”

The hangman pulled out a few coins to hand to the messenger, but he waved him off. “Ah, that’s not necessary,” he stammered. “Your daughter and that bathhouse surgeon already paid for it. Farewell.” Anxiously, he bowed and disappeared in the cold, wet twilight.

“Yeah, you can kiss my…” Kuisl grumbled before returning to the living room, where his wife had just had another coughing fit. Her fever hadn’t worsened in the last two days, but it hadn’t gone down, either. She still lay semiconscious on a bench by the oven. At least the two little ones were sleeping upstairs. Peter and Paul had been romping around all evening near their sick grandmother.

“Is there news from Magdalena?” the hangman’s wife gasped. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Whatever it is, she charmed the dickens out of the messenger.” With his rough hands, Kuisl broke the simple wax seal and unfolded the letter. “So it won’t be so…” He stopped short. Only his lips read on, silently. Finally he had to find a seat on a stool.

“What’s the trouble?” his wife asked. “Did something happen?”

“No.” Kuisl tore at his hair. “It’s nothing, at least not what you think it is. It’s something… else.”

“Good Lord, do I always have to drag everything out of you, you stubborn damned Schongauer?”

Once more the hangman’s wife started to cough violently. When she had calmed down again, Kuisl continued haltingly. “Magdalena… she… she apparently met the ugly old Nepomuk. I haven’t heard a word from that bastard for almost thirty years, and then out of the blue he pops up in Andechs. I could wring the neck of that fat weasel.”

“Nepomuk? The Nepomuk?”

The hangman nodded. “He’s in a jam. It looks like he’s become a monk.” He spit onto the reeds on the floor, then pulled out his pipe and lit it from a burning wood chip.

“Nepomuk, a monk,” he said finally. “It would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a hangman to become a priest. Nepomuk was always a sly dog; he read a lot, and thought up the craziest things for the regiment to do. But he was far too soft for killing. Who knows, perhaps in another life he would really have been a good priest…” He stopped short. “In any case, they’re trying to pin three murders on him in the monastery and accusing him of witchcraft. He’s asking for me to come and help him.”

Anna-Maria sat up carefully in bed. “And? What are you waiting for?”

“What am I waiting for?” The hangman laughed darkly. “For you to get better. And I can’t leave my two grandchildren here all by themselves.” He took a deep drag on his pipe. “I told you about the Berchtholdts. I don’t trust them not to try to hurt the children while I’m away-if only to threaten me on account of the theft in the warehouse.”

Anna-Maria seemed to be mulling this over. For a while, the only sound was the rattle in her lungs and the distant thunder.

“Then take them along,” she said finally.

“What?” Kuisl was startled out of his gloomy thoughts.

“Peter and Paul. Take them along.”

“But… but… how would I do that?” the hangman managed. “I’ll save my friend from execution while I watch the children like an old nanny?”

“Magdalena and Simon are there, too. They can take care of them-they’re the parents, after all.”

The hangman shook his head slowly. His wife’s idea was not that bad. Martha Stechlin wouldn’t be able to care for his grandchildren at present; especially now, after Simon had left, the midwife was much too busy treating sick people in the area. Anna-Maria wasn’t the only one suffering from the fever, and Kuisl didn’t have much faith in Georg and Barbara. They were both scatterbrains and couldn’t be depended on to protect the little ones from the Berchtholdts. The only option left was his wife’s…

“If I go,” he began, “what will happen to you? You’re sick, and who will take care of you when I’m not here?”

“Martha can,” Anna-Maria replied. “She knows almost as much about healing as you. And Georg and Barbara are here, too. So why not-” Again, she had to cough.

The hangman gave his wife a worried look.”You’re the most precious thing I have, Anna,” he murmured. “I would never forgive-”

“For God’s sake, get moving!” his wife shouted. “Nepomuk was once your best friend. How often you’ve told me about him. Do you want him to burn at the stake while you’re just a few miles away brewing chamomile tea?”

