The Werewolf of Bamberg

  “Holy Mother of God!” he wailed. “Now we’ve angered the heavens as well with your heretical scholarly words. Will this madness ever cease?”

  Up in the old castle, three other guards experienced the worst nightmares of their lives that night.

  Outside it was cold and damp, and the guards had decided to while away the hours of their shift in a friendly game of dice in the guardhouse. The captain was down below in Geyerswörth Castle, and the second in command had the job of guarding the bishop’s palace. So who was there to tell them they couldn’t enjoy one or two little games and a well-deserved beer?

  “Here’s to fat Jonas and the kid, freezing their asses off out at the gate,” said red-haired Josef with a grin, lifting his mug. Earlier, he’d been able to get hold of a keg of strong, malt-flavored Märzen beer. “Brrr, on a night like this I’m glad at least I didn’t pull guard duty down in the cathedral square.”

  “Do you think there’s really a werewolf prowling around out there?” asked the second guard, a pale, pasty-faced fellow whose eyes kept flitting anxiously back and forth.

  “Hah, I’ll bet you’re shitting in your pants, Eberhard.” With a loud laugh, Josef wiped the beer foam from his lips. “Haven’t you heard? We have the werewolf in custody, and he won’t attack anyone now.” He lowered his voice. “But just between us, if you ask me, this fellow in St. Thomas’s is no werewolf. Just look at him—such a wimp, crying his eyes out and praying to all the saints. And you think that’s a werewolf? I’ll eat my dick if—”

  He stopped short on hearing a sharp knock at the door.

  “I hope to hell that isn’t the captain checking things out,” grumbled Manfred, who, as the eldest, was in charge. A former mercenary in the Great War, Manfred had known some tough taskmasters, and Captain Martin Lebrecht, though considered very cordial, was known to be a snoop. He had this special unit you could be assigned to at any time . . .

  “Quick, hide the dice and the keg,” he ordered in a whisper. Then he went to the door, slid back the bolt, and carefully pressed the door handle. A cold blast of air ripped the door open, but there was no one there.

  “Is someone there?” Manfred called out into the darkness. When there was no answer, he turned back to his buddies with a grin. “It’s probably just fat Jonas trying to play a trick on us. Just wait, I’m going out to whip his fat ass. I’ll be right back.”

  He stomped out and was soon swallowed up in the darkness. For a while, the two others heard his footsteps; then there was a thud, and something fell clattering to the ground.

  “What . . . what was that?” Eberhard asked anxiously.

  “Aw, probably just the wind,” Josef replied. “What else could it be?” But his voice sounded far less confident than before. “Manfred?” he called loudly. “Manfred? Hey, damn it, where are you?”

  With a groan, Josef stood up, straightened his armor, and staggered to the door, muttering a stream of dark threats. “I’m telling you, if you guys down at the gate are messing around with us, you’ve got something coming to you. I’ll stick my halberd into you where the sun don’t shine, and then—”

  He’d just reached the open door when a huge, black shadow swooped down like a bird, pulled him to one side, and disappeared with him into the night. Moments later there was a muffled cry, followed by a gurgling sound, and then silence. Everything happened so fast that Eberhard only now comprehended what he’d just seen. He held his hand to his mouth, trembling.

  Good Lord in heaven, the shadow had a fur pelt. A wolf’s pelt.

  Now he heard the sounds of steps approaching the door.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Eberhard dug his fingers into the top of the table as an enormous beast entered the room. It was so large it had to stoop to get through the door. All the light in the room came from a single flickering candle, and Eberhard could only guess at the size of the monster, but he saw claws, he saw the fur, and he saw the head of a wolf.

  “The werewolf,” he moaned. “He . . . he . . . escaped.”

  “And now he has come to get you and take you with him to hell,” the monster growled.

  Then it roared and attacked the screaming guard.

  Jakob removed the bitter-smelling cloth from the mouth of the unconscious night watchman and stowed it away carefully in the bundle he’d brought along. They mustn’t leave anything behind that would give them away.

  “What do you think? How much time do we have?” asked Magdalena, entering the guardhouse and looking around carefully.

