“You know that the books belonged to my great-grandfather Jörg Abriel,” Barbara replied, trying hard to sound calm. “He was a hangman, just like you.”
“God knows he was the best hangman that ever lived,” Hans replied, nodding respectfully. “I worshiped him—in contrast, by the way, to your father, whom I consider far too gentle. It’s hard to believe he’s Abriel’s grandson.” He shook his finger playfully. “I still won’t forgive Jakob for taking that ugly fellow away from me in the Weilheim dungeon a few years ago. I lost a lot of money because of that.”
The huge man walked over to Barbara and sat down beside her. He put a friendly arm around her shoulder, but it felt cold, as if winter had returned.
“I like you, Barbara,” he began in a soft voice, winking at her with his red, ratlike eyes. “You were just a little tomboy in Nürnberg. I’d be really sad if I had to pull out your fingernails one by one. That’s not nice, but that’s what the higher-ups want me to do, especially now that your sister, the beautiful Magdalena, has disappeared. She hasn’t been seen in Schongau since yesterday, and the bathhouse is empty. Strange, isn’t it?” He squeezed Barbara’s shoulder harder. “You don’t happen to know where she went, do you? Malicious gossip has it that she wanted to attack the Schongau burgomaster. Would she perhaps be crying on Lechner’s shoulder in Oberammergau? Is it true, Barbara? Tell me—is that true?”
“I . . . really don’t know,” Barbara replied in a hoarse voice. “You may have forgotten that I’ve been locked up inside here. Why don’t you ask Buchner? Everyone out there knows more than I do.”
“Do you really think your sister has abandoned you? That she’s taken off for some market, even leaving her little son behind with the midwife?” There was sincere regret in Hans’s eyes. “And what’s even worse—do you think I believe that?” The Weilheim hangman’s fingers suddenly dug like fangs into Barbara’s neck. A stabbing, almost paralyzing pain shot through her, and she let out a muted cry. Hans brought his lips up close to her ear.
“Don’t think I’m stupid, Barbara,” he whispered. “Where is your sister? Buchner wants to know. He’ll pay good money for that, and won’t rest until you tell me.”
“I . . . just . . . don’t . . . know,” Barbara gasped, as tears welled up in her eyes. The pain was so great that she almost screamed like a lunatic.
Suddenly the pressure eased off. Hans patted her shoulder and pulled a few dirty pieces of straw from his jacket. “Too bad, then . . . You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble. But you have time to think it over. The council decided not to begin torture until tomorrow morning, as your father took most of his torturing tools with him to Oberammergau, and what he left behind is in bad condition.” Master Hans shook his head sadly. “Dried blood is sticking to the thumbscrews, the Spanish boots are rusted, and the ashes in the brazier are as hard as rock. I’ll have to send for my own instruments.”
“If I confess,” Barbara whispered, “will you let me go?”
“Do you mean if you admit to practicing witchcraft and also tell me where your sister is?” Hans scratched his head as if he were actually thinking it over, then he chuckled softly. “Ah, Barbara, you’re a hangman’s daughter, and you know how it goes. You’ll be put to the stake, one way or the other. But I can ease your pain before that, and even more . . .” He patted her again on the shoulder to cheer her up. “When the smoke gets thick, I can step behind you without anyone noticing, wrap a thin hemp rope around your neck, give it a firm tug, and it will all happen so fast you won’t even have time for an Ave Maria. What do you say to that?”
Barbara stared in horror at the Weilheim executioner, who winked cheerily at her, his red rat eyes sparkling as if he’d just told a good joke. It seemed he really considered his suggestion to be a humane gesture.
“Master Hans?” she said.
The Weilheim hangman regarded her expectantly. “Yes?”
“Go to the devil, and kiss his ass.”
Hans smiled sadly. “Still a real tomboy, eh? You haven’t changed a bit, Barbara.”