“No, but-”

“Then get moving, you dolt, and take your grandchildren along.” She pulled a tattered woolen blanket around her neck and closed her eyes. “And now let me sleep. You’ll see; tomorrow I’ll be much better.”

Kuisl collapsed in a heap on a stool and stared at his sick wife. They’d been together almost thirty years. At that time, Kuisl had taken Anna-Maria from a village laid waste by his regiment near Regensburg. And even if the two quarreled and growled at each other like two old dogs, they had always been close. Their ostracism by the citizens of Schongau, their love for their children, their daily work together-all that bound them together. Kuisl would never say so, and he didn’t have to, because Anna already knew that, in his own gruff way, he loved his wife more than himself.

Softly, so as not to waken Anna-Maria, Jakob stood up from the stool. He crossed to the storeroom where he kept his medicine cabinet, a few torture instruments, and a trunkful of old weapons from the war. He hesitated briefly, then opened a weathered box he’d kept with him the last forty years. On top was a moth-eaten soldier’s uniform, its once bright colors now pale and faded. Underneath were the sword, the matchlock musket, and two well-oiled wheel-lock pistols.

Lost in thought, Kuisl passed his hands over the barrel of the guns while memories came rushing back. He closed his eyes and saw himself standing in the frontlines beside Nepomuk, his best friend, as they marched toward the Swedes…

A yellow line on the horizon quickly approaching… Drums and fifes, then the shouts of men breaking rank to become individual soldiers. The enemy mercenaries running toward them with long pikes, swords, and daggers; behind them the closed ranks of the musketeers, the flash from the muzzles, the moaning and wailing of the injured and dying… Jakob smells the gunpowder; he looks over at Nepomuk, and sees the fear in his eyes. But he sees something else: a beastly gleam, a blackness deep as the pit of hell, and suddenly Jakob notices he’s looking into a mirror.

What he sees there is the joy of killing.

Jakob shakes himself, reaches for his sword, and strides out to meet the screaming enemy. Calmly and precisely, he performs a task he never wants to repeat.

The job of a hangman.

Jakob slammed the trunk shut as if he could block out the spirits he’d just awakened in this way. As he wiped his forehead, he noticed it was damp with cold sweat.

Raindrops ran like tears down the panes of the bull’s-eye glass in the Andechs Monastery tavern.

Simon stared out into the growing gloom as a ghostly group of singing forms ascended the mountain for evening mass. Magdalena had also decided to attend mass to thank God for the recovery of her two children the year before. That was, after all, the reason she and Simon had come to Andechs.

The medicus sighed softly. This pilgrimage was turning into a real nightmare. It wasn’t just that they were once again caught up in a murder case or that his grouchy father-in-law would be arriving soon. Now more and more pilgrims were coming down with a strange fever that brought on weariness, headaches, and stomach cramps. Could this be the same sickness Magdalena had suffered?

Simon had fulfilled the abbot’s request and spent the entire day treating patients in a building adjoining the monastery. Three or four cases had grown to a full dozen now, many of the patients showing red spots on their chests or grayish-yellow tongues. He treated the first patients free of charge, but in the course of the day had begun asking for a few coins, at least from the better-off patients.

Now he had turned some of his earnings into a pitcher of hot mulled wine. While Simon drank, he listened to the clatter in the kitchen and brooded. In vain he tried to make sense of the strange events of the last two days.

Just as he was pouring himself a new cup, someone touched him on the shoulder. He turned around to find himself looking directly into the grinning face of the Schongau burgomaster. In contrast to their last meeting in the tavern, Karl Semer was extremely friendly this time.

“Fronwieser!” he exclaimed, as if greeting an old friend. “It’s good I’ve found you here. I hear that the abbot put you in charge of looking into these terrible murders. Is that correct?”

Simon grew suspicious. The burgomaster was cheerful like this only when he wanted something. “Could be,” he muttered. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well…” Semer made a dramatic pause, then sat down next to Simon and beckoned to the innkeeper. “Some of the Tokay we had yesterday.” he ordered gruffly. “Two glasses, and quick.”

