“This water of life will pulse through her artificial veins like blood,” he murmured. “Like blood. The lightning will strike, and my Aurora will finally return to me; the waiting will be over.”
When the bottle was finally empty, Virgilius threw it out of the tower with a shout. Then with the boy in his arms, he moved to another corner, leaned against the wall, and waited, his lips moving quietly as if in prayer.
“Lightning, water of life. This is craziest nonsense I’ve ever heard,” the hangman scoffed. “Nepomuk’s experiments, however, were pure science. Now give me back my boy and tell me what you’ve done with Peter and my son-in-law. I hope for your sake they’re still alive. If not, this thunderstorm will be nothing compared to what happens when I get hold of you.”
Kuisl still didn’t dare make a move to approach Virgilius or the boy. Matthias’s murder had shown him the watchmaker would stop at nothing. So Kuisl’s threats were meant only to kill time until Virgilius made a false move. But the monk only gripped the screaming child tighter.
“Don’t come any closer,” Virgilius snarled. “Many people have already died so my dream can come true, and this little life here is of little importance to me now.” He cast a longing glance at the automaton as thunder rolled over the countryside. “Now let’s just stand here and wait.”
At that moment, a soft tapping could be heard on the steps beneath them: footsteps, slow and deliberate, yet clearly audible over the sound of the pouring rain.
Someone was coming up the tower.
Down in the catacombs of the castle, Magdalena felt paralyzed as blue flames spread quickly across the altar. In a matter of seconds, the entire stone block was engulfed in a blaze that spread to the ground and, from there, in small pathways to the many mounds of white powder.
“Get out of here,” Magdalena shouted, grabbing her son. “At once!”
Then she realized with horror that Simon couldn’t run. She hesitated a moment, then pointed toward the exit and gave Peter a push. “Run, Peter! Quickly! I have to help your father!”
The boy seemed to understand. Ignoring the flickering blue sea of flames all around him, he ran toward the door and vanished. In the meantime, Magdalena leaned over her husband and started to shake him.
“Simon, you must get up.”
Simon groaned and raised his arms slowly, but his legs seemed as if they were tied to the rock with strong ropes. Magdalena realized he wouldn’t make it without her help, so she grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up until he was standing in front of her and leaning against the wall, his face as white as chalk. Bluish flames were crackling all around them, eating their way through the overturned shelves and broken mechanical devices, leaving only a narrow path open to the exit.
“You’ve got to hold onto me,” she shouted over the roaring of the flames. “Do you understand, Simon? Hang on to me!”
She turned around, bent over, and pulled his arms over her shoulders, then stood up, gasping, and dragged her husband like a sack of flour through the raging flames.
At five feet tall, Simon was one of the most diminutive men in Schongau; his size was often ridiculed by coarse men in town, especially since Magdalena in fact was a few fingerbreadths taller. Now, however, his delicate stature would prove to be what saved his life. Magdalena felt like a pack mule, but at least she was able to pull Simon step by step from the burning room.
She staggered through the second room with the canopy bed and dressing table, where flames were already licking at the walnut veneer. Finally, gasping, she reached the round doorway as another bookshelf came crashing down somewhere behind her, burying the ivory horn, the globe, and the shiny bronze astrolabe. She was relieved to see that Simon was now able to hold on by himself and that his legs were moving slightly. The paralysis, in fact, seemed to be abating.
Coughing, Magdalena peered into the smoke-filled passageway through which she’d entered just a few minutes ago. She was unable to save her torch from the burning room, but it wasn’t really necessary now. Horrified, she saw little fires burning on the floor of the tunnel as well. Virgilius must have strewn the phosphorus powder all over the catacombs, and now Magdalena realized what that meant: as soon as the flames arrived at the latrine where the laboratory was located, everything would explode.
Frantically she looked around for her son but couldn’t find him in the clouds of smoke. She couldn’t even imagine what might have happened to her second child. She could only hope that Peter had told her the truth and little Paul was somewhere outside with the treacherous Matthias and unharmed.
