The Play of Death

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “We’ll have to stop deliveries for the time being,” the Tyrolean said in his harsh-sounding dialect. “It’s getting too dangerous. Your secretary and his hangman are snooping around everywhere in the Ammer Valley, and now the black riders . . . It’s too risky.”

  Barbara held her breath. Had the man been talking about her father? Before she could give it any more thought, the conversation continued.

  “The old man won’t be at all happy to hear that,” Ransmayer grumbled. “Especially now that we’ll soon have the possibility of storing much more and shipping it down the Lech. If everything goes well in the council meeting today, we can start using the entire storage facility in the Ballenhaus.”

  “But what you have here at the cemetery will be enough for weeks,” the Tyrolean exclaimed, pointing to the sacks behind him. Barbara ducked down, terrified, but the man hadn’t noticed her. “Who are you going to send this all to?”

  Ransmayer chuckled. “You have no idea all the people we have on our list—we have buyers from Augsburg to Vienna. Because of the Turkish wars, all the customs duties have risen again, and the stuff is almost worth its weight in gold.”

  Barbara frowned. She had no idea what the men were talking about, but the Tyrolean had pointed at the sacks, so evidently they contained something very valuable. She had assumed the sacks contained building materials such as plaster and mortar. Carefully she pressed on a sack. Under the canvas it felt like there was something soft as flour. What could it be that was almost worth its weight in gold?

  “We’ll stop deliveries for a while, just the same. The last one to arrive here was dangerous enough,” the Tyrolean replied. “Of course, more for the others than for us,” he added with a hoarse laugh. “I’m going back to Tyrol to speak with my client there, and I’ll get back in touch.”

  “Be careful,” Ransmayer hissed, though he was hard to understand because of the storm. “If everything goes according to plan, the burgomaster will take control of the city today and then other trade routes will open up for us.”

  “There will be nothing in that for me if I’m hanging on the gallows,” the Tyrolean said. Another gust of wind whipped through the trees and at the last moment the Tyrolean grabbed his hat before it could blow away.

  It became harder and harder for Barbara to control her curiosity. Her assumptions were right. Burgomaster Buchner and Melchior Ransmayer were actually involved in some conspiracy, and it all had to do with whatever it was that she was lying on at that very moment. She had to find out what it was. She carefully removed the kitchen knife from where she’d hidden it in her boot and made a small incision in the canvas. Powder came out, but the cut was wider than she had planned and it trickled down over the sacks to the ground near where the two men were standing.

  “We can find another contact,” Ransmayer was saying. “You’re not the only one in Tyrol who wants to do business with us.”

  Barbara suppressed a cry as the powder was carried by the wind and settled like dust on Ransmayer’s full-bottomed wig. Still, the doctor didn’t seem to notice.

  “Believe me, it’s just too dangerous,” the Tyrolean persisted. “The German kaiser has given this matter his highest priority. The number of black riders on the entire stretch of this road has been doubled.”

  Ransmayer made a small step to the side, and the powder ran down into his collar. Barbara placed her hand over her mouth, and the powder on her fingers stuck to her lips. She stopped short.

  What the devil . . .

  The powder was grainy and had a salty taste. The clouds covering the moon parted for a moment and for the first time she could see the color of this strange substance.

  It was white.

  White and salty, she thought. Not plaster but simple . . .

  “Curses! What is this?” Ransmayer reached inside his collar, where the powder was still trickling down from his wig. He looked up, and his astonished gaze turned at once to a hateful grimace on seeing Barbara’s head between the sacks.

  “Cursed hangman’s brat,” he snarled. “This time I’ll kill you myself!”

  “Hangman’s brat, you say?” Now the Tyrolean looked up, as well. At first he looked a bit confused, but then in one fluid motion he drew out a long, rusty sword hanging on his belt. “Damn! How many members of your family do I have to kill to get some peace and quiet?” With drawn sword, he ran around the pile of sacks in order to attack his victim from behind.