He stood up, brushed the dirt from his black trousers, and headed toward the exit, where he turned around.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Barbara,” he said. “Sleep well. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”
The door closed, and only then did Barbara start to cry softly. How she wished she had her big sister at her side, but here in the dungeon, her sister was as far away as the moon.
As night fell, a cart rolled down the main road in Soyen. Music and laughter could be heard in the taverns, and narrow shafts of light escaped into the dark through cracks in closed shutters. The road, so crowded during the day with innumerable merchants, pilgrims, and wagons, now was deserted. The manager of the general store was just closing his shop, and he watched in surprise as the wagon loaded with barrels left the village and disappeared into the Echelsbach Gorge in the gathering darkness. It was strange for a wagon driver to begin his trip at this time of day.
It was even stranger for a woman to be hidden in one of the barrels, but that was something the merchant couldn’t see.
Inside the barrel Magdalena fought against the feeling of claustrophobia that swept over her again and again and took her breath away. Her heart began to race and again she felt the urge to throw up. Her lower body was squeezed like a wet, crumpled rag, and her stomach was churning.
I must not lose my baby. Oh, Saint Margaret, patron saint of the pregnant, help the two of us survive this horror.
About half an hour earlier, when the Tyrolean and Lukas had put her back in the barrel, she was seized with panic. She had done everything she could to calm herself down, as the gag alone made breathing very difficult. The Tyrolean had spoken of taking her to a goat shed somewhere out of town, but he hadn’t said how far it was, and she still didn’t know what this was all about. Evidently the Tyrolean was afraid she would find out and say something—but she didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on. It had to have something to do with what Lukas was transporting in the wagon. The roads weren’t safe during the day, the Tyrolean had said, and he’d spoken of riders and a Master from Oberammergau. What were the men carrying in the barrels that absolutely had to be protected from prying eyes?
Magdalena listened to the sounds outside. The noise and laughter of the town had long ago died away, and now all she heard were the squeaking wheels and the occasional snorting of the horses. The men up front were silent. It seemed to Magdalena they must have arrived at the turnoff to Schongau some time ago. By now Burgomaster Buchner must have become suspicious of her absence. And Barbara? Had the Schongau Town Council already found an executioner to torture her? But all that was secondary now—first she had to save herself.
For the hundredth time Magdalena shifted around, looking for a halfway comfortable position. There were some sandy dregs at the bottom of the barrel, and fine dust fluttered down from the underside of the cover and fell in her eyes, causing tears to run down her cheeks. After what seemed like an eternity she suddenly heard the astonished voice of Lukas.
“Hey, stop!” she heard the young man shout. “We just passed the last farmhouse where we could ask about an extra team of horses. How are you going to climb back up the gorge on the other side?”
“The horses can manage that by themselves,” the Tyrolean replied. “We didn’t load as many barrels as usual.”
“You forget our prisoner—she weighs something, too, and you can’t expect her to get out and help us shove the wagon up the other side.”
“Damn it! I said the horses can manage, so just shut your mouth.”
He cracked the whip, and the trip continued. Soon the barrels started rattling back and forth alarmingly, and Magdalena could sense they were descending into the gorge. The men applied brake shoes to the wheels to slow their descent, but the wagon kept going faster and faster, and Magdalena feared she’d fall into the gorge along with the barrels and wagon. The men cursed and whipped the horses as the rushing
waters of the Ammer got louder and louder.
Finally they had reached the bottom of the gorge, and the clattering sound told Magdalena they were crossing the wooden bridge. Suddenly, however, the wagon stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Lukas asked.
“We’ve got to remove the brake shoe at the front of the wagon before we move ahead,” the Tyrolean replied. “Come and help me.”
The two got out again, and Magdalena could hear the muffled sounds of wheezing, heavy steps, and angry shouting. She shuddered.
The two men were fighting.
There was another muted cry, and it was unmistakably the voice of young Lukas. Down below them, something splashed into the water.
Then silence.
“Go to hell, you blue-eyed idiot,” the Tyrolean snarled after a while. He panted, and finally uttered a dry laugh. “Did you really think you could threaten me? Greetings to the fish if you see any along your way.”
