The Poisoned Pilgrim

  Simon couldn’t help but think of his own two boys. He tried to shake off the thought and concentrate completely on the task before him. On the spur of the moment, he decided to take a closer look at the two murder victims. He could take care of the living in the morning.

  Anxiously, he climbed down the steep stairway into the monastery’s beer cellar, which could be reached through an annex directly next to the brewery. It was chilly in the narrow passageway through the rock, allowing one to forget that summer had already begun outside. For almost two hundred years, supplies had been stored here deep in the stone bowels of the mountain, since beer couldn’t be brewed during the hot summer months. Though Simon had turned up his coat collar, he shivered slightly.

  The coolness in the corridors and cellars of Andechs was not just suited for the storage of beer barrels and brewing equipment; the dead often found their temporary resting place here before burial in the monastery’s cemetery. The corpses of the two novitiates were handled in the same way—primarily to avoid any unrest prior to the festival. The burial of two victims of an alleged sorcerer and mass murderer certainly would have set off the wildest rumors. On entering the storage cellar, however, Simon could tell that burial couldn’t be delayed much longer.

  His nose led him past huge six-foot-high barrels standing in niches in the rock. Water dripped from the ceiling, forming puddles on the hard-packed soil. Simon’s steps echoed from the rock walls as he moved down the small corridor, holding a torch in front of him. Somewhere he could hear rats squealing.

  Finally he reached the end of the corridor, where he found not another barrel but a worn wooden table and two bundles wrapped in white cloth. He took a deep breath, then placed the torch in a crack in the wall and removed the first sheet.

  The stench was so strong he had to turn away for a moment to keep from vomiting. Finally, he turned back to the body.

  It was Coelestin, the apothecary’s helper whom he’d examined closely two days earlier. By now rigor mortis had passed and the corpse was marked with black and blue spots wherever the outer layer of skin had collapsed and the blood had run off. Nevertheless, the wound to the back of his head was still clearly visible; Simon was certain the victim had been bludgeoned by an unknown attacker and then held under water.

  After checking and not finding anything else important, he pulled the second sheet to the side. By now, Simon had gotten somewhat used to the stench, but the sight of the dead watchmaker’s assistant still made him shudder. Vitalis, at one time so handsome, looked as if the hounds of hell themselves had clutched him in their claws. His head was wrenched to one side, the skin on his back and legs almost completely charred, and his right hand was so badly burned that some of the fingers had already fallen off. The corpse still gave off a caustic burnt smell.

  Simon wondered what was powerful enough to set off a fire like that. Ten years ago, he’d seen a corpse after a burning at the stake, but by then, the body had shrunk to the size of a child and was burned evenly all over. Vitalis had suffered burns only on his back, buttocks, and the rear of the thigh. Simon bent down to examine the burn spots carefully, and tapped his finger against the hard, blackened flesh.

  Suddenly he stopped short. In some of the cracks in the skin he noticed traces of a white powder whose origin he could not explain. He scratched it with his fingernail and studied the little specks up close. He turned up his nose in disgust—the powder smelled of old garlic.

  Was witchcraft indeed somehow involved in this?

  As the medicus reexamined the head of the charred corpse, he discovered a dent in the skull at almost the same point as on Coelestin’s. He stopped to think. Was the watchmaker possibly killed in the same way? Or had he suffered the wound in a fall? Had Vitalis perhaps been killed by a blow before being consumed by the demonic fire?

  Just as Simon prepared to examine the wound again, the torch fell out of the crack in the rock face and onto the wet ground where it hissed and sputtered before going out, leaving the cellar in total darkness.

  “Damn.”

  Simon groped blindly for the table so as not to lose his sense of direction. When his hand touched the cold body of the apothecary’s assistant, he instinctively recoiled, lost his balance, and hit his head against a beer keg. His fall echoed through the silence, then it again became as quiet as the bottom of the sea.

