The Poisoned Pilgrim

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Simon reached for his belt to check that a little bag of healing herbs and medical instruments was still attached there. It was quite possible he’d need some of his medicines during this pilgrimage. The Schongauers had often sought his help in recent years. Memories of the Great War still haunted some of the older people, and plagues and other diseases had swept over Schongau in recent years again and again. Last winter, Simon and Magdalena’s sons had also fallen ill, but God had been merciful and spared them. In the following days, Magdalena prayed many rosaries and finally convinced Simon to take a pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain with her after Pentecost, along with nearly two dozen other citizens of Schongau and Altenstadt—citizens who wanted to show their gratitude to the Lord at the famous Festival of the Three Hosts. Simon and Magdalena had left the two children in the care of their grandparents—a wise decision, in view of the last hour’s events, the medicus again admitted to himself.

  “It looks as if the rain will finally quench the fire.” Jakob Schreevogl pointed at the storm-ravaged beech, where only a few flames still flickered. “We should move along. Andechs can’t be far off now—perhaps one or two miles. What do you think?”

  Simon shrugged and looked around. The other trees were just smoldering now, but the rain had in the meantime become so heavy that the pilgrims could hardly see their hands in front of their faces in the growing dusk. The Schongauers had taken refuge beneath a nearby fir to wait out the heaviest rain. Only Karl Semer, still looking for his horse, was wandering around somewhere in the nearby forest, shouting loudly. His son had decided in the meantime to sit down and pout on an overturned tree trunk, trying to drive the cold from his bones with help of a flask he’d brought along. His Excellency Konrad Weber frowned at the young dandy but didn’t interfere. The old Schongau priest was not about to pick a fight with the son of the presiding burgomaster.

  Just as the pilgrims were beginning to calm down, another bolt of lightning struck not far away and once again the Schongauers ran like spooked chickens down the muddy slopes, farther into the valley below. The priest’s wooden cross came to rest filthy and splintered between some rocks.

  “Just stay together,” Simon shouted into the thunder and rain. “Lie down on the ground. On the ground you’ll be safe.”

  “Forget it.” Magdalena shook her head and turned to leave. “They don’t hear you, and even if they did, they’d hardly obey a dishonorable bathhouse owner.”

  Simon sighed and hurried after the others with Magdalena. Beside them, the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle carried an almost thirty-pound pilgrimage candle. Though its flame had gone out, the powerful, nearly six-foot-tall man held it up as straight as a battle flag. In comparison, Simon looked even smaller and more slender.

  “Stupid peasants,” Hemerle grumbled, stepping around a muddy puddle in great strides. “It’s just a thunderstorm. We have to get out of this goddamned forest—fast. But if those cowards keep running around like that, we’ll get completely lost.”

  Simon nodded silently and rushed ahead.

  In the meantime darkness had descended completely under the dark canopy of trees. The medicus could see only vague shadows of some of the Schongauers, though he heard anxious cries farther off. Someone was praying loudly to the Fourteen Holy Helpers.

  And in the distance now howling wolves could be heard.

  Simon shuddered. The beasts had multiplied considerably in the years since the Great War and by now had become a true plague upon the land, like wild pigs. The hungry animals were no threat to a group of twenty hardy men, but for anyone wandering alone through the forests, the wolves presented a real danger.

  Branches lashing his face, Simon struggled not to lose sight of at least Magdalena and the sturdy Balthasar Hemerle’s pilgrimage candle. Fortunately, the carpenter was so tall that Simon could see him over the tops of bushes and even some low trees.

  Suddenly the huge man stopped and Simon stumbled, almost bumping into him and Magdalena. The medicus was about to utter a curse, when he froze and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  In a small clearing directly before them stood two wolves with drooping jaws, growling at them. Their small eyes were red dots in the night, and their hind legs were tensed, ready to pounce. Their bodies were thin and scrawny, as if they hadn’t found prey for a long time.

  “Don’t move,” Balthasar Hemerle whispered. “If you run, they’ll attack you from behind. And we don’t know if there are any more nearby.”

