Lost in thought, he had put the little figurine in his pants pocket, and it was still there. Urban stopped suddenly and took it out. Its headdress and toga made clear that it represented a Pharisee, one of those Hebrew scribes whom Jesus had condemned as selfish hypocrites. They also had parts in the Oberammergau play. Gabler could hear the ravens circling the rocky cone of Kofel Mountain. It seemed to him as if they had something to say to him.
Confess, Urban, confess, confess . . . Return to the straight and narrow path.
He had pleaded with the others, but they didn’t want to hear and called him a superstitious fool. But he wasn’t. He had correctly interpreted the signs, and the others were wrong. God would no longer tolerate what they were doing. If they didn’t stop, there would surely be further warnings, further deaths. He had to confess—now.
The wind was intensifying, then there was the sound of thunder, and it took a while before Gabler understood it was not a thunderstorm but another avalanche on the mountain. Briefly he thought he saw a flicker of light—perhaps from a torch or a lantern—in the old bear den about a hundred and fifty feet up the rock wall. But who would be up there at this time of day?
Gabler remembered the old legends of the little men from Venice who had once been up to no good in that cave. The light flickered again briefly, then it went out.
That, too, is a sign, he thought, and began walking faster.
Some distance away on his right he could see the outlines of a large structure, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was the old mill that belonged to the monastery, along the Ammer River. It wasn’t much farther, just a few more steps through the bog, and then he would be on firm ground and . . .
He caught his breath and cursed softly as his right foot sunk into the dark, gurgling water. He must have been so lost in his thoughts that he’d wandered off the trail. Well, he’d find his way back soon. The mill was in sight, with a warm and homey light shining from the windows.
He pulled on his right leg, but he only sank deeper, with the left leg as well, and now he was standing up to his knees in the cold mud, his boots and trousers sticking to him like a second skin. Nervously he looked around for the safety of a tree or a bush. A willow stood just a few steps away, and its smallest branches were just within his reach. Perhaps he could pull himself out? Without thinking he tossed away the carved figurine he was holding, reached out for the branches, and began pulling.
The branches broke.
Urban Gabler decided that the time had come to shout for help. Both the mill and the road were not all that far off, and surely someone would hear him.
“Hello!” he shouted as loud as he could. “Is somebody there? I’m here, in the moor!”
But nobody answered.
Cursing, Gabler reached out for some stronger branches when suddenly a figure approached, coming from the road. He let go of the branch with relief and waved. Evidently his frantic calls had been heard after all. It was probably a wagon driver coming to see what was the matter. Urban Gabler almost laughed out loud because he’d been so scared he’d almost peed in his pants. What a fool he was. Nothing could happen to him. God was on his side.
“I’m over here!” he cried. “Help me, I’m sinking into the swamp.”
The figure came closer. The man was holding something in his hands that Gabler thought at first was a stick, but now, as the stranger drew closer, he could see it was a sword.
A very large sword.
The man in the dark swamp looked almost like the Archangel Gabriel.
“For heaven’s sake . . .” Gabler muttered.
The man approached cautiously. Careful not to step into the pool of water, he jumped nimbly from one tuft of grass to the next until he finally reached Gabler.
It was someone Gabler knew.
The man raised the sword with both hands.
“Nooooo! Please don’t—” Urban Gabler gasped. The swordsman thrust his blade deep into Gabler’s stomach with an ugly sound, and after one last quiver, Gabler toppled forward into the mud. Red blood mixed with the dark swamp water.
The man drew the sword from the wound and stabbed him again, wiped the blade carefully on the willow leaves, knelt down, and said a short prayer.
Then he went back to where he’d come from.
Rattling and squeaking, the secretary’s coach moved along through the moor toward Ettal Monastery, nestled on the south slope of Laber Mountain. Evening had come, and fog rolled over the moor, enveloping the bushes and heather alongside the road.
