Death and the Devil

by Frank Schätzing

  He couldn’t ask questions about it, but that probably wasn’t necessary. He knew of several old, abandoned warehouses belonging to the Overstolzes. They were all by the Wall, opposite the river island of Rheinau. Mournful, tumbledown sheds that were not even let out because the Overstolzes would rather allow them to decay than pay tax on the rent.

  A good idea to have a look around there.

  Kuno smiled. At last there was something meaningful he could do.

  THE MADMAN

  The impressive, if gloomy, shape of St. Pantaleon rose up before them as, leaning into the wind, they turned into Walengasse. The rain had gotten inside Jacob’s hood and was running down his neck. During the last hour it had become bitterly cold. He was looking forward to getting into the monastery as he would have looked forward to any dry place.

  They had left the lepers’ outfits behind; they might do more harm than good now. If Jaspar was right and they were no longer being pursued, there was no point in disguise. Jacob insisted on covering his hair, so was still wearing Jaspar’s old habit. He had tucked his hands up the sleeves, which would have made him look as if he were wrapped in devout contemplation were it not for the unchristian pace they were hurrying along at. Jaspar, on the other hand, was striding along, fists pumping the air like a peasant. His hood had slipped down, leaving the rain to beat a tattoo on his bald pate, and with every step he seemed to be trying to stamp his way through the soft mud to hell.

  They met no one. God knows, it was no fun being out in the city in the pouring rain.

  On their way they had briefly looked in at the house on the Brook. Goddert wasn’t there. At first they had been worried, but there was no indication that anything had happened to him. If the murderer already had Richmodis, what was the point of taking Goddert, too?

  So they had continued on their way to Walengasse, while Jaspar explained to Jacob what he hoped to learn there.

  “You remember I mentioned a cripple who told me about the tiny crossbows? The man with no legs. St. Pantaleon has a large hospice and he’s been living there for several years. I’ve seen him two or three times without speaking to him. I’ve no idea if we’ll get any sense out of him; even when I talked to him before he wasn’t quite right in the head. If my theory’s correct and our murderer was a crusader, then they’ll have fought in the same battles. An educated man with hair down to his waist will have stood out among the dregs of humanity their armies were mostly made up of.”

  “What? Among thousands of men?”

  “The armies were always commanded by a small group of kings, counts, and bishops. I’m assuming he was one of them.”

  “A bold assumption.”

  “I know it sounds harebrained, but it’s worth a try all the same.”

  “Anything’s better than sitting around doing nothing,” Jacob agreed. By now they had reached St. Pantaleon. Above the door in the solid wall an oil lamp was swinging in the wind, knocking against the stone at irregular intervals.

  Shoulders hunched, they squeezed in under the narrow projecting roof and knocked. It wasn’t long before a tiny window was pushed up. Watery eyes twitched uneasily to and fro under bushy brows.

  “It’s after vespers,” an old man’s voice croaked.

  “True, reverend Brother,” said Jaspar. “I would not have been so bold as to ask for admittance at this late hour, if I and Brother Jacob here were not engaged on a mission of Christian charity to thwart a devilish attempt to ensnare innocent people body and soul.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Jaspar Rodenkirchen, dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s. Also physician and Master of Arts.”

  The fluttering of the pupils became even more hectic. “I must ask the abbot.”

  “We quite understand,” Jaspar assured him, “and respect the prudence of venerable old age. The only thing we would ask is that you do so as quickly as you can since it has pleased the Lord to make the heavens shed tears at the sins of the ungodly.”

  “Wait here.” The flap slid down.

  “Senile bloody half-wit,” growled Jaspar. “I know Saint Benedict, talking about monks, said, ‘Become a fool for Christ’s sake,’ but he didn’t mean they should ignore the gift of reason.” In fury he strode up and down along the wall. “‘I must ask the abbot, I must ask the abbot.’ And who’s the abbot to ask? Does God have to decide every time whether a door is to be opened or closed? Will these monks never learn to think?”

