The woman doll! Where in the world…
Simon groped about for a while in the dimly lit room, but the automaton had disappeared. In the middle of the room, however, he discovered Brother Virgilius’s black robe in a large pool of blood, as well as a scorched screwdriver.
“It doesn’t look like Virgilius made it out of this room alive,” he murmured. A horrible thought passed through his head, so absurd that he cast it at once into the furthest corner of his mind.
Could the doll have killed its master and dragged him away? Was that even possible?
Suddenly he could feel something crunch beneath his feet. Stooping down, he picked up a broken lens inside a small, blood-stained brass ring. It took him a moment to realize what it was.
Brother Johannes’s eyepiece—the one the monk had worn yesterday in the apothecary’s house.
Simon was about to turn around to Magdalena when he saw two black-robed Benedictine monks in the doorway. Their faces, white as sheets, stared down in horror at the dead Vitalis at their feet.
“For the love of the Holy Virgin, what happened here?” one of them groaned, while the younger one stared at Magdalena and crossed himself.
“A witch!” he wailed, falling to his knees. “A witch has killed our dear Brother Virgilius and Vitalis. Lord in heaven, help us!”
“Uh, that’s not exactly what happened,” Simon replied hesitantly from out of the darkness, which made both monks scream in terror.
“A witch, the Grim Reaper, and the stench of sulfur,” the older one cried out. “It’s the end of the world!”
Wailing and screaming, they ran up the mountain to the monastery, where the bells had just started to ring. Simon nervously turned the destroyed eyepiece in his hand. It appeared he would have to rewrite his report.
Far below in his hideout, the man read the news his assistant had just brought him. A faint smile passed over his face. They’d found the dead assistant amid the chaos, and the watchmaker had disappeared. Now everything else would take its course.
The only thing troubling him was that sneaky bathhouse surgeon and his damned woman. Why did they have to poke their noses into everything? Had she noticed anything in the tower? And why had her husband gone to the pond yesterday to nose around? Those two were like boils that itched and ached—not really dangerous but a distraction nevertheless. The man decided he’d have to keep a better eye on them, and he knew from experience what to do with painful boils.
You cut them out.
Full of a newly regained composure, he rose and crossed to a heavy oaken table covered with books and parchments. Some of these that were from distant lands would have been unfamiliar to most people; some were written with flourishes and in runes; one even in blood. All sought answers to a secret so ancient that it went back to the very beginnings of human life and human faith—when a first fur-clothed cave dweller held in his hands a shiny stone, a little bone, or a skull and kneeled down to kiss it.
It was faith alone that breathed life into that dead thing.
The man hunched over the books, closed his eyes, and ran his fingers over the lines written in blood. The solution was hidden somewhere in these books. And he suspected even more blood would flow before it was found.
An hour later, Simon stood in front of the monastery council in what they called the Prince’s Quarters on the third floor. Abbot Maurus Rambeck sat at the head of a long table, and to his right sat his deputy, the Prior Brother Jeremias, as well as the cellarer, the novitiate master, and the cantor, who was responsible for the care of the library, among other things. They all stared at Simon with dark and reproachful looks that conveyed their certainty he had something to do with the horrible murder.
Simon swallowed hard. For a moment he thought he could already feel the fire at his feet as he was being burned at the stake. At this moment he envied Magdalena, who, as a woman, was not allowed in the monastery wing. The monks had arrested her and taken her to an adjacent building, pending the outcome of his interrogation. Simon himself had had only a few minutes to speak privately with the abbot before the other members of the council appeared.
“Dear Brothers in Christ,” the abbot began with a trembling voice. Simon noticed that Brother Maurus, in contrast to the last visit, now appeared extremely anxious, even confused. Nervously he passed his tongue over his bulging lips. “I’ve called you together here because a murder has been committed in our ranks, one so horrible and mysterious that it’s difficult for me to find the right words…”
“The devil,” interrupted the cellarer, a fat monk whose tonsure was encircled by only a few thin hairs he’d artfully combed back over his bald head. “The devil came to fetch this effeminate Vitalis, along with his master, the warlock Virgilius. I’ve warned him many times to stop his accursed experiments, and now he’s fallen into Satan’s hands.”