Jakob Kuisl rode alongside the coach. His horse, an old nag just as grumpy as its rider, trotted past the bushes and willows separating the road from the moor below. Briefly Kuisl thought he heard someone shouting in the distance, but the sound of the rolling coach was too loud to understand anything. No doubt it was just a woodcutter warning his friends of another of the many avalanches that often occurred in this accursed valley.
Jakob looked up skeptically at the summits that were mostly shrouded in darkness. Only one rock wall, directly above the monastery, was still bathed in the gentle pink light of the setting sun. The hangman did not like the mountains. He could well understand the urge of the young men to scale the mountains in order to escape the narrowness of their villages, but he himself preferred the deep forests and gentle hills of his home.
Evening bells were ringing and brought Jakob’s attention back to the sprawling monastery they were now approaching. The road led through fields still spotted with the last of winter’s snow, and past orchards and barns. Two Benedictine monks in their typical black tunics and leading a couple of draft horses passed them, greeting them with a nod. The last beer before the summer pause was evidently being brewed in the monastery, and the heavy, sweetish odor of beer mash hung in the air.
The coach entered a large square with a number of inns, shops, and residential buildings around it. Opposite the gate was the most remarkable church Kuisl had ever seen. The building was in the shape of a dodecagon—a polygon with twelve angles and twelve sides—and its roof came to a sharp point, which made it look more like an Oriental temple than a Christian church. To the right of the church stood the bell tower and several ecclesiastical offices. A group of monks was just exiting the church portal, and when they saw the secretary’s coach, one of them gathered up his robe and hurried over to one of the opulent buildings. Moments later, two men came out into the court.
Kuisl looked them over carefully in the fading daylight. One had a weasel-like appearance and thinning hair, and was gripping a walking stick—presumably the Ammergau judge, Johannes Rieger, whom Jakob had learned about from Simon. The other man was extremely gaunt, as thin as a stick, but as tall as Jakob. He wore a black Benedictine robe with a white cincture and a silver, jewel-encrusted cross on a chain around his neck, identifying him as the abbot of the monastery. A nervous twitch around his mouth suggested he was struggling to conceal his dislike for the visitors. He observed Johann Lechner suspiciously as the secretary descended from his coach.
“God be with you, Herr Secretary,” said Abbot Benedikt Eckart, raising his hand in blessing, a gesture that seemed incompatible with the sour expression on his face. Kuisl thought the gesture looked more like a magical curse to ward off evil spirits. “A most tragic occasion brings you to our valley,” the abbot continued in a rasping voice. “I wish it were different. In addition, I’ve heard there was an unfortunate event in Oberammergau that further delayed your trip.” He raised his eyebrow as an expression of his disapproval. “How regrettable.”
“I offer you greetings from the city of Schongau,” Lechner replied formally as he bowed in recognition of the abbot’s high position and kissed his signet ring. “Indeed, there was a confrontation that had to be mediated in the Oberammergau cemetery. My sincere apologies.”
“Mediated?” It was the voice of Johannes Rieger, who moved a step closer to Lechner, his eyes flashing. “According to what I heard, you had the cemetery cleared. You had no right to do that.”
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“Well, unfortunately you were not present, or naturally I would have deferred to you.” Lechner grimaced. “Brawling in a cemetery is, frankly, not to my taste. So where were you, Judge?”
“I, uh . . . was busy with other matters in the valley,” Rieger replied, raising his finger angrily, “but that certainly doesn’t justify your getting involved. Oberammergau is under the jurisdiction of Ettal, for whom only yours truly and the abbot are responsible.”
“And Ettal Monastery is under the jurisdiction of Murnau,” Lechner replied with a thin smile. “But since that office is vacant at present, Schongau will take over its legal matters.” He pulled out a document from under his coat and handed it to the abbot. “The authorization from Munich just arrived in Oberammergau. See for yourself.”
Abbot Benedikt reached for his pince-nez, hanging on a silver chain along with the cross, and examined the document, which was hard to read in the fading light. Finally, with a doleful look, he handed it to his judge, who turned pale as a ghost as he read it.
“That’s . . . correct, indeed,” the abbot finally uttered. “I don’t know how you managed this, Lechner, but it looks like you can continue your investigation here.”
