The Poisoned Pilgrim

by Oliver Pötzsch

  A sudden pain brought the medicus back to the present—a pilgrim had accidentally stepped on his foot. Simon suppressed a curse and turned to whisper to his father-in-law. “What are you going to do if someone recognizes you now?” After Magdalena told him of their unhappy confrontation with the Semers, Simon reckoned that the hangman’s cover would be blown at any moment. “You could at least have put on a less conspicuous coat. Didn’t you say yourself that the monastery bailiffs are out looking for you?”

  “Nonsense,” Kuisl growled, pulling his collar a little tighter. “They really have better things to do today than to look for some no-account Franciscan monk. Just see for yourself what’s going on here.” With a sweep of his powerful arm, he indicated the crowds of pilgrims all around singing hymns and growing larger by the minute. The smell of incense was so strong it almost made him dizzy.

  “We can only hope the sickness going around isn’t as contagious as I feared,” the medicus murmured, “or all of Bavaria will catch it.”

  Indeed, pilgrims seemed to have come from the farthest corners of the electorate and beyond. Simon could hear dialects from Swabia, Franconia, the Palatinate, and Saxony, and even a few foreign languages. The thought that the pilgrims might carry the disease back with them to their cities and villages made the medicus queasy. With everything going on, Simon still hadn’t had time to ask Jakob Schreevogl what he’d learned the day before in the tavern.

  “Damn. I think it’s a good thing Magdalena isn’t here with the children,” Kuisl said. “The kids would be trampled to death or get lost.” Restlessly he shifted from one foot to the other, and Simon couldn’t repress a smirk. He knew from long experience how Kuisl hated large crowds. He preferred the silent forest, with just a few birds chirping in the trees.

  “Magdalena wanted to talk with the abbot again,” Simon replied. “Perhaps he knows something that will help us in our search.”

  “Today? No chance.” The hangman spat on the ground, just missing a little old woman nearby who glared back at him. “Why would the abbot have time for someone like Magdalena at the Festival of the Three Hosts?”

  “I had a long talk with her last night,” replied Simon. “She met Maurus Rambeck recently in the monastery garden, and he told her the prior would have the honor of presenting the hosts this time.”

  “An abbot who passes up the most important festival of the year?” Kuisl screwed his eyes up suspiciously. “Isn’t that a bit strange?”

  “The matter with his brother really upset Maurus Rambeck. It’s completely understandable if he doesn’t feel like conducting a mass.” Simon shrugged. “In any case, Magdalena hopes to meet with the abbot again today in the monastery garden. He seems to be there quite a bit.”

  Kuisl sneered. “And he wants to have a nice chat there with none other than my daughter? Dream on, son-in-law.”

  “Your daughter, as you know yourself, is very persistent,” Simon said with a grin. “I have no doubt on Judgment Day she’ll even get an audience with all the archangels, if only she leaves them alone after that.”

  A murmur suddenly went through the crowd. Simon looked up to see the prior on the balcony below the little bay window. Though the roof was still covered with scaffolding, the work on this important part of the monastery was already finished.

  With a sublime mien, Brother Jeremias raised a silver object. The pilgrims on the square below fell to their knees, lowering their heads reverently. From the corner of his eye, Simon watched the old woman next to Kuisl turn up her eyes and tip to one side, where her elderly husband took her in his arms tenderly. Shouts and cries could be heard everywhere.

  “The sacred hosts. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the sacred hosts. God bless us all.”

  Simon and the hangman fell to their knees, too. The medicus could feel a warm tickle pass through him at the sight of the praying masses. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his eyes teared up in the heavy clouds of incense. He had never been an especially devout person, especially in contrast to his wife, whose idea it was to go on this pilgrimage. But now, among the crowd of young and old who had traveled so far to view the three consecrated oblates in the silver bowl, a shiver ran through him, too. Even Kuisl seemed moved. His eyes narrowed to little slits as he stared up at the balcony where the prior had just spoken the benediction.

