The Poisoned Pilgrim

by Oliver Pötzsch

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

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

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

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

  “Faun?” Magdalena asked, perplexed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  12

  ANDECHS, NOON ON FRIDAY, JUNE 18, 1666 AD

  THE ROBE SCRATCHED and itched, and Jakob Kuisl thought he could smell in it the sweat of at least a doze
n fat monks. Nonetheless, he pulled down his cowl as he made his way to the monastery. He had changed clothes down at the knacker’s house but then immediately returned to the Holy Mountain. The many pilgrims who had camped out in Erling and surrounding villages stepped aside respectfully, only a few stopping to wonder why the Franciscan was mumbling such unchristian curses.

  The hangman didn’t really know what to look for up at the monastery, but time was running out, and in Weilheim his friend’s first interrogation would no doubt begin that day. Burning at the stake would quickly follow. If Kuisl didn’t come up soon with a clue leading him to the real sorcerer, the innocent Nepomuk would die a cruel, painful death.

  On arriving, Kuisl saw that another mass was about to begin. Now, with the Festival of the Three Hosts fast approaching, there were up to a half dozen masses each day, and the first pilgrims were now heading toward the church portal that was covered with scaffolding.

  Kuisl looked up skeptically at the hole in the roof and the new beams forming the steeple. It appeared the building wouldn’t be ready in time for the festival, especially since many of the workers at the site were bedridden with this mysterious fever.

  When a large group of Benedictines entered the church, the hangman was about to follow them when it occurred to him this would be a good time to visit the monks’ cells. Perhaps he could learn something useful in the monastery’s living quarters.

  His head bowed deeply as if in prayer, Kuisl hurried through the inner portal to the cloister and, from there, through another open door into the east wing of the three-story building. The hangman really had no idea where the individual monks’ cells were located, but fortunately most of the rooms in the monastery were empty now during mass. He saw only one very old, stooped monk sweeping the refectory where the Brothers took their meals three times a day. The old man didn’t notice him, so Kuisl continued walking through the corridors murmuring his Latin prayers in a monotone: “Dominus pascit me nihil mihi deerit, in pascuis herbarum adclinavit me…” The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he maketh me to lie down in green pastures…

  In the distance, he could hear the organ and the singing of the faithful, but these sounds faded as he got farther and farther from the church.

  The monastery was a huge building with an inner courtyard that Kuisl could make out vaguely through the high bull’s-eye glass windows. He decided to look around first on the ground floor and then work his way up until he had found something, or was caught. Despite his clerical garb and murmured prayers, Kuisl had no illusions about what would happen if the monks discovered him in one of the cells; they wouldn’t let him go without a very good excuse.

  By now he’d passed through a number of corridors and was about halfway around the building without having found a thing that could help him in his search. He passed the Museum Fratrum—a room the lay brothers used for moments of leisure or prayer with ornamental stucco cherubs on the ceiling and upholstered recessed seats along the walls; then the kitchen and a tiny library containing only a small selection of religious documents.

  Just as he was about to give up and head to the second floor, he found himself standing in front of another corridor with small wooden doors along the sides at regular intervals. In contrast with the splendor of the rooms he’d just visited, these looked strikingly plain.

  He pressed the handle on the first door and was relieved to find it unlocked. One look was enough to assure him he wasn’t mistaken. This was clearly a monk’s cell.

  The barren, cavernous room contained nothing but a bed, a chest, and a stool alongside a rough-hewn table. Some parchment documents lay on the table next to the wax stub of a candle. Leaning down, Kuisl realized the document was a manifest of purchases made by the monastery, including the costs of wooden beams, nails, bricks and mortar, and a load of stone.

  A broad grin spread across the hangman’s face. These were clearly the expense records for the monastery construction. The cellarer was always the one responsible for management and financial matters at a monastery, and in fact he soon found his signature on the document.

  Greetings, Brother Eckhart. I’m sure you have no objection to my having a quick look at this.

  The hangman cast a fleeting glance at the documents but could find nothing more than financial statements and calculations. Finally he turned to the chest. To his great delight, it too was unlocked and its contents very neatly arranged. He found another monk’s robe, a worn Bible, and a scourge with dry blood still adhering to lead spikes at the end of ropes. In disgust, the executioner turned the short whip in his hands. In Schongau, he’d used a similar instrument on several occasions to beat criminals and drive them out of town. Kuisl found it hard to believe that anyone would subject himself to this painful punishment of his own free will. What fantasies were tormenting the fat cellarer so much that he had to drive them out with this whip? The hangman had heard of people who enjoyed torturing themselves like that, but he’d never met any in his torture chamber.