“For hundreds of years the monastery itself had the right to hold a blood court for crimes committed here,” hissed Johannes Rieger as he clutched the parchment roll. “And now we are being told to cede this right to Schongau, of all places. Your Excellency, I beg you.”
“You saw the document yourself, Rieger,” Abbot Benedikt exclaimed. “Shall I cross swords with the Bavarian elector? Master Lechner can proceed as he sees fit in the investigation of this horrible crime.” He shrugged. “I wish we could have solved the case here in the valley, among ourselves. This, uh . . . matter in any case casts a bad light on the monastery and the Oberammergau Passion play. But . . .” He hesitated and pointed at the document. “If you will allow me . . .” The abbot took the document back from Rieger. Once again, he studied the document, this time more closely, and finally a thin smile spread over his face.
“What it says here is that the authorization applies only to the investigation of the case,” the abbot said finally. “What follows will depend on the resolution of the case. Well, only our beloved Heavenly Father can know that.” Calmly and deliberately he handed the authorization back to the secretary. “Naturally, we will assist in every way we can, as the elector demands, but I’m afraid an abbey doesn’t have the same means at its disposal as a city, as much as it grieves me to say so.”
Johann Lechner nodded earnestly, though with a slightly derisive look in his eyes. “I completely understand, Your Excellency, and for this reason I have brought along my own people.” He pointed at the five young soldiers and Jakob Kuisl, who had remained in the background up until then. “My guards and my hangman. If you will tell us where you have Hans Göbl locked up, we can begin at once with the questioning. As you know, I have the elector’s permission to do that.”
The abbot’s face turned ashen and full of contempt as he stared at Kuisl. He made the sign of the cross and looked away. “I’d heard already that you brought along the Schongau executioner, but I must disappoint you, Master Lechner. For your questioning, we are lacking the necessary . . .”—he shuddered—“instruments. Would you perhaps care to take Göbl back to Schongau and convict him there? Then I’d have sufficient time to speak to the office in Munich.”
“Oh, thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Lechner replied with a cloyingly sweet smile. “To save you trouble, we’ve brought the instruments along with us—for torture, interrogation, testing . . . We have it all with us.” The secretary turned to the soldiers and to Kuisl, pointing to a few chests stored in the back of the coach. “Unload them,” he ordered. “The venerable abbot will surely be happy if we can bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion as soon as possible.”
“But this . . .” Abbot Benedikt started to say, nervously fingering his cross, “this is most unusual. A torture in the cloister . . .”
Jakob Kuisl reached for one of the heavy chests and hoisted it in one single flowing motion out of the wagon. As he marched off past the stunned abbot and his judge, a grin spread over his face.
“It won’t take long,” he promised. “Perhaps in the meanwhile the gentlemen can stand here beating around the bush while our people take care of the dirty work.”
Soon thereafter, Jakob stood before a heavy wooden door secured by a bolt. Reluctantly, the monks had guided him to the beer cellar, which consisted of a long corridor illuminated by torches with individual rooms along the side. Most of these rooms were used to store barrels and dried barley, but the one at the very end was usually left empty. There was a tiny grille in the door at eye level, so Kuisl was able to look inside, where a tall lad around twenty years of age with tousled blond hair lay on a dirty pile of straw. Hans Göbl, no doubt. When the young man heard the sound outside the door, he jumped to his feet.
“Accursed papists!” he shouted, rattling the bars. “Let me out. It wasn’t me. By God, it wasn’t me!”
“I’m here to find that out,” Jakob Kuisl replied.
When Hans Göbl heard the deep voice, he stepped back in shock. Kuisl pulled the bolt aside and opened the door. He brought the heavy chest with its iron fittings into the cell while two soldiers stood guard outside the entrance. Then he slid the squeaking bolt behind him, and the two men were alone.
“What . . . is that?” Göbl asked, anxiously pointing at the chest that the hangman had set down in a corner. “And who are you?”