  Slowly Simon reached for his linen pouch, where along with his medical instruments and herbs, he kept a stiletto as sharp as a razor. He wasn’t sure the little knife would help against the two famished beasts. Beside him, Magdalena stared at the wolves, unmoving. A few steps away Balthasar Hemerle raised the heavy candle above him like a sword, as if he were about to smash the skull of one of the beasts.

  A pilgrimage candle sullied with wolf’s blood, Simon thought. What would the abbot in the monastery have to say about that?

  “Stay calm, Balthasar,” Magdalena whispered to the carpenter after a few moments of silence. “Look how they have their tails between their legs. The animals are more afraid of us than we are of them. Let’s just slowly step back—”

  At that moment, the larger of the two wolves lunged for Simon and Magdalena. The medicus dodged to one side and, out of the corner of his eye, saw the animal rush past. Scarcely had the wolf landed on his feet than he turned around to attack again. The animal snarled and opened his mouth wide, revealing huge white fangs dripping with saliva. Simon imagined he could see every drop individually, magnified as through a microscope. The wolf prepared to jump again.

  From somewhere a shot rang out.

  For an instant, Simon thought lightning had struck again nearby, but then he saw the wolf whining and writhing in agony before falling to the ground where he twitched one more time and died. Red blood flowed from a wound in his neck onto leaves on the ground. The second wolf growled once more before running off and, a second later, disappeared into the darkness.

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Amen.”

  Now a broad-shouldered figure appeared between the trees holding a smoking musket in one hand and a burning lantern in the other. He wore a black habit and a hood drawn over his face. In the pouring rain, he looked like an angry forest spirit in search of poachers.

  Finally, the stranger pushed back his hood. Simon found himself looking into the friendly face of a bald man with protruding ears, crooked teeth, and a bulbous nose furrowed with veins. He was probably the ugliest man Simon had ever seen.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Brother Johannes from the Andechs Monastery,” said the fat monk, squinting at the three lost pilgrims. “Have you by chance seen any bloodroot growing nearby?”

  Rain and cold sweat pouring down his face, the medicus was too exhausted to answer. He slid to the ground alongside the trunk of a beech, mumbling a little prayer of thanks.

  It appeared that in any case he’d have to dedicate another candle up on the Holy Mountain.

  Half an hour later, the Schongau pilgrims, led by Brother Johannes, climbed the narrow path up to the monastery.

  Everyone was filthy, their clothes ripped or tattered; some had suffered a few scratches and bruises. But otherwise, they all appeared unharmed. Even the burgomaster’s horse showed up again. Right behind the fat monk, old Semer rode at the head of the procession, trying to make a dignified impression, an attempt that was not entirely successful, however, in view of his battered hat and muddy coat. In the meantime, the rain had turned to a steady drizzle as the storm moved east toward Lake Würm. The sound of thunder was faint and distant.

  “We have you to thank, Brother,” declared Karl Semer in a stately voice. “Had you not appeared, some of us would have gotten lost in the forest.”

  “What a stupid plan to leave the road with a storm coming on and take the old path to the monastery,” grumbled Brother Johannes as he shifted a sack bulging with iro
n tools to his other shoulder. “You can count yourself lucky that I was out foraging for herbs, or the wolves and the lightning would have finished you off.”

  “Considering the approaching darkness I thought it was advisable to—uh—take the shorter route,” the burgomaster retorted. “I’ll admit that—”

  “It certainly was a stupid idea.” Brother Johannes turned to the pilgrims and examined the large white pilgrimage candle that the carpenter was still holding in his callused hands.

  “Damned heavy cross you have there,” he said, obviously impressed. “How far have you carried it?”

  “We come from Schongau,” said Simon, who was just behind the monk with Magdalena. The medicus’s vest was filthy, the red rooster feathers on his new hat were bent, and his leather boots from Augsburg looked like they needed new soles. “We’ve been traveling for two days,” he continued wearily. “Yesterday near Wessobrunn, we heard a pack of wolves howling, but they didn’t dare to attack us.”