  Simon could feel his heart pounding. Surely he could find his way back to the surface without the torch, but the very thought that he was alone with two corpses in a pitch-black cellar caused his stomach to quiver. Carefully he stood up and was about to grope his way along the barrels toward the exit when he stopped in amazement.

  One of the two corpses was glowing in the dark.

  A strange greenish glimmer came from the body of young Vitalis, as faint as the glow from a firefly, and it gave the corpse an eerie sheen that made Simon’s hair stand on end.

  Torn between panic and fascination, the medicus was eyeing the shimmering corpse when suddenly he heard a loud rumble from the other side of the table. It sounded as if somewhere in the mountain a stone golem had come to life.

  That was too much for Simon. He staggered back a few steps, then turning around in horror, ran through the darkness toward the exit. Again there was a rumbling. He stumbled, caught himself again, but hit his forehead on the cellar door. Ignoring the pain, he groped for the door handle and, finding it, rushed up the stairway beyond. Once he could see pale moonlight above, he turned around one last time and could still see the glimmer back in the beer cellar. Then he rushed up the stairs, not stopping until he was standing under the starry sky in front of the brewery.

  He was back again among the living.

  It took Simon a while to calm down enough to think rationally about what had just happened. What he’d seen down below—was it actually witchcraft? His reason tried mightily to reject this thought, but the sight of a shining green corpse was a hard thing to swallow, even for a student of medicine. And what was the rumbling down below? Had the two corpses come back to life to seek revenge on their murderer?

  Simon wasn’t quite ready to go back to Magdalena and the children. He needed at least a halfway clear head. How he would have loved a cup of his beloved coffee now, but unfortunately the Oriental brew was still unknown in the Andechs Monastery tavern. In any case, Simon had no desire to bump into the Schongau burgomaster or his son there. Kuisl was no doubt still with his friend Nepomuk in the old cheese-making room. So where could he go?

  As his gaze passed over the partially lighted windows of the monastery, only one place seemed to offer him some security and enlightenment.

  The library.

  Since his earliest youth, Simon had loved books. They were lodestars for him, dividing the world into dark and light sides. Perhaps this time books would lead him back to the bright side again; in books he could find explanations for almost anything, perhaps even for a shimmering green corpse. Simon nodded with determination. If anybody spoke to him in the library, he would simply say he was still working on the report for the abbot.

  He returned to the main portal, which was still open, and climbed the wide steps to the south wing, where a corridor led to a high, two-winged door.

  Reverently he opened it and looked into paradise.

  The walls were almost twenty feet high and covered floor to ceiling with walnut shelves filled with books. There were huge, dusty parchment books as thick as an arm, newer folios made of paper, and thin folders tied together with red ribbons. Simon could see golden letters on the backs of some of the books, while others were labeled with delicate scribbles. Some had simple leather bindings. The entire room smelled of fine wood, dust, and that undefinable fragrance that emanates from ancient parchment and ink.

  Simon swallowed hard. He had not seen so many books since he was in the Premonstratensian monastery in Steingaden, and that was a long while ago. There was probably more knowledge stored here in Andechs than in the entire rest of the Priests’ Corner.

/>   Slowly the medicus walked down an aisle of books, glancing at individual titles. He discovered Paracelsus’s Große Wundartzney and, alongside it, a complete five-volume edition of Dioscurides’s Materia Medica. Simon began leafing through them randomly, but when he realized he wouldn’t find anything this way, he laid the heavy volumes aside and began wandering through the aisles again.

  He was delighted when he came to the end of a row and found a rather nondescript little book at eye-level that evidently dealt with the history of the Andechs Monastery. While he was sure he would find nothing in it about glowing corpses, the events of recent days had made clear to him that this monastery kept more than one secret. Perhaps the key to all these strange events was to be found in the past.

  After some hesitation, Simon took the leather-bound book from the shelf and settled down in an upholstered armchair next to a well-polished cherry-wood table. He couldn’t say himself why he picked out this book. It was written in ancient, somewhat overly dramatic, Latin, so it took a while for the medicus to feel comfortable with it. But he’d learned enough from his incomplete study at Ingolstadt University to read the book at least halfway fluently after a while.

