The Poisoned Pilgrim by Oliver Pötzsch
One that men would long remember.
In the calm before the storm, the first claps of thunder sounded loud enough to burst the world apart. The sound rolled across the land, whistled through the trees, and battered the walls of the monastery.
Then the rain came.
Count Leopold von Wartenberg stood atop the stairway holding his head erect and watching as his soldiers tied up the two stunned monks. When the bailiffs finally turned to Kuisl and his daughter, the count raised his hand. Suspiciously he stared down at the Schongau hangman.
“At first I thought these scoundrels had found two willing accomplices for their counterfeiting scheme,” he said softly, as if to himself. “But now I remember how the Schongau burgomaster just today told me how angry he was with his hangman. The hangman, he said, was here on the Holy Mountain despite his dishonorable station, and had been caught snooping around in the monastery. This afternoon, he threw one of the hunters into the gorge while trying to flee.” The count raised an eyebrow and looked Kuisl over from head to foot. “From his description, you could be the hangman. Is that true?”
Kuisl folded his arms in front of his broad chest. “I am the one, but I have nothing to do with the dark deeds of these charlatans. I’m only looking for my grandchildren.”
Grinning, the count turned to his soldiers. “Did you hear that? He’s only looking for his grandchildren. Unfortunately the sweet little things have lost their way in the subterranean passageways—the same ones, by chance, in which the counterfeiters were up to no good.” The guards roared, but Count Wartenberg interrupted their laughter with an abrupt gesture. “Nonsense. Do you really think I’ll fall for these lies, hangman?”
“But it’s the truth,” Magdalena interrupted. “My children were abducted by this sorcerer. They’re probably still down here somewhere and—”
“Just a moment,” the count said, raising his hand for silence. “What is all this talk about a sorcerer? If there really is one, then it’s this apothecary waiting to be burned at the stake in Weilheim. Who are you, anyway, woman?”
Magdalena straightened up in anger and stuck out her chin. “I’m Magdalena of Schongau,” she replied coolly. “Daughter of the hangman Jakob Kuisl and wife of the bathhouse surgeon Simon Fronwieser. People say we’re dishonorable, but we do have names.”
“Fronwieser?” For the first time there was a note of astonishment in the count’s voice. “The Fronwieser who cured my son?”
Magdalena smiled wanly. “I’m happy to hear that the little lad is doing better.”
“Well, he’s not cured yet, but the fever is actually going down. Unfortunately I had to leave his bedside a few hours ago on account of these gallows birds.” Wartenberg slowly descended the stairs. The two Benedictines were now lying on the ground, tied up, the guards’ boots pressing their faces into the dirt so they could hardly breathe. The crossbow bolt was still protruding from Brother Jeremias’s upper arm.
“For years we’ve known that something fishy was going on with the Andechs relics,” the count continued as he examined the tables loaded with cheap metal and the encrusted crucible. “There were rumors, stories, but no proof. Nevertheless, we Wittelsbachs couldn’t allow the electorate’s greatest treasure, which actually belongs to us, to be drained off through dubious channels. The elector asked me to look into this, but I couldn’t find anything in the holy chapel, nor could I the second time I asked to be admitted. But then I discovered a map in the librarian’s cell…”
Brother Benedikt’s head quickly shot up. His cheeks were smeared with mud, and blood ran down over his face, but beneath it all, his eyes flashed wildly.
“So you stole my map,” he hissed. “I thought the sorcerer did, but it was just one of you Wittelsbach snoops.”
“Silence, monk!” The count kicked the old man in the side so that he gasped and writhed about. “Think instead about what the Weilheim executioner will be doing with you soon. The punishment for falsifying relics is torture on the rack, but if you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll make sure Master Hans pulls out your guts first.” He pointed at the lifeless Brother Eckhart whose head lay in a pool of blood. “Your friend can count himself lucky to be spared all this.”