  At that moment there was a loud shout and Paul stormed out from the rear of the pile. He swung his slingshot like a spiked mace, shocking the Tyrolean, who stepped back a pace. Pure bloodlust shone in Paul’s eyes.

  “If you even touch a hair on my aunt’s head, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes,” he growled. “And you’ll be as dead as a dormouse.”

  “Oho! Another little devil,” the Tyrolean laughed, getting control of himself again. “You brood of hangmen are worse than the rabbits. If you wring one by the neck, two more come popping up out of the burrow.”

  Without hesitation, he swung his sword.

  Barbara screamed as the storm continued to rage, the sacks she was standing on started sliding, and she fell toward Melchior Ransmayer, who tumbled into a growing pile of white powder.

  “Salt?”

  Simon stared at his wife. “All these dreadful murders were committed here just because of salt?”

  Trembling, and dressed in a mud-spattered jacket, he stood alongside Magdalena up on the Döttenbichl next to the cross. She’d begun explaining it all to him, but he interrupted her after just a few sentences. What she was saying was just too bizarre. He also didn’t know what Magdalena was doing here in Oberammergau.

  “Don’t underestimate salt,” said Johann Lechner, who had gotten down from his horse. “Many bloody wars have been fought because of this apparently insignificant mineral, and mighty cities have been established or destroyed. Even our beautiful city of Munich is basically built on salt.” Smiling, Lechner approached Simon and Magdalena with two soldiers at his side; they held torches, lighting up the gloomy hill behind them. “You know the old story,” he said, turning to Simon. “If Henry the Lion hadn’t set fire to the bridge belonging to the bishop of Freising, diverting the salt road through Munich, our capital today would probably still be an insignificant backwater town like Oberammergau—so you see how important this white powder can be.”

  “But we don’t have any salt here,” Simon interjected.

  “Not here, but in Tyrol,” Lechner responded. He took one of the torches and pointed it to the west, where high, dark rock walls stood out in the night. “And it’s easy to reach through the neighboring Graswang Valley. Our venerable elector has suspected for a long time that large quantities of salt are smuggled into Bavaria via that route, and from there to the entire Reich; because of that the country loses tens of thousands of guilders every year in taxes. The government has sent out men to patrol the entire route, but until now they have had no success.”

  “The black riders,” Simon said, shocked. “So they’re not mysterious, mythical figures at all—they really exist.”

  Lechner nodded. “They’re well-trained men who inconspicuously keep an eye on the trade routes and, if necessary, strike without mercy. But even they were not able to get their hands on the smugglers, perhaps because the smugglers have developed a rather clever system of routes and secret signs—inconspicuous circles, stones, and twigs that provide information about unguarded routes and possible meeting places.”

  By now it had stopped snowing, and the moon shone brightly in the night sky, but Simon noticed none of that. He listened spellbound to Lechner’s words. Suddenly there was a logical explanation for the strange things that had been happening the last few days. He had believed in the ritual sacrifices, the virulent hatred of foreigners, the bloody rites—but it was all much simpler, rational, and mundane.

  The black riders and the strange stone circles, he mused. There’s nothing mysterious about them, they’re just as r
eal as the mountains, the valley, and the river. There are no riddles nor legends . . .

  The secretary winked at Simon. “Your father-in-law was so kind as to point out these circles to me yesterday. He told me you discovered a stone circle just like it and some other things on the Döttenbichl, and from then on it was clear to me there would soon be another meeting of the smugglers there. I was surprised, however, to find half of Oberammergau and even the Ettal judge there. Fortunately, I had enough men with me. Just today the elector himself sent me two dozen soldiers.”

  “Does that mean the Oberammergauers had been planning this smuggling operation for a long time?” Simon asked in surprise. He still couldn’t believe there were dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of criminals involved.

  Probably the whole village knew about it. How were we duped so easily?

