The Poisoned Pilgrim by Oliver Pötzsch
“My father has always found a solution to everything,” Magdalena replied. “Be happy we have him.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Suddenly Simon’s face brightened. “At least now I know a bit more about this sickness. I visited the apothecary again this morning to get some medicine. The prior and his people really turned everything upside down trying to find some witch’s herbs. Thank God they didn’t touch the rest.” He grinned. “In Nepomuk’s cupboard I found Jesuit’s powder, among other things—really the best medicine for lowering a fever. Of course there are other uses for it… Then, look what I discovered among his books.” The medicus pulled out a heavy leather-bound volume. “Voilà! This huge book is by a certain Girolamo Fracastoro, and it describes quite clearly the symptoms we see here—exhaustion, headaches, fever—but also the red dots on the chest and the grayish color of the tongue.”
“Does your Signore Fracasomethingorother say anything about how to cure this sickness?”
“Alas, research hasn’t reached that point yet, but—”
“I’m afraid your explanations will have to wait a bit,” Magdalena interrupted. “One look at my father’s face tells me he certainly doesn’t want to talk with us about medicine.” She pointed at the door, where Jakob Kuisl had just appeared. Like a great ship at sea, the hangman plowed his way through the low-ceilinged room toward them, looking very out-of-sorts.
“We’ve got to talk,” Kuisl growled. “Something unexpected has happened, and I’m sure it has to do with these murders.”
A quarter hour later, Simon and Magdalena sat on a wall not far from the infirmary while the hangman paced restlessly in front of them. He told them briefly about the theft of the three hosts and the conversation he’d overheard in the chapel. To the casual pilgrim passing by, he looked just like an ill-tempered monk lecturing two pilgrims.
“That’s dreadful,” Magdalena gasped. “If the hosts don’t turn up by the time of the festival, people will surely assume they were stolen by the golem. All of Andechs will look like a witch’s cauldron.”
“I assume that’s exactly what this insane murderer wants,” Simon replied.
Magdalena looked at him questioningly. “Do you think there’s any connection between the two murders, the disappearance of Virgilius, and the theft of the hosts?”
“That would fit in very well with the plans of our unknown evil-doer,” Simon replied with a shrug. “This devil clearly wants to sow panic among the pilgrims: first the murders and the automaton and now the theft. The only question remaining is what this madman is trying to accomplish.”
Kuisl stopped pacing and wiped the sweat from his brow beneath the hood. “Sow panic? I’m not so sure of that,” he grumbled. “Maybe this is all about something quite different. Don’t forget, Virgilius said someone was interested in those damned experiments with lightning. I, in any case—”
“Shh,” Magdalena squeezed her father’s hand and pointed furtively toward the end of the street where two more pilgrims had just appeared: the Schongau burgomaster, Karl Semer, and his son. The older patrician headed straight for Simon, ignoring the two others. At the last minute Kuisl was able to pull the hood far down over his face.
“Fronwieser, it’s good I found you here,” the burgomaster began in a condescending tone. “I’m sure you completely misunderstood me in our conversation two days ago.” With a broad smile Semer reached out to him, but Simon declined to shake hands.
“Well, in any case,” Semer continued, smoothing his jacket awkwardly with his hand. “Have you spoken with the abbot recently? His Excellency refuses to see me, and Count Wartenberg also seems quite annoyed. First he comes late to the mass, then he leaves before it’s over, slamming the door behind him. Do you have any idea what’s happened?”
Simon folded his arms in front of his chest. “I’m sorry, but I’m fully occupied with the infirmary,” he replied in a flat voice. “I really can’t help you with that.”
Semer sighed. “If you can’t help me, perhaps you can help my son,” he said, pointing to Sebastian, who was standing at his side, his eyes flashing in anger. Clearly Sebastian was suffering even more than his father from having to beg for a favor.