Brother Benedikt coughed but remained silent. The prior who lay tied up next to him seemed to have already resigned himself to his fate, closing his eyes tightly as if he were already in another world. He murmured a Latin prayer as the blood oozed out of his wound and formed a dark stain on his robe.
“I’ll admit the map made me curious,” Wartenberg continued without bothering to look at either of the monks anymore. “So I went looking until I finally found the underground passage leading from the beer cellar to this place. And what did I find at the end? A huge counterfeiting workshop. All I needed to do was to catch the perpetrators in the act. When they slipped away and came down here, we followed them. But two other people were here…”
Now he turned back to Magdalena and her father. “Your husband, this little bathhouse surgeon, did good work, hangman’s daughter,” he said. “For this reason, I’m prepared to listen to you. Also because I want to know how you got here without our noticing it. But be brief and think carefully about what you say.”
“Damn it, I’ll do that if only for the sake of my children, you pompous ass,” she murmured softly enough that only her father beside her could hear. Then in a much louder voice she continued: “The apothecary Brother Johannes is innocent. The real sorcerer is somewhere down below.”
Briefly she told him about the ransom note she’d received from the unknown person, and about the search through the underground passages.
“This man abducted my children because he’s afraid we were on his trail,” she concluded. “He’s probably still down there with them. Please, you must help us!”
Leopold von Wartenberg looked at her suspiciously, without a trace of sympathy. “So… a mysterious sorcerer is haunting these passageways,” he finally said smugly. “What in the world do you think this unknown devil is trying to accomplish with his murders?”
“We don’t yet know what his plan is,” she replied, “but his victims stood in his way, and they knew something he didn’t want to come to light.” She stepped up to the count and looked at him, pleading. “Please let your men come along with us, and let’s go back down again. My children’s lives are at stake. You have a child yourself.”
Leopold von Wartenberg paused and seemed to be considering what she’d said. He closed his eyes and rubbed his nostrils for a while before replying. “It’s not so simple. I need my soldiers to take these scoundrels away. Besides, there’s an enormous storm raging up there at present, and I need all hands to react promptly to any possible fires. It’s almost as if hell itself has opened its doors—”
“Good Lord in Heaven, a thunderstorm?”
Leopold von Wartenberg looked indignantly at the hangman who had so rudely interrupted him. But Kuisl remained undeterred. “You spoke of a thunderstorm,” the hangman continued brashly. “Is it an especially violent one? Tell me!”
“It’s the most violent one I’ve seen in years,” the count replied, looking Kuisl up and down like a strange, exotic animal. “The lightning bolts are striking like cannonballs all around the monastery, and we can only pray they don’t set fire to any of the roofs. Why do you ask?”
“The lightning bolts,” Kuisl exclaimed excitedly. “This all has something to do with lightning. This madman wanted to learn more about lightning from Nepomuk. He stole Nepomuk’s sketches, and down in the corridors below we read about lightning again.”
He fetched the sorcerer’s tattered notebook from his pack and began to leaf through it furiously. Finally he let out a raucous shout. “We were so foolish,” he cried. “So damned stupid! Why didn’t we see this before?”
“What are you talking about?” Magdalena asked, perplexed. Her father simply held the book open for her to see. There, she recognized a humanoid figure attached to wires that ended in jagge
Credo, ergo sum.
“I believe, therefore I am,” Magdalena murmured.
“Think back,” her father said softly, “to the first time you were up in the steeple. That strange apparatus. Didn’t it look something like what you see in the sketches?”
“You’re right.” Magdalena once again examined the lines in the drawing. “It looked like that. But why—”
“What does all this mean?” the count interrupted impatiently. “What kind of book is this and what are you talking about, hangman?”
“Virgilius!” Kuisl cried out. “The automaton builder. He’s trying to use lightning to bring his blasted puppet back to life.”
“What do you mean…? What puppet?” Wartenberg asked, confused.
