The hangman shrugged. “Your father is no longer a youngster,” he growled. “But as long as I can lift my executioner’s sword, I can lift a slab of stone like that. Step aside.”
Kuisl stuck the torch into a crack in the rock, looked around for some large stones, and piled them up on the floor of the passageway, getting dirtier and dirtier in the process. When he judged it high enough, he climbed carefully on top and pushed against the stone slab with both hands. With a mixture of tension and horror, Magdalena watched, listening all the while in vain for sounds of crying children. The banging and scraping drowned out everything, however.
“And what happens when the sorcerer, or whoever it is, sees the slab being pushed aside?” she asked her father anxiously.
“Smart-ass woman,” Kuisl gasped, as the veins in his upper arms bulged out like little cords and beads of sweat ran down his muddy forehead. “Do you have a better idea? If not, shut up.”
After a while the stone plate rose up with a grinding sound, and the hangman pushed it slightly to one side. Then he waved at Magdalena.
“Quick, climb on my shoulders and tell me what you see,” he whispered.
After a brief hesitation, Magdalena climbed up on her father’s back, just as she had as a child. His shoulders were still just as broad and strong as the yoke of an ox. She wavered a bit, then gaining her balance, carefully stuck her head up through the crack.
“Well?” Kuisl whispered down below. “Do you see the children?”
It took a while for her eyes to get used to the bright light above after the darkness in the tunnel. Finally she could make out a huge circular room with walls of rough-hewn granite. The ten-feet-high arched ceiling was also made of stone. At least a dozen torches illuminated a chaotic jumble of crates, chests, and tables, where a number of mysterious, nondescript objects stood. Three men in black robes, evidently monks from the monastery, scurried around amid the boxes.
Two of them had just nailed a cover on one of the containers and now, groaning and gasping, were dragging it up a spiral staircase hewn into the rock to a doorway just beneath the ceiling. Another man was inspecting the contents of boxes that were still open. All three were turned away, so Magdalena couldn’t recognize them. The stone slab was situated in the middle of the room but half concealed behind boxes, so the monks hadn’t yet noticed it had been pushed aside.
“Damn. Hurry up,” said the shrill voice of the monk standing closest to Magdalena. He was clinging to one of the crates, gasping, obviously exhausted. “It’s high time for us to get out of here. Evening mass is beginning soon.”
“If you had helped us carry these, we would have finished a lot sooner,” said one of the monks standing on the staircase. “Besides, as I’ve told you a dozen times already, I’m sick of taking orders from you.”
“Well, excuse me, but who had the idea of moving the stuff away?” complained the first. “That was you, you chicken-hearted coward.” He laughed hysterically, a high-pitched, girlish ring in his voice. “I can hear the golem already; he’s coming to get us.”
“Stop,” cried the second monk on the staircase. He sounded like an anxious, whining child. Magdalena thought she’d heard the voice before. “That… that scares me. There’s something down there. I can feel it. We… we mustn’t disturb it unnecessarily.” Suddenly he let go of the chest and fell to his knees. The monk on the other side had trouble holding onto the heavy chest by himself.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” whined the kneeling monk. “Maybe the rumors about the golem are true. What does it say in the old stories? It’s a creature made of dirt and clay that came to life when a damned Jewish rabbi breathed life into it. Surely the golem feels right at home in these underground passageways. Let’s pray that-”
In the next moment the other monk on the staircase cursed loudly and dropped the heavy chest. It tumbled down the stairs, turning over several times before finally landing a few steps away from the stone slab, where it burst apart, scattering bones, broken glass, and shreds of cloth across the floor.
A golden crucifix landed directly in front of Magdalena. It had been dented in the fall, and the surface had peeled away in places.
Beneath it was tarnished green copper.
“The relics,” one of the men shouted down in the keep. “The beautiful relics! You superstitious ninny; now all this work was in vain.”
The hangman’s daughter rubbed the dust from her eyes as her father staggered below like a stubborn packhorse.
“Damn it,” Kuisl complained softly. “What’s going on up there? Say something.”
“I… I’m not sure whether one of these three is the sorcerer,” she whispered, “but at least we’re onto another riddle here in the monastery. The relics-” She froze when she noticed the man closest to her had heard her voice.
“What the hell…?” the monk cursed.
The other two men were now staring down at her, as well-gawking at her as if she were a creature from the underworld. When she finally made out their faces in the torchlight, she let out a scream of terror.
They were Brother Eckhart, the prior Jeremias, and the old, stooped librarian.
“That’s… the hangman’s girl,” the prior exclaimed, recovering from the shock. “What’s she doing here?”
“It doesn’t matter; she’s seen us,” the librarian said ominously. “And that’s bad, very bad.” He hesitated briefly, then motioned to the fat Brother Eckhart.
“Look for yourself, Brother. It’s not a golem, just a damned woman. Take her, and do with her what you did with all the other women.” His voice became soft and mellifluous. “Give free rein to your devilish impulses, Eckhart. She deserves it. The prior himself will grant you absolution, and we’ll see to it that no one ever finds the sinful woman.”
The horror in Eckhart’s eyes vanished, giving way to a lewd grin.
“As you command, Benedikt,” he replied softly, licking his fleshy lips. “I’ve already told the lewd woman she has no business in certain places. Those who don’t listen have to find out the hard way.”
Rigid with fear, Magdalena watched the fat monk slowly descend the stairs, his huge hands reaching out in front of him and his mouth murmuring a soft prayer.
At the same moment, the hangman’s daughter could feel herself slowly being raised up from below. Her father was pulling himself up on the edge of the opening. To the three monks in the cellar of the keep, Magdalena must have looked like an angel slowly ascending.
“What in the world…” Brother Eckhart started to say. Then he saw the upper body of the hangman, covered with lime and dirt, emerging from the hole, groaning and growling like a wounded bear.
“My God, the golem,” shrieked the fat monk, tumbling back several paces. “It’s really the golem rising up from the underworld.”
Finally Kuisl had hoisted himself up far enough that Magdalena could jump from his shoulders. He pulled himself completely out of the hole then and stood before the monks at his full six feet, his body smeared with mud and clay, brown streaks across his face.
He looked indeed like a creature arisen directly from hell.
The rigid life-size puppet stared down at Simon, who was still struggling desperately to move.
By now he’d succeeded in turning his head far enough on the stone floor to look directly at the door on the other side of the room. His eyes were open, but so dried out they burned like fire. Nevertheless, he kept looking to the entrance where he could hear the soft pitter-patter of little feet. A moment later his two children appeared, their eyes red from crying, their shirts torn and filthy, but otherwise unharmed.
“Papa!” Peter cried out, stumbling toward Simon. He stretched out his little hands as if expecting his father to jump up at any moment and take him in his arms. But Simon could only lie there, his face distorted in a grimace.