The Poisoned Pilgrim

by Oliver Pötzsch

  The prior nodded. “The war taught us that faith doesn’t need money. What’s the point of all the bric-a-brac that just collects dust in the chests of the holy chapel? A few times each year, we display some of them from the bay window of the church and people are happy—they pray just as fervently even if these objects are just glass stones and cheap metal. And they will be even happier when the monastery is decked out in new splendor. Our actions are God’s work.”

  Kuisl laughed out loud. “Damn it, you really think you’re doing the right thing, don’t you?” he chuckled. “You’re so muddled you can’t see how removed you are from your Savior. You have one foot in hell and really believe you’re working for paradise.” Kuisl nodded grimly. “Your kind was always the worst type I had to string up—those who believed to the end that they were just doing good.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think, hangman,” the prior shouted. “We’ve almost reached our goal. I waited a long time to be named abbot. Everything seemed to be going my way, and then they sent Rambeck from Salzburg University back to the monastery. What a scandal. But under my leadership this monastery will shine again in renewed splendor. And now, Eckhart, grab that woman and—”

  Suddenly Kuisl lunged forward, striking the cellarer on the shoulder. The monk grunted with surprise, staggered back, and tipped over a table, spilling glass stones and little bones onto the ground.

  “Eckhart, grab him,” the librarian shouted. “He mustn’t escape.”

  As the black-robed monk regained his balance, a strange fire gleamed in his eyes, as if the blow he’d received had awakened in him long-forgotten memories of bar-house brawls and beatings. Magdalena sensed his life before taking on the Benedictine order must have been distinctly unchristian. With his bald head, bullish neck, and flabby but muscular upper arms, he looked more like a waterfront thug than a monk. Growling, he charged Kuisl, who deftly stepped aside. Nevertheless Eckhart landed a passing blow, and Magdalena watched in horror as her father stumbled. Kuisl was just able to grab one of the crates to steady himself.

  He’s really starting to show his age, she thought. Only a few years ago he would have wiped up the floor of the keep with the fat monk.

  As if divining her thoughts, Kuisl rose up defiantly, seized his cudgel, and approached the cellarer like an angry bull.

  “Say your prayers, brother,” he growled. “You won’t have to flagellate yourself any more for your sins. I’ll take care of that now.”

  With hateful little eyes, Brother Eckhart gazed at Kuisl and groped for something on a table behind him. With his huge hands, he finally seized a golden crucifix which he held up before him.

  “Even if you’re not a golem, you come straight from hell,” he hissed. “Vade, Satanas, vade! Die, you devil!”

  With a scream the monk swung the cross, aiming for the top of Kuisl’s head, but at the last moment Kuisl dodged, raised his cudgel, and brought it down with full force on Eckhart’s skull.

  The monk collapsed like an ox struck between the eyes by a bolt from a crossbow. Blood trickled across the dirty floor of the keep as Brother Eckhart twitched one final time, then passed away. The hangman wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “You can be glad it’s over for you, little monk,” he gasped. “The punishment for counterfeiting relics is a much more painful death.”

  Magdalena, who had been watching the fight from behind one of the crates, was about to rush out to help her father when she was grabbed by the neck from behind and felt something sharp and cold press against her right temple.

  “Drop the club right now, hangman,” the prior hissed. He’d snuck down the stairway and was now holding the cool barrel of the pistol against Magdalena’s head. “Or your daughter will roast in hell even before you.”

  Kuisl turned toward his daughter, and when he saw the weapon in the prior’s hand, he immediately lowered his cudgel. Magdalena could now see fear in her father’s eyes.

  He had trouble concealing his anger. “Listen, monk,” he began, “I don’t care what you do with me—I’ve lived a full life—but keep my daughter out of this.”

  “Run with the dogs, die with the dogs,” Brother Benedikt jeered as he stepped out from behind the prior, looking like a hungry old crow. He glanced down at the dead Eckhart. “That fat rapist is no great loss,” he hissed. “He was evil and sick, but we needed him to move the heavy crates. Just as we needed Laurentius. The novitiate master, with his delicate fingers, was the only one who could make convincing counterfeits out of stone and metal.” Benedikt sighed. “A real artist. It’s a shame we lost him.”

  “Such a hypocrite,” Magdalena snapped as the prior pressed the mouth of the pistol so hard against her temple that a small trickle of blood ran down her cheek. She continued, undeterred. “You probably killed Laurentius yourself because he was afraid and was about to betray you.”

  “You’re wrong, girl,” Brother Benedikt replied coolly. “We ourselves don’t know who did that to the good fellow.” He pointed at the hole in the floor. “There’s something lurking around down there. We covered the opening with the stone slab, but you removed it. So tell me. You came from down there. What did you see?”

  “We didn’t find a golem or a sorcerer,” the hangman interrupted in his deep bass voice. “We were just looking for my grandchildren.”

  “Your… grandchildren?” The librarian paused briefly then started cackling like a chicken. “Ha! Don’t tell me all this is happening just because the dumb girl’s brats ran away on her.”

  “The sorcerer abducted them, you old fool,” Magdalena shouted as angry tears ran down her face. “If none of you is the sorcerer, who is? Speak up! Who knows what this madman is doing with my children?”

  But Brother Benedikt just continued laughing, his scornful, hysterical cackle echoing loudly through the cellar of the keep. Finally, he stopped and wiped his face. “That’s so funny,” he replied, breathlessly. “You really believe that one of us is the sorcerer—and all this time, we thought it was one of you. And while we stand here beating up on each other, the real sorcerer goes happily about his business. That’s just precious.”

  Magdalena hesitated. It didn’t seem Brother Benedikt was just trying to fool her. “And… and you have nothing to do with the hosts that were stolen and have now reappeared?” she asked uncertainly.

  “God, no!” The librarian shrugged. “Why should we be interested in a few old wafers? They can’t be melted down. But in one regard, I must disappoint you—the hosts still haven’t reappeared. The monstrance that the unfortunate Laurentius brought with him from the forest was empty.”

  “Just as I thought,” Kuisl cursed. “The sorcerer had already removed the hosts. What in God’s name does he want with them?”

  “That, my good fellow, is something you’ll never learn,” Prior Jeremias hissed, pointing the flintlock pistol directly into Kuisl’s face. “You’re right. There’s only one bullet in the gun, but after we’ve taken care of you, we’ll deal with your daughter. Strange, isn’t it, that this is all starting to really amuse me.” In a flash, he picked up a stiletto from one of the tables and held it to Magdalena’s throat. “Perhaps we’ll take a little time with the girl, but you’re on your way to hell now, hangman. Farewell.”

  As the pistol clicked, Kuisl dodged to one side, but the fatal shot never came.

  Horrified, the Andechs prior stared at a crossbow bolt protruding from his upper right arm. His fingers went limp, and the pistol clattered to the ground. The face of the old librarian beside him turned white, and his eyes were glued to the top of the stairway leading to the exit above.

  “Don’t kill her. I want her alive.”

  Turning, Magdalena saw four unfamiliar soldiers in uniforms at the top of the staircase. Their leather cuirasses were emblazoned with a coat of arms depicting a golden lion in a black field. Two of the men aimed crossbows at the two Benedictines.

  Between the soldiers stood Count Leopold von Wartenberg. “Behold! We’ve fina
lly found the nest of the relics thieves,” he said coldly. “The executioner in Weilheim can really look forward to a good year. Two little execution pyres won’t suffice for this dreadful crime.”

  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 Peißenberg, 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.