“Peter!” she shouted, her husband still clinging to her shoulders with his almost one hundred pounds. “Peter, where are you?”
She heard crying and finally a voice. “Mama, Mama, I’m here!”
Magdalena listened intently. The cry hadn’t come from the right where the corridor led to the hermit’s cave but from the left. Peter had run the wrong way, and she’d have to bring him back as soon as possible. If they spent too long down here, they would all be lost—either they would burn up or the smoke would suffocate them.
Cursing and struggling for breath, she stumbled through gray, foul-smelling clouds, her eyes tearing up from the smoke and Simon’s weight practically crushing her to the ground. Nevertheless, slowly, yard by yard, she moved ahead, calling her son’s name again and again. “Peter! Peter! Here I am!”
The damp, low passageway turned slightly upward, and after a short while, Magdalena noticed that there were fewer mounds of phosphorus, then eventually none at all. Behind her she heard the crash of another wall collapsing. Clouds of smoke reached out to her like long fingers, but she could feel a draft of fresh air coming from somewhere ahead, and the smoke was thinning out. Evidently Peter had intuitively chosen the right direction.
Turning another corner, she finally saw her son. She cried out with relief but just as quickly caught her breath. The passageway ended there; Peter was pounding frantically on a heavy wooden door without a handle.
“Mama! The garden! I want to see the garden.”
“The… garden?” She looked at her son blankly. His face was as black as coal and he was coughing, but she didn’t see any burns on his body. On the contrary, the three-year-old seemed almost cheerful. Carefully she set her husband down on the ground and examined the locked door.
“Which garden do you mean?” she responded.
“The garden with the jolly stone man who spits water,” he said excitedly. “It’s behind this door.”
“You mean the… the monastery garden?” Suddenly she realized how the boys had been abducted. Virgilius must have lured the two from the garden into a hidden passageway there. Anxiously, she examined the weathered wood but couldn’t find a handle or a keyhole. The hinges were massive.
“Damn,” she hissed. “Another of the crazy watchmaker’s infernal objects.” She kicked the door, but it felt like solid brick. Nervously she looked back down the steep, slippery corridor from which clouds of smoke were still rising.
“If we can’t think of something soon, we’ll suffocate here like foxes in a burrow,” she mumbled. In vain she examined the rock walls for hidden cracks or holes. Finally, she turned helplessly to Simon, who was lying on the ground behind her.
“Simon, can you hear me? We’ll suffocate here. Wake up. I need your help.”
Simon groaned and struggled to move as if he was in great pain; finally he managed to turn on one side and sit up. He was panting hard; clearly that little movement had caused him unbelievable effort.
Torn between hope and despair, Magdalena stared at her husband, whose paralysis was slowly beginning to wear off. Would it happen fast enough for him to help her? She doubted that, and in any case, she didn’t know what she expected him to do. Snap his fingers and make the door open? The little medicus had so often come up with an idea that saved the day. She prayed now he would be able to walk and speak again as soon as possible. Tears welled up in her eyes when she thought of the unavoid
able fate that awaited them both.
Suffocated to death on the wrong side of a door leading into a blooming garden.
“Mama, when can we leave?”
Magdalena awakened with a start from her dark musings and smiled wearily at her son. “We… we can’t go, unfortunately, Peter. Father is sick and I don’t know how to open this door.”
“But all you have to do is press on the stone.”
“What?”
She jumped up—she’d almost forgotten that Peter had been here before. It was possible the boy had observed how the door was opened.
“Which stone, Peter?” She took him up in her arms and looked him directly in the eye. “Listen now. This is very important. Which stone do I have to push?”
Silently Peter pointed to a square stone about as large as a fist, which protruded a finger’s breadth from the wall. Magdalena hadn’t noticed it before among all the other irregular stonework, but now it really stood out. The image of a laughing face, etched into its surface, seemed to jeer at her.
“This stone?” she asked cautiously.