“My God, is everyone here so dense? The automaton that disappeared with him, of course. Virgilius took it along and now probably believes he can bring it back to life. It must have something to do with those damned hosts. Evidently he needs them to complete his experiment.”
The hangman pointed excitedly at the pages of the open book. “Credo, ergo sum… I believe, therefore I am. Virgilius evidently thinks that belief in the hosts, together with the lightning, can breathe life back into his clattering, squeaking automaton. What a lot of goddamned madness.”
“But father, that… that can’t be true,” Magdalena interrupted, confused. “Virgilius is dead. Simon himself saw his body beside the well in the cemetery.”
“Your husband saw a burned body and, beside it, the walking stick of the poor victim. But was it really Virgilius? Think about that, child.” Kuisl shook his head grimly and burst out laughing. Magdalena felt how the sudden revelations made her head spin. “Do you mean he… he wanted us to believe he was dead?” she gasped. “Just as he wanted us to believe he’d been abducted?”
Kuisl nodded. “He abducted himself in order to get his hands on those accursed hosts. He knew his brother would only give him the hosts if he played some sort of trick on him. The severed finger probably came from a corpse, perhaps even from Vitalis, just to frighten Maurus a bit. Everything was planned from the very start. When Virgilius noticed we were closing in on him, he faked his own death to divert suspicion.” The hangman rubbed his huge nose, lost in thought. “The fresh grave that Simon and I discovered at the cemetery, the footprints in the ground—everything fits. Virgilius himself dug up the dead monk, burned him with phosphorus until he was almost unrecognizable, and threw him into the well. The footprints beside the grave were his own. And…” He hesitated a moment to give the count a chance to say something.
“Do I understand this all correctly? This watchmaker only pretended he’d been abducted?” Wartenberg asked, skeptically. “And now he’s prowling around somewhere down in those passageways?”
“That damned Virgilius,” screeched the librarian, lying fettered on the floor. “I always knew he would bring misfortune to the monastery. If we’d only taken over the monastery sooner, we would have long gotten rid of that fellow. The only one still standing up for him was the abbot.”
“Your opinion is of no importance here,” the count snapped, signaling to one of the guards. “Take these two to the same dungeon the apothecary was in. They’ll have until morning there to think about the agony that still awaits them. I’ll be along soon.”
The bailiffs seized the monks under the arms and dragged them up the stairway like sacks of flour.
“Please, Your Excellency,” Magdalena said, “give us at least two of your men to help look for my children down below. I know they’re down there somewhere.”
“Magdalena, remember what the count just said,” her father interrupted. “Up above the very storm is raging that Virgilius was trying to conjure up in his book. He has the hosts, he has the automaton, and believe me, he’s somewhere out there. And if I were him, I’d take the children along. There are no better hostages for his plan.”
“And… how about my husband?” Magdalena could feel tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh, God, I just don’t know what to do.”
By now two of the guards had disappeared in the corridor with the ranting librarian and the softly praying prior. A long silence settled over the group. Finally the hangman spoke.
“Your Excellency,” he began. It was immediately clear to Magdalena how difficult it was for him to say these words. “I beg you, not for my sake, but for the sake of my family: send your remaining men down there to check. With your permission, my daughter and I will go up above where the storm is raging.”
“Damn it!” Magdalena burst out. “How often do I have to tell you, you can’t tell me what to do. I’m going down below. I know that Simon and the children are down there.”
“And I tell you, you’re coming with me, and at once.”
The count raised his hand. “For heaven’s sake, just stop fighting. All right, I agree. You can have two of my men to go down there and look around, even if I put no faith in all these ghost stories.”
“Thank you, thank you, Your Excellency.” Magdalena bowed slightly and hurried back to the hole that led down below. “Let’s not lose any time.”
“Damn it, I said you’re coming with me,” the hangman growled. “I’m still your father, so stop contradicting me all the time.”
