The Poisoned Pilgrim by Oliver Pötzsch
“Well, this fever that’s spreading around Andechs,” Simon tried to explain. “It’s no doubt a kind of nervous fever, although I don’t yet know exactly what kind of sickness it is. I’m barely able to keep up with it in any case, as Brother Johannes is not available…” He paused briefly. “Fortunately I’ve found a colleague now to help me—naturally, only if you will permit.” With a wide gesture he pointed to Jakob Kuisl, who stood next to him with his hood pulled down and his arms folded, looking like a piece of heavy furniture. “Brother… Jakob. He’s an itinerant Franciscan monk very skilled in the art of healing. Isn’t that so, Brother Jakob?”
For the first time the abbot seemed to notice Kuisl. He gazed briefly at the large man in the robe, then nodded.
“Very well,” he murmured, lost in thought. “We can certainly use all the help we can get.”
“Ah… Brother Jakob would like to take part in the masses and visit the library,” Simon continued. “He has heard much about your books, which are said to contain true hoards of information. Isn’t that so, Jakob?” He glanced over at his father-in-law and gave him a little nudge with his foot, but the hangman remained silent. “Well, in any case…” Simon continued, “will he be permitted to visit the rooms in the monastery? You have my word that—”
“Of course. And now please leave me alone.” Maurus Rambeck had already turned back to his books, waving his hand as if to chase away an annoying fly. “There’s much I have to do.”
“As you wish.” Simon bowed, not without casting a final glance at the pages of the book lying open in front of the abbot, but all he could see was that it was written in a strange script. The letters were faded and seemed to have been written many years ago. When the abbot noticed Simon still standing in front of him, he abruptly closed the book.
“Is there something else?” Rambeck said in a rasping voice.
“No, no… I was just a bit lost in thought.” Kuisl still hadn’t uttered a word. As Simon pulled him toward the door, he added, “I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything. Farewell for now.” He bowed one last time before the heavy, tall oaken door closed behind him.
Outside in the hall, the medicus took a deep breath then turned angrily to his father-in-law.
“When I asked you to pretend to be a monk, I didn’t realize you’d taken a vow of silence,” Simon hissed. “Thank God the abbot was much too distracted to wonder about a deaf-mute Franciscan.”
“What do you mean, deaf-mute?” Kuisl groused. “You talked enough for two. But you’re right; something is wrong with this priest,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Did you see the book on his desk that he so hurriedly tried to conceal from us?”
Simon nodded. “Yes, but unfortunately I couldn’t make any sense of the writing.”
“Hebrew,” the hangman replied brusquely. “The old language of the Jews. I saw a book like that one time. I wonder what the abbot was looking for in it?”
“Well, Maurus Rambeck was at the Benedictine University in Salzburg for many years and is known for his studies of ancient languages,” Simon replied. “Perhaps we just disturbed him in his work.”
“Ha! Work? Judging by his looks he’s up to his neck in some sort of trouble. He was as pale as someone heading for his own execution—I know about such things.” Kuisl ran down the stairway, taking care not to step on the hem of his robe. “So come now before His Excellency changes his mind and wants us to celebrate evening mass with him.”
“Where… where are you headed so fast, Kuisl?” Simon whispered, running after the hangman.
“Where else?” Jakob Kuisl turned. Despite the darkness under his hood, Simon could briefly see his eyes sparkle. “To see the ugly Nepomuk, of course. After all, we haven’t seen each other for thirty years. And in the meantime, you can have another look at the two corpses. Perhaps you can find something you haven’t noticed yet.”
Kuisl squeezed the pearls of the rosary in his hands as if they were thumb screws. “I swear to you I’ll find the person trying to make a scapegoat of my old friend,” he said softly. “And by God, then he can be glad I’m not the executioner in this district but just a hangman in a lousy monk’s costume.”