Peter nodded, and Magdalena pressed the square button. Silently the stone slid back into the space behind it, and there was a click as the heavy wooden door opened a crack. Heavy rain could be heard now on the other side, accompanied by thunder and lightning that lit up the passageway for a moment.
“You… you are wonderful, Peter,” Magdalena laughed. “For this, you can have honey cakes, as many as you can eat. But first I have to get your father out of here. Come, the fresh air will surely do him some good.”
When they turned around, Magdalena was relieved to see Simon had already gotten onto his knees. He swayed like a reed in the wind, but he didn’t fall. Breathing heavily, he reached out to his wife.
“I ccccaaaan… wallllk all by myyyself,” he croaked. “By myyyself…”
Magdalena ran to help him before he could fall. “That’s what you think,” she replied, pulling him up and guiding him carefully to the door.
When the door opened all the way, they found themselves staring into another cave.
Magdalena uttered a brief cry of disappointment. She was sure they’d just entered another underground passageway, but then she felt the wind on her face, heard the rain coming down, and smelled the flowers in the garden. She realized they’d entered the artificial grotto the abbot had shown her just two days before. In the middle was the basin with the statuettes of the Greek gods. The door through which they’d entered the grotto was covered with gray plaster so as to blend in perfectly with the rock.
Peter had already run into the garden and was climbing jubilantly onto one of the little walls as the rain drummed down on him, washing the soot from his face. He waved to his mother cheerfully, seeming to have survived the recent terror unscathed.
Magdalena felt a lump in her throat when she thought of her younger son. Where had Matthias taken little Paul? Was he even still alive?
She was startled by something pressing against her shoulder. Simon was propping himself up against her. “I ccccaaaan… wallllk all by myyyself,” he stammered again.
Simon let go of her and tottered like an automaton into the garden.
The medicus had walked only a few yards when they heard a mighty rumbling. At first Magdalena thought it was thunder, but then the earth beneath their feet began to shake and large rocks came rolling down the hill into the garden. An especially heavy boulder crashed directly in front of her, burying the basin with the Greek statuettes.
Behind Magdalena, a rumbling could be heard in the passageways below, sounding as if hell had in fact opened its gates. Instinctively the hangman’s daughter threw herself down onto the damp lawn and watched as the little grotto behind her finally collapsed.
Hic est porta ad loca inferna…
The green fire had finally reached the cesspit below.
Jakob Kuisl and Virgilius held their breath as the footsteps on the creaking staircase approached the belfry. The steps were slow and calm; whoever was groping his way up evidently had time on his hands. Or was he too tired and old to move any faster?
Finally a black hood appeared in the opening. The figure continued climbing until he’d arrived at the landing, his torch bathing the belfry in flickering glow. At last his thin, arthritic fingers pulled back a scarf that had been obscuring his face.
Virgilius shouted out with surprise.
Before them stood the Andechs abbot. His face was as deeply furrowed as parched earth, and his thin tonsure as white as snow. Maurus Rambeck seemed to have aged years in the last few weeks.
“Maurus,” Virgilius said. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to prevent you from causing any more harm,” the abbot replied firmly. “If that’s still possible. Let the child go.” Pointing to the small crying boy, he walked slowly toward the watchmaker.
“Never!” Virgilius shouted. He drew back and held the struggling child over the stormy void. “Stay where you are, Maurus. Even you won’t stop me from bringing back my Aurora.”
“You’re sick, Virgilius,” Father Maurus said softly. “Very sick, and this is the end. Accept that; put yourself in God’s hands. Don’t bring any more sins down on yourself or this monastery.”
“But… but you helped me,” Virgilius pleaded. “You yourself wanted Aurora to come back to me.”
“I never wanted that,” replied the abbot, his voice rising. “I wanted all this madness to end. Yes, to save you, but also to save the monastery. I see now that was an error.”
When Kuisl stepped out of the darkness, the abbot noticed him for the first time. Brother Maurus raised his slim eyebrows in astonishment, and his tired but intelligent eyes flashed with emotion.
