“Just how stupid are you?” someone said. “The bitch overheard us, and now she’ll turn us in.”
“No she won’t,” replied the Tyrolean calmly. “It would be best to just cut her throat right now. Dead people don’t talk.”
At that moment it occurred to Magdalena why the man speaking in the harsh Tyrolean dialect sounded so familiar.
It was late in the afternoon when Simon finally left the meadow on Laber Mountain. Before he left he sternly reminded Martin’s mother again to leave the bandage on and to refrain from trying to help her son with magic spells or sacrificial gifts. He doubted that she really understood him. It was hard enough trying to eradicate superstition in Schongau; here in the mountains it seemed impossible.
The children followed him for a while, darting through the forest alongside the path like anxious little fawns, then Simon was alone. The descent was steep and often wet and mushy, and he had to watch carefully where he stepped. Nonetheless, he made good progress, and after about half an hour he had reached the Laine at the point where it plunged thunderously into the valley below.
Simon wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around. To his left, behind the mountains, lay Ettal Monastery, where his father-in-law was presumably still preparing for the torture the next morning. The Kofel that Martin’s mother had spoken so much about rose up ahead.
The Kofel, and the legendary Döttenbichl where, in ancient times, people had been offered as sacrifices.
On a whim, Simon decided to hike the short distance to the other peak. The sun wouldn’t set for a while, and he would have plenty of time later for his son. Besides, he was tempted by the chance to visit this apparently pre-Christian sacrificial site. Up to now, the oldest place he’d ever visited was the church of the Knights Templar in Altenstadt, near Schongau, where he and Jakob Kuisl had made a strange discovery some years ago. So he made a detour around Oberammergau and headed for the place the woman had pointed out. A rickety, rotted hanging bridge spanned the Ammer at this point, and beyond it there were meadows and, finally, directly at the foot of the Kofel, a green hill.
The accursed Döttenbichl, Simon thought.
In the twilight he could well imagine that sacrifices were made here in early times. The hill was cleared except for several oaks forming a small grove on the top. A number of moss-covered boulders were scattered around the base, and a beaten path wound its way up the short distance from the swampy meadow to the top. At the place where the path branched off from the main trail something lying in the grass caught Simon’s eye.
It was a small circle of white pebbles with a few twigs protruding from the center like the spokes of a wheel.
Simon remembered seeing such a marker at a roadside shrine during their trip to Oberammergau. Was this circle perhaps some sort of pagan symbol? The wagon driver had certainly acted very strangely. After his conversation with Martin’s mother, Simon could well imagine there were people in this valley who believed there was power in pebbles and birch twigs.
After hesitating briefly, he started climbing the hill to get a closer look at the grove of trees. Earlier, Martin’s mother had asserted that gifts were still left here for the spirits of the mountain, so there had to be an altar or something similar, and perhaps that would help explain the strange circle of stones. Simon quickened his steps and had soon reached the top and the grove of oaks. There was no altar to be seen, only a row of clefts in the rock about three feet deep and so narrow he could just barely get his hand inside. He stooped down and in fact discovered little sprigs of dried St. John’s wort and Easter roses in some of the clefts and even a stained copper bowl glittering in one of the deeper fissures.
Simon could not suppress a smile. These people really believed they could pacify the Kofel with their little gifts. On the other hand, were these sacrifices much different from the blessing of the Easter ham or the lights in the window celebrating the Feast of St. Lucia in December? Did he really have a right to ridicule the faith of these people?
He was about to turn around when his foot struck something on the ground. There was a snapping sound, and something white emerged from under last autumn’s dried oak leaves. With the tip of his boot he pushed the moldy leaves aside and was startled to see that what he’d stepped on was a shoulder blade, actually nothing unusual in a forest. Judging by its size, Simon guessed it belonged to a goat or sheep, though it was not so much the bone that gave him pause, but rather what was adhering to it.
A scrap of cloth.
