“Ah, you are surely the new medicus who helped our Martin,” she said in a feeble voice. “Thank you for making the long trip to visit us.” She shook with a dry cough.
When her coughing finally stopped, she waved for Simon to enter the house. “Martin is dying before my eyes, and there is nothing I can do,” she murmured as she shuffled along, stooped over. “Perhaps there is some way you can help.”
Simon ducked down as he entered the low-ceilinged cabin, which consisted of only one room. A sharp odor was in the air, perhaps coming from the adjacent goat shed, and a small fire sputtered in one corner. The smoke had trouble escaping through the small hole in the roof, making tears well up in Simon’s eyes, and it took a while before he was able to see his surroundings. Five children from three to ten years of age were crouched down on the hard dirt floor, staring at him fearfully. There was a wobbly table with a few empty bowls standing on it, and one large bed piled high with rags and furs. From it came a heart-rending moan.
Simon approached the trembling pile, pushed some covers aside, and bent down to Martin. Fat beads of sweat stood on his forehead, and he thrashed back and forth in the bed, mumbling incoherently.
“So hot . . .” he whispered. “The . . . the fire . . . take the lantern away . . .”
“How long has he been like this?” Simon asked, dabbing the cold sweat from Martin’s brow.
“Since the men from the village brought him here this morning.” The woman rubbed her thin fingers together, trying to keep warm. With her toothless mouth and gray, stringy hair she looked to be about sixty, but Simon guessed she was thirty-five at the most.
“Martin is my eldest,” she said in a soft voice. “My dear Josef, God bless his soul, was killed last year by a falling tree. At that time Martin was still in school, but since the accident he has had to take over as the man of the house. He earns the little money we need to live on, working for Mayer over in the Laine Valley. And now . . .” Tears ran down her wrinkled face. “He’ll die, won’t he?” she asked finally.
“That’s something only God knows,” Simon replied, “but I’ll do everything I can to save him.” He pushed the covers aside and looked at the stump of Martin’s leg—and recoiled in horror. The bandage had been removed, and he could see that new pus had formed in the dirty wound.
“Who did that?” Simon asked angrily. “Who took the bandage off?”
“It was . . . Mayer, and his assistant,” she replied anxiously. “They poured holy water over it and spat on it, then Mayer spoke some magic words. They said that would appease the spirits of the mountain.”
“Mountain spirits and magic words!” Simon was so angry he could hardly contain himself. “Have you all gone crazy? There are no spirits, just incredible stupidity. Only I can remove this bandage and replace it, is that clear?”
The woman nodded silently and Simon began to clean the festering wound that was already full of dirt and filth. Finally the medicus took a jar of honey from his pocket and smeared it liberally over the wound.
“What are you doing there?” the woman asked.
“I am trying to extract the pus from the wound with honey. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try moldy bread.”
“Honey? Moldy bread?” The woman stared at him in astonishment. “That sounds like magic to me.”
“It’s your murmured words and holy water that are magic,” Simon retorted. “Honey and mold, on the other hand, are proven to relieve infected wounds. Believe me, even old Dioscorides—”
He stopped short as Martin started to mumble again hysterically.
“The . . . the cliffs are falling . . . the lantern . . . Markus . . . Marie . . .” the boy gasped.
“Who is he talking about?” Simon asked.
The woman frowned. “He’s been going on like that all day, but I have no idea why he’s talking about Markus and Marie, two children who disappeared from around here a few years ago. Back then, after it happened, Martin went for days without talking. They were good friends of his.”
“The children simply disappeared?” Simon stopped working for a minute. He remembered that Alois Mayer had also hinted about children going missing recently.
The woman nodded. “The rumor was that the Kofel took them,” she whispered. “The Kofel is an evil man who now and then needs his sacrifices, and then he sends an avalanche of snow or rock that makes the whole valley shake.”
“Woman,” Simon interrupted, “what nonsense are you talking? Haven’t I just told you there is no such thing as magic?”