But Magdalena had already crawled down into the hole. The two guards stood on the staircase looking uncertainly at the Wittelsbach count.
“What’s the matter with you?” Wartenberg asked. “Are you rooted to the spot? Follow that crazy woman right now.” Then he turned to Kuisl with a grin. “You should have disciplined your daughter better when she was a child, but now it’s probably too late. She’s a damned stubborn girl.”
“It runs in the family,” Kuisl grumbled as he climbed the stairs from the keep with a shrug. “When she comes out from down there, I’ll give her a good spanking. Now let’s head back to the surface before Virgilius rides away on a lightning bolt, never to be seen again.”
Gradually Simon could feel strength returning to his limbs. Though his arms and legs itched as if a thousand ants were crawling over them and his heart raced, he tried not to move. It wasn’t clear what Virgilius would do with him if he realized his victim was not as defenseless as he thought. Simon’s children still clung to the motionless, stiff body of their father, staring wide-eyed at the strange hunchback before them.
Simon was still trying to figure out how he could have been so easily deceived. The burned corpse in the cemetery well wasn’t Virgilius, but the monk from the third fresh grave. The watchmaker had set out the bait for them, and they had swallowed it.
The handkerchief with Aurora’s monogram. Virgilius himself must have dropped it there. The footprints were his own. Why had Simon been so foolish as to believe in golems and witchcraft?
Now the watchmaker dissolved the hosts in a glass and poured the cloudy water into a small bottle. He studied it, absorbed in thought.
“Voilà! This is what I call the true aqua vitae, the water of life,” he murmured. “A potion as strong as dreams, fears, and the desires of thousands of pilgrims. The sacred hosts have been venerated for many centuries, infused with the faith of generations of pilgrims. These crushed wafers are the focal point of one of Europe’s greatest pilgrimage sites.”
Virgilius laughed under his breath, shaking the bottle so the tiny crumbs in the water began to dance. “Isn’t this amazing? Actually it’s no more than baked flour, as lifeless as all the other relics. Rusty pieces of metal, worthless bones, and spotted old shrouds that have almost crumbled to dust. But we humans breathe new life into them through of our faith.” Longingly he turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “How many years have I been searching in vain for the key to bringing back my Aurora. Just yesterday in the monastery library I came upon an ancient book dealing with conjuring golems and creating life. I made copies, studied numerology, the Talmud… and finally I understood.”
Virgilius leaned o
“Do you know how rabbis instilled life into their mud and clay golems?” the monk whispered, bending down farther over Simon’s twitching face. “They placed a piece of paper inscribed with the name of God in their mouths. Then they recited the last paragraph from the story of creation.” The monk closed his eyes as if praying. “And God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living soul,” he recited softly.
Virgilius stood up again, giggling. “Do you understand? Only God, not man, can perform this miracle. But we can help. The Jews understood this far earlier than we Christians. I’ve studied the scriptures and written my own book. Now, finally, I know what to do.”
Humming, he walked over to a closed chest, opened it, and pulled out a silk cape and a bonnet decorated with artificial flowers. Lovingly he placed the cape over Aurora’s shoulders and fastened the bonnet atop her wig.
“The great day is at hand, Aurora,” he whispered solemnly. “How long have I waited for this. Faith and science, the lightning and the hosts—together they’ll create new life.” He pulled out a comb and proceeded to tenderly brush his automaton’s hair. Smiling awkwardly under its bonnet, the puppet offered no resistance.
“That stubborn apothecary didn’t want to listen”—he mumbled as if to himself—“and didn’t want to tell me anything more about his experiments with lightning. So I decided to steal his notes and study them in peace. I told Vitalis about my plans, but that stupid apothecary’s assistant Coelestin was watching us up in the tower. The nosy little weasel was watching us experiment with wire and a dead goat.” The watchmaker’s frantic movements became even more erratic as some of the puppet’s stuffing started coming out.