  Brother Johannes panted as he continued up the steep forest path, his lantern swinging back and forth like a will-o’-the-wisp. “You were very lucky,” he mumbled. “The beasts are getting fresher. In this area they’ve already killed two children and a woman. And to make matters worse, we are plagued by vagrants and murderous gangs.” He hastily crossed himself. “Deus nos protegat. May the Lord protect us in these uncertain times.”

  In the meantime, the forest had thinned. Before them, the Schongauers saw the warm and inviting lights of the small hamlet of Erling, located on a plateau at the foot of the Holy Mountain. Simon breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed Magdalena’s hand. They had reached their goal unharmed—a blessing not shared by all in these hard times. He fervently hoped their two children were well in Schongau. But he had no doubt they were, in view of the overflowing love of their grandparents.

  “I hope you all have a place to stay,” Brother Johannes said. “It’s no pleasure sleeping outside in the field on such damp June nights.”

  “We Schongau council members are staying in the monastery guest house,” replied Burgomaster Semer coolly, pointing to his son and the patrician Jakob Schreevogl. “We’ve arranged for the others to be boarded with farmers in the area. After all, our journey is for the benefit of the community, isn’t it?”

  Brother Johannes chuckled. His face, already lopsided, contorted into a grimace. Once again Simon couldn’t help noticing how ugly he was.

  “If you mean the repair of the steeple, I must disappoint you,” the monk replied. “The farmers don’t give a damn about the condition of the monastery, but the abbot promised bread and meat to any resident of Erling who provides shelter to a needy mason or carpenter. So it shouldn’t cost you anything.”

  Semer nodded contentedly and stroked his horse’s mane. “Thanks be to God,” he exclaimed. “I promise that if the Savior sends us good weather, the work on the church will be finished soon.”

  The Festival of the Three Hosts, one of the largest pilgrimages in Bavaria, was still a week off, but Abbot Maurus Rambeck had sent messengers to pilgrims in the surrounding villages asking them to come early to the Holy Mountain. More than a month ago lightning had damaged the steeple of the monastery church. The roof truss had been destroyed, as well as a large part of the south nave. Many strong hands were needed to ensure the festival could take place as planned. For this reason, the abbot had given the local craftsmen an indulgence for a year and good pay—an offer that a number of hungry men in the area were all too happy to accept. Along with the usual pilgrims, four masons and a carpenter had come from Schongau, and in Wessobrunn three plasterers joined their group.

  “I myself am here—uh—on an urgent business matter,” Karl Semer declared. “But I’m sure this pious group will be quite happy to help you with the construction work,” he said, pointing to the bedraggled crowd from Schongau that had just begun singing an old church hymn.

  In Erling, a number of windows and doors opened to reveal village residents, who eyed the pilgrims suspiciously. A few dogs barked. These strangers could hardly expect a warm reception in town—too often strangers had brought death and destruction in recent decades. This time, at least, the villagers would be well compensated for the annoyance.

  “What’s that light up there?” Magdalena asked, pointing to the monastery that towered above the village like the castle of a robber baron.

  “A light?” Brother Johannes stared back at her, somewhat perplexed.

  “The light up there in the steeple. Didn’t you just say the tower had been destroyed in the fire? There’s a light burning there, though.”

  Now Simon, too, looked up at the steeple. Indeed a tiny light flickered above the nave just where the lightning had struck the belfry four weeks ago—more than just a weak glimmer. When the medicus looked more closely, however, the light vanished.

  Johannes put his hand over his eyes and squinted. “I can’t see anything,” he said finally. “Probably sheet lightning. In any case, no one is up there; it would be much too dangerous in the dark. Much of the tower has already been rebuilt, but the roof truss and the stairs are still in bad shape.” He shrugged. “Anyway, why would anyone be up there at this time of night? To enjoy the view?” Although he laughed briefly, Simon sensed the laugh was fake. The monk’s eyes seemed to flicker before turning to the other pilgrims.

  “I suggest you all spend tonight in the big barn on the Groner farm. Tomorrow we’ll send you out to individual towns and houses. And now, good night.” Brother Johannes rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I hope very much my young assistant has prepared the carp with watercress that I’m so fond of. Saving lost pilgrims makes one terribly hungry.”