But the woman persisted. “Believe me, when I was a child the ground once shook so much that two houses in the village collapsed. And can’t you feel how the earth has been trembling more and more recently? I’m telling you, the mountain is awakening.”
“For the last time, that’s—” Simon stopped short. He suddenly remembered that he himself had felt a strange trembling just yesterday, shortly before the rock avalanche descended into the Laine Valley. Perhaps that had been a small earthquake. He’d never experienced one before, but he knew that such quakes frequently occurred in the Alpine foothills. Years ago, near Peiting, a whole castle collapsed, and still today people told of that horrible night.
“Very well, the earth trembles,” he said, trying to calm her down. “That happens now and then even where I live in Schongau, but it’s nonsense to believe you can pacify the mountain with sacrifices.”
The woman laughed softly. “That’s something you wouldn’t understand, stranger. For thousands of years our people have lived in this valley and we have always made sacrifices to the Kofel.” She pointed toward the window that was covered with dirty rags, and through the tears in the cloth Simon could see the conical mountain on the other side of the valley. The woman pointed to a flat, cleared area on one side of the mountain.
“Over there, atop the accursed Döttenbichl, in ancient times they sacrificed first men, then later treasures, tools, and weapons. Nowadays people go up there to leave a bouquet of flowers or a cup of milk for the mountain spirits. But sometimes the spirits come down again to take a child.” Her voice broke. “And now, my Martin. By God, he is not the first, nor will he be the last. And they are always the children of us poor people and laborers.”
“How often do I have to repeat that . . .” Simon started to say. But then, with a sigh, he gave up. He’d never be able to convince these stubborn mountain people. Silently he treated the wound with honey and applied a new bandage. The children and the grieving mother watched, as if he were a magician performing a trick.
A brown-feathered mountain eagle circled over the top of the Kofel. With a shrill cry it spiraled up and then glided over to the cliff that plunged nearly five hundred feet down into the valley. In a rapid descent it approached the moor, ready to seize its prey.
The eagle’s sharp eyes had discovered a mouse poking its little head out of its burrow, its whiskers trembling and snub nose quivering nervously back and forth. Just as the eagle was about to dive, it discovered a second mouse not far away, then many others, dozens in all that had left their burrows and were scurrying through the brush, heading toward the Graswang Valley.
And they were not the only creatures on the move.
A blindworm had awakened early from its winter sleep and, still numb and lazy from the cold, was slithering over the smooth stones along the shore of the Ammer. Beetles joined in, crawling by the hundreds through the heather. Many foundered in the snowfields or drowned in the icy pools, but the rest moved on tirelessly, sometimes climbing over the bodies of the dying ones. A black cloud of bats poured out of a crack in the rockface and fluttered excitedly over the valley. Cows lowed in their barns, and horses whinnied and pounded the walls of their stables with their hooves.
One last time the eagle circled over the Ammer Valley, then it flew away with a warning cry.
The mountain was awakening, and the animals sensed it.
Magdalena wiped the dirt of the road from her brow and looked down into the gorge
, where the raging Ammer made its way between the rocks.
Four hours ago she’d set out from Schongau at a fast pace and she had not yet paused. Several wagons had passed her, but she hadn’t asked any of the drivers for a ride. Local wagon drivers were engaged on the portion of the trip from Schongau to the gorge in Echelsbach, and Magdalena felt the danger of being recognized by one of them was too great. In addition, she was fearful that the burgomaster Matthäus Buchner might have sent out guards to patrol the road. Once, a horseman clad in black had dashed past her, and she was afraid she’d been discovered. For that reason Magdalena had kept her disguise as an old woman and had moved along quickly with her headscarf and basket. A half hour ago she’d passed the monastery at Rottenbuch and had thus made it about halfway.
She was feeling slightly faint and had to hold on to the cattle fence separating the roadway from the deep gorge and the river that flowed almost two hundred feet below. She’d already missed her menstrual period three times, and this forced march was certainly a risk for her pregnancy, but she had no choice. Her trip to Oberammergau was perhaps her last chance to save Barbara from the torture chamber. She took a long drink of water from the leather pouch she kept in her basket, then started down into the valley.
