“Nonsense,” the young novitiate master mumbled. “Nobody goes up in smoke. There must be another explanation.”
“Think of the wounds poor Vitalis suffered,” the prior pleaded. “May his soul rest in peace. They were clearly not of natural origin.”
“To know that for certain, we’d have to examine-” Simon started to object, but the old librarian interrupted, raising a trembling hand.
“Something else must be noted,” he said hoarsely. “You know all these automata that Virgilius was so fond of-this woman made of metal who plays the glockenspiel.”
“I do hope it has been destroyed,” Brother Eckhart grumbled. “That at least would be something positive. God alone, and not man, should create life.”
“Well, it’s even worse,” the librarian continued hesitantly. “Our Brothers Martin and Jakobus have told me that the… well, the automaton has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” The prior shook his head. “Just like Virgilius? But how is that possible? The doll is as large as a human and certainly very heavy. How could anyone-”
“My God,” Brother Eckhart, who was still standing, raised his hands in prayer and directed his gaze theatrically to the ceiling. “Don’t you understand what happened? Don’t you understand the full horror of this?” His voice was trembling. “This… creature… has come to life and has seized its master. Somewhere here in the monastery a golem is stalking about. God help us!”
Excited murmurs could be heard from all sides; some of the monks crossed themselves or clung tightly to their rosaries. Simon, too, felt a shiver run up his spine. He couldn’t help thinking of the automaton in the watchmaker’s shop, the lifeless face and the slightly off-key melody of a glockenspiel playing inside. He could practically see the puppet in front of him as it whirred through the room.
Like a ghost gliding along weightlessly, he thought, driven by a lust for revenge-one that never stops until its task is complete.
The abbot stood now and pounded the table angrily with the palm of his hand, bringing Simon back to reality.
“Quiet!” he shouted. “Dear Brothers, I beg for silence.”
Only gradually did quiet return to the room. The abbot took a deep breath before continuing in a broken voice. “We won’t understand what has happened until… until Brother Johannes is back among us. We have to be grateful for every clue.” Turning to Simon, he added, “I shall read your report carefully, and I’d be very grateful if you can contribute anything else to clarify this case. You’ve seemed quite astute thus far.”
Prior Jeremias gasped. “A bathhouse surgeon, a dishonorable person, helping to solve a murder in the monastery? My dear Brother, I beg you-”
“And I beg you to be silent,” Abbot Rambeck interrupted. “Dishonorable or not, this bathhouse surgeon has made more intelligent observations than all of us together. It would be stupid not to accept his help. I’m asking him to continue work on his report.” Rambeck seemed to get briefly lost in thought, and his hands began to tremble again. After a brief pause, he turned back to Simon. “Ah, there’s something else, Master Fronwieser. It’s come to my attention that some of the pilgrims are ill. Now that our apothecary is no longer available, someone else is needed to care for them…”
It sounded like an order, so Simon nodded respectfully. “Naturally, Your Eminence, as you wish.”
Wonderful, he thought. Until today, I was an ordinary pilgrim, and now I must write a report about a mysterious murder and care for sick pilgrims. Why didn’t I just go to Altotting with Magdalena?
The abbot closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. “Then let us pray to God for our dead and missing Brothers.”
Simon watched each monk, one after the other, as Maurus Rambeck recited a psalm in Latin. The Brothers had folded their hands, murmuring the prayers as they lowered their eyes. It seemed each radiated an evil aura quite out of place in this cloistered atmosphere. Suddenly the prior raised his head and looked Simon directly in the eye.
The medicus winced. In Brother Jeremias’s eyes Simon saw a hateful spark that rattled him to the core.
Brother Johannes ran through the forest as if the devil himself were in pursuit.
He stumbled over roots, picked himself up again breathlessly, jumped over muddy ditches, and rushed through thick underbrush. The hem of his robe had long been reduced to tatters; thistles and branches clung to the material, and his face was sweaty and mud-stained. Tears ran down his chubby cheeks and his heart pounded. Except for a linen bag with his essential belongings, he hadn’t been able to save a thing.
Johannes cursed and sobbed. His former life behind him, he would have to hit the road again. He didn’t know what the future held for him, only what would happen if they caught him: They’d pull out his fingernails and toenails and stretch his bones until they popped out of their sockets. Then they’d crush his thumbs, burn his wizened skin with matches, and throw him on a huge pile of wood and brush to be consumed by fire.
Brother Johannes knew all this because he was familiar with torture and executions. He had seen far too many up close; he knew what awaited a murderer and warlock.
Without stopping once to look around, the fat apothecary ran through the Kien Valley. By now it was early morning, and the sun bore down mercilessly through the boughs and branches. Like most of the other monks, Johannes had been awakened at the crack of dawn by loud wailing. Something dreadful must have happened, and he had a dark suspicion what it was. He’d secretly hurried to the watchmaker’s house, only to find the bathhouse owner and his woman leaving, both of them as white as a sheet. From the bits of conversation he overheard, he pieced together what they’d discovered inside.
When he heard them mention his name, Brother Johannes knew he couldn’t return. They would find out everything-the experiments, the fire in the tower, all about his former life…
A curse on you, Virgilius!
Thus Johannes snuck back to his little house, picked up some provisions, a blanket, and his old wooden cross, and made off toward the Kien Valley. He ran through a narrow hidden gorge, which many Erlingers had used during the Great War to escape the Swedes and was known to them as The Ox’s Gorge… From time to time Johannes had to gather up the folds of his robe and wade through the Kien Brook. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear dogs barking and a horn sounding. Were they already on his heels?
He suppressed the thought and rushed forward blindly. If he could make it down to Muhlfeld or Wartaweil, perhaps he had a chance. He could find a fisherman to take him over to Die?en, and from there he could keep going toward Landsberg, where he had friends who would help him. Perhaps somewhere he would find an army he could join up with. People with his experience were always needed.
The trees in front of him were thinning out, so he could already see the lake sparkling down in the valley. His goal, the little fisherman’s port not far from Muhlfeld Castle, seemed within reach. As soon as Brother Johannes stepped out of the forest, he heard a shot. A bullet whizzed by his ear, missing him by just inches. Gasping, he threw himself down in the mud.