“Brother Eckhart, I forbid you from talking that way about our fellow Brother,” the abbot shouted at him. “Brother Virgilius has disappeared, and that’s all we know. The blood in his shop leads us to believe there has been an accident. My God, perhaps he is just as dead as Vitalis…” Maurus Rambeck stopped and pressed his lips together, visibly moved.
“We must expect the worst, Maurus,” murmured the cantor and librarian sitting at the far end of the table. His hair was snow-white, and deep folds in his face made him look like a withered plum cake. “The destruction suggests a deadly battle took place. But why?” Distrustfully he looked at the medicus.
“I think it’s time for the bathhouse surgeon to tell us what he saw,” said the scrawny prior whose hooked nose and piercing eyes reminded Simon of an eagle.
An eagle just before it plunges downward toward a terrified little mouse in the wheat field, thought Simon. I’m lucky this Jeremias is only the abbot’s deputy.
“Who can tell us that this man from Schongau doesn’t have anything to do with it?” the prior continued. “After all, Brother Martin and Brother Jakobus came upon him and that woman at the scene. And other monks have disclosed to me that the bathhouse surgeon went to visit Virgilius—and Brother Johannes—yesterday,” he added ominously.
Now all five monks eyed Simon suspiciously. Their gazes seemed to pass right through him. Once more the medicus felt as if his feet were being held to the fire.
“Allow me please to explain what happened,” he began hesitantly. “I… can explain everything.”
The abbot nodded sympathetically, and Simon began his report, starting with his visit the previous day with Brother Johannes. He mentioned the latter’s argument with Virgilius, and finally pulled out the blood-encrusted eyepiece he’d found on the floor in the watchmaker’s workshop, which Abbot Rambeck reached for and showed to the other monks.
“This clearly belongs to Brother Johannes,” he said pensively. “The Schongau bathhouse surgeon told me before our meeting about his suspicion, and I then summoned Johannes.”
“And?” the old librarian asked.
Rambeck sighed. “He disappeared.”
“Is it possible he’s just in the forest collecting herbs?” the novitiate master interjected. He was a younger man with pleasant features and alert eyes, which were slightly red now. Simon wondered whether he’d been crying.
“Collecting herbs this early in the morning? Brother Johannes?” The cellarer Eckhart laughed derisively. “That would be the first time our dear Brother had been up that early. He usually prefers to go out in the light of the full moon and, after that, down a few pitchers of beer.”
“In any case, I’ve sent a few men out from the village to search for him and bring him back,” said Rambeck. “I’m reluctant to disturb the judge with the case until I’ve spoken with him. You know what that would mean.”
The monks nodded silently, and Simon, too, could imagine the consequences of a visit by the local judge. A few years ago, the elector’s deputy had appeared in Schongau at a witch trial, along with a large retinue and noisy soldiers. The city was still paying the bill for that m
onths later.
“What we have here is a murder, Maurus,” the prior scolded, shaking his head. “Probably even a double murder, if we can’t find Virgilius.” He shrugged, and Simon thought he saw quiet satisfaction in his eyes. “I’m afraid we can’t avoid calling the district judge from Weilheim.”
The medicus took a step forward and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but perhaps Brother Johannes is even responsible for three deaths.”
The prior frowned. “What do you mean?”
Hesitantly, Simon removed his report from his pocket and presented it to the council. He briefly explained his suspicions concerning the death of the novitiate Coelestin.
For a while, no one said a word.
Finally, the abbot spoke, his face now ashen. “Do you mean that Brother Johannes may have first killed his assistant Coelestin, then Vitalis, and possibly Virgilius as well? But… why?”
