Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“All the worse.”

The old woman stretched out her hand, feeling her way to Johann’s head. The withered fingers patted his hair. “Kuno’s no fool,” she said soothingly. “He’ll come to his senses soon and stand by us and the oath we all swore.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

The old woman was silent.

Johann stood up and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Good night, Mother.” He took his candle and went to the door.

“Johann.”

“Mother?”

“You need to relax. Read the Psalms. I suggest you will find what you need in Psalm one hundred and nine. Verse eight.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Mother.”

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and went to a small English chest of drawers that stood underneath a tapestry showing a hunting scene from Greek mythology. Two candles as thick as a man’s arm on either side of the chest gave sufficient light to read. He took out the Bible from one of the drawers and opened the heavy tome.

He heard voices below. Theoderich and Daniel were playing some board game. Hadewig, Johann’s wife, was singing an old song with an incredible number of verses.

He smiled.

Now, as the days got shorter and the nights colder, they often sat around the fire together again, telling one another stories. The family was scattered throughout Cologne, but their favorite place was here, at the house in Rheingasse, where the old woman dreamed of days gone by and days to come, weaving her dreams around the whole house, so that they were caught up in them and forgot time and the coldness of the world outside.

He leafed quickly through the pages until he found the passage she had mentioned. Relaxation was not the point. She was well aware that with his knowledge of the Bible, he would have to look it up to understand what she was telling him.

He found the page. His index finger ran along the lines.

For a while he stood there, motionless. Then he closed the book, replaced it, and went downstairs to warm himself by the fire.

Jacob flew straight at the Shadow. His pursuer obviously hadn’t reckoned on this sudden about-face. He was too close and too astonished to sidestep or stop. They were going to crash into each other like two billy goats. God alone knew which one would get up and leave the alley. But at least it was better than a crossbow bolt between the shoulder blades.

It was strangely satisfying to be able to see his opponent at last. He didn’t look as gigantic as he had on the scaffolding, but he was still impressively tall. The weapon in his hand did resemble a crossbow, only a lot smaller. His clothes were as black as a raven’s wing, his face hardly recognizable in the darkness. Broad cheekbones, thick eyebrows topped by a high forehead, and flowing hair three feet long. Jacob couldn’t have said whether the face was handsome or repulsive. He sensed something untamed, bestial in the way the other moved. The creature before him had killed Gerhard Morart, Tilman, and Maria. And if it was the Devil himself, Jacob did not even have time for one last prayer.

But if it was a man—whoever the witch was who had conceived and brought him up with Satan’s aid—then he could be outwitted. Even the Devil had been outwitted sometimes.

And if you’re an animal, thought Jacob grimly, then you’ll be no match for the Fox!

He waited for the collision.

It didn’t come.

His pursuer had spread his arms wide and pushed off the ground. Jacob saw the black cloak rise up in front of his eyes, higher and higher, and felt the roughness of the cloth on his face before the giant had sailed over him in one great leap.

No man could jump that high. No matter.

Breathless, he ran out of the cul-de-sac and around the next corner down toward the Rhine. He heard the other set off after him again. He glanced around, expecting to see him close behind, but he obviously had a greater lead than expected. His trick had worked.

Running as fast as he could, he turned right into a narrow lane he knew led to the cathedral. Trees and walls everywhere. On the left the monastery of St. Maximin was sleeping. The monks’ day began at one. He’d renounce the world, he swore, enter the monastery, spend his days in prayer, if he was still alive and breathing at one o’clock. Branches lashed his arms and legs, scratched his face. He didn’t notice.

A church appeared, small and nondescript. A man threw something into the lane and started to go back in. His habit billowed in the wind.

“Father!”

Jacob skidded to a halt in front of him and took hold of his sleeve. The monk started and tried to shake him off. He was bald and fat and wheezed.

“Let me in,” panted Jacob.

The monk’s piggy eyes glinted suspiciously at him. “It’s too late,” he snapped.

“Too late?”

“Mass finished long ago.”

“Let me in, I beg you. Just for a moment. Please.”

“But I’ve told you. It’s impossible, my son. Come back in the morn—”

“Your Reverence!” Jacob grasped the man’s hands and squeezed them. “Hear my confession. Now! At once! You know you may not refuse me. It is God’s will and law that confession should be freely available at all times.” Was it God’s will and law? Perhaps not, he wasn’t particularly well up in church matters. But it was worth a try, all the same.

The monk raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He seemed uncertain. “Well—”

From the end of the lane came the sound of footsteps. Soft, swift, and regular.

“Please, Father.”

“All right, then. Otherwise I’ll never get rid of you.” Somewhat roughly he pushed Jacob into the chapel and closed the door.

Jacob thought feverishly. How come the other was back on his trail already? How did he know what route he had taken?

Like an animal following a scent.

He suddenly had an idea. “Holy water, Father. Where’s the holy water?”

The fat monk clasped his hands above his head. “Holy water he wants! Where is the holy water? He’s in a church and he asks where the holy water is! Merciful Lord, when was the last time you were in a church? There.” His short, fat finger shot out and pointed at a simple stone basin placed on top of a pillar. “There’s holy water. But don’t imagine you can just—Hey! What are you doing? Has Satan been spitting on your brain? That’s not a puddle for you to wash in!”

Turning red as a beetroot, the monk grabbed the bowl out of his hands. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he shouted, beside himself. “Out you go.”

“Wait.” Jacob ran over to a tiny window beside the porch.

“I’ll—I’ll—”

“Shh! The Devil’s waiting outside.”

The monk was speechless. Eyes wide—as far as the folds of fat would allow—he crossed himself.

Jacob peered out. He started when he saw the Shadow. He came down the lane to the church. Then stood still, turning his head this way and that.

Jacob didn’t even dare breathe.

The Shadow took a few more steps, then stopped again and looked toward the church. His pale eyes seemed to be fixed on Jacob. He jerked his head to one side, then the other, to and fro. He looked up at the sky. In the light of the moon his profile stood out against the dark background of trees and walls, his long hair a cascade of silver.

He’s confused, thought Jacob in jubilation. He can’t understand where I’ve disappeared to. His mind’s telling him I must be somewhere nearby, but his senses are telling him the opposite.

He’ll trust his senses. Like every beast of prey.

He waited, tense, until the figure moved hesitantly on his way again. After a while it had merged with the darkness.

The Shadow had lost him.

“Your confession, my son,” whispered the monk. There were tiny beads of sweat on his brow. He was trembling.