Down below she saw the bridge spanning the Ammer. The Echelsbach Gorge was the only way across the raging river for miles around. Farmers in the area earned a good living assisting the wagons entering and leaving the gorge. On the other side Magdalena saw three wagons being pulled up the steep road by a half-dozen horses each. On her side, a few donkeys trotted calmly down the winding road. Each of them wore a hundred-pound salt ring around its neck, and a farmer urged them on with shouts and a whip. One of the restive donkeys kicked, stumbled, and nearly fell into the river. Once again, a numb feeling came over Magdalena as she looked down at the rushing waters. Her mouth was dry even though she’d had some water just a few minutes ago.
After a few sharp curves, she’d finally reached the bottom of the gorge and faced the rickety wooden bridge leading to the other side. It was rotted and old, and it groaned when the wagons rumbled over it one by one. Magdalena hurried past the wagons to the other side and was climbing up out of the gorge when sickness suddenly hit her like a hammer. She broke out in a cold sweat and was just able to get behind a boulder, where she threw up what little breakfast she’d eaten. She stood up, pale and trembling, and at that very moment another wagon from Schongau drove past. In the coachbox sat a man Magdalena knew and really hadn’t expected to see here.
It was the young wagon driver, Lukas Baumgartner, whose child she’d just helped bring into the world a few days ago. He appeared as surprised at this chance meeting as she was.
“Frau . . . Fronwieser,” he stuttered in surprise and brought his wagon to a stop. “What are you doing here?”
“I need a few glass vials for our medicines,” she replied, straightening up even though her feeling of nausea had not yet passed. “Unfortunately I can get them only from the merchant in Soyen. If I’d known you were coming this way I would have asked you to bring them back for me.” She smiled amiably. Actually, she had no reason to fear that Lukas would betray her and report her to Buchner and his men. Nevertheless, just to be safe, she carefully avoided telling him where she was going.
“I was probably walking too fast, and my feet gave out on me down by the river,” she said with a shrug. “Would you care to take me along?”
Lukas nodded, but Magdalena sensed it made him a bit uneasy.
“We’ll have to wait for the farmers to hitch the extra draft horses to the front of my wagon, to get it up the hill,” he said, “and that can take a while.”
“I don’t mind—I need a rest, anyway.”
Magdalena sat down on a mossy rock and watched the men at work. She still felt a bit queasy and rubbed her belly. She was angry that she had to play such a dirty trick on her unborn child. Nonetheless, she took a deep breath and smiled amiably at the wagon driver, who turned away sullenly and continued hitching up the horses. Magdalena assumed that Lukas had a bad conscience because he really should be at home with his wife and newborn child. On the other hand, the poor fellow had to earn money for his family, and didn’t he say he’d be coming into some money soon? Perhaps this load had something to do with the expected windfall he’d mentioned a few days ago.
When the horses were finally hitched up, Magdalena took a seat on the coachbox while Lukas walked alongside with the farmers and held the reins. Someone cracked a whip and the wagon rumbled forward. Curiously Magdalena looked back at the flat cargo area behind her, where a few barrels were tied down. The ropes were tied loosely, and the barrels swayed back and forth precariously.
“What are you carrying?” she asked Lukas with a wink. “Hopefully nothing too heavy, or pretty soon it will all roll down into the Ammer.”
“It’s wine,” he mumbled. “I’m taking it to Soyen.” Grimly he pulled at the reins, as though the work were especially strenuous.
The farmers shouted, cursed, and whipped the strong draft horses, and finally they reached the top of the gorge and unhitched the animals. From here, Lukas’s route took them over gently rolling hills, through a small town, and on to the village of Soyen. Lukas remained silent the whole time, and even when Magdalena inquired amiably about how his wife was doing, he was evasive.
What’s gotten into him? she wondered. The fellow is acting almost as if he had something to hide.
