“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Amen.”
Now a broad-shouldered figure appeared between the trees holding a smoking musket in one hand and a burning lantern in the other. He wore a black habit and a hood drawn over his face. In the pouring rain, he looked like an angry forest spirit in search of poachers.
Finally, the stranger pushed back his hood. Simon found himself looking into the friendly face of a bald man with protruding ears, crooked teeth, and a bulbous nose furrowed with veins. He was probably the ugliest man Simon had ever seen.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Brother Johannes from the Andechs monastery,” said the fat monk, squinting at the three lost pilgrims. “Have you by chance seen any bloodroot growing nearby?”
Rain and cold sweat pouring down his face, the medicus was too exhausted to answer. He slid to the ground alongside the trunk of a beech, mumbling a little prayer of thanks.
Indeed, he’d have to dedicate another candle up on the Holy Mountain.
Half an hour later, the Schongau pilgrims, led by Brother Johannes, climbed the narrow path up to the monastery.
Everyone was filthy, their clothes ripped or tattered; some had suffered a few scratches and bruises. But otherwise they all appeared unharmed. Even the burgomaster’s horse showed up again. Right behind the fat monk, old Semer rode at the head of the procession, trying to make a dignified impression, an attempt that was not entirely successful, however, in view of his battered hat and muddy coat. In the meantime, the rain had turned to a steady drizzle as the storm moved east toward Lake Würm. The sound of thunder was faint and distant.
“We have you to thank, brother,” declared Karl Semer in a stately voice. “Had you not appeared, some of us would have gotten lost in the forest.”
“What a stupid plan to leave the road with a storm coming on and take the old path to the monastery,” grumbled Brother Johannes as he shifted a sack bulging with iron tools to his other shoulder. “You can count yourself lucky that I was out foraging for herbs, or the wolves and the lightning would have finished you off.”
“Considering the approaching darkness, I thought it was advisable to—uh—take the shorter route,” the burgomaster retorted. “I’ll admit that—”
“It certainly was a stupid idea.” Brother Johannes turned to the pilgrims and examined the large white pilgrimage candle that the carpenter was still holding in his callused hands.
“Damned heavy candle you have there,” he said, obviously impressed. “How far have you carried it?”
“We come from Schongau,” interjected Simon, who was just behind the monk with Magdalena. The medicus’s vest was filthy, the red rooster feathers on his new hat were bent, and his leather boots from Augsburg looked like they needed new soles. “We’ve been traveling for two days,” he continued wearily. “Yesterday, near Wessobrunn, we heard a pack of wolves howling, but they didn’t dare to attack us.”
Brother Johannes panted as he continued up the steep forest path, his lantern swinging back and forth like a will-o’-the-wisp. “You were very lucky,” he mumbled. “The beasts are getting fresher. In this area they’ve already killed two children and a woman. And to make matters worse, we are plagued by vagrants and murderous gangs.” He hastily crossed himself. “Deus nos protegat! May the Lord protect us in these uncertain times.”
In the meantime, the forest had thinned. Before them the Schongauers saw the warm and inviting lights of the small hamlet of Erling, located on a plateau at the foot of the Holy Mountain. Simon breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed Magdalena’s hand. They had reached their goal unharmed—a blessing not shared by all in these hard times. He fervently hoped their two children were well in Schongau. But he had no doubt they were, in view of the overflowing love of their grandparents.
“I hope you all have a place to stay,” Brother Johannes said. “Sleeping outside in the field on such damp June nights is unpleasant.”
“We Schongau council members are staying in the monastery guesthouse,” replied Burgomaster Semer coolly, pointing to his son and the patrician Jakob Schreevogl. “We’ve arranged for the others to be boarded with farmers in the area. After all, our journey is for the benefit of the community, isn’t it?”
Brother Johannes chuckled. His face, already lopsided, contorted into a grimace. Once again Simon couldn’t help noticing how ugly he was.