After the innkeeper brought the wine, bowing profusely, Semer paused, then began again in a whisper. “All these events are most unfortunate. Among the pilgrims, there’s already talk of witchcraft-they say a puppet has come to life and is shuffling through the monastery killing monks.” He laughed under his breath. “What nonsense. But fortunately, you have the perpetrator already, don’t you? They say it’s the ugly apothecary. Can we therefore-uh-reckon with a trial soon?”

“The investigation isn’t yet complete,” Simon replied curtly. “It’s not certain Brother Johannes is really the culprit. The abbot is requesting a few days to think it over before he informs the district judge in Weilheim.”

Karl Semer waved him off. “Pure waste of time, if you ask me. It was the apothecary; that’s as sure as the amen in the church. It would be better to burn him now than later.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well, I… have my sources.” The burgomaster smiled broadly. “I know that the monster’s eyepiece was found at the scene. He fled. And moreover…” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial look. “Since then, the prior had the apothecary’s cupboard searched and found a number of forbidden medicines that suggest the practice of witchcraft-belladonna, henbane, thornapple, also that notorious red powder obtained from the mummies of executed men…”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Belladonna in small doses is very useful in curing fever, and henbane is something that quite a few monks have mixed in their beer in the past, and still do.”

“Aha, and the red powder? Tell me about the red powder.”

“Burgomaster, may I ask why you are so keen on seeing the monk burned at the stake?” Instinctively, Simon recoiled from Semer. The medicus still hadn’t touched the glass of wine in front of him.

“Isn’t that obvious?” Semer hissed. “The Festival of the Three Hosts is in exactly six days, and crowds of pilgrims will be coming to the Holy Mountain. What do you think will happen if the culprit isn’t caught before then?”

“Let me guess,” Simon replied. “A rumor would go around about an automaton that’s murdering people, fewer pilgrims would come, and you’d be left with a lot of unsold candles, votive pictures, and wine carafes. Is that right?”

The burgomaster cringed. “Who told you that…” he flared up, before getting control of himself again. “All I care about is the welfare of the pilgrims,” he whined. “Look, Fronwieser-what would our Savior have to say about fear and terror on the Holy Mountain?” He shook his head regretfully. “It really would be best if you could convince the abbot to wrap up the case before the festival next Sunday.” He looked at him solicitously. “We’ll take care of you financially. I have powerful allies who are certainly ready to pay-”

Abruptly, Simon stood up from the table. “Thank you for your time, Burgomaster,” he said softly. “But unfortunately I have another report to prepare for the abbot. In addition, we expect the arrival of my father-in-law tomorrow, so there’s a lot to do.”

Semer’s face drained of color. “Kuisl?” he whispered. “But… but why is he coming here?”

“You wanted a hangman, didn’t you?” Simon replied with a smile. “One is coming, and he’s the best and cleverest damn hangman in the Priests’ Corner. He’ll certainly be able to solve these murders. And besides…” He shrugged. “If anyone needs to go on a pilgrimage, it’s an executioner, isn’t it? Now, farewell.”

Simon pushed the untouched wine glass back to Semer and headed for the door. The burgomaster could only sit there, astonished.

Finally, he reached for his glass and downed the wine in one gulp.

Shaking, Magdalena pulled her thin woolen shawl tight around her shoulders. In the cold abbey, she was finding it difficult to concentrate on the prayers, and the queasy feeling of the last few days came back. All she could do was hope this feeling had nothing to do with the sickness going around the monastery these days.

In the hopelessly overcrowded building, it was as cold and damp as a cave-even on this June evening. A strong wind whistled through the roof of the south wing, which had been only temporarily patched, and gusts in the high, pointed windows were so loud they sometimes drowned out the Latin murmuring of the mass. This was of little concern to most of the pilgrims and local parishioners, however, as they couldn’t understand the words in any case. But they listened reverently to the homily by Abbot Rambeck, who was performing the mass today himself.