  Jakob shrugged. “No idea. Perhaps until the next hour strikes, or less. It’s hard to measure out an exact dose, and the guards at the gate outside will naturally wake up sooner.”

  “Time is short.” Magdalena tugged at her father’s pelt and ran out into the courtyard with him. “So let’s hurry over to St. Thomas’s.”

  Outside, the two other guards lay on the ground not far from a fountain. Magdalena was relieved she didn’t have to press a cloth over anyone’s mouth. The men would probably have put up a fight, and the anesthesia wouldn’t have been as effective—but Uncle Bartholomäus and her father had done their work with the same calm, quick, and almost-painless perfection they employed as executioners beheading criminals.

  “You could have left out the last part,” Magdalena whispered as they ran along.

  Her father looked at her, perplexed. “Which part?”

  “Well, that bit about hell. Who told you werewolves can talk?”

  “Who told you they can’t, hm?” he replied with a grin. “You told us yourself to play our roles to the hilt, and I like to play the role of the bad boy.”

  In the meanwhile they’d reached the tower of the old cathedral of St. Thomas, a tall structure with a wooden stairway leading to the upper floors. Bartholomäus waited impatiently with his lantern in front of the solid doorway on the first floor.

  “There you are,” he snapped. “I was beginning to wonder if you were having a beer with the guard.”

  “Believe me, when this is all over I’m going to have more than one,” Jakob replied. “Now open up.”

  Bartholomäus pulled a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the iron bars reinforcing the solid oak door. They were confronted with the nauseating stench of feces, mold, and rotten food. Magdalena turned up her nose and followed Bartholomäus, who held up the lantern to show them the way. Behind them, Jakob ducked and entered the room.

  “This used to be a chapel,” Bartholomäus whispered, “but for many decades it’s been used as a dungeon while the bishop prefers to come to St. Catharine’s Chapel on the floor above to pray. Sometimes he must hear the cries of the prisoners from up there, but that doesn’t seem to upset His Excellency.” He looked around the dark vault, and then in a slightly louder voice said, “Matheo? Can you hear me? Where are you?”

  “Here . . . here I am,” came a weak voice from a corner in back. Bartholomäus raised the lantern, and now Magdalena got a better look. It was a low, vaulted stone room with soot-smudged walls covered with messages from innumerable prisoners. In the filthy straw covering the floors, rats squeaked and fled into the dark corners. There were massive, chest-high wooden stocks with two holes on the top and two on the bottom—and in the last stocks, just beyond the light from the lantern, something was moving.

  “They locked the fellow in the stocks,” Jakob growled. “They must be pretty damn afraid of him—though from what I’ve heard, he’s just a little squirt.”

  As they approached the last stocks, Magdalena could finally make out Matheo. He was even thinner than she remembered—his shirt and trousers were ripped, there were bloody welts all over his body, and his right eye was swollen shut. His hands and feet had been placed in the holes in the wooden block and chained together, so that the boy could scarcely move and his back was twisted into an unnatural position. A chill went down Magdalena’s spine. How long had Matheo been in the stocks? A day? Two? He had to be suffering great pain.

  “Have you come . . . to
get me, . . . Hangman?” he asked in a broken voice. The block was positioned in such a way that he couldn’t see who had just entered the dungeon.

  “Yes, I’m coming to get you,” Bartholomäus replied, “but not for the gallows. This is your lucky day, young fellow. See for yourself.”

  “What . . . what do you mean?” Matheo gasped.

  Bartholomäus stepped forward, and only now could the boy see the Bamberg executioner. The young man uttered a faint cry.

  “I’m dreaming . . . ,” he said in a fading voice. “I must be dreaming. Oh, God, that’s not possible.”

  His head fell to one side, and his eyes stared blankly into space.

  “You idiot,” Jakob snarled at his brother. “Couldn’t you have told him you’re only wearing a disguise? Look what you’ve done. Who’s going to explain that to Barbara?” He rushed forward and held a finger to Matheo’s jugular. “Lucky for you,” he said, “the boy is simply unconscious. With the way you look and smell, he could have just as easily had a stroke.”

