The Play of Death
“Where are we running to?” he asked, completely out of breath, but Jossi just giggled and ran on.
“Be surprised. Your eyes will pop out.” After they’d passed the Ammer bridge they continued across the fields, still partially covered with snow, toward the dark forest of pines directly below Kofel Mountain. As soon as the three boys entered the forest it became noticeably darker and cooler. Rugged, deeply fissured boulders lay strewn all around as if cast in anger by a mountain giant, and a narrow pathway wound through them.
After a while they came to a huge boulder with a smooth rockface more than twenty feet high. Peter stopped in amazement on recognizing some strange characters etched into the rock—among them a pentagram, a chalice, and a more than life-sized head of a knight in armor.
“What in the world is that?” he asked.
“We call this the Wall of Evil,” Maxl declared in a conspiratorial voice. “The drawings are reputed to be ancient. Hidden messages and defensive magic against evil spirits.” He pointed to the path ahead. “There are similar places here all along the foot of the Kofel, and because of this the region is considered cursed. Only very rarely do men go up this path.” He grinned. “And that’s lucky for us.”
Peter looked more closely at the symbols. “A pentagram!” he said excitedly. “And this here looks like a lion’s head or a double-headed eagle.”
“When the two-headed eagle utters its cry, stay on the narrow path in the shadow of the mountain,” Jossi whispered.
Peter stared at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Well, some people think that mythical little men from Venice—”
“Hey! Hurry up,” Maxl interrupted, casting an admonishing glance at his friend. “Or maybe another woodcutter will come along and kick us out. This is a private forest for avalanche protection and belongs to the monastery. We actually shouldn’t even be here.”
Sure-footed as a mountain goat, Maxl clambered up one side of the boulder and disappeared into a crevice, then Jossi and Peter followed. Even while he was climbing up, Peter pondered the meaning of the strange signs and wished he knew more about these mythical little men from Venice. Perhaps there would be a chance later to ask a few questions.
They crawled through a slippery crevice, around the boulder, and over fallen trees that made their progress difficult. Suddenly Jossi stopped, folded his arms, and gave them a strange look.
“Before we go on, you must swear you’ll tell no one about this place,” he declared solemnly.
Peter nodded excitedly. “I swear.”
“Swear on the life of your mother and the Holy Trinity,” Maxl demanded.
“By the life of my mother and the Holy Trinity.”
Jossi grinned broadly. “Well, then come along.” He took Peter by the hand and led him a few steps forward until they found themselves on the opposite side of the boulder. “Welcome to the Malenstein, the hideout of the dishonorable children,” Jossi exclaimed, making a stiff bow. “Make yourself at home.”
Peter’s jaw dropped in astonishment. On this side, the imposing boulder formed a kind of slanting roof over the entrance to a cave about as large as the schoolroom. Off to the right was another chamber, with flat rocks arranged along the walls like chairs. In the middle was a hearth and next to it an almost waist-high disk cut from the trunk of an oak tree. Evidently the disk served as a table, since even in the dim light Peter was able to make out earthenware cups and a few stained copper plates.
“This . . . is a palace,” Peter finally stuttered.
Jossi laughed. “Well, perhaps not exactly a palace, but still a very pleasant hangout, especially when Poxhannes is out looking for us.”
Together with Maxl he climbed down into the rocky chamber and gave Peter a sign to follow them. “If you break an oath, you’ll be sorry,” said Jossi threateningly. “We’ll hang you upside down over an anthill so they’ll eat you alive. Do you understand?”
“Under . . . understood,” Peter gulped. “Who knows about this hiding place?”
“In addition to us, around a dozen,” replied Maxl, and started counting on his fingers. “John, Wastl, Lilli, Joseffa . . . all children of dirty dishonorable laborers and immigrants.” He grinned. “The people that Nepomuk and his ilk call worthless riffraff, and now you’re one of us. People from Oberammergau avoid this area, so we have our peace and quiet here.” He sat down in the moss and pulled out a pouch from under a flat rock. With a patronizing look, he handed it to Peter. “Help yourself. They’re dried berries and nuts that we gathered. In the fall, we’ll even make apple cider.”
