What’s going on here? Is someone shooting at me? I didn’t hear a shot…
There was no more time to think; she heard the whooshing sound again and threw herself on the ground at the last second. Above her, something bored into a tree trunk, and now she was sure it was a shot. She picked herself up and ran down the path, stooped over. One last time something whizzed past her and hit the wall, producing a spray of mortar, but by then Magdalena had arrived at the gate. Seized by panic, she dashed into the middle of the deserted church square, almost fearing the automaton would emerge, rattling and humming, from behind the bags of limestone, its mouth open wide and ready to devour her. But when she turned around, there was nothing-just darkness and the rustling branches in the forest behind the wall.
Breathlessly she ran down the lane toward Simon, who was just coming out of the tavern.
“Magdalena!” he cried in relief. “I’ve been worried. Mass has been over for a long-” That’s when he got a closer look at her. “My God!” he gasped “You’re bleeding. What happened?”
Magdalena reached up to her neck, still wet with blood. Something had grazed her, and the wound was very painful. The collar of her cape was also wet with blood.
“The automaton… is… somewhere beneath us…” she blurted out as her legs gave way. The last thing she saw was Simon bending down over her, his mouth moving up and down like that of a huge puppet, while somewhere gigantic gears were turning.
Then terrified, exhausted, and suffering from loss of blood, she fell unconscious.
6
LAKE AMMER, TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1666 AD
The boat pitched and tossed so violently that Jakob Kuisl had his hands full keeping his grandchildren from drowning. Despite a blue sky, a strong wind was blowing over Lake Ammer, kicking up little whitecaps that covered the entire boat in a fine spray. The children shouted joyfully and kept trying to wriggle out of their grandfather’s strong arms and jump over the side into the water.
“You’ve got two real rascals there. Your grandchildren?” The old ferryman grinned as he rocked back and forth to the movements of his rowing. His weathered face was red with exertion as he dipped the oars deep into the water. Since the very start of their trip in Die?en, he hadn’t been silent a moment, and kept badgering the hangman nonstop with questions.
“Would you like to get out at Herrsching over there?” he continued. “Or are you going to sell them to the first traveling salesman you meet?”
“If they keep carrying on like this, I’ll donate them to the monastery as little cherubs for the altar. At least then they’ll have to keep still.”
Kuisl bared his teeth and pushed both children gently under the rowing seat, where, giggling and sniggering, they tangled themselves in a rancid fishnet. Peter played with an old fish head while Paul reached out for a couple of crabs scuttling about in a basket. Although they weren’t causing any trouble now, the hangman gave up all hope of a leisurely smoke of his pipe.
Snorting, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He’d asked himself a dozen times whether it had been such a good idea to take his two grandchildren along to Andechs. After all, it was a matter of life or death for his best friend, who sat in the dungeon accused of murder and witchcraft. Well, as soon as they arrived up on the Holy Mountain, this foolishness would end and he could finally hand the children over to their mother. That way Magdalena would at least have something to do and stop sticking her nose into things that were none of her business.
Kuisl mulled these things over as he watched the shore in Die?en gradually recede in the distance. The tower of the monastery church now looked no longer than his hand, and behind it, he could see the Wessobrunn Highlands and Mount Hoher Pei?enberg. The hangman had left Schongau early in the morning with his son Georg on two horses he’d borrowed from the well-to-do Schreevogls. Georg returned home with the horses while Kuisl looked around Die?en for a boat. The old ferryman knew nothing about Kuisl’s job, and it was better that way. The men who worked on the lake were especially superstitious, and no fisherman in the world would have permitted a living, breathing hangman on his boat. With winds increasing in force, Kuisl’s ferryman had already prayed several times to Saint Peter, the patron saint of fishermen and seafarers.
“Are you making a pilgrimage to Andechs with the two young lads?” the old fisherman asked now. When he got no answer, he continued fervently: “We should thank the Holy Virgin every day that we live so near this blessed place. I’ve been up on the Holy Mountain at least ten times, and I swear I’ve seen more relics than would fit in this boat.”
And people still drown in the lake just the same, Kuisl thought. A lot of good all that praying does.
Shuddering, the hangman remembered a stormy night some years back when a ship sank in Lake Ammer and a large group of pilgrims drowned. Only two children could be saved at that time, yet people spoke of this as a miracle, as if it somehow lessened the grief over the other thirty who had drowned.
“The most precious of them are the three sacred hosts,” the fisherman kept on babbling cheerfully, paying no heed to the silence of the man opposite him. “They are displayed only once a year at the Festival of the Three Hosts, but there are others, such as the Charlemagne’s Victory Cross; a branch from Christ’s crown of thorns; half of His kerchief; Mary’s belt; the wedding dress of Saint Elizabeth; Saint Nicolas’s stole, and…” He stopped for a moment and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “And our Savior’s foreskin, taken from him by the accursed Jews at the age of-”
“Please just pay attention to your rowing, or all the beautiful relics in the world won’t help us,” the hangman interrupted, pointing to the sky. “It looks as if a new storm is brewing.”
The ferryman winced and dipped his oars deep in the water. Indeed, a dark bank of clouds was moving toward the lake from the west.
“Damned weather,” the old man cursed. “Have hardly ever seen so much as in the past few weeks. If it keeps up like this, there won’t be a thing still growing in the fields. The Lord is angry at us, and I’d just like to know why.”
“He’s probably punishing people who never stop talking,” Kuisl murmured. “Maybe you should make another pilgrimage to Andechs. At least up there you can’t drown.”
“But lightning can strike you dead there.” The ferryman laughed and pushed his hat back on his neck. “Believe me, there’s more lightning up there than anywhere else-it’s almost as if the steeple attracts it. Just a few days ago I saw it hit the ruined steeple again, flashing green and blue like at the Last Judgment. I thought the whole mountain was on fire. If you ask me, it all has something to do with that new abbot who spends too much time with his nose in books instead of praying for our salvation.”
While the fisherman cackled on like an old chicken, they arrived at Herrsching Bay on the other side of the lake. To the right, at the little village of Wartaweil, pilgrims departed on the strenuous route to the monastery.
The water here was noticeably calmer, and the wind had abated to a gentle breeze. Jakob Kuisl saw at least two dozen fishing boats tied to rotting piers as fishermen on the shore laboriously patched their nets. Behind them, the Holy Mountain rose up out of a forest of green beeches.
“And how are you going to get up to the monastery with the two youngsters?” the old man asked curiously. “The path is pretty steep.”
“Just let me take care of that. I’ve hauled bigger guys off to say their prayers.”
The fisherman looked at him, confused. “What do you mean by that?”
“God bless you.” Kuisl handed the old man a few coins, then, despite the child’s loud objections, lifted Peter into a wooden frame and, groaning, strapped the pack on his back. With an old cloth, he tied little Paul around his waist where the two-year-old watched with curiosity as the boats bobbed in the water.