  From under his pelts, Bartholomäus growled disdainfully. “It’s probably better this way. If he were awake he’d just make trouble for us. And given how light the prisoner is, I wouldn’t mind carrying him all the way to Würzburg.”

  “It’ll be enough if we just get him to your house,” Magdalena said. “And now, let’s get out of here before the guards outside wake up.”

  “Not so fast. First we have to take care of the necessary hocus-pocus.”

  Jakob put down his bundle, took out a few little containers, and in a few hasty strokes sketched a black hexagram on the floor with a piece of coal.

  “The Seal of Solomon,” he whispered in a feigned tone of piety. “A powerful magic symbol, at least if you believe in it. It’s said Solomon used it to conjure up angels and demons. So why not a werewolf?”

  In the middle of the star-shaped seal, Jakob placed a wooden dish that he filled with yellow kernels, then set fire to it with a burning stick of kindling. The contents began to give off clouds of smoke.

  “My God, what a smell,” Magdalena said, coughing and holding her hand over her mouth and nose. “Is that really necessary?”

  “You can’t cast the spell without sulfur. An ancient witch’s rule.” Her father blew a puff of air into the bowl, and another cloud of smoke rose toward the ceiling. “Believe me, in my life I’ve had to question a lot of witches, and at the end they always mention sulfur—not because it’s the truth, but because that’s what the inquisitor wants to hear. Sulfur goes with Satan like holy water goes with the dear Lord.” He stood up and wiped his hands on his stinking fur cloak. “Bartholomäus, you can carry the little shrimp,” he said. “Magdalena, take the lantern. I’ll wait at the gate outside for our big surprise.” He grinned. “We don’t want the guards to forget our werewolf.”

  They exited the dungeon, though the way out was hard to find because of all the smoke. The unconscious guards were still lying outside in the courtyard alongside the wolf’s carcass that Jakob had been wearing earlier. Once again, Magdalena admired the impressive specimen her uncle had been able to trap. Rigor mortis made the animal appear even larger than it already was.

  “We’ll put him right under the gate,” Jakob said, “along with a nice little farewell gift.”

  They ran across the courtyard to the open gate, where Jakob set the carcass down and unpacked another little container, which, like the previous one, had a wax seal. This one, however, had a little hole in the side with a fuse sticking out. The hangman looked around and then set the container down in the courtyard, far enough from the unconscious guards and the wolf cadaver.

  “We want to make sure they have a story to tell about their terrifying battle with the beast from hell. Hand me the lantern,” Jakob said, turning to Magdalena.

  Carefully, Jakob lit a stick of kindling and held it to the fuse, which immediately started hissing, the spark quickly approaching the container.

  “And now, we must all run quickly!” he said. “I was almost going to say like the devil.”

  When they’d gotten halfway across the cathedral square, there was a thunderous explosion behind them, and shortly afterward they heard the cries of the guards.

  They ran as fast as they could until they reached the foot of the cathedral mount. Gasping for air, Bartholomäus directed Jakob and Magdalena into a narrow, unlit side street, where he finally placed the still-unconscious Matheo on the ground.

  “How is he doing?” Magdalena asked softly.

  “Better ask how I am doing,” Bartholomäus groaned. “The kid is heavier than I thought.”

  Her father bent down to the injured boy and examined him quickly. “The guards gave him a terrible beating, and the stocks have crushed his joints,” he said finally. “Also, he badly needs a cup of wine to get his strength back, a little black currant salve, and something to eat. But he’ll survive.”

  And in fact, at that moment, Matheo began groaning and moving restlessly back and forth.

  “Can you hear me, Matheo?” Magdalena asked. The boy nodded hesitantly, and she continued. “It’s me, Magdalena, Barbara’s sister. We rescued you from the dungeon.”

  “But . . . but the werewolf . . . ,” Matheo murmured.

  “That must have been just a bad dream,” Magdalena replied, not wanting to go into a long explanation.

  Far above them on the cathedral mount, excited shouts could still be heard, but they were soon drowned out by Bartholomäus’s loud laughter.

  “Be quiet,” Jakob whispered to his brother. “We’re far from being out of the woods yet. If they catch us here wearing these pelts, you might as well start drawing and quartering yourself right now.”