“We know that all too well,” Brother Eckhart snapped. His bald head turned red, and little veins stood out. “Haven’t the two always carried out sacrilegious experiments? Johannes and Virgilius? Didn’t we just two weeks ago forbid Brother Johannes from studying things that only God should be concerned with? And yet he persisted.” He stood up from his chair, panting heavily, and pounded the table so hard with his fist that the monks stared back at him in shock. “I’ll tell you what happened: the good novitiate Coelestin wanted to prevent his master from experimenting any further with this devil’s work. So Johannes simply killed him. Finally there was an argument between the two sorcerers Johannes and Virgilius; they fought with balls of fire and sulfur, until Virgilius went up in smoke at the end and went to hell, and his assistant was struck down by his enemy’s magic spells.”
“Nonsense,” the young novitiate master mumbled. “Nobody goes up in smoke. There must be another explanation.”
“Think of the wounds poor Vitalis suffered,” the prior pleaded. “May his soul rest in peace. They were clearly not of natural origin.”
“To know that for certain, we’d have to examine—” Simon started to object, but the old librarian interrupted, raising a trembling hand.
“Something else must be noted,” he said hoarsely. “You know all these automata that Virgilius was so fond of—this woman made of metal who plays the glockenspiel.”
“I do hope it has been destroyed,” Brother Eckhart grumbled. “That at least would be something positive. God alone, and not man, should create life.”
“Well, it’s even worse,” the librarian continued hesitantly. “Our Brothers Martin and Jakobus have told me that the… well, the automaton has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” The prior shook his head. “Just like Virgilius? But how is that possible? The doll is as large as a human and certainly very heavy. How could anyone—”
“My God,” Brother Eckhart, who was still standing, raised his hands in prayer and directed his gaze theatrically to the ceiling. “Don’t you understand what happened? Don’t you understand the full horror of this?” His voice was trembling. “This… creature… has come to life and has seized its master. Somewhere here in the monastery a golem is stalking about. God help us!”
Excited murmurs could be heard from all sides; some of the monks crossed themselves or clung tightly to their rosaries. Simon, too, felt a shiver run up his spine. He couldn’t help thinking of the automaton in the watchmaker’s shop, the lifeless face and the slightly off-key melody of a glockenspiel playing inside. He could practically see the puppet in front of him as it whirred through the room.
Like a ghost gliding along weightlessly, he thought, driven by a lust for revenge—one that never stops until its task is complete.
The abbot stood now and pounded the table angrily with the palm of his hand, bringing Simon back to reality.
“Quiet!” he shouted. “Dear Brothers, I beg for silence.”
Only gradually did quiet return to the room. The abbot took a deep breath before continuing in a broken voice. “We won’t understand what has happened until… until Brother Johannes is back among us. We have to be grateful for every clue.” Turning to Simon, he added, “I shall read your report carefully, and I’d be very grateful if you can contribute anything else to clarify this case. You’ve seemed quite astute thus far.”
Prior Jeremias gasped. “A bathhouse surgeon, a dishonorable person, helping to solve a murder in the monastery? My dear Brother, I beg you—”
“And I beg you to be silent,” Abbot Rambeck interrupted. “Dishonorable or not, this bathhouse surgeon has made more intelligent observations than all of us together. It would be stupid not to accept his help. I’m asking him to continue work on his report.” Rambeck seemed to get briefly lost in thought, and his hands began to tremble again. After a brief pause, he turned back to Simon. “Ah, there’s something else, Master Fronwieser. It’s come to my attention that some of the pilgrims are ill. Now that our apothecary is no longer available, someone else is needed to care for them…”
It sounded like an order, so Simon nodded respectfully. “Naturally, Your Eminence, as you wish.”
Wonderful, he thought. Until today, I was an ordinary pilgrim, and now I must write a report about a mysterious murder and care for sick pilgrims. Why didn’t I just go to Altötting with Magdalena?
The abbot closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. “Then let us pray to God for our dead and missing Brothers.”
Simon watched each monk, one after the other, as Maurus Rambeck recited a psalm in Latin. The Brothers had folded their hands, murmuring the prayers as they lowered their eyes. It seemed each radiated an evil aura quite out of place in this cloistered atmosphere. Suddenly the prior raised his head and looked Simon directly in the eye.