Peter put some of the delicious berries in his mouth, enjoying the sweet taste. He leaned back, feeling comfortable and happy. A warm feeling infused him—the feeling of finally belonging to a group. In Schongau he had always been simply the grandson of the dishonorable hangman.
“If so many children know about this place, why aren’t they here?” he finally asked, after swallowing a mouthful. “Don’t they have any time today?”
Silence reigned for a while, while the two older boys looked at each other in embarrassment. Then Jossi spoke up.
“They’re not here because in the afternoon they have to work for Poxhannes,” he answered darkly. “Their parents haven’t paid tuition, so they labor for him, in the field and in the forest.” He pointed at Maxl and himself. “The two of us will have to report to him, too, within the hour. We only hope his mood will be better then than it was a while ago.”
“But that’s unfair,” Peter exclaimed angrily. “Some of them don’t know a single sentence in Latin, yet they can lie around in front of the stove in the afternoon, while others have to do hard labor.”
“Our parents are happy that in this way we can at least go to school.” Maxl shrugged. “That’s how it is. We children of the laborers have no rights, and now they want to expel us from the valley.”
He fell silent on hearing a noise outside. There was a sound of footsteps, and someone walked by very close to the cave. Jossi held his finger to his lips and looked at Peter conspiratorially. When the sound had finally died away, the older boy turned to the two younger ones.
“Let’s check and see who that was,” Jossi whispered. “There’s hardly ever anyone wandering around in these woods.”
“Oh, God, don’t let it be Poxhannes,” Maxl moaned. “If he finds our hiding place, it’s all over.”
Jossi walked over to the front part of the rocky chamber and cautiously stepped outside. After looking around, he beckoned to the others. “There’s someone else here,” he whispered. “Come!”
Quickly Jossi and Maxl climbed up to the top of the boulder, while Peter followed them, anxiously, slipping a few times on the mossy stone, but finally reaching the top, where the two other boys were waiting impatiently for him. As silently as possible they crawled over to the edge, where they could still hear the sound of steps below.
Very slowly, Peter stuck out his head to see a stocky man with a black mustache down below, at the foot of the wall. It was clearly not Poxhannes—and yet he somehow seemed familiar to Peter.
“I just don’t understand—it’s Franz Würmseer,” Jossi whispered. “Nepomuk’s father. What’s he doing here?”
And indeed, the man down below looked a lot like fat Nepomuk. He was kneeling on the ground near the rock wall, stooped over so Peter couldn’t see exactly what he was doing. After a while Würmseer stood up again and hurried away. On the ground lay a few white pebbles and sticks of wood in a strange configuration. It took Peter a while to remember where he’d seen this sign before.
The wayside cross, he suddenly remembered. The day we arrived.
It was during their trip to Oberammergau, while he was sitting with his father in the wagon. They’d stopped at the wayside shrine as they entered the Ammer River valley and saw twigs and pebbles like those lying at the foot of the cross. What in heaven’s name did it mean?
“Würmseer has left,” Maxl whispered. “Let’s go down and see
what he did there.”
In a flash they climbed down over another boulder and arrived at the foot of their hiding spot. From up close the sign on the ground seemed even stranger and weirder.
Like the mark of Satan.
Jossi kicked it, and the branches and pebbles flew off in all directions. “Franz Würmseer is a dirty bastard just like his son,” he cursed. “No matter what it was, now it’s gone.” He was shivering and rubbing his arms. “For some reason I’m no longer happy here by our cave. Let’s go home.”
Peter nodded—he also wanted to go home, but above all he wanted to tell his father about Franz Würmseer’s strange behavior. Could he perhaps help his father and his grandfather in their search for the murderer? His father would certainly be grateful, and maybe he’d pay more attention to Peter if he told him about his remarkable find.