With the hood pulled far down over his face, Jakob Kuisl stomped off toward the monastery dairy where his friend Nepomuk was still held prisoner. By now the sun was a red ball sinking into the clouds west of Lake Ammer. The air suddenly turned cooler, so that the hangman began to feel a chill under the thin robe. Once more he cursed his son-in-law for this idea, even though he now secretly conceded it might work. In just a moment he’d find out just how good Simon’s idea was.
Two watchmen were standing around the entrance to the farm, and Kuisl could see right away they really weren’t professionals—likely hunters drafted by the monastery for guard duty. Dressed in green capes, they leaned on their muskets, looking bored and staring into the sky where the evening star was just setting. Torches were burning in iron pots to the left and right of the door. When the two watchmen heard the hangman coming, they jumped to attention.
“Who goes there?” called one of them, a stout man with the beginnings of a bald spot.
“The Lord be with you and illumine your way,” Kuisl grumbled and, in the next moment, felt strangely ridiculous. He felt as if the word hangman was burned onto his forehead, but the two watchmen relaxed and nodded to him amiably.
“Greetings, Brother,” the fat man replied. “And thank you for your blessing, though a chicken leg would also be very welcome.” He giggled softly. Seeing Kuisl’s white cord, his laughter stopped suddenly. “Just a moment. You are…”
“An itinerant Franciscan, indeed,” the hangman said, completing the sentence. “The hapless Brother inside there wants to confess. The abbot himself sent me.”
“I see, but why doesn’t one of our monks do that?” the younger watchman interrupted. “And by the way, who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Because I’m an itinerant Franciscan, you damn fool,” Kuisl whispered. He closed his eyes briefly, realizing his words were out of character. The guards looked back at him in astonishment.
“Do you really think one of the Benedictines would take confession from the poor creature in there?” Kuisl continued in a gentler tone. “Don’t forget, he killed three of their Brothers. But please go and ask the abbot,” he added, pointing to the light in the second-floor room of the monastery. “I was just with him. Brother Maurus is brooding as so often over his old books. Just don’t speak so loudly to him—His Excellency has a severe headache today.”
“That’s… that’s all right,” the fat man said, patting his colleague reassuringly on the shoulder. Clearly he had no desire to pester a busy abbot suffering from a headache. “We’ll stand right outside the door,” he mumbled. “You won’t take off with the monster,” he laughed nervously; then he pushed the heavy wooden bolt aside and permitted the hangman to pass. Kuisl took one of the torches from the wall and shuffled into the dark dungeon.
“May the Lord bless you,” he grumbled, “and shove your musket up your butt, you wise-ass dirty bastard,” he added softly enough that the guards outside couldn’t hear him.
As soon as the hangman entered the room, he was confronted with the sharp odor of old cheese and the stench of urine and other garbage. On shelves along the wall stood frayed baskets, and beneath them cowered a figure in a torn robe. When the ugly Nepomuk heard the sound of the sliding bolt, he was startled and struggled to his feet. His face was still swollen from the blows dealt by his pursuers. He blinked at his visitor with his good eye but wasn’t able to see much at first due to the sudden brightness.
“Are you sending me a father confessor already?” he croaked. “Then we can spare ourselves the annoyance of a trial, can’t we? It’s just as well. At least then I won’t be put on the rack before you burn me.”
“Nobody’s going to put you on the rack,” Kuisl whispered. “And somebody else will burn for this. I’ll see to that.”
“My God, Jakob,” he gasped. “Is it really you? After all these years? Then my prayers really have been heard.”
“If you keep shouting like that, you’ll soon be saying your last prayer,” Kuisl whispered. “For God’s sake, keep quiet before the two idiots out there become suspicious.” Without further explanation, he started murmuring words in a monotone.
“Ventram porcinum. Bene exinanies, aceto et sale, postea aqua lavas, et sie hanc impensam imples…”
Nepomuk Volkmar was puzzled. “Why are you giving me a recipe in Latin for cooking pig’s stomach?”
“Because that’s all that I can think of at the moment, numbskull,” Kuisl whispered. “It comes from a big old dog-eared volume in my attic. The watchmen think I’m taking your confession, so just keep your mouth shut.”