  “Well, at least the majority of them knew about it,” Lechner said. “Especially the wagon drivers, led by Franz Würmseer. In our investigation we heard over and over again about a so-called Master. That was no doubt Würmseer, the leader of the gang. I think he’s been involved in this for several years, ever since the trade route started going downhill.” He shrugged. “It was just an assumption that the Ettal judge was involved in the matter, but the operation simply was so smooth it had to have protection from above. And that’s the reason the government in Munich ordered me—”

  “Just a moment,” Simon interrupted. “Can you slow down a bit? Do you mean you didn’t come to Oberammergau on account of this dreadful crucifixion, but only to break up this gang of smugglers?”

  Lechner grinned slyly. “Let’s say that the crucifixion was just the icing on the cake. The murder gave me an excuse to have a look, with permission from Munich, and I’m happy that you and your father-in-law went snooping around in the valley, too. To tell the truth, I even hoped you would. That provided the cover we needed to capture Würmseer and his henchmen.”

  Simon groaned. “So we were nothing more than a distraction.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Lechner dismissively. “You two actually gave me the decisive clues.” His gaze darkened as he looked down at the moonlit meadow, where the Oberammergauers were being led home by some of the soldiers. “It’s still not clear to me, however, what the two murders and the suicide have to do with it and, above all, this crucifixion, but I’m determined to find out.”

  Simon hesitated. Something about Lechner’s explanations seemed too smooth. It all fit together a bit too easily. Perhaps he just didn’t want to admit to himself that his assumptions were wrong. He picked up a torch, walked around the top of the hill with it, and after a while he’d found what he was looking for. Bending down, he picked up a white rib bone with light-colored shreds of cloth, as if from a shirt, clinging to it. All were covered with a greenish slime.

  “Bones of children,” Simon said, holding the rib bones out for Lechner to see. “There are more of them here. How does that fit into your theory?”

  The secretary shrugged. “They’re just old bones. Perhaps in ancient times people were actually sacrificed here, but those are old superstitions that have nothing to do with our case.”

  “I don’t set store in superstition any more than you do,” Simon replied coolly. “I don’t believe in magic, but in scientific facts.” He carefully examined the tiny rib, then placed it respectfully on the ground. “The last time I wasn’t so sure, but this time I’ll swear that this bone hasn’t been here for more than two or at most three years. And it comes from a child. Würmseer was always stirring up hatred against the foreigners and their children. Isn’t it possible he—”

  “Didn’t you hear him?” asked Magdalena. “There were no sacrifices. We really don’t have any time now for your crazy ideas. This smuggling ring is huge. It begins in Tyrol and goes far beyond Oberammergau. The smugglers are well organized and control the entire trade route, probably as far as Augsburg.” She was visibly shaken. “I learned that myself in Soyen when I happened to fall into the hands of the smugglers. That’s where the salt is reloaded into wine barrels so it can be sent along unnoticed. Afterward, I briefly tasted the content of the barrels, and they were as salty as blood.” She shook her head. “I didn’t realize it all until I was on the way to Oberammergau.”

  “Which brings me to an important point,” Simon said. “What in the world are you doing here? I mean, I understand you’re angry at me because I stayed in Oberammergau. But I swear that was not because I was trying to learn more about these murders.” He hesitated. “Well, let’s say it was partly the reason, but basically I just wanted to earn a bit more money for our family, and Konrad Faistenmantel gave me an offer that—”

  He stopped short, seeing Magdalena smiling and shaking her head wearily. “Oh, Simon, that’s not so important anymore,” she said. “The only important thing now is Barbara. I’m afraid this accursed smuggling activity is threatening the life of my sister.”

  “Not just the life of your sister, but the whole town of Schongau,” Lechner interjected. “Your wife brought me this letter from Master Schreevogl, and if what it says is true, then God help us.” He quickly jumped onto his horse and gave a sign to the watchmen. “And now, let’s go! We can discuss everything else on our way back to Oberammergau.”

  He kicked the horse in the side so hard that it neighed, jumped up, and galloped down the hill.

  Barbara landed softly as Melchior Ransmayer let out a muffled cry. His perfume was so heavy and sweet that for a moment it nearly took her breath away. All around them, sacks were falling, bursting, and spilling their contents onto the ground. Instinctively, Barbara pressed the doctor’s face into a pile of salt that the recent rains had transformed into a caustic mush. He bellowed with pain, as the salt apparently got into his eyes. For a moment he lay under the pile of sacks, unable to move, but cursing even louder.

