The Play of Death

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Göbl’s eyes wandered to the thumbscrews and shinbone crushers, gleaming ominously in the light of the torches. He swallowed hard.

  “The . . . Eyrl family,” he finally said quietly.

  “Who is that? Come on, out with it.”

  “The Eyrls were once the best-known woodcarvers in town,” Göbl replied. “Very talented . . . They sold their carvings to all the large monasteries around—Rottenbuch, Steingaden, even Augsburg. But the accursed Plague carried off most of the family several decades ago, and the only ones remaining were old Johannes Eyrl and his son, Xaver. When Johannes died some time ago, Konrad Faistenmantel gradually drove Xaver out of business. Just last December, Xaver closed his shop and left Oberammergau in the bitter cold of winter. They say that since then he’s been traveling around the country with a knapsack as a door-to-door salesman. Some also said they saw him poaching in the mountains. Before he left, he cursed Faistenmantel and the entire village.” Hans Göbl sighed. The long story had visibly worn him out. “Xaver is a curmudgeon, stubborn and grim,” he finally said, “but I don’t think he was capable of doing anything like that.”

  “Did he ever threaten Dominik?”

  Göbl shook his head. “That’s the strangest thing. Of all the Faistenmantels, Dominik was the gentlest and kindest. He actually hated his father more than all the rest of us put together. He wanted to get away from his father, absolutely—he talked about going to Venice, or even farther away. Some people even thought he would join Xaver as an itinerant salesman. The two of them used to do lots of things together—Red Xaver was like a big brother to Dominik.”

  “Red Xaver?”

  Göbl shrugged. “He has flaming red hair. Witch’s hair, say some people in town who think his real father is the devil himself and not Johannes Eyrl. That’s a lot of nonsense, of course, but perhaps now you understand why I didn’t want to involve Xaver in this.”

  Jakob Kuisl remained silent. Lost in thought, he ran his fingers over the cool iron of the poker. After many years’ experience, he thought he could tell that Hans Göbl was speaking the truth, but it was like with a beehive—the more you poked around in it, the more came flying out. And that made the matter more complicated.

  And Lechner doesn’t like it when things are complicated, he said to himself. He just wants a simple solution, simple and quick. He just wants a confession from Göbl to make him look good to the authorities in Munich. And I’ve got to bring him this confession, or he’ll take it out on my family . . .

  Suddenly the hangman felt very thirsty; an almost irrepressible urge for strong drink came over him.

  This young fellow, or my family . . . How I hate this job!

  Trembling slightly, almost imperceptibly, he reached for the thumbscrew, a metal ring that could be made smaller with the simple turn of a screw until the blood vessels burst and the ring met the bone. Hans Göbl groaned.

  “Please!” he wailed.

  “Listen,” Kuisl began, “I—” There was a sudden pounding on the door, and he stopped. “What?” he asked gruffly.

  “Uh, Master Kuisl, Secretary Lechner has a message for you,” said one of the young soldiers. “He wants you to come outside for a moment.”

  Cursing under his breath, Jakob Kuisl got to his feet, leaving Göbl alone. When he returned a while later, there was a smile of relief on his face.

  “It looks like we both have a reprieve,” he said, turning to the prisoner.

  Hans Göbl was visibly relieved, but he seemed unsure. “Why?” he asked. “What happened?”

  “Well, they found another body in the swamp, apparently another actor in your Passion play, run through with a sword.” Jakob shrugged and took out his pipe. “The body is still fresh, as rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet, so you’re obviously not the killer. Who then? Don’t worry, I’ll find out soon enough. Then they’ll let you go.”

  Drawing on his cold pipe stem, the hangman left the cell. The door to the dungeon slammed shut, leaving a crying Hans Göbl behind, as a big wet spot spread across his trousers.

  7

  SCHONGAU, THE MORNING OF MAY 7, AD 1670

  WHEN MAGDALENA HEARD THE ENERGETIC pounding at the front door, she suspected this day would bring nothing good.