He kept mumbling for a while, speaking softer and softer until finally he fell silent. A broad grin spread over his face.
“You haven’t gotten any better looking in the last thirty years,” Kuisl finally said, pressing his friend to his broad chest in a warm embrace.
“And you’re not getting any thinner,” Nepomuk groaned. “And if you grab hold of me like that I won’t need a rack.” He lowered his head and started to sob softly. “But what difference does it make? If something doesn’t happen soon, it would be better if you just crushed me to death right now.”
Kuisl let him go and sat down on an overturned wooden crate. “You’re right,” he grumbled. “We don’t have much time for memories—we can do that later over a glass of wine when this is all finished. All right?” He smiled and beckoned Nepomuk to come closer. “But do tell me what happened. Remember that, if I’m to help you, I have to know the whole truth. Up to now all I know is what Magdalena tells me, and she sometimes piles it on pretty thick.”
Kuisl summarized in brief what his daughter and Simon had told him that noon. Then he looked expectantly at his friend, waiting for his reply. “Tell me, Nepomuk,” he growled. “Do you have anything to do with these murders? You know it is no disgrace to kill someone: the two of us have done that often enough. But the law was always on our side.” His face darkened. “The law, or the war.”
“Believe me, Jakob, I’m innocent, at least of these two murders.” Groaning, Nepomuk settled down on the floor and drew up his legs. “I don’t know who killed the two novitiates, but I have a dark suspicion.”
“Then speak up, or I’ll put you on the rack myself.”
The Brother passed his hands through the little hair remaining on his head and took a deep breath. Finally, he started to speak as Jakob sat back and listened quietly. “Brother Virgilius and I have had many discussions in recent years,” he whispered. “We have almost become friends, probably because we are interested in the same thing—the study of the unknown, the rejection of unproved hypotheses.” The monk smiled dreamily, then continued. “Did not God himself command us to subdue the earth? To do that, we first have to understand it. Even back then in the war, I kept taking notes in my little book—do you remember? Notes on the explosive force of gunpowder, the best way to reinforce trenches, a guillotine for painless decapitations… Unfortunately, no one was interested in my plans.”
“You were a lousy hangman, but a smart fellow,” Kuisl interjected with a grin. “Just a bit too much of a dreamer to kill. You would have made a good scholar, but unfortunately the Dear Lord had other plans for you.”
Nepomuk nodded. “Horrible job, hanging people. I thought the war would be a great equalizer, but then I was a damned executioner again, just like my father and grandfather before me.” He sighed deeply. “When I found a place to hide out here in the Andechs Monastery, I felt I had finally fulfilled my dreams. My work as an apothecary gave me the chance to study other things.” Nepomuk looked around and replied in a conspiratorial undertone. “Especially the studies of the tonitrua et fulgura.”
“Tonitrua et fulgura? Thunder and lightning, you mean?” Kuisl frowned. “What more is there to know about it?”
The Brother’s chuckle sounded like the bleating of an old billy goat. “Hah! Do you know how often lightning strikes up here on the Holy Mountain? Do you? Up to a dozen times a year. If you’re lucky, only a few shingles get scorched, but often a whole building goes up in flames, or the church tower. Twenty years ago a ball of lightning even whizzed through the church like the devil. God alone prevented worse from happening.” Nepomuk’s voice almost cracked. “The monks here ring a bell to ward off a storm in hopes it strikes somewhere else; they pray and sing, but no one has ever thought about how to banish lightning—to exorcise it.”
“Exorcise?” the hangman replied skeptically. “Now you really do sound like a warlock, Nepomuk.”
The Brother shook his head energetically. “You don’t understand, Jakob. Lightning is made harmless by attracting it to iron. That’s not witchcraft but proven truth. Even the pharaohs knew that in biblical times; I’ve read it in old parchment manuscripts; we’ve just forgotten how.”
A smile spread over Kuisl’s lips. “So that’s the reason for the iron bars you had in the forest with you. Magdalena told me about that.”
