The old woman cocked her head to one side like an old owl. “He had succumbed to appearances-fancy clothes, useless decorations. Hah! All that will remain of him is a stinking sack of maggots.”
Simon! It flashed through Magdalena’s mind. My God, that must be Simon.
“When was that?” Kuisl asked. He seized the old woman by the collar and pulled her up to look her right in the face. “Tell me right now or prepare to meet your Savior today.”
The old woman broke out in raucous laughter. “Are you threatening me, hangman?” she replied, kicking about as the hangman held her up in the air. “You, who have slaughtered hundreds of people? On Judgment Day their souls will come knocking at your door and demand vengeance. Repent, hangman, repent!”
Kuisl released the old woman as if he’d touched a hot stove, and she collapsed at his feet, writhing about like a worm.
“Not an hour has passed since the little man disappeared in the cave,” she said finally. “God have mercy on his soul. I saw the monk burn, and Satan will lead the little man through the fires of purgatory as well.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Magdalena was surprised to see her father make the sign of the cross. He’d never done that before, or perhaps only on one of his occasional visits to church. Worried, she placed her arm on his shoulders.
“Are you all right?” she asked while the old woman continued to lie on the ground, whimpering and babbling.
Kuisl nodded hesitantly, then brushed her arm aside.
“Come along,” he said. “We’re not getting anywhere standing here, and if we intend to save your children and now your husband, we’ll have to hurry.” He pulled a torch from his bag, lit it over the fire that was still glimmering, and headed toward the cave. Dangling on his belt was the long hunting knife and the freshly carved club.
“Satan or purgatory-it doesn’t matter,” the hangman growled. “The men who have kidnapped my grandchildren are going to find out what hell is really like.”
Seated in the library in the south wing of the monastery, the prior and the librarian listened to the agitated Schongau burgomaster, whose story was so unbelievable it could almost be true.
“You really believe the Schongau hangman slipped into our monastery disguised as a Franciscan monk?” Prior Jeremias asked with a furrowed brow.
Karl Semer nodded emphatically. “I swear by the bones of Saint Nicolas, it’s the truth, Your Excellency. When I heard you were looking for a large man, more than six feet tall with a hooked nose, I thought of him at once. This slick little bathhouse surgeon and his wife denied it, but at noon my son and I”-he said, pointing to young Sebastian Semer sitting beside him with an arrogant look on his face-“saw the hangman in the church square with our own eyes. He ran away, along with the medicus, and after that, it was almost as if the earth swallowed them up.”
The librarian passed the tip of a finger over his chapped lips. “The hunters did tell us about a huge man who fought like a madman,” he murmured. “He threw one of them into the gorge like a stone. Are you sure that’s your man?”
“Ha! That’s him,” Karl Semer exclaimed. “Kuisl was a ‘double mercenary’ in the Great War: he was one of the best soldiers and received double pay. He’ll pick a fight with a dozen men.” He sighed. “A good hangman, indeed, but unfortunately extremely stubborn and always causing trouble, especially when you least need it. Kuisl likes to snoop around and stir up trouble when it would be better to just let things be.” He cast an anxious look at his son and patted him on the shoulder. “Naturally we also want to see an end to this unhappy chapter in Andechs, don’t we, Sebastian? To the best of my knowledge the culprit has already been apprehended, and this continuing confusion can only be bad for our, eh…”
“Business,” said Prior Jeremias, smiling and finishing his the sentence. “It’s all right for you to say that. It’s no shame to make money, especially since it’s for the benefit of the church. We, too, would be happy for peace and quiet to return as soon as possible.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “But what I don’t understand is why this, uh… Kuisl is snooping around here. After all, he’s a hangman, isn’t he, and not an official of the elector?” He laughed nervously and looked over at Brother Benedikt, who was leafing through some books and making a point of looking disinterested.
“We confess we don’t have any explanation,” Semer said, scratching his bald head. “His daughter and son-in-law came with us on a pilgrimage. At first, Jakob Kuisl wasn’t with us. Why he came later-”
“What is the man’s name again?” the prior interrupted.
