“Later, I’ll be back to turning tricks on the Rosengasse.” Magdalena smiled. “Besides, who’s going to notice? I hear that the captain and the other guards are down at the castle. They just left you two poor devils up here?”
“You forget our three colleagues in the Old Residence,” the fat man chimed in. “But you’re right, it’s not fair. The people down below are having a party, drinking and watching the play, and we’re standing around here in the damp and the fog, tired and ready to drop.” He grinned. “Ah, but I know what we can do. One of us will stand here to guard the gate while the other can go over to the little alley next to the cathedral with you and see what you have to offer. We’ll switch off.”
Magdalena gave him her sweetest smile. “What a wonderful idea. I should have thought of that. So, which of you two handsome lads will go first?”
Even before she asked, she was sure it would be the fat one. She walked ahead, swinging her hips back and forth while the heavy man followed, groaning and snorting. He left his halberd behind, leaning against the wall.
The guard grinned expectantly. Soon, he was sure, he’d get to use his other lance.
In the meantime, skinny Hans remained standing in front of the gate, imagining vividly what he would soon be doing with the woman.
Hans was seventeen years old, and actually he’d never seen a naked woman before—with the exception of his mother, of course, a fat old linen weaver, but that wasn’t a pretty sight. With trembling lips, he imagined the shapely woman with the wild black locks and how he would soon slip his hand under her skirt. What would he find down there? Friends had told him the strangest stories about the female sex organs; they spoke of a quick little mouse hiding there, but they were probably just pulling his leg. Well, he’d soon find out. Hans had five kreuzers in his pocket, and that should suffice for a first voyage of discovery.
He listened anxiously, full of expectation for his turn that was about to come. Suddenly he heard a muffled cry that probably came from fat Jonas, his father’s friend and colleague. Was that part of this great secret? People shouted when they made love—he’d heard that also from his mother, who, in years past, had rolled around with his father under a sheepskin blanket in the room. It was the only heated space in the house, so the eightmember family had to use it as a common bedroom. Their parents’ bed was separated from the children’s beds by nothing more than a thin curtain full of holes, and sometimes Hans had the feeling that his mother was crying with pain. Now, too, what he heard were not shouts of rapture, but rather . . . panic? Yes, they were clearly cries of horror. Was that also part of the game? And what were they doing there all this time?
Shivering, Hans rubbed his cold hands together. A year ago, when he’d taken this job with the city guards, he thought he’d find real adventure. But for the most part what he did was pick up drunks in the streets and stand guard for hours on end until his feet were killing him. And if the captain was putting together an elite squad for some secret mission, as he had just a few days ago, Hans naturally couldn’t be part of that. It was driving him mad.
Hans was just wondering whether to leave his post for a moment, to see if everything was all right, when he heard a scraping sound behind him, as if someone in large boots was shuffling over the pavement. Was it that fat Jonas? That was strange, since he had gone off in the other direction. So who . . .
Hans turned around and let out a long squeal. Actually, he tried to scream, but what was standing in front of him was so horrible that his voice failed.
It was a huge, hairy creature with a foul odor, towering two heads above him. With dead eyes it stared down at him as a deep growl and then human sounds escaped from its lips.
“Ach . . . curses . . . I can’t see . . . damn!”
Hans whimpered, his hand went limp, and he dropped his halberd on the ground. He hadn’t understood exactly what the monster said, but there was no doubt in his mind that this creature in front of him was the slender lad imprisoned in St. Thomas’s, changed back into the monster who’d killed so many people and now had escaped the dungeon. Surely he’d already killed fat Jonas and the prostitute as well, and now it was his turn.
“Please . . . please spare my life,” he whimpered, throwing himself down in front of the werewolf. “In the name of all fourteen holy saints in our hour of need, please . . .”
He got no further, as a shadow swept down on him. Suddenly Hans felt something soft placed over his face with a strong, bitter taste.
The thought raced through his mind: The werewolf’s jaws. He’ll rip my lips off and eat them. Oh, Holy Mother of God . . .