“My son will soon take over the business in Schongau—the business, and no doubt my position on the council,” Karl Semer said in a whining voice. “If you help me, it could work out to your advantage, Fronwieser.” There was suddenly something threatening in his voice. “But if the deal with the count falls through, if my investments in the upcoming festival should be a loss, then…” He paused dramatically. “I can make your life very difficult, mister bathhouse surgeon. Taxes, the permission to practice, a license from the town… Do you have such a license, Master Fronwieser?”
“You have the gall to threaten us?” Magdalena snarled. “A lot of other people have tried the same thing.” Her voice was now so loud that some of the passing pilgrims turned around. “Just remember, Semer,” the hangman’s daughter continued in a softer voice, “someday you, too, will need the help of a doctor, and God forbid that my husband gives you the wrong medicine.”
“Quiet, hangman’s girl.” The burgomaster didn’t even deign to look at her but stared off into the distance. “Brood of vipers. A woman like you should be thankful she’s allowed to marry a bathhouse surgeon. In other places, they would put you in the pillory or burn you at the stake for saying things like that. So what do you say, Fronwieser?” Jutting his chin out aggressively, he turned back to Simon. “Are you going to see to it that the judge holds a speedy trial for the demonic apothecary so that peace and quiet return here? Or would you rather be chased out of town with your dishonorable and querulous woman?”
Simon was preparing a harsh response when he heard a loud cracking next to him. He looked to the side and noted in horror that his father-in-law was clenching his fists so hard his knuckles had turned white. Beneath the hood Kuisl looked like the very personification of the Grim Reaper just before he swings his scythe.
My God, Kuisl, calm down, Simon was thinking. If Semer recognizes you now, it’s all over. Then we’ll have another trial, and the Weilheim hangman will punish his own colleague.
The Schongau burgomaster seemed to have noticed Simon’s gaze. Annoyed, he looked over at the huge monk with the hood drawn down over his head, and frowned. “Have we met before?” Karl Semer asked. “I’ve never seen you in the monastery. Such a large man would have caught my attention.”
“An itinerant Minorite helping me with my patients,” Simon stammered before Kuisl could reply. “Brother Ja… Jakobus,” he corrected himself quickly. “A great healer. We thank God we have him.”
The mayor continued staring at the silent monk. “Strange,” Semer murmured. “I think I’ve seen your healer somewhere before.” He turned to his son. “What do you think?”
Sebastian Semer shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know. All these monks look the same to me.”
“So be it.” Finally Karl Semer turned back to Simon and Magdalena. He seemed to have already forgotten the Minorite underneath the hood. “But think it over carefully before you pick a fight with me, Fronwieser,” he threatened again. “Up to now the Schongau council has approved your bathhouse, but that can quickly change. What would they say in Munich if they found out that the Schongau bathhouse surgeon married a dishonorable woman and he didn’t even have the proper permits?”
Simon pretended to concede. “Very well,” he sighed. “You’ve won. I’ll speak with the abbot. But now I really must go to take care of my patients.”
“Fine, fine.” Karl Semer smiled thinly. “I see we understand each other. I’ll come back tonight. And now, farewell.” Then he pointed at Magdalena in disgust. “One day I’m going to order the father of this hussy to cut out her tongue before she gets you all in a lot of trouble.”
Magdalena started angrily, but Simon managed to quiet her with a severe glance.
“I’ll… I’ll see to it myself that she’s a little more careful with
“That’s all right, then.” With a slight nod, old Semer turned to leave with his son but suddenly turned back to Simon. “Ah, Fronwieser, it just occured to me…” he began hesitantly. “Didn’t you say your father-in-law would be coming to Andechs? I haven’t seen him yet. Has he arrived?”
Simon froze, but tried to keep his voice as calm as possible. “His… his wife is unfortunately too ill. He’ll no doubt have to remain in Schongau.”
A narrow smile spread across his face. “That’s a shame,” he replied. “A pilgrimage would surely have done the stubborn old fellow some good. It teaches you humility, don’t you think? Everyone needs to know his place in life.”
Without waiting for an answer, the burgomaster disappeared through a small door in the wall, leaving Magdalena seething with rage and her father grinding his teeth so loud it gave Simon goose bumps. Beneath the hood, Kuisl’s face was ashen.