“Kuisl. Jakob Kuisl. Why?”
Suddenly Brother Jeremias remembered the rigorous questioning of the apothecary the day before in the Weilheim torture chamber. Brother Johannes kept speaking of a certain Jakob who would come to help him. The prior had assumed Johannes was crying out in his pain to the apostle Jacob, but perhaps he really meant Jakob Kuisl. Why? The talkative Andechs abbot once remarked that Johannes had been a mercenary in the Great War. Did the two perhaps know each other?
Brother Jeremias drummed his fingers nervously on the table. The situation was becoming more and more muddled.
“Is something the matter, Jeremias?” Brother Benedikt asked, looking up suspiciously from his books.
“No, no.” The prior smiled nervously. “I’m just a bit tired. The festival and all the preparations are more stressful than one wants to admit.” He rose to shake hands with the fat Schongau burgomaster and his pale son.
“Thank you for your tip,” he said in an unctuous tone. “It will help us to arrest this false Franciscan monk soon. Who knows-perhaps Kuisl is even collaborating with the sorcerer.” With an impatient wave of his hand, he pointed toward the door. “Now please leave us to ourselves. We all have much work ahead of us.”
“Very well, Your Excellency.” When Semer bowed, the prior was annoyed for a moment that he still didn’t have an abbot’s ring for Semer to kiss.
Suddenly the burgomaster looked up at him again with a shrewd twinkle in his eye. “Your Excellency?”
Brother Jeremias frowned. “Yes, Burgomaster?”
“You will surely remember that I sold the monastery wax of excellent quality at a fair price-enough to make three hundred candles-as well as finely printed letters of petition from Augsburg…”
“What are you trying to say?”
Semer smiled broadly. “I’m certain that many pilgrims will be coming on Ascension Day, and All Saints’ Day, as well. Do you already have a supplier?”
The prior sighed ostentatiously, though secretly he was happy the burgomaster wanted to do business with him. The old Andechs abbot was clearly out of the picture. “Rest assured we will think of you,” he said benevolently. “Anyone helping the church is doing God’s work.”
Bowing deeply, the burgomaster and his son bade them farewell, leaving the prior and librarian alone in the great hall.
“Damn it,” hissed Brother Benedikt when the steps of the two Schongauers had finally died away. He slammed the book shut that he’d just been leafing through. “That’s all we need. A hangman snooping around. That dishonorable scoundrel is probably the one who stole the map, and now we can only hope the guards pick him up as soon as possible before he finds something down there.”
Brother Jeremias bit his lips nervously. “This Kuisl doesn’t give up so easily. You heard what they said. And until Johannes confesses, the case isn’t closed. It’s possible the Weilheim district judge will have the dumb idea of leaving no stone unturned here.”
The old librarian glared at him. “What does that mean-until Johannes confesses?” he blustered. “You were there during the torture yesterday. What are you doing there-tickling him with feathers?”
“I… I can’t understand myself why they haven’t been able to break him,” Brother Jeremias lamented. “The Weilheim executioner has tried everything, but we have to make sure that Johannes doesn’t die on us. That’s why Master Hans wants to
wait until tomorrow and help him recover a bit.” The prior bent over the table now, almost pleading with the old monk. “Damn, Benedikt. We need the confession or there will be no sentence. You know yourself that Carolingian law is very strict in this respect.”
“Then you’d better see to it that they finally wring this confession from him,” Benedikt answered coolly, “or we could be the next ones Master Hans puts on the rack.” Hunched over like an oak that had survived countless storms, he struggled to his feet and stared at the prior angrily. “In my younger days, I took part myself in a number of inquisitions, and with me the offenders always confessed at once. You’re too soft, Jeremias.”
The prior clenched his fists under the table. Ever since he entered the monastery many years ago, the old man had always driven him crazy with such lectures. Jeremias knew that Benedikt considered himself the better abbot, but his books were more important to him than any position, and for this reason, he depended on collaborators for his secret plans.