Then he felt heavy and sank into a dark fog that smelled of old, musty animal hides. The werewolf had swallowed him whole.
“Damn! That could have easily blown up in our faces. Why didn’t you get rid of the fellow sooner?”
Jakob stood next to his brother, pointing at the unconscious guard at their feet.
“Because I can’t see a damn thing under these hides,” Bartholomäus replied. “Just be happy I found his face so I could put the sleeping sponge over it.”
“Pull yourselves together, both of you. Do you want to wake up everyone in the Old Residence?”
It was Magdalena, approaching them from the narrow alley and speaking in a hushed voice as she glanced around. The two brothers looked quite fearsome, like two demons wrestling for dominion in an endless battle in hell.
Or like two old grouches always criticizing each other, she thought. When this is all over, I hope I won’t have any Kuisls to put up with for a while.
But then it occurred to her that she was, in fact, a Kuisl herself.
How did Father put it in the forest yesterday? You can’t pick your family . . .
After Magdalena had lured the guard into the lane, her father had come down on him like a ton of bricks. The guard could only utter a brief cry before Jakob pressed the sleeping sponge in his face. The guard had twitched and moaned briefly but then fell silent. The potion seemed to have worked. But then they heard the other guard wailing and crying and ran over to the gate, where Bartholomäus had already gotten things under control.
“Well, so far so good,” Jakob said with satisfaction, turning to his brother. “I hope you remembered the keys.”
They were standing in front of the so-called Schöne Pforte—“beautiful gate”—made of stone and surrounded by several figures and statues of Mary. On the left, next to the larger gate, which was intended for wagons, was a smaller gate. Bartholomäus searched under the furs and finally fished a rusty set of keys out of his pocket.
“These keys are for the gate, St. Thomas’s Chapel, the torture chamber, and the dungeon down in the city,” he whispered. “They’ll take us anywhere we want to go, but you still have the guards, and I just don’t know how many of them there are.”
“The fat guy mentioned three guards at the Old Residence,” Magdalena whispered.
Jakob cursed. “That’s one too many, unless—” He stopped short, then pointed at the whore’s cloth in Magdalena’s hair.
“Give it to me—it’s a thorn in my side, in any case.”
She handed him the kerchief, and he quickly opened the pot of henbane and dunked the cloth in it. Finally, he gave it back to her. “If things really get tough, you’ll have to take on one of the guards yourself. With this, you won’t need to use your wiggling behind and fluttering eyelashes.”
She smiled as he handed her the sharp-smelling cloth. She noticed before that the sight of his daughter as a whore had enraged him. Still, Jakob had to admit to himself that her plan had worked. His grumbling and growling now was just a peculiar, Kuisl-like compliment.
“Once I unlock the door,” Bartholomäus warned his two companions in a low voice, “you’ll have to work fast. The guardhouse is over on the right, behind the gate, and it’s quite possible the guards are still around. The next building on the street is the Chapel of St. Thomas, and that’s where we have to enter. Are you ready?”
/> Magdalena and her father nodded, and Bartholomäus silently entered through the small gate.
Sebastian Harsee’s fingers dug like claws into Simon’s arms, and his face was only a hand’s breadth away. With madness in his eyes, he glowered at Simon as the spittle dripped in long strings from his teeth. Simon struggled to keep his distance from the crazed bishop. Was he mistaken, or were Harsee’s teeth in fact longer than before? Perhaps it was just that the muscles in his face were in spasm and his lips contorted in a horrible grin.
That must be it, Simon thought. There must be some logical explanation. Or is this perhaps a nightmare? Was Barbara’s appearance on the stage just a hallucination?
Once more the suffragan bishop let out a ghastly howl. He seemed to be trying to seize Simon, who finally managed to pull himself free of the quivering creature, gasping, as what almost looked like a magical circle formed around them. Behind Simon, people were shouting and screaming, frantically trying to escape through the narrow entranceway into the courtyard, and somewhere there was the sound of a window breaking. He grabbed hold of one of the chairs, stood up, and tried to catch his breath.