Without saying a word, Jakob opened the chest and spread his instruments out on the dirty stone floor—thumbscrews, pliers, shinbone crushers, long pokers, and a device for holding the jaw open, allowing the torturer to pour urine, rat feces, and other unpleasant things down the victim’s throat.
Hans Göbl understood. His eyes fluttered, his hands trembled uncontrollably, but he struggled to keep his composure.
“My God . . .” he whispered. Slowly, as if in a trance, Göbl slid down the wall to the floor, until he was once again sitting on the pile of straw.
Jakob Kuisl had still not spoken a word. He knew that the best results in an interrogation always came before the torturing began. For this reason, the prisoner was first shown all the instruments, one after the other. The worst torture was often their own imagination.
“In Schongau I have lots more, of course,” Kuisl began softly, as he scraped some dried blood off the point of a pincer. “The rack, chains, the Spanish donkey, and the ladder, but I think we can manage with what we have here. Perhaps we won’t need anything else, but that’s entirely up to you. What do you think?”
Only now did the hangman turn to face the prisoner. Kuisl wore his black gown, his leather breastplate, and, to enhance the effect, a hood covering most of his face so that only his large hooked nose was visible. Kuisl hated this crude farce, but he knew that in this way he could often avoid the thing he hated most about his job—causing anyone unnecessary pain.
The people he tortured in Schongau were for the most part guilty and received their just punishment. He could see that in their eyes, their jerky movements, the sweat on their brow. Often the proof was overwhelming, for example when thieves or burglars were caught red-handed, and the only thing missing was the confession. And the law said that without a confession there could be no guilty verdict.
Each time Kuisl had to torture someone he hoped fervently that the first meeting would be so frightening there wouldn’t have to be a second one—and this time it appeared once again that his calculation was working. The prisoner, so haughty just a moment ago, now broke down, hiding his face in his hands and crying. Only now did Kuisl move to the next step.
“You only have to tell me the truth,” he grumbled in a sympathetic, almost fatherly tone of voice. “Then no harm can come to you, at least not in this world.”
This was the critical moment. If the prisoner opened up now, Kuisl would call for the secretary
, Johann Lechner, the confession would be noted, and the interrogation would be over.
In reality, Kuisl knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
“But it wasn’t me,” Göbl sobbed. “I swear by all that is holy.”
“The people say differently,” Kuisl responded. “They say you and Dominik were quarreling over the role of Jesus, you even threatened him and stole his text.”
“I didn’t steal those accursed pages,” Hans Göbl said. “God knows how those pieces of paper made it into my room. Suddenly they were just there, among all the other pages of text. And yes, we did quarrel, and I was angry and shouted at him, but as God is my witness, I didn’t put anyone on the cross.”
“Then help me find out who did,” Kuisl replied. “Look, I want to believe in your innocence, but for that to happen, you have to give me something. Did Dominik have any enemies, I mean except for the Göbls?”
Hans Göbl shrugged and he gradually stopped sobbing. Evidently he was reaching for the straw he was being offered.
“Dominik was a good fellow,” he said hesitantly. “A bit confused, but very kind. Nobody could really hate him—but he was a Faistenmantel.”
“And as a Faistenmantel does one have a lot of enemies?”
Göbl nodded. “Half the woodcarvers in the village work for Konrad Faistenmantel. He sets the prices, and if anyone stands up to him, he’s quickly run out of business. Faistenmantel simply makes sure that the troublesome woodcarver can’t find any more buyers. He undercuts his prices until the troublemaker gives up, then he buys his shop and gives it to one of the many poor laborers in town.”
“Is there anyone Faistenmantel drove out of business in that way recently?” Kuisl asked, stepping closer to the prisoner. He knew the time had come to call Johann Lechner for the interrogation. On the other hand, Göbl seemed forthcoming and had begun to show confidence in the hangman. Confidence that could quickly vanish. Göbl seemed to be hesitating.
Again, Kuisl asked: “Is there anyone Faistenmantel drove out of business recently? Speak up.”
The Play of Death Page 13