Surprised, he bent down and took a closer look at the bone and the scrap of cloth stuck to it. It had lost some of its color but was still quite recognizable as clothing. He dropped the bone in disgust, knelt down, and examined the area.
In a rock crevice nearby he finally found what he was looking for.
There was a leg bone, apparently chewed on by wild animals, two upper arm bones, another shoulder blade, and, finally, a human skull.
A very small human skull.
What the woman up on the meadow had said to him flashed through his mind.
The Kofel is an evil man who now and then needs his sacrifices . . .
Was it possible that people were being offered up as sacrifices in this valley? Even children?
Once again Simon picked up the shoulder blade with the piece of cloth attached to it. It was impossible to say how long the bone had been lying there. Perhaps it had just recently been pulled out of the fissure by wild animals. Had it perhaps belonged to Markus or Marie, those children of whom Martin had been speaking in his delirium and who had disappeared without a trace in the mountains?
A dreadful suspicion rose in Simon’s mind.
At that moment he heard the whinnying of a horse coming from the direction of the meadow. It sounded nearby, as if the rider had just turned into the path toward the Döttenbichl. Startled, Simon dropped the bone and ducked behind a large boulder, where, in the fading light, he could make out the shape of a rider clothed in black on a black horse. At the foot of the hill the man abruptly reined in his horse, dismounted, knelt in the grass, and inspected something on the ground.
Simon knew at once what it was. The man on horseback inspected the circle of stones and twigs that Simon had seen just moments earlier.
Then something strange occurred. The man did not mount his horse again, but led the animal some distance away to a small group of trees, evidently trying to make as little sound as possible. Did he intend to hide there? Simon held his breath in expectation and waited. And indeed, the man did not return. What in God’s name was the meaning of this? Who was he lying in wait for?
Simon wondered if he should announce himself but decided against it. He was overcome with anxiety. The children’s bones, the strange stone circle, the rider in black . . .
The black riders!
Hadn’t Alois Mayer spoken of black riders prowling around the valley? He remembered now that, shortly before his arrival in Oberammergau, he had seen such a rider—and now there was one very close by and behaving strangely.
He decided to descend the hill at once on the side opposite from the rider’s hideout to avoid being seen.
As quietly as possible, Simon slipped from one boulder to the next, finally dashing down the hill so fast he got tangled in some raspberry bushes and ripped his clothes. He stumbled, fell, then struggled to his feet again and continued running, gasping for breath, until finally he had reached the hanging bridge. Only now did he feel relatively safe and slowed his pace. The rushing waters of the river calmed his nerves.
Simon shook his head. What had come over him? A strange rider and a pagan stone circle had scared him off like a little boy confronted by a ghost. But then he remembered the child’s bones. They were genuine and, indeed, threatening.
Someone had buried the child’s corpse in an unholy place.
Simon hurried across the bridge and turned right, toward Ettal. Peter would have to wait a bit longer for his good-night story.
The medicus needed to vi
sit his father-in-law that very night.
11
ETTAL, ON THE EVENING OF MAY 8, AD 1670
THE MOMENT JAKOB KUISL ENTERED the tavern in Ettal, he could feel the hostile stares of the other guests. Conversations stopped, the laughter and singing died away, and everyone stared at him as if he were a ghost, a dangerous creature to be avoided at all cost. Finally they looked away, leaning over and whispering to each other for a while before turning back to their mundane conversations. But the mood remained subdued. People didn’t like to drink when the hangman was sitting at the next table.
This behavior was nothing new to Jakob; he’d seen it many times at taverns in Schongau. He’d hoped no one would recognize him here, but thanks to the brawl in the Oberammergau cemetery, he’d been recognized right away in the tavern. Many people, after looking into the eyes of this broad-shouldered colossus with the hook nose and grim gaze who was dressed in black from head to toe, crossed themselves or ran off. The gaze of a hangman was said to bring misfortune, if not death.