Worthless idiots like me.
At one time, they’d mostly seen eye-to-eye on their goals, but still Jeremias had the feeling the old librarian hadn’t always taken him seriously. Jeremias reminded himself that he would be the Andechs abbot soon, and perhaps then everything would be different.
A proud old fool can always be put to use washing dishes in the refectory. We must serve God, whatever our position in life…
This thought comforted Jeremias. He thought, too, of the pistol the district judge had given him the day before, and of his run-in with the wolves. It had felt good to pull the trigger.
“Do you know that Laurentius is dead?” he suddenly asked the librarian.
The old man nodded. “Everyone knows about that, and then there are these horrible stories about the golem.”
Brother Benedikt crossed himself briefly. “May God have mercy on his soul. But perhaps it’s better that way. He was a sodomite and, even worse, a coward. He probably would have told the abbot about our plans sooner or later; now he’s quiet for good.”
For a while, neither spoke, and the silence in the room, with its thousands of books and parchment rolls, weighed heavily on Jeremias. The prior took a deep breath. Sometimes at night he would lie awake in bed, doubting the wisdom of their actions, but ultimately they were serving the monastery.
Everything is God’s will.
“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Brother Jeremias said finally in a voice determined to regain control of the situation. “Perhaps Laurentius was right, and it’s really too dangerous to leave everything down there now. With Brother Eckhart, we’ll clear everything out and hide it in my prior’s residence until this hangman is caught or until Johannes has finally confessed. After all, we still don’t know what’s lurking down there.”
“Are you afraid?” Benedikt smiled coldly.
“Nonsense. I just don’t want to take any chances, so let’s dispose of the stuff today.”
The librarian seemed to think this over. “Very well,” he finally said. “It’s safer, and we can’t make any headway now in any case. Now that Laurentius is dead, we lack a skilled worker.”
He hobbled to the door, turned once again, and looked questioningly at Brother Jeremias. “I’d really like to know what it was that inflicted such terrible injuries on our dear Laurentius,” he said gloomily. “I’m starting to believe in this fairy tale about a golem.”
Nepomuk dozed fitfully in the dark hole in the Weilheim Faulturm, awaiting his next session in the torture chamber. He knew this was the end. The next session would be the last-he would confess, and then this nightmare would finally be over.
A short while ago… or was it an eternity? — he didn’t know… Master Hans had come to him with some bandages and jars of ointment. The hangman spread the cooling salves on his arms and legs and applied clean bandages with fragrant lotion, but these medicines could do nothing to make him want to carry on. He’d given up on life; the pain was too great. Next time, they’d probably hoist him up with his hands bound behind his back or break him on the rack.
Until now, Nepomuk had endured the torture only by closing his eyes and once more thinking back on the good times he’d spent with Jakob Kuisl…
The aroma of the capon roasting on the spit; the songs of the common soldiers ringing through the camp; a morning horseback ride through the fog; the fat market women and the skinny, made-up whores on whose breasts you could fall asleep for a few hours and forget the war; a practice battle with Jakob, swords clanging together noisily… “Can you feel it?” Jakob asks him with a grin, pinning him against the charred ruins of a house. “This is God, Nepomuk… This life, the screaming, the singing, the eating and carousing and dying. I don’t need any church to pray in, all I need is the forest and the battlefield… ”
When Nepomuk smelled smoke, he opened his eyes, knowing it wasn’t a capon roasting on a spit but his own flesh burning.
Master Hans had pressed a glowing poker against his right triceps.
Nepomuk picked up the crucifix he’d woven for himself from twigs and straw, pressed it against his trembling chest, and prepared for life everlasting. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…”
A smile passed over his lips as he thought of his friend. Deep inside, he felt Jakob had still not abandoned him and was trying to prove his innocence.
But it was too late.