“I always go out in thunderstorms and set them up at certain elevated locations. It works, Jakob. Lightning is always attracted to them.” Nepomuk was now so wrapped up in his own words that he jumped up and had trouble keeping his voice down. “I had only a few more experiments to make, and I would be finished. A few days before the terrible fire in the church I tied iron bars like that up in the steeple with a wire leading down to the cemetery. I was sure I’d be able to channel the lightning down to earth, but unfortunately…” The Brother broke off and crouched down on the filthy floor, looking discouraged.
“Unfortunately that set fire to the whole church, you stupid ass,” Kuisl continued. “It’s no wonder your Brothers don’t have anything good to say about you.”
Nepomuk shook his head. “They… they just suspect something without really knowing. The only person I told about the experiment was Virgilius, who was excited about it and kept peppering me with questions. He thought there must be someone for whom my studies would have great value. When he started in on that again two days ago, I was afraid the abbot would learn the truth, so I just threw him out of the house. Virgilius ranted and raved.”
“The argument between you and the watchmaker.” Kuisl nodded. “I heard about that. That’s why the monks think you have something to do with his disappearance. In addition, they found your eyepiece at his house.”
“By God, I swear I don’t know how it got there. Maybe I left it lying somewhere and someone picked it up to lure Virgilius to his death.” Nepomuk held both hands over his swollen face as his entire body began to quiver. “And I have nothing to do with Virgilius’s disappearance. On my honor.”
“And that accursed automaton?” Kuisl added. “My daughter thinks she heard it somewhere down below the monastery. Do you know anything about that?”
Nepomuk shrugged. “I know only that this automaton was Virgilius’s favorite toy. If someone stole it, he’d first have to kill the builder—Virgilius would never part willingly with his Aurora.” He wrung his hands in despair. “Someone is out to get me, Jakob. You must help me. I’m more afraid than ever before in my life. You know yourself what I might be facing if I’m convicted of sorcery. First they’ll hang me, then disembowel and quarter me, and finally throw my bloody remains into the fire.” He looked at the hangman hopefully. “Before it gets to that, can you at least promise me quick, clean death? Promise?”
“Nobody’s going to die here if I don’t approve,” Kuisl growled. “My son-in-law told me they want to wait until after the Festival of the Three Hosts in order not to terrify the pilgrims, so we have a f
The Brother crossed himself, held up his hand, and swore. “By all the saints and the Virgin Mary, I promise to tell you the truth.”
“Then continue praying in a loud voice.” Kuisl stood up, pulled the cowl down over his head and turned to leave. “After all, we want our two bumpkins out there to think you’re on your way into the purifying fires of purgatory.”
“Isicia omentata. Pulpam concisam teres cum medulla siliginei in vino infusi…”
As the hangman continued mumbling Latin recipes, he pounded energetically on the door. In a moment the chubby watchman appeared to shove the bolt aside and let him out.
“Well, did he confess?” the fat man asked. “Did he stab the two youngsters to death, carry off the watchmaker, and copulate with the automaton?”
Kuisl stopped for a moment and stared back at the man from the darkness of his cowl. Suddenly the two watchmen had the terrifying feeling they were not talking to a father confessor, but the Grim Reaper in person.
“The devil tempts men in many ways,” said the gruff hangman. “But often he comes in a simple garb. He has no need of sulfur, horns, or a cloven foot, and he doesn’t have to make love to an automaton, you idiots. How stupid are you, anyway?”
Without another word, Kuisl shuffled out into the starry night.
In the meantime, Simon was on his way to the underworld.
The medicus had briefly looked in on the sick in the monastery annex who were still being cared for by Jakob Schreevogl. The young patrician had handled his task astonishingly well, enlisting a few of the Schongau group to help. Now a deceptive quiet prevailed in the provisional hospital, broken only by occasional coughs and moans. Two older women had died from the fever, and the medicus still couldn’t say what the origin of the illness was. It began with exhaustion and headaches, then fever and diarrhea followed. It affected everyone equally—strong adults as well as the elderly and children.