At dawn, dragging himself back to the revered Father Hauser, who had once catechized his charmed childhood, he had to ask himself how much he should be expected to sacrifice for the town of H—. Would he yield up his life? — Well, if he had to; any brave man would, although his aspiration had been to retire before his hair went utterly white, and buy a flock of sheep. — What about his immortal soul? That was a blurrier proposition; for wasn’t anyone who did such a deed, even in order to achieve good, a bad person? Fortunately, Father Hauser infallibly promised him absolution.
Richter von Lochner declined to be present at that difficult conference, for he too had a heart; it pained him to send anyone in uniform to certain death, no matter how easily he disposed of evildoers. So the inspector and Father Hauser stood face to face like two Bohemian eagles staring down one another on a faded tapestry, while the gaunt grimy-faced Virgin painted on the ceiling stared down past her locked hands, with her cadaverous head, framed in a blue wimple, glowing blotchily; and Hans Trollhand, well wrapped in his black-and-red cloak (for last time he had caught a cold), kept watch in the crypt, not that he detected the slightest scratching or groaning. Perhaps he would have made an even better hero than that cipher of an inspector; for he had always been more acute than the latter at ferreting out the tiny snake-holes which vampires make (although sometimes there is nothing below but a snake). He was also very mercantile, which helps one to get renown. Sometimes he sold the blood of people he beheaded, for it was a charm against arson. He collected tips for a good view of the torture platform. All the same, his children were malnourished, and his wife Margaritha owned but one dress. There was hope expressed (I cannot say by whom) that this time the inspector would become famous, a possibility which must have occupied Trollhand in some fashion — and certainly warmed the inspector even through his constraint. He and the priest now discussed such minimally unacceptable methods as choking to death on a crucifix, or forcing holy water into one’s lungs. But in the end, he ate mushroom poison, courtesy of a convicted witch whose torture von Lochner accordingly suspended. Justice was on the march! Before Hans Trollhand had even set that witch on fire, the inspector died in anguish, losing himself ever more sorrowfully behind the phosphorescent rainbow of the churchyard spectrum, while Father Hauser sent him off with prayers. So far, the secret retained its honorable virginity. It was an accident, proclaimed the town crier (for in the service of truth it is permitted to our authorities to lie), and so Father Hauser presided over his burial. Because the mayor, who considered that by lending out that newspaper he had already done enough, declined to tax the citizens of H— for the price of a silver casket, which might have guarded our inspector more securely from the enemies of God, the sexton stuffed cloves of garlic into his shroud, while Hans Trollhand, whom nobody could accuse of not being goodhearted, dug up an irreproachable old Christian woman named Jette and hacked off her right hand, for shouldn’t that be nearly as good as a saint’s relic? This gift he laid across the inspector’s breast. Now for the eulogy, two prayers and three cheers. Down sank our hero, and this time the dirt blanketed him.
Since a man who is merely dead remains of small use to either side in the war between good and evil, the undead-hunters’ next task was to bring the inspector back to duty before the vampires got him. Father Hauser accordingly summoned the widow Doroteja, one of his favorite parishioners, who had never missed a day of church.
He said: Doroteja, my child, the church has need of you.
Yes, Father, although I’m but a simple woman…
Doroteja, what I’m about to demand of you must be kept secret, on pain of rendition to eternal fire. Do you understand?
Yes, Father.
We know that you enter the churchyard at night.
Please don’t burn me, Father! I won’t go there anymore—
Doroteja, he who would save his soul must lose it. She who condemns her soul shall save it, now and forever, amen. Sing one of those pretty spells of yours. Wake up the inspector. Do this, and I’ll be well pleased.
Forgive me, Father, for I’ve always been ignorant of such arts.
Hans Trollhand would love to see that pretty hair of yours catch fire, Doroteja. We’ll burn you from your feet up, to save the best for last. Now listen. You’re a witch, and there’s no use pretending otherwise. Richter von Lochner stands ready to interrogate you today. I’ll ask but once more. Now do as I say, witch, or forfeit your life.
And you’ll burn me?
Doroteja, my girl, don’t you believe in my fondness for you? It’s a sin to displease me.
Yes, Father.
You can count on that. Can you bring him up in daylight?
Finding herself in much the same situation as one of our linen-weavers in northeastern Bohemia, who must both buy the raw linen and then sell back the cloth she has made, Doroteja said merely: Will you come with me, Father?
Shame, woman! I cannot be associated with such Devil’s errands. And give him this. Have you seen one before?
The second medallion of the sun, Father, to release the imprisoned. Is it true gold?
Of course. Richter von Lochner inherited it from a Jewish sorcerer. A pretty pentacle, if I may say so! That’s the Face of Shaddai on this side, and on the other, that secret symbol which resembles a gallows, can you comprehend it?
No, Father.
Well, it’s supposed to be infallible, but the Jew who owned it went down to hell nonetheless.
Since the inspector was already accustomed to the vileness of criminals and the misery of torture chambers, never mind the thick grief and futility within the cottages where the poor lay starving on beds of sickness, his new quarters scarcely troubled him.
At first he thought, as he had when alive, that no food could be better than the fresh tears and saliva of one of those young witches whom he and Hans Trollhand so frequently interrogated; but presently he began to fancy menstrual blood; and then, as his tastes grew more catholic, any blood would have done, the more the better; and as this desire grew up in him, so did his strength and will, until with an exultant blasphemy he found himself rising through wood, dirt, roots and grass, into the night sky. All the while he knew he could set these impulses aside; they were coloring, not proclivity.
He felt almost gleeful to be in possession of Richter von Lochner’s medallion. Although he could not follow the inscription of the outer ring, DIRUPSITI VINCULA MEA; TIBI SACRIFICABO HOSTIAM LAUDIS, ET NOMEN INVOCABO, it gave him self-confidence to own something gold, although even underground it perilously outshone all those long golden bones which resemble breadsticks, so that he had to triple-wrap it in the shroud of a deaf-mute child, which Doroteja had given him for a good luck gift. He scratched out a hole in the earth with his ever-growing fingernails and concealed it there, much as a squirrel hides acorns.