“Damn patricians,” the hangman murmured. “They think we are nothing but dirt. I pray for the day when I get one of them on the rack.”
“You coward,” Magdalena glared at Simon. “Are you my husband, or what? Why did you cave in to that fat old moneybags?”
“Because I was trying to avoid a bloodbath, you silly goose,” Simon whispered. “Can’t you understand that? If a fight had broken out, your father would have killed old Semer in one blow and wound up on the scaffold. Damn! Why do you Kuisls always have to be so stubborn?”
Magdalena fell silent but looked at him defiantly while her father laughed softly. Evidently he’d calmed down a bit.
“You’re right, Simon,” he growled. “You probably just saved Semer’s life—and mine.”
Kuisl strolled toward the exit of the infirmary. “Brother Jakobus,” he laughed. “An itinerant Minorite and healer. Simon, Simon, where did you ever learn to make up stuff like that?” Grinning, he beckoned to the others to follow. “And now your Brother Jakobus will show you how to mix a really good potion for a fever—not the kind of trash a lousy bathhouse surgeon throws together.”
A few hours later Magdalena was frolicking about with her children in one of the many fields of flowers near the monastery. Peter was chasing after a butterfly while his younger brother romped about, pulling up wild flowers and herbs and sticking them in his mouth as his mother watched carefully to make sure none of them was poisonous.
Magdalena breathed in the fragrance of the summer breezes, trying to forget all the worries of the last few days. Simon and her father were still sitting in the knacker’s cottage, brooding over the theft of the three hosts. Her father seemed obsessed with plans to rescue his friend Nepomuk, forgetting everything else, including his two grandsons.
Peter and Paul had been tugging at their grandfather’s jacket for some time, but when he didn’t take them in his lap or toss them in the air, even after they’d pestered him a while, they started in on their mother. Magdalena finally gave up with a sigh and took them outdoors. The walk, she realized, was just what she needed.
Humming softly to herself, she strolled along the forest edge with the children, pointing out a spotted woodpecker and amusing the children by tossing pinecones at a few startled squirrels. The children’s laughter was infectious, and Magdalena felt really happy for the first time in days.
But then she remembered the cutting words of the Schongau burgomaster. “Hush, hangman’s girl.”
Karl Semer had called her a hussy and spoke of a den of vipers. To him she was just an impertinent, dishonorable slut moving in social circles far above her proper place in life. Semer had respect for Magdalena’s father—and probably even some fear—but to him the hangman’s daughter was nothing more than a whore. Full of trepidation, Magdalena thought about what things would be like once her father was gone. Would the Schongauers chase her out of town?
Paul’s cries startled her from her reveries. He had fallen on a slippery, mossy stone and cut his knee. While Magdalena tried to console him, she took him in her arms and looked around for the older boy. Her heart skipped a beat.
Peter had disappeared.
Frantically, Magdalena scanned the meadow and the forest edge, but the boy had vanished.
“Peter!” she shouted, over the wailing of her younger son. “Peter, where are you? Are you hiding?”
Somewhere a jay was calling, bees were humming, and her youngest child was whining, but otherwise there was just silence. Magdalena could feel herself breathing faster.
“Peter!” she shouted again, running into the woods. “This isn’t a game anymore. Are you in here somewhere? Your mom is looking for you.”
Clutching her youngest son in her arms, she staggered over some roots, moving deeper and deeper into trees, swallowed up by the forest as if by a silent army of giants. Suddenly she stopped: directly in front of her was a steep, almost vertical slope leading down into the earth. Below she could see rocks, wilted leaves, and dead branches.
Oh God! the thought flashed through her mind. Don’t let him have fallen down there.
For a brief moment, she thought she saw the body of her son lying like a broken doll among the branches. With relief she realized it was just a rotted branch, but then the anxiety returned. If Peter was not down there, how and why had he disappeared?
Had the golem snatched him?