  “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater,

  et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus…

  In the name of the Father, son, and holy spirit…”

  The crowd bowed even deeper, prostrating itself on the ground; some cried, while others laughed hysterically or beat their backs and chests wildly.

  Only Kuisl continued staring up in fascination at the balcony.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Simon whispered. “So much faith… one could almost—”

  “Spare me the nonsense,” the hangman interrupted. “I know only too well how the Catholics attacked the people of Magdeburg with spears and swords, their eyes gleaming and hands dripping with blood. If anyone wants to pray, he should do it in the silence of the church and not carry on like people at a county fair.” He pointed up at the monstrance the prior was still holding up like a flaming sword. “I’ll bet the real hosts aren’t in there, in any case.”

  Simon grinned. “And I thought you had just had an epiphany.”

  “What God and I have to discuss we will do alone, privately. You can believe—”

  Suddenly there came shouting nearby that sounded different from the other pious cries. Simon was startled to see two men approach through the crowd, flanked by four Andechs hunters armed with spears and crossbows.

  The fat man in their midst was none other than the Schongau burgomaster, and at his side, his son grinned triumphantly at the sight of the hangman.

  Quickening their pace, the two were only a few dozen yards away from Simon and Kuisl.

  “Ha, Kuisl! I knew it,” Karl Semer shouted so loudly that many of the pilgrims turned around to look. Even the prior up on the balcony paused briefly in his benediction.

  “Rotten hangman,” the burgomaster shouted. “Your head sticks out of the crowd like a flagpole, and this time you won’t get away. Seize the heretics and the false monk.”

  The bailiffs pushed their way through the protesting crowd toward Simon and Kuisl.

  “Well?” Simon hissed. “I warned you, but no, you wouldn’t listen. The two troublemakers must have seen you from up there,” he continued, pointing at windows in a wing of the monastery where some of the better-off pilgrims were housed. “What in heaven’s name shall we do now?”

  “What else?” The hangman pushed aside some of the pilgrims in the crowd, forming a little passageway. “We’ll run, and we’ll see who’s faster—the Schongau executioner or the fat old burgomaster and his bowlegged son. Remember, I was a hangman when that puffed-up little windbag was still shitting in his diapers.”

  Cursing softly, Simon ran after him as the Semers’ wild cries rang out behind.

  Magdalena strolled cheerfully with her children through a fragrant field of flowers behind the monastery. The sun had reached its zenith and shone down warmly on the fields, sending the last of the morning dew skyward in a soft haze.

  She was humming quietly to herself. At breakfast in the knacker’s house, Simon had been noticeably attentive. He’d stroked her hair from time to time, letting her know he still loved her. After all their years together, all the arguments and worries, he seemed to be the right man for her, after all.

  Despite Simon’s warning about possible infection, Magdalena had finally visited the clinic that morning with the children to help Jakob Schreevogl care for the patients. She intended to be there for the presentation of the hosts, but when she saw the huge crowd, she decided spontaneously not to meet Simon and her father until later, at the mass. First she wanted to see whether she’d assumed correctly that the Andechs abbot would indeed spend some time in the monastery garden that day, as well.

  “Water! Lots of water! The
man will squirt Mama until she’s all wet,” Peter shouted, holding her hand and hopping up and down excitedly as the stone wall at the forest edge finally appeared.

  Grinning, Magdalena recalled how, just two days before, the mythical creature spat a cold stream of water in her face and how she, in a rather unladylike fashion, fell backward on her rump.

  “Oh, but this time the man is going to make you all wet,” she said, teasing the boy as she pressed the latch on the gate. Secretly she worried that the iron gate might be locked this time, and was pleased when it opened with a soft creak.

