“That’s my job, Magdalena,” Simon snapped back. “Don’t forget you married a bathhouse doctor, not a farmer who can spend all winter long in the house telling stories to his children. People are always getting sick, day and night, at every time of year.” He looked at her defiantly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “If you want, you can take off with that mute Matthias. The children seem to like him more than me, in any case. And without a tongue, he can’t gripe, either.”
“My God, how can anyone be so mean?” Magdalena turned away in disgust. “This man suffered more as a child in the war than you can even imagine. And he may be mute, but that certainly doesn’t mean he’s stupid. Just look at my father… He talks only when he has something to say, not like your wise-ass scholars who talk just to keep their mouths flapping.”
“I told you a hundred times not to compare me with your stubborn father. I’m a doctor and not a hangman.”
“And I’m a hangman’s daughter.” Magdalena stared off angrily into the distance where the children were looking at an empty bird’s nest. From here, they looked even smaller and more vulnerable than usual. “And my boys are the grandsons of a dishonorable hangman,” she whispered. “Something like that sticks to you like pitch-you never shake it off. Never.”
At that moment an indistinct figure appeared at the other end of the field of barley. At first it was barely visible in the blinding sunlight, but as it came closer, it gradually took shape: a huge monk striding through the grain. Magdalena couldn’t help but think of the Grim Reaper, coming to mow people down with his scythe.
When Kuisl arrived in front of them, Magdalena noticed a fire in his eyes that she knew only too well. A mixture of pride, disgust, and defiance-the way he often looked before an execution.
“I spoke with Nepomuk and have been thinking about it,” he mumbled, crushing a few hulls of barley absent-mindedly between his fingers. “The time has come for us to catch the real sorcerer.”
Down in the monastery dairy, the bolt was thrown back and the four soldiers from Weilheim crowded into the stuffy, low-ceilinged room, looking at the trembling figure at their feet with disgust.
“Get up, you bastard,” the leader demanded. “Your nap is over. Now we’re bringing you to the dungeon in Weilheim, where the executioner will deal with you. Your elegant coach is waiting for you outside.”
The other soldiers laughed. The monk whimpered and thrashed about as they pulled him outside to the oxcart with the wooden cage. Behind them the soldiers’ wagon and the district judge’s coach waited.
It had been a long time since Nepomuk was last out in the sun, so he had to blink to recognize the district judge himself standing alongside his coach, apparently just concluding a long conversation with the prior. The two approached the monk, who was covered with filth. He’d been lying in his own waste for four days, and he could smell it on himself now.
“So this is the famous warlock of Andechs,” said Count von Casana und Colle, scrutinizing the apothecary as he would an exotic captive animal. Twirling his gray mustache, he turned to the prior. “It’s good you let us know. A matter like this cannot remain just the concern of the monastery, and we must examine everything carefully. I can’t understand why the abbot didn’t call on the district court earlier.”
“His Excellency Maurus Rambeck is a distinguished scholar,” the prior replied with a shrug. “But he sometimes lacks a… well… broader view.”
Count von Casana und Colle nodded. “I understand. Well, we’ll surely find a solution for that.”
Until that moment, Nepomuk had listened to the conversation in silence. Now he turned to his former superior. “Brother Jeremias,” he pleaded, “you have known me for a long time. Do you really believe I’m responsible for these-”
“What I believe is of no importance,” the prior snarled, his eyes suddenly turning icy. “Only the trial will reveal your guilt or innocence.”
“But the matter has already been decided,” he burst out. “All these people have already made up their minds. You know what comes next, Brother. The executioner will torture me. You must not allow that. Please…”
But the prior had already turned away and returned to the coach with the count.
“I have complete confidence that the high court in Weilheim will reach a just verdict,” Nepomuk heard Brother Jeremias say. “Can I invite Your Excellency into the monastery for a glass of wine in the Prince’s Quarters?”
“I would be delighted, Your Reverence, but I fear we must put that off till another time,” the count responded. “We have some outstanding taxes to collect in this area, but I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon. Perhaps we can drink the wine then in the room of the new abbot.” He laughed, and the conversation grew fainter as the two walked away.
Nepomuk took a deep breath, turning his face to the blue sky where just a few white clouds passed by, heralds of a coming storm. The monk knew this was perhaps the last time he would see such a sky. From here on, only Jakob would be able to help him.
Though Nepomuk prayed fervently that the Schongau hangman’s suspicions were correct, he harbored no illusions about his chances of escaping torture and death at the stake. The mob had found its victim. Why should it spend any more time thinking about the real perpetrator-especially if this perpetrator was as influential and powerful as Nepomuk assumed.
Suddenly a calm came over him, his trembling stopped, and he murmured a silent prayer.
“Dear Lord, you are everywhere. Be also in me and make me strong for what is to come. Give the Weilheim hangman a steady hand, and be a light unto the Schongau executioner on his way. No matter what happens, I ask for your blessing.”
“Get up, you ugly toad. The fire awaits you.” With a loud crack, one of the soldiers opened the front of the crate with a crowbar, then together they lifted the prisoner onto the cart like a calf going to slaughter and squeezed him inside. Nepomuk could hear them hammering nails into the box; then everything turned dark around him except for a few cracks along the top that gave him just enough light to make out the contours of the box. It was narrow and low around him. He sat crouched over and could smell the strong scent of fresh spruce.
“Giddyup.”
As the wagon started to rumble forward, Nepomuk had to brace himself on the sides of the box so as not to be flung back and forth. After a while he could hear a growing number of voices outside, nasty, angry voices.
“Hang the sorcerer! Hang him and burn him! Just like in hell!”
“Hey, little monk, see if your magic can get you out of this box. Or can’t you do it?”
“Curses on you, you beast. Holy Mary, punish him with pain, make him suffer and scream at the stake for a long time.”
Suddenly something struck the box from outside. This was followed by a hail of stones and then a loud thud. The noise swelled to a roar of shouting voices as more stones came raining down and the mob seemed to lose all control.
“Stop this,” the captain of the guards could be heard shouting. “This man will not avoid his just punishment, but it will be the district judge who punishes him and not you.”
Nepomuk pulled his legs to his chest and put his hands to his ears to keep from hearing the rest, but he could still feel how the crate was being pummeled.
My God, this box is not a prison at all, it’s protecting me, he thought. Without this box people would have no doubt ripped me to pieces long before.
A while passed before the pounding relented, then finally stopped completely. Removing his hands from his ears, Nepomuk heard just the squeaking wagon wheels and chirping birds now-thrushes, finches, and blackbirds singing in the forest. A narrow strip of sunlight fell through a knothole in the wood and directly onto Nepomuk’s face.