  With the three aldermen, he stomped off toward the monastery and disappeared in the darkness.

  “And now?” Simon asked Magdalena after a while. The other Schongauers had marched off, praying and singing, to the newly built barn next to the tavern.

  Again the hangman’s daughter stared up at the dark belfry; then she rubbed her hand over her face as if she were trying to shake off a bad dream.

  “What else? We’ll go where we belong.” Sullenly she walked ahead of Simon toward the village outskirts where a single little house stood at the edge of the forest. The roof was holey and covered with moss and ivy, and a rickety cart by the door gave off a smell of decay. “Unlike the other pilgrims, at least we know someone here.”

  “But who?” Simon muttered. “A mangy knacker and distant relative of your father. Isn’t that just great?”

  He held his breath as Magdalena walked determinedly to the crooked door of the Erling knacker’s house and knocked. Once again Simon thanked God they’d left the two little ones with their grandfather in Schongau.

  A light flared up again in the belfry. Like a huge evil eye, it shined out into the night, searching for something in the forests of the Kien River valley. But neither Simon nor Magdalena noticed. The figure in the tower clung to a charred beam and let the wind pass through his hair. Flashes of lightning appeared on the horizon—large, small, jagged, straight. Up here, so close to heaven, the man felt most clearly God’s presence. Or was it a different higher power, one much stronger than that of the good, kindly Maker who believed love could heal men but had let his own son perish on the cross?

  Love.

  He let out a malicious laugh. As if love could accomplish anything. Could it save a human life? Could it survive death? If so, then only as a thorn in the side, a wound that festered and wept and ate away at your insides till all that was left was an empty shell. A sack full of maggots where worms feasted.

  With lifeless eyes, the man looked on the little band of pilgrims far below, struggling through the thunderstorm and the rain, singing a pious hymn, bowing down, praying. Their belief was so strong one could actually feel it, and up here in the tower he felt it the strongest—like a bolt of lightning, the finger of heaven infusing him with divine power. He had been wondering for a long time how to make his dream a reality, and now the goa
l was close at hand.

  He placed the lantern on the floor, looked around, and got to work.

  2

  SCHONGAU IN THE PRIESTS’ CORNER, SUNDAY MORNING, JUNE 13, 1666 AD

  DAMN IT! KEEP your dirty paws away from my sacred crucibles before I send you back to bed without breakfast.”

  The Schongau hangman was sitting at the dining room table trying to keep his three-year-old grandson Peter from eating the ground herbs in an ancient stone vessel. The plants weren’t poisonous, but Jakob Kuisl couldn’t say what the effect on the boy would be of a mixture of arnica, St. John’s wort, mountain lovage, and nettles. At the very least the boy would get diarrhea, which made the hangman shudder when he thought about how few clean diapers were still left.

  “And tell your brother not to pester the chickens to death, or I’ll chop his head off myself.”

  Paul, who had just turned two, was crawling through the fragrant rushes strewn under the table, reaching his little arms out at the chickens running through the room, cackling noisily.

  “Good Lord in heaven!”

  “You mustn’t be so strict with them,” said a weak voice from the bed in the next room. “Think of our Magdalena when she was little. How often did you tell her not to pluck the hens while they were alive, but she did it anyway.”

  “And each time she got a good licking for it.” With a grin, Kuisl turned to his wife. Seeing her lying there in the bed, pale, rings under her eyes, he at once turned serious again. Anna-Maria had been suffering with a bad fever since last night. It had come over her like a cold wind, and now she lay there trembling under thick woolen blankets and a few tattered wolf and bear pelts. The herbs in the crucible, mixed with hot water and honey, would—he hoped—give her a little relief.

  Kuisl eyed his wife with concern. Recent years had left their mark on her. She was approaching fifty, and though she was still a beautiful woman, her face was deeply furrowed. Her black hair, once so shiny, had become dull and interspersed with strands of gray. With only her pale head sticking out from under the blankets, she reminded Jakob of a white rose beginning to wither after a long summer.