  Strangely, the chronicle began not as one would expect, with the founding of the monastery, but much earlier than that. Simon learned that at first there was a castle on the Holy Mountain belonging to the Counts of Andechs, a mighty family that ruled large parts of Bavaria and even southern Tyrol. At some point, however, the Wittelsbachs seized power in Bavaria and destroyed the castle.

  The chronicle spoke in this connection of a “vile, cowardly betrayal” but had nothing more to say about it. Simon couldn’t help thinking of Count von Wartenberg, who had been sitting in the tavern the day before with the two Semers. Wartenberg was one of the Wittelsbachs—and hadn’t the fat cellarer said the count had the third key? Simon sighed. The more he dug into this, the more complicated it seemed.

  A scraping sound startled him. The tall door had opened and the old librarian with the crooked back entered. When Brother Benedikt first caught sight of Simon, he seemed disconcerted, but then he settled back into his usual arrogance.

  “What are you doing in here?” he snarled. “The library is for the exclusive use of the monks.”

  “I know,” Simon replied in an apologetic tone. “But you do have an outstanding collection of medical works, and the abbot thought perhaps I might find a clue here. He permitted me to come here to write my report about the strange deaths.” That was clearly untrue, but the medicus guessed that Maurus Rambeck had other problems at the moment than to correct his little white lie.

  And in fact the librarian seemed satisfied with Simon’s excuse. “The medical knowledge of the Benedictines is indeed unequaled,” the monk replied proudly. “It goes back to the ancient knowledge of the Babylonians, Egyptians, and Greeks. We were the ones who preserved the knowledge about poisonous and healing plants and kept alive the knowledge of procedures and diagnoses for all these centuries. Surely you’ve seen the Naturalis historia of Pliny the Elder?”

  “Ah, I’ll confess that I haven’t yet—”

  “Ah, but see here… as far as I know, the chronicles of Andechs is not a medical work.” Brother Benedikt had drawn closer and suspiciously eyed the book Simon had just been leafing through.

  The medicus’s smile was enough to melt ice. “Excuse me, but my curiosity just got the better of me. After all, I don’t often have the chance to visit such a venerable facility. How old is this monastery, by the way?”

  “Over two hundred years,” Benedikt replied. “It was founded by Augustinian canons, but we Benedictines took charge soon afterward.”

  “Is that so? I would have thought the building is much older. All the cellars, the weathered rock…”

  “A castle and a chapel once stood here,” the librarian conceded, “but the little church that housed the three sacred hosts is long gone.”

  “And where are the three hosts now?” Simon inquired, curious. “In a few days, they’ll be displayed to thousands of pilgrims.”

  Brother Benedikt looked at him suspiciously again. “Safely stored away, of course, in the sacred chapel until Sunday, when they will be displayed to the pilgrims from the bay window of the church.”

  “Isn’t it strange that these two dreadful murders and the other remarkable events are taking place just before the Festival of the Three Hosts?” Simon said softly. “It almost looks as if someone is trying to ruin this festival.”

  “The festival will take place, you can count on that.” For a moment Simon thought he detected a bit of uncertainty in the old monk’s face, but then Benedikt regained his composure. “For hundreds of years, the sacred three hosts have been displayed to the people in a sealed monstrance on exactly this day,” he murmured. “They have survived fire, attacks, and the Great War, and they will also survive this damned witchery. No one can steal them, and certainly no one can make them disappear by magic.” He straightened up, and his eyes began to shine, as if he was declaiming an ancient spell. “Three keys are needed to enter the holy chapel, and only the abbot, the prior, and a member of the Wittelsbach family can open the room together. So don’t worry, the hosts are well cared for and no one will disturb the venerable ceremony.”

  Simon cringed when he remembered what Magdalena had told him about her visit to the church.