“If you mean the repair of the steeple, I must disappoint you,” the monk replied. “The farmers don’t give a damn about the condition of the monastery, but the abbot promised bread and meat to any resident of Erling who provides shelter to a needy mason or carpenter. So it shouldn’t cost you anything.”
Semer nodded contentedly and stroked his horse’s mane. “Thanks be to God,” he exclaimed. “I promise that if the Savior sends us good weather, the work on the church will be finished soon.”
The Festival of the Three Hosts, one of the largest pilgrimages in Bavaria, was still a week off, but Abbot Maurus Rambeck had sent messengers to pilgrims in the surrounding villages asking them to come early to the Holy Mountain. More than a month ago lightning had damaged the steeple of the monastery church. The roof truss had been destroyed, as well as a large part of the south nave. Many strong hands were needed to assure the festival could take place as planned. For this reason, the abbot had given the local craftsmen an indulgence for a year and good pay—an offer that a number of hungry men in the area were all too happy to accept. Along with the usual pilgrims, four masons and a carpenter had come from Schongau, and in Wessobrunn three plasterers joined their group.
“I myself am here—uh—on an urgent business matter,” Karl Semer declared. “But I’m sure this pious group will be quite happy to help you with the construction work,” he said, pointing to the bedraggled crowd from Schongau that had just begun singing an old church hymn.
In Erling, a number of windows and doors opened to reveal village residents who eyed the pilgrims suspiciously. A few dogs barked. These strangers could hardly expect a warm reception in town—too often strangers had brought death and destruction in recent decades. This time, at least, the villagers would be well compensated for the annoyance.
“What’s that light up there?” Magdalena asked, pointing to the monastery that towered above the village like the castle of a robber knight.
“A light?” Irritated, Brother Johannes stared back at her.
“The light up there in the steeple. Didn’t you just say the tower had been destroyed in the fire? There’s a light burning there, though.”
Now Simon, too, looked up to the steeple. Indeed, a tiny light flickered above the nave just where the lightning had struck the belfry four weeks ago—more than just a weak glimmer. When the medicus looked more closely, however, the light had vanished.
Johannes shielded his eyes and squinted. “I can’t see anything,” he said finally. “Probably sheet lightning. In any case, no one is up there; it would be much too dangerous in the dark. Much of the tower has already been rebuilt, but the roof truss and the stairs are still in bad shape.” He shrugged. “Anyway, why would anyone be up there at this time of night? To enjoy the view?” Although he laughed briefly, Simon sensed the laugh was fake. The monk’s eyes seemed to flicker before turning to the other pilgrims.
“I suggest you all spend tonight in the big barn on the Groner farm. Tomorrow we’ll send you out to individual towns and houses. And now, good night.” Brother Johannes rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I hope very much my young assistant has prepared the carp with watercress that I’m so fond of. Saving lost pilgrims makes one terribly hungry.”
With the three aldermen, he stomped off toward the monastery and disappeared in the darkness.
“And now?” Simon asked Magdalena after a while. The other Schongauers had marched off praying and singing to the newly built barn next to the tavern.
Again the hangman’s daughter stared up at the dark belfry; then she rubbed her hand over her face as if she were trying to shake a bad dream.
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“What else? We’ll go where we belong.” Sullenly she walked ahead of Simon toward the village outskirts where a single little house stood at the edge of the forest. The roof was holey and covered with moss and ivy, and a rickety cart by the door gave off a smell of decay. “Unlike the other pilgrims, at least we know someone here.”
“But who?” Simon muttered. “A mangy knacker and distant relative of your father. Isn’t that just great?” He held his breath as Magdalena walked determinedly to the crooked door of the Erling knacker’s house and knocked. Once again Simon thanked God they’d left the two little ones with their grandfather in Schongau.
A light flared up again in the belfry. Like a huge evil eye, it shined out again into the night, searching for something in the forests of the Kien River valley.
Oliver Pötzsch, The Beggar King
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