  The Schongau church bell had just rung seven o’clock. Magdalena had fed the chickens, milked the cow in the barn, and done some weeding in the garden. Actually, these were all Barbara’s jobs, but after the argument with her sister two days ago, Magdalena had decided to try to be kinder to her sister and let her sleep a little longer. She could understand why Barbara was so out of sorts. Magdalena herself had a husband and a purpose in life, but Barbara had not yet found either. Magdalena knew how hard it would be for her younger sister. Their father had tried for a long time to marry off Magdalena to the hangman in Steingaden, though in the end he reluctantly agreed to a marriage with Simon—but even then only after Johann Lechner had approved Simon’s appointment as keeper of the Schongau town bathhouse.

  Magdalena resolved to have a talk with Barbara that very day. She had really been too mean to her sister. Besides, for some time now she’d had the feeling Barbara was hiding something from her.

  She had just prepared some porridge over the hearth in the main room for little Paul, who was working on a wooden figurine he’d been carving since the day before as a present for his grandfather. When he heard the knocking, he put the knife down and looked at his mother hopefully.

  “Do you think that’s Martha, bringing us a pot of honey, as she promised the last time?”

  “I’m afraid not, Paul,” Magdalena replied softly.

  As if in confirmation, a sharp voice outside bellowed, “Open up! In the name of the town, open the door immediately.”

  Magdalena’s heart began to pound. Had the constables come to pick up her father because of the fight in the street? They had to know that Father was in Oberammergau with Lechner. Then why had they come? Because of Barbara and her foolish snooping?

  “Open up, I said,” the voice rang out again. “At once, or we’ll kick the door down!”

  “Very well, I’m coming.” Magdalena rushed to the door and pushed the bolt aside. At once the door was pushed open with full force, hitting Magdalena on the forehead. She staggered backward and at the same moment watched as four town constables stormed into the room. Paul jumped up onto the bench and began to cry.

  “Mother, Mother, what are the men doing here?” he asked. “Are they going to hang us?”

  “Don’t worry, Paul,” said his mother, trying to console him by sounding calm and confident. “Nobody is going to be hanged. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said a voice from outside the door.

  Magdalena recognized the voice at once. “Doctor Ransmayer,” she said angrily. “Are you behind this break-in?”

  With a derisive bow, Melchior Ransmayer entered the house. As usual, he sported his wig and a felt hat with red feathers, which made him look like a nobleman in the simple home. With a look of contempt, his eyes wandered across the scratched table to the somewhat lopsided shelf above it full of crucibles, jars, and a stone mortar that had been in the family for ages.

  “Believe me, Frau Fronwieser, I have better things to do with my time than to visit your . . . ahem, abode on a beautiful morning like this,” the doctor answered, holding a white lace handkerchief in front of his nose. Magdalena could see he had applied a bit of rouge to his cheeks. “No, I have been sent here, as an advisor, so to speak.”

  “Advisor for what?” Magdalena asked, somewhat perplexed. “Come on, tell me.”

  Ransmayer did not reply and remained standing in the doorway, fanning himself. Magdalena had to watch as two of the constables casually opened the crucibles and vials on the shelf and sniffed their contents while the two others went to the next room to inspect the medicine cabinet. There was a sound of breaking glass.

  “Hey, be careful!” Magdalena called. “Why are you doing this?” She turne
d to the youngest of the constables, Andreas, who just two days ago had taken her father to the secretary. “What’s going on? Is your tongue tied? Say something.”

  Andreas looked to one side, embarrassed. “Uh, there are indications that certain forbidden magic substances are being used in your bathhouse,” he mumbled. “I’m very sorry, but . . .”

  “Quiet!” shouted Melchior Ransmayer. “We don’t want to give the suspect a chance to dispose of any evidence.”

  “Magical substances! Ha!” Magdalena crossed her arms defiantly and stared at Andreas, who was clearly uncomfortable. “And who says so? The honorable Doctor Ransmayer?”

  In the meantime, Barbara had come downstairs, looking sleepy. In her haste she had thrown just a threadbare woolen cover over her nightshirt.

  “What’s the matter here?” she asked, visibly upset.

  “Doctor Ransmayer and the constables are paying us a visit because they hope to find some evidence of witchcraft here,” Magdalena replied. “They can search all they want, but they won’t find any in this house.”

