“Damn it, Jossi!” he shouted at the boy. “Didn’t I tell you if you made trouble again, I’d—”
He stopped suddenly on seeing Jakob in the passageway, and for a moment he seemed at a loss for words.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he finally growled.
The hangman stood up as tall as he could in the low passageway. “I could ask you the same,” he said, regretting that he had put his club aside. The fellow in front of him looked young and strong, and by his swagger it was clear he was ready for a fight. But it was also clear he wasn’t very bright. He seemed to be racking his brains, trying to figure out what to do next. His pockmarked face brightened, then turned dark again.
“Ah, now I know,” he said. “You’re the hangman that the Schongau secretary brought along. I’ve heard you’re poking around everywhere. How in hell did you find us?”
“What are the children doing here?” Jakob asked ominously, without answering the man’s question. “They’re working for you, aren’t they? You make them slave away here in this mine looking for treasure. How many are there? Tell me, how many?”
“None of your damn business,” the man growled, raising his switch.
“That girl outside,” Jakob continued in a cold voice, “she had an accident here in the mine, didn’t she? And you’re going to let her die so nobody finds out about it.” Jakob hesitated for a moment, but his thoughts were racing. He’d gone out to look for Xaver Eyrl, but instead he’d found all this. Something told him he was close to finally learning the grisly secret of this valley.
“And she isn’t the only one,” he finally continued. “Tell me, how many children have been killed in this deathtrap by falling rock? How many have been buried alive? And tell me about the two corpses on the Döttenbichl . . .”
“Shut up!” the man shouted. “Shut your goddamned mouth!”
“You buried them there,” said Jakob, nodding. The man’s reaction had confirmed that his assumptions were correct. “You discarded them there like a dead goat, but wild animals pulled them out again and my son-in-law found them.”
The boy cowering against the wall of the passage between the two men spoke up. “Their . . . their names were Markus and Marie. It was three summers ago. I remember Marie well, even if I was still very small. I was afraid of the dark mine, and she always tried to console me . . .”
“Be quiet, Jossi,” the man snapped. “The two of us will talk later. Now go over to the shaft on the north side and call the others to come. We’ll meet in the large cave when I’ve finished with the old man here.” He looked disparagingly at Jakob. The hangman was a head taller, but Hannes was younger and very strong.
“It was a mistake for you to come into the mine,” the man said with a grin, pulling a hidden pistol out from underneath his belt. “I’ll just let your corpse rot here, as I should have with the two children back then. But I was afraid the other children would be frightened, or they would remove the bodies. So I buried them on the Döttenbichl.”
“What happened to Dominik Faistenmantel?” Jakob asked, his mind racing, considering what to do, but not taking his eyes off the pistol. “Did you kill him because he got wind of it? And the others? How many villagers were in on the plot? I found a wooden chip in the pocket of Sebastian Sailer after he hanged himself. It was broken off at the bottom. You drew them by lots, didn’t you?” Jakob Kuisl came a step closer to his adversary. “He drew the shortest chip and therefore had to kill Gabler because he was going to talk. Am I right?”
The muscular fellow stared at Jakob in disbelief, then broke out in a laugh. “You have no idea,” he scoffed. “For a moment, I thought you knew, hangman, but you have no clue.”
Suddenly the patter of little feet could be heard in the passageway directly behind Jakob. The expression on his opponent’s face showed this was not part of his plan.
“Good Lord, get out, all of you!” he shouted. “This is between the two of us. I’ll see you all later outside. Now get out, you little brats.”
“Jossi, what’s going on?” asked a high, anxious voice behind Jakob, apparently that of a little girl. “Who are you talking to, Hannes?”
“Out, out, out!” he screamed. “Or I’ll beat you to death like a pack of rabid mongrels.”
Jakob knew that it was a mistake. Still, he turned his head to see who it was. The voice was so tender, so thin . . .