  “Ach . . . ach . . .” he gagged, spitting out clumps of salt. “Help!”

  “I don’t know if you really want to call the guards,” Barbara gasped, pushing him back to the ground again. “They would no doubt quickly find out what’s in the sacks, and that wouldn’t be good either for you or for Burgomaster Buchner, would it?”

  Ransmayer cringed, confirming Barbara’s suspicions. Once she realized the sacks contained salt, not plaster, she quickly put two and two together. Buchner was the construction manager for the church, but work wasn’t proceeding, as the construction site had always been just a pretext. Actually it was a hub for shipments of salt, used to evade customs on its way to the docks on the Lech. Now Barbara understood why Buchner and Ransmayer were trying to get her out of the way. They must have been afraid she would figure it out, having overheard their conversation in the church tower days ago. Ransmayer’s function was no doubt that of a middleman, while Buchner was responsible for political matters. It was likely that most of the Schongau wagon drivers were involved in the plot. Whom could one trust in this town?

  “You . . . you little bitch!” Ransmayer writhed around beneath the sacks like a slippery fish out of water, but he could already raise his head a bit and it wouldn’t take long before he’d be able to free himself. “I’ll wring your neck with my own hands—I’ll break your neck like a chicken’s!”

  Frantically, Barbara looked around the construction site. Where were Paul and the Tyrolean? Her knife must have slipped out of her hand when she fell; it had to be somewhere around here. But it was too dark to see much more than the huge pile of salt on the ground that was slowly turning into a mushy heap. Suddenly there was a loud cry of pain nearby. Barbara cautiously looked behind her and saw the Tyrolean holding his forehead and cursing. She breathed a big sigh of relief. Evidently Paul was still alive and had hit his opponent with his slingshot, but she couldn’t see her nephew anywhere.

  “Run, Paul, run!” she shouted into the wind. She could only hope that Paul was sensible enough not to take up arms against an experienced fighter with a sword. Just a moment later she heard an angry shout, and something small
and furious jumped down from the tottering pile of sacks right on top of Melchior Ransmayer. It was Paul, attacking Ransmayer like a deranged kobold with his little woodcarving knife. Barbara ducked to one side to avoid being hit by accident. She knew her nephew. When Paul was overcome by one of his fits, there wasn’t anyone or anything that could stop him. Like a legendary berserker, he flailed out at everything that crossed his path.

  Sometimes he really scares me, she thought.

  Ransmayer screamed like a stuck pig. His fear and the pain gave him extra strength, and he was able to pull the furious youth off him and hold him at arm’s length, but not before the six-year-old had ripped off Ransmayer’s wig and was holding it triumphantly in his hand like a rabbit pelt. In his other hand he clutched the woodcarving knife, from which blood dripped down into the mushy white salt.

  “Ignaz, where are you?” Ransmayer shrieked. “Ignaz! The boy is killing me!”

  Barbara noticed in fact that blood was dripping from the right shoulder of Ransmayer’s velvet vest, and there was a long cut across his left cheek. Paul wriggled out of Ransmayer’s grip now and went on the attack again, shouting furiously.

  Barbara struggled to her feet and finally found her own knife half buried in the salt not far away. She picked it up and looked around cautiously for the Tyrolean, but he seemed to have vanished in the darkness. Her heart was pounding. What should she do? She could no doubt polish off the injured, whining Ransmayer but not the trained swordsman. Barbara blinked her eyes.

  Where, in God’s name, is the Tyrolean?

  “Paul!” she shouted at her raging nephew, trying to sound calm and sensible. “Listen, we have to get out of here. We’ll get help, and then—”

  A vague shadow rushed past her. The Tyrolean emerged from behind a sack of salt and grabbed little Paul like a puppy by the scruff of the neck. He shook him, and Paul’s knife fell clattering onto the ground. The Tyrolean pulled out his own jagged sword blade and put it to Paul’s throat.