The medicus winced. In Brother Jeremias’s eyes Simon saw a hateful spark that rattled him to the core.
Brother Johannes ran through the forest as if the devil himself were in pursuit.
He stumbled over roots, picked himself up again breathlessly, jumped over muddy ditches, and rushed through thick underbrush. The hem of his robe had long been reduced to tatters; thistles and branches clung to the material, and his face was sweaty and mud-stained. Tears ran down his chubby cheeks and his heart pounded. Except for a linen bag with his essential belongings, he hadn’t been able to save a thing.
Johannes cursed and sobbed. His former life behind him, he would have to hit the road again. He didn’t know what the future held for him, only what would happen if they caught him: They’d pull out his fingernails and toenails and stretch his bones until they popped out of their sockets. Then they’d crush his thumbs, burn his wizened skin with matches, and throw him on a huge pile of wood and brush to be consumed by fire.
Brother Johannes knew all this because he was familiar with torture and executions. He had seen far too many up close; he knew what awaited a murderer and warlock.
Without stopping once to look around, the fat apothecary ran through the Kien Valley. By now it was early morning, and the sun bore down mercilessly through the boughs and branches. Like most of the other monks, Johannes had been awakened at the crack of dawn by loud wailing. Something dreadful must have happened, and he had a dark suspicion what it was. He’d secretly hurried to the watchmaker’s house, only to find the bathhouse owner and his woman leaving, both of them as white as a sheet. From the bits of conversation he overheard, he pieced together what they’d discovered inside.
When he heard them mention his name, Brother Johannes knew he couldn’t return. They would find out everything—the experiments, the fire in the tower, all about his former life…
A curse on you, Virgilius!
Thus Johannes snuck back to his little house, picked up some provisions, a blanket, and his old wooden cross, and made off toward the Kien Valley. He ran through a narrow hidden gorge, which many Erlingers had used during the Great War to escape the Swedes and was known to them as The Ox’s Gorge… From time to time Johannes had to gather up the folds of his robe and wade through the Kien Broo
k. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear dogs barking and a horn sounding. Were they already on his heels?
He suppressed the thought and rushed forward blindly. If he could make it down to Mühlfeld or Wartaweil, perhaps he had a chance. He could find a fisherman to take him over to Dießen, and from there he could keep going toward Landsberg, where he had friends who would help him. Perhaps somewhere he would find an army he could join up with. People with his experience were always needed.
The trees in front of him were thinning out, so he could already see the lake sparkling down in the valley. His goal, the little fisherman’s port not far from Mühlfeld Castle, seemed within reach. As soon as Brother Johannes stepped out of the forest, he heard a shot. A bullet whizzed by his ear, missing him by just inches. Gasping, he threw himself down in the mud.
“There he is, the filthy bastard. You were right; he fled through the Ox’s Gorge.”
A man stepped out from behind the trees with a smoking musket, followed by a second and a third. All were experienced hunters employed by the monastery, and Johannes knew them. In the tavern they sometimes whispered behind his back; they didn’t like it that he collected herbs in their hunting grounds and scared the wildlife. To them, he was just a fat, ugly priest who ate what by rights belonged to them. A monster in a monk’s cassock who terrified children.
Today was the day of reckoning.
“We heard you killed three of your Brothers, you scum,” the oldest growled, nudging the monk with his foot. His eyes gleamed with the thrill of the chase. “It was easy for you with the three priests, but we’re made of different stuff.” Laughing, he turned to his friends. “Well, what do you think? Do we want to see the fat toad jump again?” When the others howled their approval, he held his musket in the air and fired. A swarm of sparrows scattered, chirping angrily in the direction of the monastery.
Dazed by the noise and fearful, Brother Johannes leapt up and stumbled toward a field of barley. Behind it was the lake with little boats rocking on the waves—he could almost smell the water. As he began to run, he looked up and could see between the low-lying clouds on the horizon the monastery in Dießen. And he could hear the rustle of the grain beneath his feet as he ran.