  Disappointed, he laid the scourge back in the chest, closed the lid carefully, and returned to the corridor. Then he turned the handle on the next cell.

  This door was also unlocked. He entered, closing the door behind him to avoid arousing the suspicion of anyone who might pass by. Looking around curiously, he saw a bare room laid out with exactly the same furniture, but with a table that was empty except for a candle, a quill, and a pot of ink.

  When Kuisl went to open the chest on the floor, he discovered that this chest was locked. Prepared for such problems, he reached into the pockets of his sticky monk’s robe for the bent pieces of metal the knacker in Erling had made for him.

  Pressing his lips tight, he poked around in the keyhole until he heard a soft click. The whole procedure had taken no longer than two minutes. Kuisl grinned as he opened the cover, pulled out another robe, and was enveloped in the faint, almost imperceptible fragrance of rose oil.

  Underneath the robe lay a small, thin book written by a certain Ovid. In flowery lettering, its title claimed to be a guide to nothing less than ars amatoria, the art of love. Kuisl had never heard of either the poet or the book, but as he browsed the Latin verses, he could see that the contents were erotic. He sniffed the robe and the book with his large nose, but the fragrance of costly perfume came from neither of them. Like a sleuth hound, he leaned over and continued sniffing. The fragrance clearly came from the chest; either it had permeated the wood or…

  He froze. As he eyed the dimensions of the chest, there was no doubt it wasn’t as deep inside as it should be. He poked an iron hook into the slit between the bottom and back of the chest until the wooden bottom gave way and could now be turned up. Beneath the false bottom, he found several bundles, each containing a dozen letters bound with silk ribbon and releasing the intense aroma of rose oil.

  Well look here, dear little monk, Kuisl thought grimly. Whatever secret you’re hiding will be revealed now.

  Kuisl listened carefully for anyone approaching in the hall, but all he heard were the faint voices of the pilgrims reciting the Credo in the sanctuary. The mass wouldn’t be over for at least fifteen minutes.

  Very carefully the hangman pulled a letter from beneath the silk ribbon and opened it. It was a passionate declaration of love addressed to none other than the novitiate master Brother Laurentius. Kuisl quickly scanned the lines down to the bottom.

  The signature read: “From one who loves you more than anything else, Vitalis.”

  Kuisl rubbed the perfumed letter between his huge hands, lost in thought. Indeed, the watchmaker’s assistant. Evidently Vitalis and the novitiate master had been more devoted to each other than was proper for chaste Benedictines. Had Brother Laurentius perhaps murdered his lover because he was about to betray him? Did he have something to do with the abduction of the watchmaker? In any case, the letters in the secret compartment were deadly in the hands of unscrupulous people. Though Kuisl himself had never executed any sodomite monks, he knew of cases where the p
oor creatures were burned at the stake or buried alive.

  At that moment, he heard steps approaching in the corridor. Quickly, he placed the letters back in the chest, pulled the false bottom back over them, and closed the lid. Just as he was about to rush into the hall, however, he realized he was too late—the steps had approached the door, and he could now even make out bits of conversation between two men. He ducked behind the door and hoped the men would walk by.

  Unfortunately they stopped right in front of the door.

  “Just what do you think you are doing, taking me out of mass for a conversation?” an angry voice said. “I hope there’s a good reason for me to miss Holy Communion, Laurentius.”

  A soft, tearful voice responded. “Brother Benedikt, I don’t know who I can trust. I told you about the automaton’s melody.”

  “And what about it?” came the harsh reply.

  “I heard it again in exactly the same place. You know what that means. This puppet is down there somewhere.” The delicate voice became so soft Kuisl could scarcely hear a word. “And it’s looking for us, Benedikt. It knows what we’ve done.”

  Kuisl froze. If he caught the names correctly, the librarian Benedikt and the novitiate master Laurentius were right outside the door. He held his breath and prayed they wouldn’t enter the cell.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brother Benedikt replied. “Anyway, it’s been well established now that Johannes committed the murders. We spread the stories about the golem just so nobody would poke around down there during the festival. And now you believe it yourself, you fool.”

  “And the hosts?” Brother Laurentius laughed despairingly.

  “You think Johannes magically stole them while he was locked up inside the dungeon? I tell you that was the golem, Virgilius’s damned automaton.”

  “Nonsense,” the librarian shot back. “Perhaps Johannes had an accomplice. How do I know? We’ve found our culprit, and that’s all that matters. The hosts are the least of our problems. We’ll just replace them with others, and then we can just go on as before.”