  It was quite some time before the door creaked open and they hurried inside.

  A monk who was indeed very old and bent indicated the tall man at his side who was regarding them with a benevolent gaze. He and Jaspar grasped each other by the shoulders and exchanged a brief kiss.

  “What can I do for you at this late hour, Brother Jaspar?” the abbot asked.

  “A small matter. It is very important I speak to someone in the hospice.” Jaspar smiled. “If it is no trouble, of course.”

  Clasping his arms behind his back, the abbot assumed a lofty expression. He looked as if he were giving the matter earnest consideration. “You’re late,” he said skeptically.

  “I know.”

  “Did you not say something to Brother Laurence here about the machinations of the Devil? As you will know, the monks in this monastery fear the Devil at all times, but experience tells us that he is at his most dangerous after dark. That is why we have to subject guests who arrive this late to particular scrutiny. You must not interpret our cautiousness as suspicion, but—”

  “Not in the least,” Jaspar broke in. “To be precise, the Devil I was talking about is the fiend that comes from the past to torment our innermost souls. Old wounds reopen. But often it is the old wounds that lead us to new weapons, if you get my meaning?”

  The abbot clearly did not, but he nodded affably.

  “Furthermore,” Jaspar went on, “this fiend manifests itself in madness and speaks out of the mouths of those whose spirits are confused. I do not mean to suggest you are housing this fiend here. The balm of your care, I have heard, soothes the sufferings of those poor souls whose minds rave in a confusion of tongues.”

  “We have established a special section for that kind of case,” said the abbot, not without pride.

  “Yes, it is praised far and wide. Your reputation for compassion is only exceeded by the fame of your learning. Or was it the other way around? I know that the brothers here have astonishing expertise in that area. But to get to the nub of my request, there is in that section a poor soul whose name, I believe, is Hieronymus and who may be able to help us track down this foul fiend.”

  The abbot pricked up his ears. “What am I to understand by that?”

  “The precise details,” said Jaspar mysteriously, “must remain a secret. It is an extremely delicate matter involving some very important personages.”

  “Here in Cologne?” the abbot whispered.

  “In this very city. The poor man I am looking for lost both his legs at Acre.”

  “Yes, that’s Hieronymus.”

  “Excellent. We have to speak to him.”

  “Hmm, that will not be easy. He’ll be asleep. Hieronymus has been sleeping a lot recently. I think he will soon go to his eternal rest.”

  “All the more important we speak to him before that,” declared Jaspar. “It will not take long, and if Hieronymus has nothing to tell us, he can go straight back to sleep.”

  Jacob shivered. They were standing in the cloisters around the inner courtyard and the wind was blowing in through the narrow arched windows, tearing at the flames of the torches in the iron rings.

  Again the abbot thought long and hard.

  “Very well,” he said eventually, “I would not want to stand in the way of a holy work. Our reputation for good works has always imbued our monastery with a—let us say an aura of mystical greatness which gives it a radiance we must strive to keep shining untarnished.”

  “It will shine ever more brightly, I promise you.”

  “You w
ould be willing, er, to bear witness to that?”

  “Wherever I can.”

  “So be it. We humbly praise Thee, Lord. Brother Laurence will take you to Hieronymus. But do not keep him from his divine repose for too long, I beg you. The grace of the Lord is about him.”

  The abbot dismissed them with a wave of the hand and they followed the old monk as he shuffled around the cloisters. After a while they turned down an unlit corridor at the end of which Laurence pushed open a door.

  In the semidark they saw a room full of wooden beds with men, or what was left of them, asleep on them. The abbey looked after the sick men without charge, solely for God’s mercy and grace, as long as they came with a recommendation from the city council. That kept the situation in St. Pantaleon within bounds. Really bad cases, those who were raving or dangerous, were locked up in the towers of the city walls, with windows facing out toward the countryside, so that those who lived nearby were not disturbed by the shouting and screaming. The worst were kept in chains. The straw in their cells was changed four times a year, when the barber also came to shave their beards and heads, generally with the help of strong men. Some families sold their lunatic members to showmen who made large wooden cages, known as loony boxes, for them outside the city gates. For a few coppers people could observe their drooling, grimacing, and frequent fits for as long as they could stand it.