Instinctively she reached under her bodice to make sure Jakob Schreevogl’s letter was still there. Was Lukas working for Burgomaster Buchner perhaps? Was this his extra job—to be an informant? She glanced at him furtively, but the young wagon driver just stared straight ahead.
The first houses in Soyen now appeared in front of them. The quaint little village lay on an old trade route that led from Augsburg through Schongau all the way to Venice. In the north another road branched off to the salt road, so that the little town earned good money from the many traveling merchants, pilgrims, and wagon drivers. There were a handful of taverns, some blacksmiths, and also a well-supplied general store. Wheels of salt packed in cloth were for sale in an open barn. Some children were playing with spinning tops on the wide, dusty main road; a boy threw a piece of horse dung at one of the wagon drivers, who threatened him angrily with a clenched fist. The clinking sounds from a nearby blacksmith shop echoed through the entire village.
“You can let me out here,” Magdalena said, pointing to the general store. “And thanks very much.”
Lukas Baumgartner stopped and let her off. With a brief nod he said farewell, cracked the whip, and drove a bit past her. Magdalena headed toward the general store but then ducked into a niche in the side of a wall where she could keep an eye on the street. Lukas’s strange behavior had made her curious. If he was really a spy for the burgomaster, she’d have to learn more in order to avoid trouble.
The young wagon driver stopped in front of a tavern on the right; over the entrance hung a metal sign depicting a two-headed eagle. He tied up the horses alongside a fountain and quickly started removing the ropes from the barrels. Magdalena assumed the wine barrels were intended for the tavern and breathed a sigh of relief. Everything appeared to be in order. As she was about to turn away, though, something else attracted her attention.
Lukas Baumgartner took one of the barrels, lifted it up with both arms, and took it into an alley alongside the tavern.
It took Magdalena a few moments to see what was actually so strange. She stopped short.
How could Lukas lift the heavy wine barrel all by himself?
The barrel was more than waist high. If it really was filled with wine, as Lukas had said earlier, it surely would have taken two men to carry it, but the wagon driver had lifted the heavy drum as if it were a basket of wheat. Now she realized why the barrels had bounced around so much in the wagon. They were empty. But why had Lukas lied?
He had just disappeared around the corner with another barrel. Mag
dalena still felt a bit nauseated. She’d intended to have a refreshing drink at the fountain and then continue her journey. Now she decided to wait a bit.
She slipped out of the recess in the wall, crossed the busy street, and followed Lukas. A narrow lane strewn with garbage led between two houses to a shed whose door was wide open. Magdalena approached cautiously and peered inside. The building had evidently been a horse stable at one time, and there was a strong stench of horse manure inside and rotted harnesses still hung on nails in the wall. But the stalls once intended for horses now held dozens of wine barrels instead, to which Lukas added the one he was carrying. Then he went over to a corner, where a man was just emerging from a stairway that went down into a cellar. The man had a beard and was wearing the tall, bell-shaped Stopselhut that was traditional in the high Alps and Bavaria. When Magdalena saw him, a distant, buried memory suddenly stirred, but she was too excited to give it any further thought.
“Leave the other barrels on the wagon,” the Tyrolean said in his harsh dialect. “The plan has changed. The situation is too hot right now. We’ll make just one more delivery.”
Visibly startled, Lukas turned to the man.
“What do you mean, the plan has changed?” he asked. “I was told—”
“Save your breath, little fellow,” the Tyrolean interrupted. “You’ll get your money, and the rest is none of your business. I’ve just learned that the Master has arrived.”
“And what shall I tell my people?” Lukas moaned. “I’m doing this for the first time, and they’ll think I failed.”
“The Master will explain everything to you. He’s over in the tavern now, paying the innkeeper so he’ll keep his mouth shut. He’ll be right back.”
Magdalena was shocked.
He’ll be right back . . .
Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her. She spun around, and someone gave her a violent slap in the face, and then something hit her hard on the back of the head. Her whole world turned dark, she fell, and the last thing she heard were the voices of the men hovering over her.
The Play of Death Page 24