Not until then was Simon able to think through everything that had happened. Until just a short while ago, he’d been standing up in the gallery of the Geyerswörth dance hall with Samuel, staring in disbelief at his fifteen-year-old sister-in-law in her debut performance as an actress. He had to admit that Barbara was excellent in her role, though they could never allow her father to hear about this activity. And right in the middle of the thunderous applause, the suffragan bishop had collapsed. Simon had rushed forward with Samuel to help, and then his worst fears were realized. Sebastian Harsee had turned into a werewolf!
“My God, who would ever have thought this possible?” asked Philipp Rieneck, pointing with a trembling finger at Harsee, who was still convulsing on the floor. “Dear Brother Sebastian is himself a werewolf. Holy Mary, help! Who else in Bamberg has the devil taken away?”
He looked around in a panic as half-crazed citizens, clerics, and courtiers ran screaming past him.
“Guards, guards, over here!” Rieneck shouted shrilly. “Help your monarch!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Simon could see his friend Samuel stuck in the crowd, desperately trying to make his way to him. Further behind, Martin Lebrecht, captain of the city guards, appeared with sword drawn, accompanied by two anxious-looking guards.
“Here is the werewolf!” Rieneck shouted. “Come here, quickly! Kill him!”
At the same moment, Sebastian Harsee began to howl again and froth at the mouth, which made his lips look more and more like those of a wild beast. He tried to stand up but couldn’t. Panting and twitching, the suffragan bishop lay on the floor, groaning like a dying animal.
“Doctor, Doctor, do something,” shouted Johann von Schönborn, standing petrified beside his colleague. “Whatever is wrong with this man, he urgently needs your help.”
“He doesn’t need any help—he’s a werewolf!” Rieneck shrieked. “Quick, Captain, get rid of him before he can destroy any others.”
In the meantime, Samuel had succeeded in getting to the howling suffragan bishop, but so had Martin Lebrecht. The captain of the guard raised his sword and was about to strike, but Samuel held him back.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Can’t you see he no longer poses any danger?”
In fact, Harsee’s convulsions had diminished. He struggled so hard to sit up one more time that Simon feared he might break his back—then he finally fell silent. The wound on his head, evidently caused by his fall, was no longer bleeding so hard.
“Is he dead?” Philipp Rieneck asked anxiously after a few moments.
Carefully, Samuel leaned down to the sick man and listened to his chest. He shook his head.
“It looks like he’s lost consciousness, though his eyes are wide open. So it could also be a spasm, and he’d be able to hear everything around him just as if he were fully awake.”
“What a dreadful thing,” Simon whispered.
In the meantime, the theater had emptied out, broken shards of glass and crockery lay all around, the curtain in front of the stage was torn, and the actors had all vanished. Through the broken windows, excited voices and the shouts of the city guards could be heard coming from the courtyard below.
Bishop Johann von Schönborn turned to Martin Lebrecht, who had put his sword back in its sheath.
“It appears you will no longer be needed here,” said the Würzburg bishop, who, in contrast to his colleagues, had settled down somewhat. “It would be best for you to go outside and calm people down.”
“At your command, Your Excellency.”
Lebrecht saluted, then withdrew with the two visibly relieved guards and headed down to the courtyard. Once all the men had left, Philipp Rieneck turned to his colleagues and addressed them in a trembling voice.
“For a long time now,” he began hesitantly, “I’ve had my doubts about these werewolf stories and thought it was about time for good Brother Sebastian to get hold of himself. I didn’t stop him because . . . because . . .” He fell silent.
Because you don’t give a damn about this city, Simon thought. The only thing you care about is your menagerie and your mistresses.
“But I must confess that Brother Sebastian was right,” Rieneck finally continued in a firm voice. “And what’s worse, this werewolf seems able to turn even honorable people into werewolves.” He shuddered with horror. “If he can take away my God-fearing suffragan bishop, he can even take me . . . and . . . you, too.”
He pointed at Johann Schönborn, who frowned and stepped back a pace, as if fearing that the pure terror that had seized his colleague might be contagious.