  A Wittelsbach has the third key…

  Hadn’t Magdalena observed how upset the abbot had been during the mass? Then he had left with the prior and Count Wartenberg and disappeared upstairs in the relics room. Was there a connection between the murders and the sacred three hosts?

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to put your medical studies off until tomorrow,” the librarian said, interrupting Simon’s train of thought. “I’m closing the rooms here now. In my opinion, you should be caring for the poor pilgrims anyway and leave it to the judge in Weilheim to take care of this satanic apothecary.” He shuffled over to the door. “Brother Maurus should have called the judge long ago and worried less about the gossip. We just can’t allow a sorcerer in our venerable institution. This is a matter that has to be attended to as quickly as possible.”

  “Speaking of witchcraft…” Simon interjected, “Brother Eckhart said something about a golem. Do you perhaps have any books about that?”

  The librarian stopped suddenly and turned around to Simon. “Didn’t I just say you need to care for the sick?” he growled. “But now that you ask—yes, there is a book about that here.”

  “Aha! Could I perhaps have a look at it?”

  Brother Benedikt pursed his lips in a narrow smile. “That’s not possible; the abbot himself has borrowed that book.”

  Simon suppressed a slight shudder.

  It is the book written in Hebrew on the abbot’s table, a book on conjuring up golems.

  “You are right,” Simon sighed finally and rose with a shrug. “I must take care of my patients.” He decided not to tell the librarian anything about his remarkable discovery concerning the novitiate’s body. Something warned him not to trust the old man, or in this case, anyone. “The matter should be in the hands of a judge,” he confessed remorsefully. “I’ve taken up too much time with this. Nevertheless, thank you for your explanations.”

  Without Brother Benedikt noticing it, Simon quickly hid the Adechs chronicle in his jacket and started for the exit. The librarian’s words had awakened his interest in learning more about the monastery’s past. He clenched his fists determinedly and put on a droll smile as he followed the monk out the door. Simon had the annoying habit of becoming curious about whatever he was told to stay away from.

  What mystery is hidden behind these walls—or beneath them?

  Stiffly, Simon descended the stairway as Brother Benedikt continued to eye him distrustfully, and didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until he was outside. His heart pounding, he took the chronicle out from under his robe and wiped his sweat from the leather binding. Then he broke out in a broad gr
in.

  At least he’d have something to read tonight.

  After Magdalena had put the children to bed, she sat down, exhausted, in the main room of her cousin’s house to relax from the tribulations of the day and absent-mindedly stirred a cup of steaming mulled wine. She’d been singing bedtime songs to the children for almost an hour, and now she was hoarse, as one might expect. Three-year-old Peter in particular couldn’t fall asleep and kept asking for just one more. After being away from the children the last three days, they now clung to her all the more. At least her sickness had passed, even though her stomach still felt a bit queasy.

  Magdalena wished she could share her feelings with her husband, but as so often, Simon was completely wrapped up in his own plans and thoughts. She sighed softly. Especially now, she wished she had a little support. She was still wearing a bandage around her neck where the silent bullet had grazed her the night before, and though the wound seemed to have healed well, she remained fearful that the stranger might strike again. Or was Simon perhaps right… had she just imagined all this? Was the stranger in the belfry perhaps just some drunken monk she’d disturbed in his befuddled condition? And was the shot in the dark nothing more than a ricocheting bullet from a hunter’s rifle?

  Lost in thought, Magdalena took another drink from her cup of wine. The knacker Michael Graetz had gone off to the tavern in Erling for a mug or two of beer, and her only companion was the silent Matthias, huddled down on the bench by the stove across from her. Once again she noticed what a handsome young man he was. He was perhaps in his early twenties, and with his powerful arms, black apron open in the front, and red hair, he looked a bit like one of the drifters who would occasionally pass through Schongau to sing songs and perform magic tricks.

  Graetz had told her that the redheaded lad couldn’t speak because marauding soldiers had cut out his tongue when he was a child, and for this reason she didn’t expect him to approach her. It was strange to be seated in a room with someone staring at you, however, without even being able to say a word.