The reason for the special mass today was the people sitting in the first rows of the congregation. Count Wartenberg sat with his family under a carved baldachin. Two pale, chubby children yawned and passed the time playing around while their young mother kept trying to quiet them. The older boy was perhaps eight, and the younger one sat sucking his thumb on the lap of the pert young countess. The count, a man in his forties with bushy eyebrows and a sharp, arrogant gaze, looked around the church as if wondering what could be confiscated next for the Wittelsbach treasury.

Though Magdalena had seen many churches, she was filled with awe by the Andechs abbey church. Some of the most important Christian relics were housed here on the Holy Mountain. The church interior was just as awe-inspiring, with numerous altars along the sides and in the nave and doors leading to additional side chapels. Mighty columns supported the high vaulted ceiling and colorful stained glass sparkled everywhere amid the candlelight.

What impressed Magdalena even more than the opulence and splendor were the candles placed all around the church, brought here by pilgrims over the course of many centuries. On the walls, innumerable votive pictures, some yellow with age, bore testimony to miraculous acts of salvation.

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis…” As the abbot spoke the sacred words, worshippers all around Magdalena fell humbly to their knees. She, too, knelt and bowed her head but couldn’t help glancing up at Maurus Rambeck, who appeared extremely upset. Several times, he seemed confused or lost his place, and his face was as pale as a corpse. Magdalena wondered whether this had anything to do with recent events or perhaps the presence of the noble family. She, too, was having difficulty concentrating on her prayers.

“Domine, non sum dignus, ut intres sub tectum meum. Sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea…”

While Magdalena joined in murmuring the words of invitation to Holy Communion, she glanced up to the gallery, where the church dignitaries had gathered. From Simon’s descriptions of the church council, she thought she recognized the fat cellarer, as well as the white-haired librarian and the sensitive novitiate master. The latter, in fact, a relatively younger man, seemed strangely withdrawn. His eyes were red, and now and then he pulled out a silk handkerchief to wipe his face until a hook-nosed monk on his right finally poked him hard in the ribs. It took Magdalena a while to figure out this was the prior. He whispered something to the novitiate master, whereupon the latter put his handkerchief back in his pocket and mumbled a soft prayer. The other members of the council also seemed strangely tense.

Something is fishy here, Magdalena thought. Did the death of the two young assistants and the disappearance of a Brother really upset the monks so much?

Finally, the abbot finished, raising his hand in the benediction, and the pilgrims pressed toward the exit to the accompaniment of loud organ music. Magdalena stayed seated in the pew for a while, watching as Maurus Rambeck descended from the apsis into the nave and bowed before Count Wartenberg. They exchanged a few words; then the count turned to his family and sent them to their quarters. Finally, the count and the abbot walked up a flight of stairs to the gallery, which was empty now except for the prior who awaited them there. The three men spoke softly for a while before exiting together through a small door. Magdalena noticed how the prior kept looking around cautiously as they left.

What in all the world was going on here?

After hesitating briefly, Magdalena stood up and approached the stairway leading up to the gallery. Now after evening mass, the church was almost empty. Only a few acolytes still moved about, extinguishing the many candles. It was getting noticeably darker.

The hangman’s daughter looked around again, then started up the well-worn staircase.

“Are you lost?”

Leaning on the railing above her, a broad-shouldered monk looked down suspiciously at her. It was the cellarer, and he was clearly in a bad mood. “The gallery and the choir are reserved for the monks. They’re not open to visitors,” he growled. “Especially not women. What are you looking for here?”

“I’m… I’m looking for the sacred relics,” Magdalena stuttered. “I’ve come all the way from Lake Constance on foot to pray before them.”

“Stupid woman,” the monk grumbled. “Do you think the sacred treasures just stand around here where anyone could steal them?” He pointed to the little door the church officials and the count had passed through. “They are kept in the inner sanctum, where only a chosen few have access. If you wish to see the holy three hosts, you must wait till next Sunday.”