These signs couldn’t be good, whatever they meant.
“You want me to do what?”
Simon stared at Jakob as if he were a ghost. He was wearier than he’d been in years, and bleary-eyed. The night before he’d stopped by briefly at Kaiser’s house to visit Peter and put him to bed. The boy was excited to tell his father about the new friends he’d made that day, but Simon was only half listening. His thoughts were still with Martin, the badly injured young man who so desperately needed his help. The woodcutter had been running a temperature all night and was shouting in his sleep. In addition, the stump of his leg had become infected and the wound had to be freshly dressed. Earlier that morning it had been difficult finding a few helpers to take the poor fellow back to his home on the Alpine pasture below the Laber River.
After that, Simon had to make a few house calls, visiting some old, sick people in the valley who were homebound. Finally, after many difficult hours, he arrived back in the bathhouse only to meet his father-in-law with the latest disturbing news.
“You understood me,” Jakob said. “Lechner expects you at Ettal Monastery tomorrow morning to assist with the cross-examination.”
“That’s not cross-examination, it’s just torture,” Simon said. “How long will men continue to revert to this barbarity instead of using their reason?”
Simon collapsed on a chair in the living room and brooded silently. He’d always been afraid that someday he’d be called upon to do this. A doctor always had to be present during a cross-examination so that the suspect didn’t suddenly collapse or even die. In Schongau that had been done either by Simon’s father or the bathhouse keeper and medicus at the time, and later Melchior Ransmayer, who was happy to pocket the money without the slightest scruple and wasn’t much concerned with the suspect’s wounds. Simon viewed torture as a relic of a dark time in the past, but he stood more or less alone in his views, unfortunately.
“Perhaps we won’t even get that far,” said Jakob, trying to reassure him. “The evidence is so clear that Eyrl will probably confess without all that. Perhaps all we’ll have to do is show him the instruments.”
Jakob told Simon about the strange wooden figurines in Eyrl’s bag, one of which was found near the corpse of Urban Gabler.
“The figurine is identical to the one you found here in the Oberammergau bathhouse,” Jakob explained, pointing at the carved figurine of the Pharisee now standing on a shelf next to the pickled cow eyes and salamanders. “If we can find a similar figurine in Faistenmantel’s house, then we have our connection. Eyrl was trying to take revenge on selected members of the community. First he sent each of them a statuette as a warning, and then he killed them.” Jakob crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back on the bench that was much too small for him. “I caught Xaver just as he was about to attack old Faistenmantel. He had his bag of carvings with him.”
“I don’t know.” Simon scratched his head. “You might be right in your suspicion of the Faistenmantels—after all, they ruined Xaver’s family financially, and the fellow has a reason to strike back. But then what did Urban Gabler and the old bathhouse owner have to do with it?”
Jakob shrugged. “Gabler was on the town council, and old Landes, who ran the bathhouse and served as the medicus, certainly had influence in town. It’s quite possible the two of them helped to drive the Eyrls out of town.”
“And then he takes revenge by first planting these figurines on them?” Simon walked over to the shelves and returned with the little wooden figurine, turning it over and pointing to the inscription on the bottom. “But what’s the meaning of this ET TU?”
“How do I know?” Jakob looked more and more defiant. “The figurines are in any case from Xaver Eyrl—there’s no doubt about that. He had a sack of them.”
“Didn’t you tell me yourself that Xaver and young Dominik Faistenmantel were good friends?” Simon said. “Then why would he kill him? Because he was the son of his archenemy? That just doesn’t make any sense.”
“What does it matter whether or not it makes sense?” Jakob asked. “Xaver is the best suspect we have and Lechner wants to wrap up this case as soon as possible.”
“As do you,” Simon said softly.
“Good Lord, don’t you understand?” Jakob pounded the table so hard that the glass jars of salamander eyes trembled in the shelves. “Lechner has got me and my family in a corner. If I don’t help him solve this case, he will make my life hell in Schongau.”
