The Play of Death
After Faistenmantel’s remark, the judge was silent and seemed to be considering whether to engage in a power struggle with the council chairman. Johannes Rieger glared at Simon one last time then shrugged and turned to the assembly.
“You’ve no doubt all heard what happened to Urban Gabler,” he began, drumming his fingers on the table. “This meeting has been called by myself and Konrad Faistenmantel in order to . . . ah, dispel certain rumors. There are some who see a connection between the death of young Dominik and this matter in the moor. That’s nonsense, naturally. Urban Gabler clearly was killed by someone intent on robbery. He took a shortcut across the moor, where some cutthroat from out of town was waiting for him. Evidently, he was heard screaming, but help came too late. I’m always warning you of all the peddlers who—”
“Rubbish!” shouted Adam Göbl, the father of the imprisoned Hans Göbl. He pounded the table so hard that his stein bounced back almost an inch. “Anyone who can’t see a connection between the two murders is a fool. There’s a madman prowling around out there, and because of that my innocent son is sitting in the dungeon over there in Ettal. He must be released at once.”
There was grumbling all around the table, but some of the men nodded their approval.
“Watch your tongue, Göbl, when you speak with me,” Johannes Rieger replied in a piercing tone. “I’m still the judge in Ammergau, and if you can’t control yourself, you may soon be keeping your son company in the dungeon.” Smugly, he leaned back in his chair, playing with his walking stick. “But I can put your mind to rest. The abbot where he is confined has suspended the interrogation for the time being, though that doesn’t mean your son is being released, at least not yet.”
“That Göbl gang is responsible for my son’s death,” Faistenmantel growled. “That’s as sure as the amen in the church.”
Adam Göbl jumped up, reached for his beer stein, and looked as if he was about to throw it. “Who the hell do you—”
“Silence!” the judge cried. “These accusations don’t get us anywhere. Sit down, Göbl, or you’ll be sorry. And you, Faistenmantel, certainly should not be throwing stones.”
His eyes flashing with anger, Göbl took his seat again, and Simon looked over at Konrad Faistenmantel, who glared back just as angrily.
“Very well,” the fat merchant finally mumbled. “For the sake of the play, and peace in the village. I’ll pull myself together if he will, too.”
“Why is the Schongau secretary meddling in our affairs?” another councilman complained. He had a black walrus moustache and was almost a head taller than most of those present, but his voice sounded high and thin, like that of a woman in a man’s body. His name was Franz Würmseer, as Simon had learned from Georg Kaiser, and he was the vice chairman of the town council.
“Don’t we have more than enough foreigners here in town?” Würmseer continued. “Not just the itinerant beggars and peddlers, but especially all the workers and newcomers who have been gathering like flies in the valley since the coming of the Great Plague. It’s quite possible that one of them murdered poor Gabler.”
Some of the men nodded their approval, and the judge seemed to agree. “The migrant workers are in fact a problem,” said Rieger. “More than fifty years ago we also had a large number of poor people, and at that time they were simply driven out of town. Perhaps that’s what we should do now. If it turns out that one of the newcomers killed Gabler, that would be our chance to get rid of them. I’ve said it often enough: this valley is too small to take in any more immigrants.”
Once again, Simon could feel how all eyes had turned to him. His headache worsened and he shifted around on his chair, and finally Georg Kaiser, seated beside him, cleared his throat and spoke up.
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” Kaiser began cautiously, “but I think I remember years ago we made a point of inviting the foreigners after the Great Plague. We needed the people because so many of our own had died. I have several children of these . . . paupers, as you call them, in my school, and they are poor but decent people. I waive tuition for the poorest of them and in return they do little chores for me. To send them away now would be—”
“Times have changed,” Johannes Rieger interrupted. “And how did your council chairman put it earlier? Unusual events require unusual measures.” He smiled slightly, as if he’d just thought of the perfect response. “These foreigners have been a thorn in my side for far too long. I’ll speak with the abbot about whether we can deport at least some of these families. This dreadful murder gives us a good argument.”