“You’re here, too?” he asked. Then the monk regained his composure and a faint smile appeared on his weathered face. “I should have expected as much. Your burgomaster is right; you really are an annoying snoop. But what does it matter? It’s all over now.”
“You knew all along, didn’t you?” the hangman retorted. “You knew your brother was behind all this.”
Maurus Rambeck shook his head wearily. “Not at first, though I’ll admit I had my suspicions. Virgilius had been pestering me for weeks about the hosts. He wanted me to get them for him, just for a while, and he would give them back. Naturally I didn’t go along with that.”
“Curses on you, Maurus,” the watchmaker snarled. He’d moved a few steps closer to his brother, the crying child still in his arms. “All these… these problems wouldn’t have come up if you’d just given me the hosts. I could have switched them with other ones. No one would have noticed, and Elisabeth would be back with me again.”
“Forget about your Elisabeth,” Maurus shouted. “Don’t you realize that you can’t bring her back, Virgilius? She’s been dead now for more than thirty years.” The old man drew closer to his younger brother, his eyes flashing with anger. “Elisabeth’s remains are rotting in some cemetery in Augsburg. Her flesh, her red lips, her tender breasts that you longed for so much have all turned to dust long ago. Only her spirit lives on, but you can’t bring that back, either. Only God can do that.”
“No! That… that can’t be! She… she must come back to me; she just has to.” Virgilius stamped his feet on the ground like an angry child, shaking Paul so violently the boy started screaming. When the hangman advanced, Virgilius ran back to the opening and held the struggling child over the void.
“Get back! Everyone get back!” he screamed. “We’re going to wait for the lightning to come from heaven and bring my woman back to me.” He held his head out to the sky, opened his mouth as if to drink from the falling drops, and closed his eyes to let the water stream down his face.
“Elisabeth was Virgilius’s great love,” Father Maurus tried to explain, looking sadly at his mad brother. “Back then, his name was Markus. He was smart, well-read, and extremely sensitive, and when Elisabeth died, it broke his heart. Our parents thought it would pass, and so did I, but in
stead things became worse and worse until my brother would no longer even get out of bed or eat or drink. A doctor finally concluded that sending him abroad would help him forget.” He sighed. “So my wealthy father gave him money, and my brother embarked on long voyages. In fact, he seemed to be getting better; he sent us optimistic news from Africa and the West Indies. We should have suspected the madness was still simmering beneath the surface.”
Virgilius started humming a soft melody, the same one his automaton played, but the sound clashed with the crying of the child like a poorly tuned instrument. Kuisl wondered again how he might overpower the watchmaker, but the child was still dangling over the void.
“When my brother came to Andechs and started work here as a watchmaker, I thought he was cured,” Rambeck continued, shaking his head. “But then he built this… this monster.” Disgusted, he pointed at the grinning automaton. “He dressed it like Elisabeth; he even gave it her nickname. It must have been that damned book about golems that sent him over the edge. From that point on there was nothing I or anyone could say to him. He didn’t respond to my letters, so not until I returned from Salzburg and assumed the position of abbot did I see how bad the situation was. But then it was too late. All he ever wanted was the sacred hosts.”
“And when he didn’t get them, he simply staged an abduction and extorted you,” the hangman replied harshly. “Admit it, you knew he was behind it.”
“I… suspected so. When I found the book in our library about golems, it slowly dawned on me what Virgilius was up to.” The abbot shook his head regretfully. “I knew I could no longer stop him, but I also didn’t want to turn him over to the bailiffs. After all, he’s my brother. They would have tortured him and burned him alive.”
“So instead my friend Nepomuk has to die,” Kuisl growled.
Father Maurus shrugged apologetically. “The whole thing was like a little trickle that grows and grows until a river just carries you away. It was driving me crazy. When you caught me in Virgilius’s house, I was on the point of confessing, but I still had hope you might be able to stop him, that I could learn where he was hiding out.”