Magdalena clenched her lips, trying not to scream. Simon, and her father, too, had told her that golems didn’t exist, but so many things had happened in the last few days that she herself would have never thought possible. Her heart was pounding so fast now that even little Paul looked at her anxiously.
“Mama?” he asked cautiously. “Mama is crying?”
Magdalena shook her head. “Peter…” she said as calmly and gently as possible, “he’s gone. We have to look for him. Will you help me look?”
“Peter with the man?” Paul asked. His mother looked at him, not understanding. He asked again, “Peter with the big man?”
“With what big man?” For a moment, Magdalena was so horrified she nearly dropped the boy. “Tell me, Paul, what man are you talking about?”
“The nice man. He has sweet berries.”
“Oh, God.” Magdalena’s voice turned shrill. “Dammit, Paul! Who was the man who gave you the berries?”
“There, the man there.” He pointed to the bottom of the slope where a rock stood almost as tall as a man. Behind it, the laughter of a child could be heard, and in the next moment, Peter appeared, beaming with joy, sitting atop someone’s shoulders.
It was the mute Matthias.
Magdalena felt a huge weight fall from her shoulders and relieved tears run down her cheeks as she burst into laughter. How could she ever have imagined a monster had taken off with her son? This monastery was driving her crazy.
“Ah, that man, you mean,” she said, waving to Peter and Matthias. Peter’s trousers were dirty and covered with wet leaves and his shirt had a rip in it, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Cheerily he waved back.
“Mama!” he cried out. “Here I am, Mama. I fell down, but the man helped me.”
“You… you little brat.” Magdalena exploded. She was trying to sound strict despite her relief. “Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to run away from me? Just look at you.”
“The man helped me,” Peter replied calmly, and Matthias let out a loud grunt in greeting. Once again, as Magdalena looked down at the silent knacker’s helper, she was impressed at how handsome he was. With his strawberry blond hair and wide chest, he looked almost like Saint Christopher carrying the baby Jesus on his shoulders.
“It doesn’t matter who it is,” Magdalena chided as she looked for a safe place to climb down the slope with Paul in her arms. “Tonight you’re going to bed without your sweet porridge, do you hear?”
Finally she arrived at a somewhat flatter spot, where she could slowly slide down the gentle slope on slippery leaves. When she got to the bottom, she found Matthias grinning. He bowed slightly so she
“You’re never going to run away from me again, do you hear?” she scolded, holding him close to her bosom. “Never again.”
Silent Matthias was still grinning at her. Then he reached down into his trouser pocket and fetched out a prune, which he held under her nose. Only now did Magdalena notice that the mouth of her oldest child was smeared with prune juice.
“Ah, now I understand,” she laughed. “You fell down here and Matthias cheered you up by feeding you prunes. It’s no wonder I didn’t hear a word from you—how could I, when your mouth was full of sweets?”
Peter snatched the sweet fruit from his mother’s hands and ate it hungrily. When Peter’s little brother started to cry, Matthias gave him a prune, too, and Paul at once put it in his mouth.
Together they walked along the slope past moss-covered rocks and beeches whose green foliage glimmered in the sun. After recovering from her fright, Magdalena felt almost born again. Now little Paul was riding on Matthias’s shoulders while Peter walked alongside holding his hand. The children seemed to really like the silent journeyman. Matthias pointed out birds in the forest, tossed leaves through the air so they came fluttering down like rain, and made funny faces that sent the children into fits of laughter. Magdalena couldn’t help but smile.
I hope Simon never hears about this, she thought. I can’t remember the last time he made the children laugh like this. He just doesn’t have enough time for them.
After a while, they came to a group of rocks that looked like the remains of a circular foundation. Behind these a kind of rocky spire rose up. Peter let go of the man’s hand, ran toward the rocks, and started to climb up. Once on top, he tiptoed around the edge… but then suddenly stopped, as if rooted to the spot.
“What’s the matter, Peter?” Magdalena asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Up there, Mama.” Peter pointed at another large rock that, in the distance, looked like the giant head of a troll. The child’s voice now sounded soft and anxious. “Look, Mama. There’s the witch again. I’m afraid of the witch.”