About a dozen children cowered fearfully in the low-ceilinged passage. The smallest was no older than five, about as old as Jakob’s youngest grandson. They were all pale, with sunken cheeks, and their shoulder bones protruded from under shirts that were much too thin. Hunger, weariness, and fear showed in their wide eyes. The children looked like small, starving birds that had fallen from their nest. Unbridled anger rose up in Jakob Kuisl.
“You damned son of a bitch, I—”
As he was turning back to the man, he was hit by a powerful blow to the back of his head. Jakob saw lights flashing in the darkness, and he fell into an abyss. For a moment he thought he heard the malicious giggles of evil dwarfs.
Then the darkness enveloped him.
Melchior Ransmayer stood with his fly open in a corner of the laboratory and poured himself a glass of wine from a carafe. He was breathing hard, staring ecstatically at Barbara, who was still lying on the cot. He’d untied her legs, but kept her hands tied over her head and to the back of the chair. Her dress was pulled up.
Ransmayer raised his glass to her. “Would you like a sip?” he asked with a wink. “It lifts your spirits.”
Barbara stared silently at her tormenter. He’d pushed the gag back in her mouth so she couldn’t answer, in any case. Her tears had dried up long ago, and all that remained were anger and contempt. In the final minutes she’d withdrawn completely into herself, where Ransmayer could not reach her. That was all that kept her going—the doctor could possess her body, but not her soul. When he attacked her she was already far away in the forest on a green meadow sprinkled with patches of red poppies. Only from far off could she hear the snorting and panting. She was now as cold as ice, infused with just a single emotion.
Hatred.
“Admit it, you liked it,” Ransmayer said, taking another sip of wine. There were tiny red drops on his fleshy lips, and Barbara imagined it was blood.
“You women are all the same, after all,” he boasted. “You need a firm hand. The fresher you are, the more you thirst for domination, isn’t that right?” He put his hand to his forehead in mock astonishment. “Oh, excuse me, I forgot that you still have the gag in your mouth. I’ll make you an offer—I’ll take off the gag if you promise not to scream. Promise? It will be easier for us both that way.”
Barbara didn’t reply, but apparently he took her silence as agreement and removed the dirty wad of cloth from her mouth. Then he sat down alongside her on the sofa and patted her knee.
“It’s really a shame we’re so far apart,” Ransmayer said as he sipped at his glass of wine, lost in thought. “I really like you, you know. Really. There’s something so . . . wild about you, something you rarely find in women. Most of them are very plain. If you’d accepted my offer a few days ago—you remember, back in the street—perhaps everything would have been different. But then you went and eavesdropped on us in the church.” He shook his head. “Bad, bad girl.”
“Doctor?” It was Barbara’s first word in a long time. Ransmayer pricked up his ears.
“Yes, my child?”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” She raised her head and looked directly at him. “I actually enjoyed it.”
Ransmayer smiled. “You see, I knew it.”
“Yes, I enjoyed it. Because with every single one of your pathetic snorts and contortions, I imagined how you’re going to writhe around on the wheel when my father breaks your bones, from bottom to top, slowly, one bone after the other.”
Melchior Ransmayer froze for a moment, then broke out in a scornful laugh. “You still don’t understand, girl. We ar
e the new authorities in town. If your father, the old drunk, ever comes back to Schongau, Master Hans will string him up like a vagabond for his disobedience. The hangman on the scaffold, what a show. That execution will be our first official act, and the people will love us for doing it.”
“It’s you they’re going to execute,” Barbara snarled. “My sister is on her way to Oberammergau with a letter for Johann Lechner, and it won’t be long before the secretary returns.” She glared triumphantly at Ransmayer. She should have actually kept this information to herself, but now in the face of imminent death, nothing mattered anymore. “Then your whole stinking conspiracy will go up in a cloud of smoke,” she snarled. “No matter what you do with me, your game is up.”
“Frau Fronwieser with a letter . . . ?” At first he seemed so surprised that words failed him, but then he reacted quite differently than Barbara had expected.