Simon sighed. “Well, you did punch Ransmayer in the face, so you and perhaps our whole family are already in a lot of trouble, but even then we can’t allow innocent people—”
“But that’s not all,” Jakob interrupted. “Lechner told me straight out that if I don’t help him, he’ll never allow Georg to return to Schongau. My son’s banishment will become permanent.” He turned away and began looking in his pouch for a few last crumbs of tobacco for his pipe. His fingers trembled slightly and an awkward silence came over the room.
Simon bit his lip. “I . . . understand,” he finally said.
“You don’t understand a damn thing.” Jakob had put down his pipe. Grimly he peered out through the shutters at the Ammer River rushing by, and in moments like this Simon realized how old his father-in-law had become. The many strokes of fate had caused deep rings to form under his eyes. The hangman was still as strong as a bear, but to Simon it seemed like he was shrinking more and more beneath his firm shell, like a snail plucked out of the water. His excessive drinking had reddened his face and eyes, and his large aquiline nose was covered with a network of fine veins.
“I can empathize,” Simon murmured eventually. “It’s also hard for me to let Peter go. The very thought that he might never be able to return to me would break my heart.” He hesitated a while, then he went on in a firm voice. “But I have always valued you as a man of principle. You know this case is not as simple as it appears.”
“I still want to get all this quickly behind me, though,” Jakob said. “You are right, I’ve become weak, but by God, I can’t always carry the load. It’s time for others to pull the wagon out of the mud; I’m too old.” He turned to Simon, and his eyes narrowed to little slits. Once again Jakob Kuisl looked invincible; his moment of weakness was past.
“So tomorrow I’ll torture this Eyrl fellow,” he continued firmly. “I’ll do it well, and I’ll do it fast, and you’re going to help me. And then we’ll both go back to where we are needed, to our families.”
For a long time neither of them said anything; the only sound was the rushing water of the Ammer.
At that moment, hasty footsteps could be heard approaching the house, the door opened, and Peter walked in. His brow was sweaty and he was clearly excited.
“Father, there’s . . . something I just have to tell you,” he began breathlessly. “We discovered a hiding place in the forest and—”
“Peter, tell me about that some other time,” Simon interrupted. “Your grandfather and I have important things to discuss.”
“But Father, I just want to tell you that—”
“Not now!” Simon said angrily, motioning for him to leave.
“We’re discussing a matter of life and death, do you understand? So enough of your children’s stories, I have no time for you now. There’s an important interrogation coming up, and your father has to prepare for that.”
Peter stood in the doorway, his hands trembling and tears of anger in his eyes. “You always have something to do,” he said in a quavering voice. “Yesterday you had no time and had to go back to visit the boy.”
“That boy lost his leg,” Simon said. “And I had to take care of him so he wouldn’t die.”
“And what about me?” Peter shouted. “Someone has to take care of me, too!”
Simon sighed. “It’s very selfish of you to think only of yourself when we’re dealing with such a tragedy,” he scolded. “You are healthy and have a father. This boy’s father is dead, and the boy will never be able to walk again. You should be thankful and happy that you have friends here and can go to school.”
Peter looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Do what your father says, Peter,” said Jakob, echoing his son-in-law. “This is a conversation for the adults. After noon tomorrow your father will have all the time in the world.”
Simon nodded. “Definitely, that would be better, Peter,” he said in a softer voice, trying to calm him down. “And tonight I’ll read you a few stories, I promise.” He tried to smile, while in the back of his mind he was already sorting through the medications and instruments he would need to take along for the torturing.
Cloth to bandage up the wounds, marigold ointment for burns, opium poppies to dull the worst pain . . .
“Why don’t you go to . . . uh . . . see Kaiser in his library . . . or draw something else?” he suggested. “You can show me the picture in the morning. Perhaps a figure study, or a pretty picture of Oberammergau, if you like?” With a cheerful wink he glanced briefly at Peter again, but didn’t wait for a reply, turning instead to stare grimly at all the medicines on the shelf.