  Just as on her last visit, Magdalena smelled the exotic fragrance of herbs and flowers. The children ran ahead, shouting, and had soon disappeared among the climbing vines, little walls, and flower beds. From time to time, Magdalena could hear them giggle, and a smile passed over her face. This really was an enchanted place, like one of those forest clearings where fairies and sprites danced—a world far removed from the horrors taking place outside the garden gates.

  Expectantly, she approached the middle of the garden where the faun stood staring back at her between a few stone benches, just as it had the last time, with a fresh grin.

  On one of the benches sat the Andechs abbot.

  He appeared deep in thought, and for a moment, Magdalena thought he might have even fallen asleep. But then Rambeck, aroused by the shouts of the children, raised his head and turned toward Magdalena. When he recognized the hangman’s daughter, he smiled wearily.

  “Ah, the young lady from Schongau who’s so interested in herbs,” he said, gesturing for her to take a seat beside him. His eyes radiated a dark melancholy that Magdalena didn’t remember from her last visit. “Do have a seat, and tell me which healing plant you would recommend for melancholy. Certainly you know some magic herbs.”

  “Well, valerian, St. John’s wort, and melissa can help with melancholy,” Magdalena replied, bowing slightly before sitting down beside the Andechs abbot. “But best of all, as far as I know, are friends and a good conversation.”

  Maurus Rambeck laughed bitterly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any friends at the moment, so we’ll have to settle for conversation.”

  “Your Excellency,” Magdalena began hesitantly, “I’m terribly sorry about what happened to your brother. I—”

  Rambeck waved her off. “It’s perhaps better this way—it at least puts an end to the waiting and worrying. The last time we spoke I already suspected Markus was dead.”

  “Markus?” The hangman’s daughter frowned.

  “That used to be his name. When he became a monk, he took the name Virgilius, after the famous Salzburg bishop and scholar.” The abbot crossed himself hastily. “We were both old men. Now, in God’s unfathomable will, he has passed away before me, and I will follow him someday.”

  “You were very close, you and your brother?” Magdalena asked cautiously.

  The abbot nodded. “Markus was the younger of us two, and as a child, I often had to take care of him. He always had crazy ideas.” A narrow smile appeared on his lips. “That ne’er-do-well simply dropped out of the university in Salzburg and started drifting around… Rome, Madrid, Paris, Alexandria. He was even in the West Indies. I thought I’d never see him again, but then one day he showed up here at the monastery, and I did what I could for him as a simple monk. He seemed…” The abbot hesitated, “well, to have pulled himself together again. But I was wrong.”

  The abbot paused for a long time, staring into space. “Sometimes I think all this struggle for knowledge doesn’t really make us happy,” he said finally. “On the contrary, it moves us away from God, from our simple, childlike faith. Markus never had that faith, not even as a monk; he was always restless and at war with himself.”

  The sound of bells could be heard far off, mixing with the singing of the faithful.

  “Do you hear that?” the abbot asked. “People singing and praying, and they are happy. They don’t need automatons or music boxes, and they don’t want to hear that the earth is a sphere revolving around the sun in an endless universe. All they want is to eat, drink, love, and believe.” He sighed and stood up. “But perhaps we’re living in a new era; as people struggle increasingly for knowledge, they move farther and farther from God.”

  Lost in thought, the abbot smoothed down his robe, stared for a while at the grinning faun, then turned from the statue, shaking his head.

  “I’ll tear down these idols,” he said softly. “As well as the statues of the Greek gods in the grotto that spin around, playing that cheerful music. Things like this turn us away from the true faith. Perhaps that will bring an end to the curse.”

  Nodding once more to Magdalena, he moved toward the exit slowly, like an old man. “Farewell, hangman’s daughter,” he murmured as he opened the gate. “I’ll join the others now in the square as a simple believer and pray. You should do the same.”

  He looked up one last time, tears shining in his eyes. “Don’t stay too long in this garden,” he warned her. “Believe me, something terribly evil is lurking here.”