He laughed—long and in a shrill voice, like an old woman.
It took a while for Ransmayer to settle down again. “That’s . . . that’s really priceless,” he finally said, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Of course, that letter is of no importance now, since at this very moment the Schongau Town Council is being dissolved and Matthäus Buchner is assuming all power. But I also happen to know that the letter you’re speaking of never got to Oberammergau.”
“Never . . . got there?” Barbara tried to control herself. Surely the doctor was bluffing. “How could you know that?”
Ransmayer sneered, and his face twisted into an evil grimace. “Well, I have another bit of news for you, Barbara. I wanted to save it for last, and I think now is the right time.” He leaned way over and whispered in her ear.
“This letter never reached Oberammergau because your sister never got there. The Tyrolean told me already. He drowned your sister in the Ammer like a mangy cat.” He put his hand to his mouth and giggled. “My condolences, girl. I was told your sister died with a long last scream before being swallowed by the waves.”
Barbara felt as if a dark cloud had passed over her, threatening to engulf her.
Magdalena . . . Drowned like a mangy cat . . .
Now she remembered what the Tyrolean had said before in the old cemetery, and her whole body began to shake.
How many members of your family do I have to kill to get some peace and quiet?
She swallowed hard, and her voice was no more now than a low rasping sound. “My . . . sister . . . She is . . . ?”
Melchior Ransmayer grinned and nodded, evidently gloating over her horror. “Ignaz, that fine Tyrolean lad, drowned her two days ago in the Ammer near Soyen. Their paths crossed, no doubt, as he was delivering some salt, so she had to die.” Again he laughed in a loud, shrill voice. “What irony. The only woman who could have helped Schongau was a dishonorable hangman’s daughter, and now she’s lying at the bottom of the river.”
Barbara was about to scream, but Ransmayer stuffed the gag in her mouth again. “Calm down,” he cooed. “Soon you’ll join your sister, but before that the two of us are going to have a little more fun.”
He was fumbling with his fly when suddenly a furious tumult could be heard upstairs. He paused and listened. “Damn, what was that?” he snarled.
He stood up abruptly and ran over to the cellar door. Hurried steps could be heard overhead, and finally the sound of doors slamming. The shouting continued, getting louder and louder, and a moment later the door to the cellar was flung open.
There stood the Tyrolean, gasping and holding his hand to his right cheek. Blood seeped out between his fingers.
“That goddamned bastard,” he shouted. “I should have killed the brat right away.”
“What happened?” Ransmayer asked, visibly unsettled.
“That little brat somehow managed to escape from his shackles. I told him his mother was dead and he went completely crazy. He kicked and struggled like a rabid dog. I have no idea how he got away.”
Ransmayer’s jaw dropped. “You let him get away?”
“Damn it, he bit off one of my ears! Look for yourself.” The Tyrolean took his hand off his bloody cheek. Only shreds of flesh hung down from where his ear used to be. “That boy is an animal. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You let him get away?” Ransmayer repeated, his voice getting shriller and shriller. “Do you have any idea what that means?”
The Tyrolean waved dismissively. “Don’t worry. The council meeting is in full swing, Buchner is now in charge here in the city, and this boy is nothing but a dishonorable brat that nobody will believe. So what do we have—”
He stopped short on hearing a banging and splintering upstairs as someone evidently kicked in the front door, then the stomping of many boots coming down the cellar stairs.
“What the hell . . . ?” the Tyrolean started to say.
With her last ounce of strength, Barbara spat the filthy rag out of her mouth and started screaming as she never had before, pouring out in one cry all her grief at her sister’s death and her hatred of the doctor. She didn’t stop until a handful of heavily armored soldiers stormed into the cellar, with Jakob Schreevogl close behind, breathing heavily. Alongside him was Paul, his face still spattered with the Tyrolean’s blood, his eyes full of anger directed at his two tormenters.
“Your game is up, Doctor Ransmayer,” Schreevogl shouted. “Schongau is ours again.” Fondly he patted Paul on the head. The boy’s eyes flashed like glowing coals.