“And the noble gentleman who just came up here with two of your Brothers?” asked Magdalena, affecting the voice of a simple farm girl. “He’s allowed to see the treasure?”

“Count Wartenberg?” The cellarer laughed. “Naturally. As a member of the House of Wittelsbach, he always has the third key. Now get moving, before I chase you out.”

“The third key?” Magdalena was clearly astonished. “Which-”

“Get out, I told you!” The monk approached her threateningly. “Curious daughters of Eve. You should all be thrown out of the church. Brood of vipers!”

Magdalena raised her hands defensively, then rushed down the stairs, crossing herself and bowing obsequiously, until she finally eluded the cellarer.

Outside the main portal, she spat hard and mumbled a curse. That fat milksop would live to regret treating her like that. Something here was fishy, and she was damn well going to find out what was behind all these strange events.

Magdalena tossed her woolen shawl around her shivering body and took a deep breath. The square in front of the monastery was deserted now. Only piles of stones and sacks of limestone and mortar betrayed that this was a busy building site by day. In the nearby forest, trees rustled in the wind and scattered drops of rain fell on the pavement.

Just as Magdalena was about to descend the wide lane to the tavern to tell Simon the latest, she heard a sound that made her stop short. It was so faint and discreet that she took it at first for the singing of a far-off nightingale. Finally, she realized what she was really hearing.

Somewhere behind the monastery, music was playing.

Magdalena started. The glockenspiel! Hadn’t Simon said the automaton that vanished had a glockenspiel built into it? She couldn’t help but think of the golem the monks had spoken of, the one now supposedly haunting the monastery.

What was it again that Simon said? An object that springs to life when life is breathed into it… It involves some very complicated rituals…

For a moment she hesitated; then she set out to find the source of the music. The sound seemed to come from the right, where an old wall separated the church square from the forest. There she found a little gate, and behind it, some weathered stairs leading to a path along the wall. On the other side, a steep gorge led down into the Kien Valley. In the distance, she could see the vague outlines of a chapel.

For a moment, Magdalena thought she couldn’t hear it anymore, but then the sound returned: it was somewhere in front of her, soft, but still clearly audible. She stopped and held her breath, listening intently, and also thought she could hear a rattle and whirring. Now the melody was close, not in front of her, or behind her, but… beneath her.

Magdalena was transfixed. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the Holy Mountain. She looked around in the gathering twilight for a cleft in the rock, or a cave, but couldn’t find anything of the sort. As she continued to search, the melody became softer, as if its source were gradually moving away.

That’s when she heard something whiz by, brushing her neck, and she felt as if she’d been stung by a big horsefly. Putting her hand to her neck, she felt dampness, and when she took her hand away again, she could see blood in the moonlight.

What’s going on here? Is someone shooting at me? I didn’t hear a shot…

There was no more time to think; she heard the whooshing sound again and threw herself on the ground at the last second. Above her, something bored into a tree trunk, and now she was sure it was a shot. She picked herself up and ran down the path, stooped over. One last time something whizzed past her and hit the wall, producing a spray of mortar, but by then Magdalena had arrived at the gate. Seized by panic, she dashed into the middle of the deserted church square, almost fearing the automaton would emerge, rattling and humming, from behind the bags of limestone, its mouth open wide and ready to devour her. But when she turned around, there was nothing-just darkness and the rustling branches in the forest behind the wall.

Breathlessly she ran down the lane toward Simon, who was just coming out of the tavern.

“Magdalena!” he cried in relief. “I’ve been worried. Mass has been over for a long-” That’s when he got a closer look at her. “My God!” he gasped “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

Magdalena reached up to her neck, still wet with blood. Something had grazed her, and the wound was very painful. The collar of her cape was also wet with blood.

“The automaton… is… somewhere beneath us…” she blurted out as her legs gave way. The last thing she saw was Simon bending down over her, his mouth moving up and down like that of a huge puppet, while somewhere gigantic gears were turning.

Then terrified, exhausted, and suffering from loss of blood, she fell unconscious.