  The gate creaked closed, and soon the abbot’s footsteps died away. From far off, the sound of the singing pilgrims rose and fell in unison, in a monotonous hum.

  Magdalena pulled herself together and looked at the faun. It grinned and appeared to be looking back at her, almost as if it wished to tell her a secret.

  Forget the old fool. Stay here with me. I’m not evil, only a stranger. Just like you, hangman’s daughter.

  Despite the warmth of the June morning Magdalena began to shiver. The fragrant herbs and flowers, the little walls, the climbing peas and beans suddenly didn’t seem as friendly and inviting as just a few minutes ago. The nasturtium seemed to writhe about like a snake, and the lizards scurrying over the stones cast sly glances at her; indeed the entire garden suddenly seemed strange and threatening. And something else was troubling her.

  She heard the humming of the bumblebees, the chirping of the sparrows in the bushes, the rustling treetops in the nearby valley, and the splashing of a distant fountain.

  What she didn’t hear were her children.

  My God. Don’t let it have happened.

  “Peter? Paul?” she cried anxiously into the rampant greenery. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer—only the peaceful hum of bumblebees.

  “Children!” Her voice took on a shrill tone now. “Mother is looking for you. Say something!”

  Still no answer. Magdalena picked up the hem of her skirt and ran along the little walls, past the climbing trellises that formed a labyrinth here. She slipped, skinning her knee, but felt no pain. Only one thought swirled through her head.

  The children are gone. The sorcerer has the children.

  She continued calling out. Several times she thought she caught sight of a shadow darting behind a bush or climbing trellis, but when she approached, there was nothing there but more gates and bushes—all the way to the walls at the end of the garden. She ran to the grotto where the statues of the ancient gods were standing in a circle, but the children weren’t there, either.

  Finally she hurried to the front gate and ran out into the flowery meadow. The gentle, soothing songs of the faithful could still be heard at the monastery, now mixed with the high, shrill voice of a single monk. The presentation of the three sacred hosts was nearing an end.

  “Peter! Paul! My God, say something!”

  Magdalena looked around frantically for the heads of the little children amid all the tall flowers and wild grain in the meadow; she cried and fumed as tears of desperation and fear ran down her cheeks.

  But her children were nowhere to be found. Finally, after turning around to glance at the enchanted garden one last time, she ran back to the monastery. She had to find her husband and her father. Perhaps they could help. Perhaps the two children had simply run over to the church looking for their grandfather. Perhaps everything would be all right. Perhaps.

  Deep down, Magdalena knew her children were lo
st.

  The church square overflowed with people as Simon stumbled over a sack of mortar left behind by the workers; behind him he could still hear the angry shouts of Karl Semer.

  “Stop! Stop those two! They are dishonorable liars and charlatans!”

  The medicus held his breath. The many pilgrims around him seemed puzzled. A moment ago, they’d been engrossed in devotions to their god; now reality intruded in the form of two men struggling to make their way through the crowd. Simon could see the bearded head of the Schongau executioner bobbing up and down among all the pilgrims about twenty steps in front of him. The hangman simply shoved the astonished bystanders aside like stalks of corn in a field, and because of his size, he made faster progress than the slender medicus. Simon could hear people shouting at him in astonishment, but no one tried to stop the huge man.

  “Kuisl, wait for me, for God’s sake. Just wait!”

  Simon cursed under his breath as he got up, pushing aside a heavy man blocking his way. Next to him, a woman shrieked as her rosary fell from her hand.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to—” Simon started to apologize when a young man punched him in the face.

  “You fresh little pansy, who do you think you are, pushing my fiancée?” the broad-shouldered young fellow growled. He tried to grab the medicus by the collar, but Simon wriggled away, finding a narrow path through the crowd. He was horrified to see that his distance from his father-in-law had grown. By now, Kuisl had reached the edge of the square and was about to flee through the little gate down into the Kien Valley.

  “Kuisl! Wait!”