Now Magdalena heard steps approaching the wagon. She could feel the tailgate of the wagon being lowered, then her barrel shook and tottered, finally tipping over and landing with a hard thud on the ground. She wanted to shout, but the gag allowed only a muffled gurgling.
Below her, the Ammer rushed by.
“I never should have tried doing business with children,” the Tyrolean growled. “That’s what I told them in Schongau, but they wouldn’t listen, they just sent me this whining kid who almost blabbed out the whole story. Well, this is what he gets for it.”
Very slowly he started rolling the barrel across the bridge.
“It’s nothing personal, you understand?” the Tyrolean continued in a voice that sounded almost friendly. “You’re pretty, too. If I’d met you in a tavern I would have danced with you, no doubt, and taken you to bed. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The barrel rolled faster, and Magdalena tried to scream despite the gag.
“You’ll be a good-looking corpse; now say your last prayers,” the Tyrolean said.
Suddenly the rumbling stopped, and it seemed to Magdalena that time was standing still, as if she were flying, like in a dream. The splashing and thundering of the river got louder and louder.
Then, with a loud crash, the barrel hit the water.
The impact was so sudden that it took Magdalena’s breath away. In the next moment, the barrel began to spin wildly as if caught in a whirlpool, and the thundering of the water was deafening. There was a bump as the barrel hit a tree trunk or a rock, and the sound of the rushing water was muted.
I’m under water! Magdalena thought. The barrel is sinking!
In the next moment it evidently shot back to the surface, where waves splashed against it. Rocking softly from side to side, the floating coffin continued on its way down the river.
The impact had caused the gag to slip, however, and now she could breathe easier and also cry for help. After shouting several times with no response, she gave up. Who would ever hear her, out here in the darkness, and even if someone happened to be traveling along the slope of the steep gorge, how could they help her in the rushing waters? The melting snow had turned the Ammer into a raging monster.
To her horror, Magdalena noticed how the barrel was gradually filling with water. The staves were evidently too old to seal properly. In a few moments the barrel would be full and then she would drown inside it like a cat in a sack.
Cold black river water streamed in through the cracks. Whenever the barrel turned over she took water in through her nose and mouth and tried to spit it out, all the while struggling to breathe. Every breath could be her last.
Magdalena kicked and pounded the staves, but they wouldn’t move—they were old but not yet weak. Again the water sloshed over her, and this time she swallowed some and desperately shook her head from side to side, trying to breathe. The water now completely engulfed her, and she closed her eyes as if trying to wish herself away to some distant, secure place.
I don’t want to die. I don’t want—
There was a crash as the barrel was thrown against a boulder, the staves splintered, and the cold, dark water surged over her.
Then the Ammer claimed its victim.
With a knotted whip in his hand, Sebastian Sailer stood before his Creator and begged for forgiveness, but there was no reply.
The manager of the Ballenhaus, the Oberammergau storage depot, groaned and fell to his knees before the high altar in the Sacred Blood Chapel. Above him hung the monstrance containing the physical blood of Christ—a religious relic so potent that he could feel the power flowing from it. But even the blood of Christ could not help him now.
“Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa!” he mumbled over and over, lashing his back each time with the rope whip.
For half a day Sailer had been wandering through the valley in despair, looking for a way out, a way to save his soul, but when he suddenly found himself standing in front of the chapel at the edge of the village of Unterammergau, he knew what he had to do. Not far from the chapel, near a cattle trough, he had found the rope, like an ultimate sign, and since then he had been agonizing and praying.
Sailer bowed his head humbly, for he had sinned, greatly, and what was even worse, God was punishing not just him, but the entire valley. They never should have become involved in this. He realized too late that God had been sending them signs all along—first avalanches, then the crucifixion, and finally this earthquake—telling them they had gone astray. It was like the seven plagues, and he himself had been the devil’s henchman.