Early the next morning, Master Hans would come, and it would all begin again under the supervision of the prior. He would confess everything they wanted; if necessary, he’d even confess to murdering his own mother, causing the last thunderstorm and all the dead, two-headed calves in the Priests’ Corner. Everything-if only they would finally stop torturing him.
“Forgive me, Jakob,” Nepomuk whispered, kissing the crucifix. “Forgive me, God. I’m not strong enough.”
17
THE EVENING OF SUNDAY, JUNE 20, 1666 AD
The first thing Simon heard was the chirping of a bird, one so lovely he thought he was in a beautiful garden, if not in paradise.
He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were stuck shut as if they were smeared with honey. Startled, Simon tried to get up, but something kept pulling him down. His arms had to be bound-he couldn’t lift them even an inch-and the harder he tried, the more it seemed to him his limbs were not bound but somehow baked into a hard cast. His feet, his legs, his entire upper body, felt like it was under a layer of clay that he couldn’t break through.
This must be a dream; in a moment I’ll wake up alongside Magdalena, bathed in sweat but healthy, and we’ll both laugh about my silly nightmare. Then we’ll look in on the two children, and then…
His train of thought came to an abrupt halt when he recalled what had happened in the hours before. He’d had to run from the guards with Kuisl; then he fell off a cliff; and finally he found this cave in the forest, where he heard the automaton’s music. He’d entered the cave, and then… What had happened then?
Simon tried to remember, but from that moment on, he just drew a blank.
Again he struggled to move, but he still couldn’t lift a finger. All the while the bird kept singing; its chirping sounded like that of a nightingale, if somewhat strange and metallic.
Simon tried to breathe calmly. He’d had dreams like this before and knew he would wake up as soon as he could move just a bit. He tensed his muscles until he could feel cold sweat running down his forehead-but all in vain. Making one last desperate try, he was relieved to find his eyelids had opened at least a crack. Light shone through the narrow slits, a harsh light that shot through him and made him wince. Once more he struggled to open his lids, but he felt as if he was trying to move heavy boulders.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he managed to open his eyes completely. It took a while for them to get used to the dazzling light, but he could now make out-at first vaguely, then more and more clearly-part of a room. He stared up at a birdcage hanging from th
e rock ceiling with a little silver-colored bird inside chirping merrily away. Simon’s back felt slightly cold; apparently he was lying directly on the stone floor.
With great effort, he rolled his eyes downward and to the side, where he could make out more of the room. Now he noticed a weathered wooden door and bookshelves on either side holding the strangest objects: some appeared to be technical devices, while others were apparently natural in origin. In the torchlight, the objects seemed as eerie as if they’d come directly from hell.
Or is this place hell itself?
A mummified skull no larger than a fist bared its teeth and grinned at him from atop a dusty velvet pillow, while a yard-long curved horn reminded the medicus of the legends about unicorns. Alongside these lay huge, strange animal skulls, one of which had a sort of thorn where a nose should have been. There was also a brownish egg the size of a child’s head, carved mussels, jewelry boxes decorated in ivory, a few crystal glasses, but also a golden astrolabe and one of those famous globes that depict the world in the form of a sphere.
Simon wished he could pinch himself, but for that he would have needed to move his hands. He tried to open his mouth to cry for help but could barely manage to raise his lip in a nervous spasm, like a wolf baring its fangs. Grimacing convulsively, he now heard a sound quickly approaching.
The now familiar melody of the automaton.
The music was accompanied by a squeak and clatter, and after a while Simon realized these sounds came from the little wheels of the automaton Aurora, the same one that had been rolling around in the watchmaker’s workshop a few days ago. At that time, Simon had found the automaton, and also the music, remarkable, a technological wonder. Now the song sounded so frightening that, despite his paralysis, the little hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Rolling his eyes, Simon could see the door opening as the life-size automaton rumbled into the room. Aurora still looked as beautiful as the first time they’d met in the watchmaker’s house. Her red ball gown fluttered around her copper legs, her hair was put up artfully, and her lips were the color of fresh blood.
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