“I’ll admit I don’t have any explanation for this, myself,” said Schönborn, shaking his head and pointing at the paralyzed body of the suffragan bishop, whose wide-open eyes were still staring blankly into space. “Only the learned doctors can help us here. What do you think, Master Samuel?”
“It’s surely too early for a definitive diagnosis,” replied Samuel, still kneeling next to the sick bishop and checking his breathing and heartbeat. “But judging from the way the suffragan bishop was twitching and thrashing about, it could be epilepsy, or perhaps these spasms can be attributed to St. Vitus’s dance.”
“Do you think Harsee has caught St. Anthony’s fire?” Simon asked.
The medicus had seen that illness many years ago in Regensburg. A bluish mushroom that sometimes grew on grain could cause hallucinations, spasms, and sometimes paralysis that could lead to death. Simon looked down in horror at the contorted face of the suffragan bishop, who seemed to be staring back up at him.
“St. Vitus’s dance can have many causes,” Samuel explained, “including angel’s trumpet and other magical herbs. Sometimes people dance around in a religious ecstasy, but some people say the twitching comes from a spider bite, for example, from a tarantula—”
“The wound on his neck,” Simon interrupted excitedly. “Do you remember? Could that be a spider bite?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Samuel pulled down Harsee’s robe at the collar and took another look at the wound with the red halo. “No doubt it’s a bite,” he said with a frown, “but for a spider it’s really too big, and besides, there are no tarantulas here. As far as I know, they are found much farther south, in southern Italy.”
“Aha, then he was no doubt bitten by a werewolf,” Rieneck cried out. “Did you see Brother Sebastian’s teeth? They were pointed and long. And foam was dripping from them onto the ground.”
“That can be caused by cramps,” Samuel assured him, “which distend facial skin, giving the impression that the victim has long teeth.” He stood up and wiped his hands on his jacket. “I can’t tell you any more now, but we should keep a close eye on him.” He shrugged and turned to Simon. “Can you help me take care of him?”
Simon had gone to fetch a jug of wine and a piece of fabric from the theater curtain to
wash Harsee’s head wound and apply a temporary dressing. As he approached the sick man with the jug, something strange happened. Suddenly the suffragan bishop once again started quivering, tossing his head back and forth, and rearing up as if the very sight of the wine was painful to him.
“See! A sign,” Philipp Rieneck said. “He is terrified on seeing the blood of our Savior. Sprinkle him with holy water so he will lose his power. With witches that’s supposed to be a surefire method.”
Now Johann Schönborn also seemed uncertain. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he mumbled. “Perhaps we really ought to try using holy water.”
“Nonsense.” Samuel’s voice was so low that the bishops couldn’t hear him, but he turned to Simon, frowning.
“I must admit this is strange,” he said softly. “As I told you, he refused to drink anything yesterday.”
“Indeed.” Simon nodded, thinking. “He wouldn’t drink a thing, and for that reason I don’t believe he went into convulsions on account of the blood of our Savior. See for yourself.” He looked around until he found a half-filled jug of beer and approached the sick man, who once again started to quiver and writhe around. After a while, Simon put the jug down again and turned to the two astonished bishops.
“Since transubstantiation and communion has never taken place with beer, I can only assume that he’ll react that way toward any kind of liquid.” He smiled wryly. “It appears he would react that way even if it was apple juice.”
“But why?” asked Johann Schönborn, shaking his head. “This is all very mysterious.” He turned to Samuel and looked at him sternly.
“Before the performance, you said you had certain suspicions concerning this werewolf. I think it’s time for an explanation, my dear Doctor.”
Samuel took a deep breath. “Well, it seems that . . . ,” he began hesitantly, “some of the, uh . . . literature suggests that—”
At that moment there was a loud clap of thunder and then shouts of terror from the crowd out in the courtyard. Prince-Bishop Philipp Voit von Rieneck fell to his knees and folded his hands in prayer.
The Werewolf of Bamberg Page 37