Nervously he wrapped the hemp rope around his hands until they appeared fettered, like the hands of a martyr. The carved figures on the side altars that had been illuminated earlier by the setting sun now were completely engulfed in darkness, but Sailer could sense nevertheless the gaze of the sacred figures; they were whispering something to him.
Judas . . . Judas . . .
Sailer laughed in despair, because this was his role in the Passion play. How fitting. First he had betrayed God, and now he had betrayed one of his closest friends. Sebastian Sailer closed his eyes and prayed.
“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”
But the Lord spoke not a single word; He remained silent.
The good man Urban Gabler had been right—after the crucifixion they should have stopped, but their greed had been too great and the lot had finally fallen to him. And so he did what was commanded of him. In his left trouser pocket he still had the little wooden piece that had made him a murderer. Since then he had been plagued by nightmares, and screaming demons had flown over his bed, thrusting their lances at him. The earthquake had been the last sign. What would follow now? A flood? Swarms of locusts? The death of every firstborn in the village?
Sebastian Sailer reached for the little figurine in his pocket along with the piece of wood. He, too, had received a Pharisee from Xaver, this stubborn dog. The corners and edges of the carved figurine pressed against his skin and reminded him of what they had done.
It all started with Xaver Eyrl. It hadn’t been right to ruin the family and force them to leave the valley. But why were these Eyrls such stubborn know-it-alls, setting themselves up as upholders of morality? Couldn’t they have simply kept their mouths shut? That’s when the sinning had begun.
Now it was time to answer for it.
Sailer took a length of rope, threw it over a heavy beam in the nave that supported the gallery, then climbed up on a pew and closed his eyes again. He murmured one last prayer.
“Say just one word, a single word . . .”
The Lord did not answer.
Sailer kicked away from the pew, and his feet danced and wriggled to a tune only he could hear.
They wriggled for a long, long time.
14
OBERAMMERGAU, AROUND NOON ON MAY 10, AD 1670
FATHER, IF THOU BE WILLING, take this bitter cup from me.” Jesus Christ knelt down and raised his hand imploringly toward
heaven, his voice echoing far across the Oberammergau cemetery. “But if this be not possible . . .”
“Indeed, but perhaps it’s possible for the Savior to speak a little faster,” Konrad Faistenmantel growled, lying on the ground with old Augustin Sprenger and the carpenter Mathis between a few pots of Alpine roses. “I’m an old man, and my bones are freezing. It isn’t nice and warm here like in Palestine.”
With a grin, Simon looked up from the text that Georg Kaiser had handed him earlier. The schoolteacher had asked him that morning to come to the rehearsal along with the priest Tobias Herele to serve as a prompter. All morning they’d been rehearsing the famous scene on the Mount of Olives in which the apostles Peter, Jacob, and John slept while Jesus agonized over his fate. Many of the other actors had been summoned by the council chairman to search for Eyrl in the forests and the moors around Ammergau.
“But that’s not what it says here in the text,” said Simon, turning to Konrad Faistenmantel with feigned severity. “It should say—”
“Damn, I know myself that’s not what it says,” Faistenmantel groaned as he got to his feet, snorting and brushing the dirt from his brown apostle’s robe. “But Göbl is dragging the speech out on purpose so we’ll have to sit here and freeze our asses off.”
“This is the scene on the Mount of Olives,” Göbl replied with a thin smile. “Jesus talks, but Peter is sleeping, that’s what it says in the text.”
“Dear actors, please!” Father Tobias wailed. “We can’t make any progress like this.”
Simon anxiously looked at Georg Kaiser, who just shrugged helplessly. After Hans Göbl’s release from prison, his father had insisted his son be given the role of Jesus again. Farmer Nikolaus, who had temporarily been given the role, was all too happy to be reassigned as a stand-in. Since then, Hans Göbl had used every opportunity to get back at Faistenmantel. After all, Faistenmantel had been the first to express his suspicion that Göbl could have been Dominik’s murderer.