Franz Würmseer nodded enthusiastically. “The foreigners hardly pay any taxes and have more children than people like us have, and now it’s not even safe anymore to walk down the street. If we’re not careful, the foreigners will take over the town before long.”
“But that’s just nonsense,” said Georg Kaiser. “They pay their tithes just like the rest of us, and still not one of them has a seat on our council, none of them has—”
“Any further comments?” Rieger snarled.
“I don’t know if it’s right to place the blame on the foreigners,” mumbled an elderly man with long gray hair. His hands were trembling, his eyes reddened and sad looking. It was the old miller, Augustin Sprenger, on whom Simon had paid a house call just the day before. The poor man was suffering from cataracts. “Perhaps it was just a mistake we made in moving up the schedule for the Passion play, and the dear Lord doesn’t like us meddling in His handiwork. Just think of all the avalanches of snow and rock we’ve already had this spring. God is angry with us. Urban Gabler always warned us that—”
“Please, Augustin!” Konrad Faistenmantel interrupted. “One mustn’t speak ill of the dead, but Urban was more religious than the pope and not the brightest star in the firmament. What objection could the Savior possibly have to our honoring Him four years earlier? And we’ve always had these avalanches.” He smiled self-confidently. “In any case, the play is good for the town. Until now, we have always lost money on the Passion play, but this time I plan to make a handsome profit on it: woodcarvings, statues of saints, crosses . . . The pilgrims will go wild over all the things we have to sell, and our town will be famous everywhere.”
“That wasn’t the point of the Passion play,” Augustin Sprenger grumbled. “Didn’t our Savior Himself chase the moneychangers from the temple?”
“I believe our council chairman is correct,” said the man next to him, a rotund, pleasant-looking fellow with a balding head. This youngest council member, Sebastian Sailer, was a wagon driver and manager of the storage house for goods in transit. He had attracted Simon’s attention in the cemetery earlier; he was one of the few who hadn’t taken part in the brawl but stood a bit off to one side with Urban Gabler. Now he looked pale and overtired. He was obviously deeply moved by the death of his colleague.
“The last thing in the world we want now is to lose control,” Sailer continued, speaking quickly. “The Passion play could be a special blessing for the wagon drivers. You all know how trade has declined on the route through town. More people will come through town because of the play, and more merchants will store their goods here. And that means more profit for us. Anyone who wants to can donate his earnings to the church.”
Franz Würmseer nodded. “Sebastian is quite right. For a long time now, we wagon drivers have been slowly going broke, and if there’s even less traffic on the roads, we’ll be washed up.”
A murmur arose, a mixture of anger and agreement, and the judge pounded the table with the pommel of his walking stick. “Quiet, or I’ll clear the room!” As the meeting gradually settled down, Johannes Rieger turned to Simon. “Perhaps it’s time for our Schongau medicus to tell us more about the deceased,” he said, looking at Simon with a malicious smile. “Master Faistenmantel seems to think a lot of you. So . . . wouldn’t you agree it was a vile murder by some random vagabond?”
“Eh . . . that’s hard to say,” Simon replied, slumping down. His mouth sud
denly turned dry, and blood pounded in his head. “Unfortunately, the corpse was not in very good shape, but at least I’m sure about the weapon.”
“Which is . . . ?” asked the judge.
“Well, the broad, deep cut in the abdomen indicates it was a sword.”
“Ah! A sword?” cried Würmseer in his squeaky voice. “Nobody in town has a weapon like that, so it surely was one of the foreigners.”
“Or an avenging angel,” Augustin Sprenger murmured.
All eyes turned to the old miller, who now rose to his feet, trembling. “A sword,” he exclaimed. “Don’t you understand what that means? Dominik Faistenmantel was to play the part of Jesus, and he died on the cross. Urban Gabler had the role of the apostle Thomas.”
“And that means . . . ?” Konrad Faistenmantel asked uncertainly.