  Compared to these, the poor souls in St. Pantaleon were relatively well off, even if they were bound to their beds with leather straps and ate out of iron pans. The monks regarded them as material to study the boundary between madness and possession by the Devil, something that was of the greatest importance for the spiritual welfare of their patients. The treatment consisted of benedictions and other ecclesiastical rites; occasionally it was even successful.

  A monk with a candle came hurrying up to them. He had obviously been sleeping. He was rubbing his eyes and stretching his neck.

  “What’s this?” he mumbled. “Oh, it’s you, Brother Laurence.”

  “What were you doing, Henricus?” the old monk asked irascibly.

  “Preparing myself for compline.”

  “You were sleeping.”

  “I wasn’t. I was deep in meditation—”

  “You were sleeping. I must report it to the abbot.”

  The monk looked over the old monk’s shoulders at the two visitors and rolled his eyes. “Of course, Brother Laurence, you must tell the abbot. Is that why you’re here?”

  “Take these two gentlemen to Hieronymus. They wish to talk to him.”

  “He’s probably asleep.”

  “Then wake him up.”

  Jaspar gave the monk a friendly nod. The monk shrugged his shoulders and turned. “Come with me.”

  They followed him between the beds. Most of the patients were sleeping or staring into space. One was muttering a litany of animal names. When Jacob looked back, he saw the old man disappear into the corridor, shaking his head.

  Hieronymus was not asleep. He was sitting on his bed, his little finger boring into his left ear, an activity which seemed to demand his full attention, for he ignored the new arrivals. A threadbare jute blanket covered him up to his waist. Where the outlines of his legs should have been it lay flat on the bed.

  “Hieronymus,” said the monk in a friendly voice, stroking his hair, “someone’s come to see you. Look.”

  A toothless, twisted face covered in white stubble squinted up at them. “Not now,” he said.

  “Why not? It’s a long time since you had a visitor.”

  Hieronymus dug his finger farther into his ear. “Leave me in peace.”

  “But Hieronymus, we haven’t prayed to Saint Paul yet today. Saint Paul won’t like that. And now you refuse to receive your visitors.”

  “No! Wait! Wait!” Hieronymus suddenly shouted. “I’ve got him. He’s trapped. Think you can get away from me, do you? I’ve got you now.”

  Henricus gave them a significant glance.

  “What’s he doing?” whispered Jaspar.

  “He’s convinced someone moved into his ear some time ago. With all his furniture and everything. And he makes a fire in the winter, Hieronymus says, and complains of earache.”

  “Why doesn’t he just let him stay there?”

  Henricus lowered his voice. “Because the creature in his ear keeps telling him evil things. So he says. We’ve checked up in various books. It’s obviously a manifestation of the Devil, any child could see that. On the other hand, the Devil taking up residence in someone’s ear is new.”

  “He resides in hell, and that’s what I would call earache.” Jaspar bent down and gently pulled Hieronymus’s finger out of his ear. “We need your help,” he said softly.

  “Help?” Hieronymus seemed so confused he forgot the squatter in his ear for the moment.

  “You’re a brave man, Hieronymus. You fought for the Cross. Do you remember?”

  Hieronymus gave Jaspar a suspicious look and pressed his lips together. Then he nodded vigorously.

  “I knew it.” Jaspar grinned. “A hero. Fought with the bravest of the brave. Truly impressive.”

  “Side by side,” declared Hieronymus.

  “Do you remember all the proud knights?”

  “Wasn’t a knight,” said Hieronymus in a tone of regret. “Had to go on foot. I like going on foot, even now. Not like the knights. Always up on some nag, loaded down with iron. But there’s nothing inside the iron.”

  “What does he mean, he likes going on foot?” Jacob asked in surprise.