All afternoon Jakob had been sharpening, polishing, and wiping bloodstains from his torturing tools. The monotonous work always helped him think. What was going on in this valley? Who was behind all these strange events, these murders? Why had Xaver Eyrl gone around secretively, distributing carved figurines to some residents of the village?
But what tormented Jakob the most was the expression on his son-in-law’s face. During their last conversation, Simon had gotten a quick glimpse into Jakob’s inner thoughts and had seen the truth. Yes, he had grown old and weak. His curiosity, sharpness of mind, and sense of justice—everything that had once driven the feared Schongau executioner—seemed to have faded away. Now all he wanted was peace and quiet. But—damn it!—what was wrong about just wanting to live life like everyone else? If he had to torture this Eyrl fellow to obtain it, then so be it. Jakob could feel that this fellow was some sort of troublemaker. He wasn’t torturing an innocent man.
But is he really a murderer? Did he kill young Faistenmantel and Urban Gabler?
His inner voice had been troubling him more and more in the last few hours—and Jakob knew only one way to silence it.
A tall brown beer, or perhaps two.
The hangman finally put down his tools and went over to the monastery’s tavern, where he now sat at a table in the corner, stuffing his pipe and waiting for the tavern keeper to bring him a tankard. It took a while, but finally a young maid approached him anxiously with a foaming mug. Jakob put it to his lips and emptied it in one gulp. It was good strong Märzen beer, and it helped clear his head. He sighed happily and pushed the mug back across the table to the barmaid, who was standing by, trembling. “One more,” he said.
He drank the second beer more slowly as he puffed on his pipe, disappearing behind the clouds of smoke. After a while a degree of calmness came over him. But despite all these efforts, he still heard a voice in his head:
You’re torturing an innocent man . . .
Jakob thought of the old midwife, Martha Stechlin, whom he’d had to torture more than ten years ago. Back then, he was convinced of her innocence and had set out to find the real culprit. His drive for justice kept moving him to postpone the torture again and again. And this time? This time his son-in-law had to help him torture a possibly innocent man. Jakob saw no way out.
It will take a miracle, he thought.
But clearly he attended church too rarely to expect that.
“So here you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
A high-pitched, excited voice roused him from his musings. Jakob rubbed his eyes and through the clouds of smoke recognized Simon taking a seat at the table. The little medicus was completely out of breath. It looked like he’d run the entire way from Oberammergau.
“I’ve discovered something new,” Simon told him in a muted voice, “something that has to do with our murders. Apparently children have been disappearing in this valley in the last few years, and it’s quite possible someone killed them.”
Jakob listened closely as his son-in-law told him about his conversation with Martin’s mother, the strange discovery on the Döttenbichl, and the black rider who had appeared there so suddenly.
“The woodcutter Alois Mayer also mentioned children who had disappeared,” Simon quickly added. “And the child’s bones aren’t the only thing. There’s also a strange circle of stones there; I saw one like it when we arrived in the Ammer Valley. The black rider seemed to be very interested in it. We’d be a lot further along if we knew who’s making these stone circles.” He looked around cautiously and continued in an even softer voice. “On my way here I asked some farmers about it. Their behavior was very suspicious—they avoided my questions, almost as if they were afraid. But I’ve no doubt they know about the stone circles.”
“The secretiveness in this valley is really getting on my nerves,” Jakob said. “Torturing that woodcarver, Eyrl, is more than I can take. I’m completely at a loss.”
He took another gulp of the strong Märzen beer and tried to think clearly, but as so often recently, his thoughts blurred just as he thought he’d started to focus. Alcohol was a good friend, but it was also jealous and would tolerate no competition. Simon stared at him expectantly, as if thinking his father-in-law could solve all these riddles.
But this time, Jakob had no answer. “My mug is empty” was all he could say.