  “What’s this here?” asked the second constable, who had been looking at the coats hanging on a hook next to the oven bench. He cautiously picked up a white object he had pulled out of one of the coat pockets. It had the shape of a dwarf. Ransmayer beckoned to the constable to come over, and he began carefully inspecting the strange item then broke out in a triumphant grin.

  “Just look at this—a mandrake root!” he said, gloating. “A witch’s implement, evidently used in casting spells. So our informants were right. The devil is indeed at work in this house.” He walked over to the coat hook and in disgust held up the coat in which the mandrake root had been concealed. “This is your coat, isn’t it?” he asked, turning to Barbara. “I’ve seen it before. It’s the same one you were wearing when your father attacked me.”

  “But . . . that isn’t mine! Someone must have put it in my pocket, and you knew about it.” Barbara ran to Doctor Ransmayer and tried to wrest the root from his hands, but he tossed it to the constable, who quickly put it in a bag and made the sign of the cross.

  “Burgomaster Matthäus Buchner will certainly be very interested in this,” Ransmayer said in a cool voice before turning to Magdalena; she was trying to console Paul, who had broken down in tears. “It doesn’t surprise me we’ve found this work of the devil in your sister’s coat pocket. Witnesses have reported that she’s been selling expensive love potions to young men in the taverns. Perhaps she intended to sell this mandrake root, as well.”

  “I know who your witnesses are!” Barbara shouted. “Let me guess: one of them is Josef Landthaler. He was here yesterday and hid this mandrake root in the pocket of my coat.” She turned to Magdalena. “I went over to the pharmacy workroom for just a few minutes, enough time for that drunken scum to hide the object in my coat.”

  “Slander,” Ransmayer sneered. “Nothing but slander. Nobody will believe you.”

  In the meantime, the two other constables had returned from the pharmacy room carrying sacks and bottles that they now handed to the doctor, one after the other. He inspected them and nodded knowingly.

  “Hmm, vervain and moonwort, ingredients used by witches in making salves to grease their brooms and make them fly.”

  “And also used for gout and aching joints,” Magdalena retorted. “I’m sure you also have these herbs in your office, Herr Doktor. It’s preposterous. Even if people believe your story about the mandrake root, that’s nowhere near enough to bring charges against us. At most, they might take the medicines away from us, and it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve done that,” she said bitterly.

  “Don’t get your hopes up too soon, Frau Fronwieser,” Ransmayer growled. “Ever since your father started drinking his way through every tavern in town, his support in the town council has been dwindling. Burgomaster Matthäus Buchner is on my side, and so are many other members of the council, and who knows if we might find more witches’ tools upstairs.”

  “Go ahead and have a look.” Magdalena stepped aside and pointed up the stairway. “But don’t break your neck going up the stairs. Maybe your informer was able to hide something downstairs here, but certainly not in our bedrooms, and I hardly believe Barbara would allow that stinking Landthaler into her room—right, Barbara?”

  Magdalena winked confidently at her sister, but she stopped short on noticing Barbara’s horrified expression. Her sister had suddenly turned white as a sheet and ran toward the stairway. But Melchior Ransmayer was faster, seizing her by the nightshirt. In response she gave him a swift kick in the shins, the doctor screamed, and his precious feathered hat fell into the dirty reeds on the floor.

  “It’s upstairs!” Ransmayer called to the guards, his face contorted with pain. “Look in the bedrooms! And keep this witch away from me!”

  Barbara kept struggling, but two guards were now holding her so tight she couldn’t move.

  “Let go of my aunt, or . . . I’ll kill you!” Furiously Paul rushed the two constables, but Ransmayer cut him off. “You behave yourself and stay right here, young fellow, or . . . Ah!”

  Melchior pulled back on seeing blood trickling down his hand and pointed at Paul, who was still brandishing his little pocketknife.

  “He attacked me!” the doctor screamed. “The little bastard attacked me, the damned hangman’s brat!”

  A third constable now seized Paul, who was fighting and screaming like a stuck pig. Suddenly there was a shout of triumph upstairs.

  “I’ve got something. It was under the bed.”

  There was a sound of steps on creaking wood, and the fourth constable slowly came down the stairs carrying three books in his arms that he handed over almost reverently to Ransmayer. “There are such strange signs in them,” he whispered. “I think they’re books of magic.”