“Well, aren’t you infidels familiar with the martyrdom of Saint Thomas?” Sprenger continued, shaking his head. “Saint Thomas went to India, where he was taken prisoner by King Misdai. The apostle was commanded to pray to an idol, but Thomas caused the statue to melt and the high priest then killed him with a sword. With a sword!” The old man stared glassy-eyed at the council members, each of whom had an important role in the Passion play. “Jesus on the cross . . . Thomas with the sword. What has to happen for you to realize that God has sent an avenger?”
The men were silent, but their faces had suddenly turned a ghostly white. From far off came a thundering sound as another avalanche rumbled down a mountain into the valley.
It didn’t exactly help make Simon’s headache any better.
From its rocky throne, the Kofel stared down at the little houses below. A cloud of snow and tiny ice particles flew up as the avalanche finally reached the valley, causing a mere tremor in the interior of the mountain, so faint it could be felt only in the fissures deep within the earth.
The mountain was gradually awakening.
High up on the ridge from the Kofel to the Pürschling and on to the deeply fissured Teufelsstättkopf, a small band of strange little creatures made their way along hidden, snow-covered paths. Their cowls fluttered in the wind and their little legs carried them over the deep snow cover as if they were floating. They were afraid, because in the tunnels and mineshafts the lanterns had swayed and one had even fallen to the ground and gone out with a hiss. The creatures did not know what caused the tremor, but they suspected it was nothing good. The harbinger of a catastrophe that would drag them into the abyss.
The creatures had a mission, and they couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest, or the disaster would sweep them out of the valley like a cold wind. To conquer their fears they sang the ancient song of the boogeyman. Most of the human men considered it just a funny children’s song, but it wasn’t, not in its original meaning. It was an incantation about the grim reaper from the dark past, used to keep the spirit of the mountains in check.
The bi-ba-boogeyman, the boogeyman is back . . . He picks up little boys and girls and throws them in his sack.
The little creatures ran and ran, and the mountain watched in wonder.
Only a few hours later, Simon and Jakob Kuisl were walking through the valley of the Laine in the mountains above Oberammergau. Alongside them, the Laine, a mountain brook swollen from the melting snow, now thundered down into the valley as a raging torrent. Branches and whole tree trunks were carried along by the swirling brown water. Higher up on the mountain they could hear the steady chopping of the woodcutters, who were no doubt clearing away debris.
“And these stubborn numbskulls really believe that someone killed the actors in exactly the same way as the actual biblical figures?” asked Jakob Kuisl, shaking his head in disbelief as he strode forward. Simon struggled to keep up with him.
Simon had told him about the controversy in the council that morning. Since the interrogation of Hans Göbl had been postponed, Lechner had given Jakob some time off, with instructions to stay around and keep his ears open. After a short inspection of the crime scene, the hangman had returned to Oberammergau to pay a visit to his son-in-law. After the binge drinking the night before with his old friend Georg Kaiser, Simon was feeling quite hungover and had therefore closed the bathhouse until the afternoon. Their walk had finally led them up into the Laine Valley.
“So far it’s mostly just the old miller, Augustin Sprenger, who believes that part about the Bible stories,” Simon finally responded with a shrug. “But the other council members are at least unsure. They all have roles in the Passion play, after all, and now all of them are wondering what’s in store for them.”
Kuisl grunted. “If old Sprenger is right, we have bloody times ahead of us. The Bible is a huge horror story. Just think of all the martyrs . . . boiled in oil, burned at the stake, their guts ripped out, bones broken . . . Compared with them, we hangmen are like the kindly Samaritan.” He grinned and turned to Simon. “Who has the part of Saint Peter?”
“Eh . . . as far as I know, Konrad Faistenmantel himself.”
