The others laughed, and Nepomuk could hear children cry out among them. When he saw a glowing object hurtling toward him, he quickly dodged to one side, scraping his shoulder on the rough rock wall. Blinded with pain, he screamed as the torch fell to the ground beside him, flickered in the damp straw, and fortunately went out.
“Look how ugly he is,” shouted the man with the moon face. “The soldiers were right-he really looks like a fat toad.”
“Hey, sorcerer,” a woman taunted. “Can you fly? Fly up to us. Or have you lost your broom?”
Once again the crowd hooted and hollered. Nepomuk buried his head in his hands, trying to ignore everything around him, but then another object was hurled down at him. This time it was a heavy clod of clay that hit him on the back. Pain shot through his body. Stones followed, along with a few soggy turnips and cabbages, then a hail of all kinds of projectiles.
“Here, eat this, you fat toad,” a woman taunted. “Eat it so you can grow big and strong for the torture.”
“Get out of here! Go to hell!” The deep voice that spoke now came from a man accustomed to giving orders. “Just stop. You’re going to kill him for me.”
The crowd murmured, but the bombardment ended. “We paid good money to see the sorcerer,” a bearded man complained. “And now we’re not even allowed to throw things at him?”
Nepomuk looked up again. The torch tossed onto the straw had gone out, but in the dim light at the top of the shaft, he could make out the outline of a person dressed entirely in black. His wavy hair, however, was combed straight back and snow-white, as if the man had aged far before his time. He was perhaps forty and wore a tight jerkin that highlighted his broad back and strong arms. He looked into the hole, holding the torch down so that for a moment Nepomuk could look him in the face. The man’s eyes flashed red just like those of the rats sharing Nepomuk’s cell. He inspected his victim like an animal handed over for slaughter, and Nepomuk instinctively recoiled.
“Still looks to be in good shape,” he mumbled. “Thank God.” Then he turned to the spectators, who were no doubt jostling him for a better look. “Just don’t mess up my work,” he growled. “If you kill him, you’ll owe me-and I promise it will cost you dearly. Do you hear?”
“Very well, Master Hans,” a timid voice replied. “We… we won’t do that; but he’s a sorcerer, after all. Certainly a few clods of earth won’t hurt him.”
“Nonsense,” the white-haired man growled. “Believe me, I know these sorcerers. Once you throw them into the hole, they scream and bleed just as we do, and so far none has ever flown away on me.”
He cast one last glance down at Nepomuk as if trying to calculate what he would earn flaying this body, then he shoved the cover back over the hole. The crack of light became smaller until finally the cell was once again engulfed in darkness.
“Come back tomorrow, people,” Nepomuk could hear the man’s muffled voice say through the rotted wood overhead. “If it’s up to the district judge, we’ll start the interrogation tomorrow morning, and for one kreutzer each, I’ll let you into the yard so you can hear the sorcerer scream.”
The sound of footsteps faded until finally the only thing to be heard was the squeaking of the rats.
Tomorrow, Nepomuk. Tomorrow they’ll pull out your nails and crush your legs. Sleep well, Nepomuk. Dream of heaven, because what starts tomorrow is hell.
The monk, once a hangman himself, turned on his side and cried like a small child. He knew that what he’d seen in the red eyes of the Weilheim executioner was his own death.
That’s how Nepomuk got to know Master Hans.
11
THE ANDECHS FOREST, EARLY THE MORNING OF FRIDAY, JUNE 18, 1666 AD
Leaving the turmoil behind, the family hiked along the monastery wall that followed the Kien Valley northeast. The hangman’s grandchildren took turns riding on his shoulders, where, rocking like ships on the ocean, they looked down in amazement into the valley-and occasionally pulled their grandfather’s hair. Simon and Magdalena walked ahead, and the hangman’s daughter, especially, couldn’t refrain from looking around cautiously. It wasn’t easy to find a quiet place to talk in a pilgrimage site as busy as Andechs.
“I haven’t had a moment of peace since I learned that that madman is still running around,” Magdalena confessed with a sigh. “Perhaps we should have chosen the church or the tavern for our conversation. At least that’s a busy place.”
“So anyone could eavesdrop on our conversation?” Simon shook his head. “Until we know who’s responsible for these strange events, it’s better that as few people as possible know what we’re up to. I don’t trust anyone in the monastery anymore. These priests are just liars and schemers.”
They continued in silence along the weathered monastery wall. Despite the early hour, pilgrims streamed toward them as they returned from washing their eyes in the healing waters of St. Elizabeth’s chapel nearby. The little stream was reputed to cure blindness and all kinds of visual impairments. Simon felt his tired eyes could use a refreshing splash of water, too. He’d been awake until late, leafing through the Andechs chronicle, but found no clue about who might be behind the abduction of the watchmaker Virgilius.
Finally they came to a rusty gate in the wall. Simon pushed down on the latch, and it swung open with a squeak. Inside, long rows of weathered, crooked stone crosses stood amid ivy-covered mounds of dirt.
“The Andechs Monastery cemetery,” Simon murmured. “Wonderful. Nobody will disturb us here.”
And in fact there was not a soul present in this place overgrown with grass, meadow flowers, and poppies. A few wild pigeons settled down on the crosses, and the children chased after them, laughing. In the middle of the yard, at the edge of an abandoned well, a few salamanders were dozing in the sun. And silence had settled over the area, which seemed both peaceful and surreal after all the pilgrims’ noise and commotion.
Kuisl headed for a stone bench not far from the monastery wall, took out his pipe, knocked out the cold ashes, and motioned to Simon and Magdalena to join him. “The best place to hold an undisturbed conversation is among the dead,” he said. “Now let’s think about how we can help the abbot and Nepomuk.”
Simon took a seat alongside his father-in-law while Magdalena found an overturned gravestone where she could keep an eye on the children.
“We still don’t know what this madman intends to do with the hosts,” Simon began. “So far, it seems he wants to spread fear and anxiety in the monastery. The gruesome murders, the disappearance of the automaton, and now the stolen relics…” He sighed. “One thing is clear: if the hosts aren’t found in two days, unrest among the pilgrims will only grow. It will be viewed as a bad sign; it’s even possible that panic will break out.”
“Well, at least for now they think they’ve found their villain in Nepomuk,” the hangman said. “They’ll torture and execute him as soon as possible to get this case behind them.”
Magdalena angrily tossed a stone at the cemetery wall. “But it’s clear Nepomuk couldn’t have stolen the hosts,” she retorted. “He was already in the dungeon by then.”
Her father grunted and calmly continued stuffing his pipe. “They’ll just say Nepomuk magically escaped from the prison. Believe me, nobody cares about that. The main thing is they have a scapegoat to keep peace among the people.”
“If it wasn’t Nepomuk, who else would it be?” Simon counted off suspects on his fingers. “First, of course, the prior. After all, he wants to become abbot, and after what’s happened thus far, he’ll soon be taking Rambeck’s place.”
Magdalena raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know. All that trouble just to discredit the present abbot?”
“Let me finish,” Simon said. “So first the prior; then the old librarian. He behaved very strangely toward me up in the Andechs library. He did everything he could to keep me from poking around. He’s a member of the monastery council, and thus also among the inner circle who knows the monastery’s secrets.”