  Melchior Ransmayer opened one of the books, stopped short, and whistled through his teeth. Finally he turned back to Magdalena, who still had no idea what the constable had found upstairs.

  “Are you going to say we planted this here, too, Frau Fronwieser?” He held out one of the books to her so she could read the title: De Maleficiis Ac Magicis Dictis Liber Auctore Georgio Vulgo Jörg Abriel, Carnifici.

  Magdalena was shocked. She recognized the books immediately, though she had never actually seen them. They were the long-lost works of her great-grandfather, the books of magic her father told her about when they were in Bamberg, but he said he’d burned them a long time before. And that’s what she’d also told Barbara, who had asked about them a number of times.

  But how in the world did they ever show up in our house? she wondered. And what does it all have to do with Barbara?

  Suddenly Magdalena felt as if the ground were slipping out from beneath her. Alongside her, Paul was still screaming, while her sister just stared at her wide-eyed.

  “I’m . . . so terribly sorry,” Barbara whispered.

  Almost lovingly, Melchior Ransmayer passed his hands over the leather binding of one of the books, then he turned slowly to Magdalena with a smug expression on his face.

  “I believe your sister is in real trouble,” he said, then turned to the constables.

  “Tie her up and take her away. The Schongau Town Council will quickly decide her fate.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! If you don’t settle down I’ll personally throw all the troublemakers through the window—the closed one.”

  Konrad Faistenmantel slammed his heavy beer stein on the table so hard that the foam sprayed across the table to where Simon was sitting. The men next to him, who just moments ago had been shouting and grabbing one another by the throat, quieted down, muttering to themselves, and took their seats again. A tense, hostile silence followed that was almost harder to bear than the chaos that had preceded it.

  Simon was sitting in the Schwabenwirt tavern along with the schoolteacher Georg Kaiser and around a half-dozen other citizens of Oberammergau and struggling with a bad headache. He had spent the entire even
ing and half the night in the schoolmaster’s house, reminiscing over a couple of steins of strong beer with his old friend, and now his head was pounding and his mouth tasted like damp earth.

  “Can we begin finally?” Faistenmantel asked. As he heard no objections, he took a deep slug of his beer and gestured ostentatiously to the Ammergau judge sitting beside him. “Please, you can now open the meeting.”

  The morning gathering had been announced on short notice after word had gotten around about Urban Gabler’s death the evening before. Almost all the men at the table belonged to the so-called Council of Six, who, along with Judge Johannes Rieger, were responsible for the destiny of every citizen in Oberammergau. Farther back in the room were benches for members of the village council. Most councilors were well over forty years old, all with strong backs, thick, curly beards, and hands like grain scoops, in which they held huge beer steins as if preparing to crush the next person to come along. As soon as the men had taken their seats, the suspicions and insults started flying. The brawl in the cemetery the day before had not been forgotten.

  The shifty eyes of the judge flitted back and forth over the assemblage and finally settled on Simon, who was sitting with Georg Kaiser at the far end of the table.

  “Before we begin, I would like to know what the gentleman from Schongau is doing here,” Rieger said in a gravelly voice. “To my knowledge, strangers have never participated in our council meetings.”

  “Well, unusual events demand unusual protocols,” Konrad Faistenmantel grumbled. “I myself invited the medicus to attend. He examined the corpse of poor Urban Gabler earlier and will present his report to us. Of course, only with the permission of the judge,” he quickly added, as if this courtesy due the high official had just occurred to him.

  Simon swallowed hard as a half-dozen loutish giants eyed him suspiciously. Only now did he notice that he was the only one in the group with a cup of watered-down wine in front of him, while all the others were holding beer steins. His drinking the night before and the postmortem about an hour ago in the bathhouse had ruined his appetite. Someone had skillfully slit open the man’s stomach, then stabbed him straight through the heart. The shepherd who had found the corpse on the moor the evening before first had to drive away the ravens that were feasting on Gabler’s guts. The sight did nothing to improve Simon’s hangover, and he was glad Kaiser had offered to accompany him to this meeting. For the time being, the school was closed.