He held the mug up in the air and waved it in the direction of the bar, but the tavern keeper had vanished. Jakob finally noticed him by the front door, standing alongside Judge Johannes Rieger, who was clothed in black and had apparently just entered the monastery tavern. The tavern keeper was pointing to Jakob and Simon and whispering something to Rieger, who now, with a determined look on his face, headed for their table.
“I am an honored guest of this tavern,” he said in a sharp tone, “and I must tell you officially that we don’t allow any dishonorable riffraff in here.”
“But the work of a medicus is—” Simon started to say angrily.
Rieger waved him off and pointed at Jakob. “I am speaking not about you but about this man here. A hangman has no business in a monastery tavern. It’s enough that I have to see him tomorrow morning during the questioning.” Now, for the first time, Rieger looked Jakob right in the face. “Get out, scum,” he ordered.
Jakob Kuisl closed his eyes briefly. It was so often like that—they made him do the dirty work and treated him like a dog. There was no end to it.
“Get out, I said,” Rieger repeated in an even sharper voice. “Or must I call a guard?”
Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Jakob rose to his feet. His strong, sinewy fingers clenched the mug; he felt the cold earthenware against his skin and knew that if he exerted just a bit more force, the mug would shatter, just like the skull of the rat-faced judge. A wave of anger swept over him, he raised the mug, and . . .
At that moment there was a sound of something shattering nearby.
The tables shook and tottered back and forth, as if an invisible force were tugging at them, and then the first tankards fell to the floor, where the beer flowed out in sweet-smelling puddles. Jakob could feel the earth trembling under his feet. A beam in the ceiling came loose and crashed down on the bar. People ran around screaming, knelt down, prayed to God, or ran in a panic toward the exit. Simon had jumped up as well. The judge pulled up his robe and raced through the wild crowd as plaster fluttered down from the ceiling like snow.
Only Jakob had settled back down again comfortably, sitting at his place like a rock and staring at the empty mug in his hand—the same mug he was about to use moments ago to smash the judge’s skull.
“An earthquake!” shouted Johannes Rieger, who was one of the first to make his way through the narrow exit. “God sent an earthquake. Move aside, make way for your judge.”
A miracle, Jakob thought.
Then he pushed the mug away and started walking calmly toward the door while all around him the world seem
ed to be collapsing.
Simon rushed out into the square in front of the tavern, where some people were already standing, staring up at the Kofel, as if expecting it to give them an answer to this inexplicable catastrophe. It was almost dark, and a final pink glow of sunlight shone on the highest peaks. The tremors had passed as quickly as they had come, but Simon could hear women crying in fear and men cursing and praying loudly. Judging by what he could see in the dim light, however, no one was injured, and even though some shingles had come off rooftops, none of the buildings in the monastery had collapsed.
Simon couldn’t help but think of Martin’s mother, up in the Laber meadow, who had spoken of such an earthquake just that afternoon. Evidently her warning was correct—there had been omens that Simon also had noticed over in the Laine Valley. Though he was uninjured, he trembled all over and his pulse was racing. He’d never experienced anything like this. Back when he was at the university in Ingolstadt he’d read about how storms and winds raged in subterranean caves and chasms, thus setting off earthquakes. But who really knew why they happened? Now at least Simon could understand why ancient chronicles always spoke of earthquakes as the anger of God. It was as if the fist of the Creator Himself had shaken this valley.
“Why is the Kofel punishing us?” wailed an elderly farmer who had walked over from the stables, clinging uncertainly to his pitchfork. “What have we done wrong?”
The people standing around joined in his lament or continued mumbling their prayers. Simon also made a hasty sign of the cross. He didn’t think an angry mountain had sent them this earthquake, but a bit of Christian piety couldn’t hurt. A rafter in the tavern had fallen to the floor just a few steps from where he had been seated. He shuddered. If he had been running just a bit slower toward the exit, he’d be lying inside there now with a shattered skull.
And my son would have lost a parent, just as Martin’s mother could lose her son . . .