“Wish him good luck. Petrus was crucified upside down. The apostle Andrew died, as you know, crucified on an X-shaped cross, now called a Saint Andrew’s Cross, Bartholomew was flayed alive, Jacob was beheaded, Matthew—”
“Thanks for all the graphic details,” interrupted Simon, who suddenly felt sick to his stomach again. “I was only repeating what old Sprenger said. Faistenmantel still believes the Göbls killed his son and that Gabler was killed by some vagrant,” he said, scratching his head. “And there are some, like Judge Johannes Rieger or the wagon driver and vice chairman of the council, Franz Würmseer, who blame the many immigrants and day laborers. It seems the Oberammergauers have trouble with foreigners.”
“For those in Oberammergau, foreigners are probably people from Unterammergau, and Schongauers like us are as foreign as if we came from the West Indies.” Kuisl spat on the slushy path, which got steeper and steeper. “These narrow-minded damned mountain villagers! Instead of using their reason, they look for a scapegoat. Did any of them ever wonder where Gabler was going at that hour? And why he went alone through the swampland instead of taking the road?”
Simon shook his head. Only now did he realize that he hadn’t asked that important question in the meeting, either. “He . . . no doubt was going to the monastery,” he said hesitantly, “but why he didn’t take the road, I can’t begin to say. Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to see him.”
Kuisl nodded silently. They walked along for a while without speaking, as the Laine foamed and seethed like a satanic slough, cascading over drops large and small on its way into the valley. In an especially wide part of the stream, there was a logjam of trees, apparently carried away by a storm, strewn this way and that, thus forming a pond that threatened to overflow its banks. A dozen or more men with axes were dragging the trunks out of the water and chopping them up. Simon tipped his hat politely, but the men didn’t even look up.
“And a good day to you as well,” Simon mumbled.
Jakob grinned. “You should be happy they don’t throw you in the water when they see your outlandish dress. The Oberammergauers are a stoic people that don’t put much stock in appearances.”
“Then you probably get along with them just fine,” Simon scoffed.
They passed over a narrow wooden bridge and up a winding path toward the top of the mountain, as the sound of chopping gradually faded away. Here, too, some trees felled by the storm had been stripped of their branches and piled together.
“Maybe we’re looking in all the wrong places,” Jakob said finally. “I questioned Göbl yesterday. He denied everything and said someone had planted the confounded pages in his room. But he did tell me about an old enemy of the Faistenmantels, a certain Xaver Eyrl.”
Simon listened intently as his father-in-law told him how the Eyrls had been ruined financially and the son, Xaver, had disappeared.
“And Xaver actually cursed the village?” Simon asked.
Jakob nodded. “It doesn’t help that he has flaming red hair. Peo
ple think of that as a witch’s sign.”
“Flaming red hair?” Simon stopped short. “That’s odd. On my first morning at the Oberammergau bathhouse, a stranger broke in. He got away, but underneath his floppy hat I could see red hair. Georg Kaiser thought it was probably just an itinerant peddler.”
“He’s probably right about that,” Jakob replied with a shrug.
“Yes, but there’s more to it. When I got back to the house, a carved figurine was standing there next to the fireplace, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there earlier. It looked something like a Hebrew high priest, but I’m not sure who . . .”
Simon stopped short as little stones trickled down onto the path from up on the mountain. When he looked up, he saw a figure that quickly disappeared behind a pile of logs. It was a small person, child-sized, and wearing a cowl with a hood.
“Hey, look! Who’s that?” Simon shouted.
The small creature hurried across the path in front of them, disappearing behind a large boulder. The patter of little feet was briefly audible, then silence returned.
“For God’s sake, who was that?” asked Simon in astonishment.
Kuisl rubbed his huge nose and looked up at the ridge. “Hmm. Probably just a shepherd boy. Perhaps a cow or a goat got away and he’s running after it. Let’s think instead of who might be the murderer before—”
At that moment there was a deep, rumbling sound, and Simon thought he felt the ground trembling beneath his feet.
Right after that, the entire mountain began to move.
Bent over like an old woman, wearing an apron and a headscarf tied in a knot, Magdalena scurried through the narrow lanes of Schongau.