“The boy came running toward us on the road,” Schreevogl declared. “And it appears we’ve gotten here at just the right time. If Martha Stechlin hadn’t told us about the smugglers’ storage location, Buchner would already have taken over. But given the new information, the council decided differently. It is my assignment to arrest and interrogate you. What I see here will not gain you favor, to put it mildly.” He beckoned for the guards to come, as he stared in disgust at Ransmayer’s open fly. “Doctor Ransmayer, you are under arrest on suspicion of smuggling, high treason, and other revolting crimes that will, I hope, assure you a long, painful death. May God have mercy on your soul.”
As the guards seized Ransmayer and the Tyrolean, Schreevogl came over to Barbara and gently released her fetters. He spoke to her quietly, as one would a little child.
“Everything will be all right, Barbara, the horror is over.”
19
DEEP INSIDE KOFEL MOUNTAIN ON THE NIGHT OF MAY 11, AD 1670
JAKOB KUISL COULD MAKE OUT a sound—a steady tick, tick, tick, like that of a giant clock—coming from somewhere in the surrounding darkness. At the same time something was pounding rhythmically against his forehead.
The little Venetian men, he thought. They’re hacking at me with their picks. They’re looking for diamonds and jewels inside my head.
A piercing pain shot through him, as if the dwarfs had finally split his head in two. It ached like it did after a long night of heavy drinking. Brief memories flashed through him, then the dreams began to fade, and slowly he drifted back to reality.
The mine . . . the children . . . the man with the pockmarked face, the whip, and the pistol . . .
Once again, he felt something tapping against his forehead and he struggled to open his eyes, only to close them at once again with a cry of surprise, as a drop of water landed directly in one of them. Then he blinked to get the water out, sat up, and looked around carefully.
At first everything was just as black as it had been before, in his nightmare, but with time his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he could make out some vague outlines. Evidently he was somewhere deep in the mountain, in a sort of niche or small cave. He was lying on icy, wet rock, and cold water was dripping down on him from stalactites hanging from the low ceiling. His ears still rang from the blow he’d gotten from the pockmarked man, and he struggled to open his right eye, which was crusted with blood. At least he was alive, but why?
He shook his shaggy mane like a wet mongrel, setting off another painful spasm in his head, b
ut he was finally able to think again, more or less. He had come across this old mine in the mountains where children had been put to work. Evidently this man had forced them to dig for ore and was trying to keep the matter secret—and it was for this reason he had left the injured girl outside in the rain, snow, and cold in that wretched shelter rather than returning her to the village. The pockmarked man had as much as admitted that at least two children had died in these unsafe tunnels. It was quite possible there had been others. Jakob was a witness, and so he had to be eliminated. The only reason he was still alive was no doubt that the dirty swine first wanted to learn who else knew about the mine.
Cautiously, the hangman began to explore his dark surroundings. The niche he was in was so low he was forced to stoop over. It seemed to be no more than a few paces wide, and he couldn’t see a passageway. He moved to the left, then to the right, groping in vain for an exit, and after examining the walls in front of him and behind him and finding nothing but broken rocks, he realized the hopelessness of his situation.
He’d been buried alive, under tons of rock.
The pockmarked man had no interest in questioning him, he just wanted him to rot down here and probably thought the hangman was already dead. To make sure, the man had piled a few large boulders in front of the exit or perhaps even caused the passage to collapse.
Jakob began moving the rocks aside but soon weariness came over him, and he felt faint. He had to stop and lean against the side of the cave. His head wound was no doubt worse than he had first thought. Besides, he assumed his opponent had used a crowbar to move the heavy boulders in front of the entrance. Jakob had nothing but his hands, and as large and powerful as they were, they were no match for a crowbar.
Grimly, he pulled away a large rock, loosening some pebbles above and finally some larger rocks, blocking the entrance even more.
“Damn, damn, damn!”