  “Oh, come now.” Bartholomäus waved him off dismissively. They’ve got other concerns up there.” He grinned and nudged his older brother. “I’ve got to admit I had no faith in your plan, but it really worked. With all this hocus-pocus, no one will figure out that I opened the dungeon for you. And perhaps the good citizens of Bamberg will be satisfied with their dead werewolf.” His eyes sparkled merrily. “That reminds me how when we were kids we stole three skulls from the Schongau City Cemetery and put them in the windows of the pastor’s house. Do you remember? You spoke in a deep voice, and I—”

  “Do you hear that?” Magdalena interrupted.

  Bartholomäus listened, then he frowned. “I hear shouting. So what?”

  “Yes, but it’s not coming from the cathedral mount but from the city,” Magdalena answered. “Something must have happened there.”

  “Damn, she’s right.” Jakob quickly took off the stinking pelt. “Quick, get out of these rags before the people discover us. It sounds like perhaps a fire has broken out, and then the whole city will wake up.”

  After some hesitation, Bartholomäus also removed his wolf costume. They wrapped everything up in a big bundle that Jakob tucked under his arm.

  Magdalena bent down again to Matheo, who seemed to be falling back to sleep. “Can you walk?” she asked with concern.

  When Matheo nodded, she turned to the two Kuisl brothers. “It would be best if you could support him on both sides, like a drunk. That way we won’t attract so much attention.”

  With Matheo in the middle, they slowly walked down to the end of the lane, then turned in the direction of the Michelsberg, where everything was still calm and dark. Soon they arrived at the muddy towpath along the Regnitz. Jakob took the bundle with the pelts, old rags, and empty containers, and threw it as far as he could out into the river, where it bobbed along on the surface for a while and finally sank.

  “I feel much better now,” Jakob grunted, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I sweated like an old pig under that pelt.”

  “We just need to make sure nobody smells us,” his brother replied with a grin, “or they’ll put us in a dog kennel.”

  In the meantime, Magdalena had walked out onto a rickety dock and stood looking over at the eastern part of the city.

  “Geyerswörth
Castle is brightly lit,” she whispered excitedly. “That’s where all the noise is coming from. But I don’t see a fire anywhere.” She sighed. “I hope nothing has happened to Simon at that bishop’s reception.”

  “Well, at least the boys are safe at home with Georg,” her father replied in a reassuring voice. “They probably went to bed long ago. Let’s hurry home to Bartholomäus’s house, and perhaps on our way there we’ll learn what happened.”

  With the groaning Matheo between them, they hurried along the towpath toward the lower City Hall Bridge, where, despite the late hour, they could see a number of people running back and forth. The shouts had now become much louder.

  “At least we won’t have to worry that someone will stop us for being out after curfew,” Bartholomäus grumbled. “It looks like all of Bamberg is out and about.”

  Up on the bridge, the Bamberg executioner stopped the first passerby he met. It was one of the guards responsible for keeping order in the eastern parts of town. He was running with a lantern in his hand toward the city hall.

  “Hey, Paulus!” Bartholomäus called out to him. “What’s going on? No decent Bamberger can sleep with all this noise.”

  The guard stared at him absentmindedly. He didn’t seem surprised that the city executioner was up at this late hour, nor did he wonder about the groaning lad in the dirty clothing who was supported on the other side by another huge man. Evidently he had other things on his mind at the moment than lecturing an apparently drunk fellow who had no doubt just been sick to his stomach.

  “Haven’t you heard?” the guard snapped. “In Geyerswörth Castle, the suffragan bishop himself turned into a werewolf and is attacking one citizen after the other! The news is spreading like wildfire. I’m going to get reinforcements to try to calm people down. Everybody is going wild.”

  “The . . . the suffragan bishop is a werewolf?” Magdalena couldn’t contain herself. “Who told you that?”

  “On my honor, I saw it myself,” he affirmed. “I was in the dance hall with our captain when the beast—” He stopped short. “Excuse me, naturally I meant the suffragan bishop . . . Well . . . When he attacked a friend of our city doctor.”