He realizes that someone is sitting next to him. He must have approached soundlessly, sat down soundlessly. It’s Master Tilman.
“Good morning,” Dr. Kircher mutters and gives a start. That was a mistake; now Master Tilman might return the greeting.
To his horror it happens too. “Good morning!”
Dr. Kircher looks around in all directions. Fortunately there’s no one to be seen, the village is still asleep, no one is observing them.
“This cold,” says Master Tilman.
“Yes,” says Dr. Kircher, because he has to say something. “Bad.”
“And gets worse every year,” says Master Tilman.
They’re silent.
Dr. Kircher knows that it would be best not to reply, but the silence is oppressive, so he clears his throat and says: “The world is ending.”
Master Tilman spits on the ground. “And how much longer?”
“Probably about a hundred years,” says Dr. Kircher, still looking around uneasily. “Some think a bit sooner, while others believe that it will be around a hundred and twenty.”
He falls silent, feels a lump in his throat. This happens to him whenever he speaks of the apocalypse. He crosses himself. Master Tilman does the same.
The poor man, thinks Dr. Kircher. Actually, no hangman need fear the Last Judgment, since the condemned must forgive their executioners before death, but now and then there are stubborn ones who refuse, and occasionally it even happens that someone summons his hangman to the Valley of Josaphat. Everyone knows this curse: I summon you to the Valley of Josaphat. Whoever says that to the hangman accuses him of murder and denies him forgiveness. Has this ever happened to Master Tilman?
“You’re wondering whether I’m afraid of the Judgment.”
“No!”
“Whether anyone has summoned me to the Valley of Josaphat.”
“No!”
“Everyone wonders that. You know, I didn’t choose this. I am what I am because my father was what he was. And he was what he was because of his father. And my son will have to be what I am, for a hangman’s son becomes a hangman.” Master Tilman spits again. “My son is a gentle boy. I look at him, he is only eight and very kind, and killing doesn’t suit him. But he has no choice. It didn’t suit me either. And I learned how, and not badly at all.”
Dr. Kircher is now really worried. By no means may anyone see how he is chatting peacefully with the hangman here.
Whitish brightness spreads in the sky. On the walls of the houses the colors can now be distinguished. Even the platform is clearly visible over there in front of the linden. Nearby, only a blur in the dawn, stands the horse-drawn wagon of the balladeer who arrived two days ago. So it always happens: when there’s something to see, the traveling people gather.
“Thank God there’s no tavern in this hole,” says Master Tilman. “Because when there is one, I go there in the evening, but then I sit alone, and everyone peers over and whispers. And even though I know this beforehand, I still go to the tavern, for where else am I supposed to go? I can’t wait to get back to Eichstätt.”
“Do they treat you better there?”
“No, but there I’m at home. To be treated badly at home is better than to be treated badly elsewhere.” Master Tilman raises his arms and stretches with a yawn.
Dr. Kircher jerks sideways. The hangman’s hand is only a few inches away from his shoulder; there must not be any contact. Anyone touched by a hangman, even if only fleetingly, loses his honor. But of course you must not arouse his hostility either. If you anger him, he could grasp you intentionally and accept the punishment. Dr. Kircher curses himself for his own good nature—he never should have let himself be drawn into this conversation.
Now, to his relief, he hears from inside the house the dry cough of his master. Dr. Tesimond has awoken. With an apologetic gesture he stands up.
Master Tilman smiles wryly.
“God be with us on this great day,” says Dr. Kircher.
But the hangman doesn’t reply. Dr. Kircher goes quickly into the priest’s house to help his master get dressed.
—
With a measured step and clad in the red robe of the judge, Dr. Tesimond moves toward the platform. Up there stands a table with stacks of paper, weighed down with stones from the millstream, lest the wind carry away a sheet. The sun is approaching its zenith. The light falls shimmering through the crown of the linden. Everyone is here: in front all the members of the Steger family and the smith Stelling with his wife and the farmer Brantner with his family, behind them the baker Holtz with his wife and two daughters and Anselm Melker with his children and wife and sister-in-law and old mother and old mother-in-law and old father-in-law and aunt and next to them Maria Leserin with her beautiful daughter and behind them the Henrichs and the Heinerlings along with their hands and at the very back the mouselike round faces of the Tamms. Master Tilman stands apart, leaning on the trunk of the tree. He is wearing a brown cowl, his face is pale and swollen. Behind the tree the balladeer stands on his wagon, scribbling in a little book.
Light-footedly, Dr. Tesimond springs onto the platform and stands behind a chair. Despite his youth, Dr. Kircher has a less easy time of it; the platform is high and the robe hampers his climbing. When he is up there, Dr. Tesimond looks at him encouragingly, and Dr. Kircher knows that he is now supposed to speak, but as he looks around, he grows dizzy. The feeling of unreality is so great that he has to hold on to the edge of the table. It’s not the first time this has happened to him. It’s one of the things he must keep secret at all costs. He has only just received the minor orders, he is still far from a full Jesuit, and only men of the best health in body and mind may be members of the Society of Jesus.
Above all, however, no one must know how muddled time keeps becoming for him. Sometimes he finds himself in a strange place without knowing what has happened in the interim. Recently he forgot for a good hour that he is already grown up; he thought he was a child playing near his parents’ house in the grass, as if the fifteen years since then and the difficult studies in Paderborn were merely the fantasy of a boy wishing to finally be grown up. How fragile the world is. Almost every night he sees Egyptian signs, and increasingly the worry grows in him that he might one day no longer awake from one of these dreams, that he might be imprisoned forever in the colorful hell of a godless land of Pharaohs.
Hastily he rubs his eyes. Peter Steger and Ludwig Stelling, the assistant judges, have climbed up in black robes to join them, followed by Ludwig von Esch, the administrator and chairman of the local court district, who must deliver the verdict so that it has validity. Spots of sunlight dance on the grass and the well. Despite the brightness it’s so cold that your breath turns into little clouds of vapor. Linden crown, thinks Dr. Kircher. Linden crown, a word like that can get stuck in your head, but this must not happen now, he must not let himself be distracted, he must direct all his strength at the ceremony. Linden king, linden crone, linden crow. No! Not now, no confusion now, everyone is waiting! As the scribe he opens the trial, no one else can do it, it is his duty, he must fulfill it. To calm himself he looks into the faces of the spectators in front and in the middle, but no sooner has he grown calmer than his gaze meets that of the miller’s boy. He is standing at the very back, next to his mother. His eyes are narrow, cheeks hollow, lips a bit pursed as if he were whistling to himself.