  “Well”—Henricus shrugged—“he likes it.”

  “But he hasn’t got—”

  “Quiet back there,” Jaspar hissed. “My friend Hieronymus and I have matters to discuss.”

  “There’s nothing inside the armor.” Hieronymus giggled. “I looked inside some. It was lying in the sand.”

  “But you remember the knights, the noble lords?”

  “Of course. I like going on foot.”

  “Yes, I know. They all liked going on foot in those days, didn’t they. You got as far as Acre.”

  Hieronymus twitched. “Acre,” he whispered. “As far as Acre. Cursed city.”

  “Hieronymus can remember everything if he wants,” said Henricus proudly.

  “That’s not the impression he gives me,” said Jacob doubtfully.

  “That’s enough!” Jaspar stretched out his arm and pointed to the other side of the room. “Off you go and lie down, or dance or whatever, but get away from here. Off you go.”

  Jacob didn’t dare object. Henricus even looked delighted, thanked Jaspar, and went to lie down. Soon he began snoring quietly. Jacob watched him enviously, leaned against the doorpost, and pondered.

  After a while he saw Hieronymus start to gesticulate wildly. His fingers made the most bizarre shapes in the air. Some gave Jacob the uncomfortable feeling he was describing methods of torture.

  Then he gave a whimpering cry and buried his head in his hands. Jaspar put his arm around his shoulders and talked comfortingly to him.

  Hieronymus brayed with laughter and started gesticulating again.

  Jacob listened to the wind moaning around the monastery walls.

  After what seemed an eternity Jaspar came back and woke Henricus to let them out. In silence he led them around the cloisters to the main gate.

  “Don’t forget compline,” said Jaspar with a smile.

  “Huh!” Henricus snorted. “When did I ever forget it? What did the old loony tell you, by the way?”

  “He told us the monks in this monastery are too inquisitive.”

  “He did?” said Henricus in amazement. “Ah, well.”

  They left him and hurried through the mud back to the Brook.

  “And?” asked Jacob. With the wind whistling around his ears, he had to speak loudly. “Did you get anything out of him?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Yes or no?”

  “Hieronymus’s memory ha
s its gaps, but he does remember the crossbows. And he remembered that they got hold of one or two. He mentioned the names of a surprising number of knights and counts, he even met King Louis—well, not met exactly, heard him speak. All in all he can remember quite a lot. Then he talked about the war and what they did with the infidels after the capture of Damietta.”

  “What did they do?”

  Jaspar shook his head. “Just be glad you don’t know. They gathered all the children together, and the young girls. It would be a huge exaggeration to say they simply killed them. They did other things it’s better not to talk about. A knight with hair down to his waist he couldn’t remember, however.”

  “So we’ve been wasting our time?”

  Jaspar gave him a disapproving look. “Nothing’s a waste of time, remember that.”

  KUNO

  Beneath the city walls, between Three Kings Gate in the south and Neckelskaulen Gate was an area of old stone buildings that had been originally used to store fish. The stone kept the heat out. Several of the buildings belonged to the Overstolz family, but were no longer in use. They backed onto the Wall and several had narrow passages through to the riverside.

  Kuno scurried along the inside of the Wall. The wind came funneling down Bayenstraße while the water seemed to be coming from all sides, from above, below, behind, in front. Perhaps it was the start of a new flood. So far it had been fine, despite the advanced season, but this night was bringing a turn in the weather. It was no longer warm rain, a summer storm that cleared the sultry air for a few hours. There was the icy cold of northern seas on the wind, a harbinger of frosts to come. The Rhine would freeze over in the winter and they would be able to walk over to Deutz on the eastern bank again.

  Odd, thought Kuno, why should that come into my mind just now? It would be nice to go across to Deutz once more. And I’d like to see the snow on the battlements and turrets again, on the walls and steep roofs of the churches, chapels, and abbeys, on the trees in the orchards and on Haymarket, with the people stepping gingerly between the stalls, so as not to slip and get laughed at.