Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“Have patience, please. Just a little longer.”

Time passed agonizingly slowly in the gloomy church. The monk was obviously so terrified of the Devil he didn’t dare move.

When at last Jacob was sure he’d shaken off his pursuer, he sank down against the cold stone wall to the floor, closed his eyes, and sent a short prayer of thanks to St. Ursula. Of all the saints, she was the one he liked best. He made an on-the-spot decision to owe his rescue to her, conveniently forgetting that only a few minutes ago he had been vowing to become a monk in St. Maximin’s.

“What was that you were saying about the Devil?” quavered the monk.

Jacob came to with a start. “The Devil? Oh, forget it.”

“And confession?”

“Oh, yes, my confession. You know, when I come to think about it, it’s not that urgent.”

“But—”

“I’ve just remembered. I went to confession only this morning. Or was it yesterday evening? Tell me, Father, can a simple, honest man commit so many sins in one day that it’s worth going to confession?”

The monk stared at him as if he had misheard. Then he pulled himself together. He gave a chilly smile. A moon of a face without any of the moon’s charm. “My dear son—”

Jacob was on his feet in a second. That “dear son” did not sound particularly dear.

“—when I was your age I could thump three lads of your size so hard on the head, they ended up looking out through their ribs, like cocks in a cage. Now I’m much too old, and much too pious, of course.” He darted over to Jacob and dragged him to the door. “But I imagine I can still manage a godly kick up the backside to get you out of my church.”

Jacob thought about it. “Yes,” he said, “I imagine you can.” Without waiting for a reply, he opened the heavy oak door, glanced outside, and hurried off, his head well down between his shoulders. He just hoped the Shadow wouldn’t still be waiting for him.

This time no one followed him.

Shaking his head, the monk came out of the church and put his hands on his hips. Just let that ungodly scoundrel come for confession once again!

Then his anger dissipated. Reverently, he drew in the clear air and muttered a hurried Ave Maria.

What a beautiful, peaceful night.

Jacob woke with a mouth as dry as an oven. He’d slept at most three hours and two had been torture, lashed by bad dreams.

But he was alive.

As he sat up, his body protested and he wondered for a moment why he was sore all over, as if he’d been whipped or broken on the wheel. Then he saw the ropes he’d been lying on. They twisted and turned like heavy snakes over the deck of the little boat. The pattern was probably imprinted on his body.

He pulled himself to his feet, wincing with pain. When he pushed up the short sleeve of his jerkin, he saw that his right shoulder was grazed and bruised. He’d scraped it along the stones of the archway as he tried to give his pursuer the slip by St. Peter’s. He fingered the spot and groaned. It felt even worse than it looked.

Cautiously he peeped over the rail at the bustle on the quay. Several broad-beamed cargo boats were anchored there. They must have arrived during the night. Porters were transferring their cargoes of slates onto oxcarts. Among them was the harbormaster with his scroll and quill, supervising the work. It was a hive of activity even though, to judge by the sun, it was not yet six. Work at the quayside began before daybreak.

With stiff muscles, he climbed over the rail and dropped to the ground, hoping no one would see him. It was only a small boat in dry dock, clearly it had no goods on board, but the overseers still didn’t like beggars and such riffraff sleeping in them. Being caught automatically meant being suspected of having stolen something, which was true more often than not. That for Jacob it had been a matter of life and death was neither here nor there.

He strolled along the harbor like a casual observer. There was a crush at Rhine Gate. It was one of the few places where goods could be brought into the city, also the site of the public weighhouse for grain. Not surprisingly, there was a long queue of wagons and carts. A little farther on at Filzgraben Gate a group of city sheriffs and beadles in their brightly colored robes were checking some tattered-looking individuals. Remembering his unsuccessful attempt to steal a chop, he decided it would be better to avoid being seen. Any other way into the city would be a detour, but probably safer.

As he ambled along outside the city wall, he kept one eye on the workers, gossiping boatmen, overseers, and toll collectors hurrying past. He was ready to take to his heels at a moment’s notice. There didn’t, however, seem to be any immediate danger. With any luck his pursuer from the previous night had lost his track or, rather, his scent, after he had poured holy water over himself. Which suggested he was dealing with some creature that was only part-human, a demon or perhaps even Satan himself.

Jacob shuddered.

But could you escape from the Devil? The Arch-fiend would have found him anywhere. The Shadow, on the other hand, had lost him.

A man after all?

Suddenly Maria came into his mind. She was dead. He had some difficulty remembering what she had looked like—he had suppressed her image. The things that had happened last night seemed strangely distant, as if all the horrifying experiences belonged to the memory of another person. Jacob was intelligent enough not to be deceived by this. He had a vague feeling the affair wasn’t over, that it was only just beginning and he should be prepared for the worst. He couldn’t be dousing himself in holy water all the time. Cologne was large but anyone who was determined to find him would do so sooner or later. And the Shadow was looking for him, there was no doubt about that.

He was the quarry, not Tilman.

Perhaps the sensible thing would be to leave Cologne. He had been running away all his life, so why not now? And how many more times would he have to run away?

Jacob didn’t feel like running away. Not again.

The next gate was Wash Gate. Not hurrying, Jacob passed under the half-timbered portal, past the toll collectors with their bills of lading, drifting with the crowd. Shortly before Haymarket, he turned off down Rheingasse with the splendid stone-built house of the Overstolz family. Despite the exasperated noises his stomach was making, he decided to avoid the markets. They probably remembered his red hair all too well there, especially at the meat stalls.

His hair!

Could the Shadow have seen his hair? His hat had come off when he fell out of the tree and it hadn’t been too dark for someone to see the color of his hair. No problem finding him, then. His lurid mane was a direct invitation to his would-be assassin. And his hat had gone for good. Tilman was wearing it. What was left of Tilman, that is.

Dozens of creepy-crawlies seemed to be wriggling through his intestines. He slipped into the porch of the Overstolz house, took off his jerkin, and started to wind it around his head. Pain stabbed his right shoulder; he could hardly use his right arm. The cloth slid down over his eyes. Cursing, he pulled it off and tried again. It slid to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” a sharp voice behind him asked.

His heart missed a beat.

Slowly he turned around and breathed a sigh of relief. It was no long-haired giant aiming a crossbow at him. The man was wearing a brown coat trimmed with black fur over a pleated burgundy robe and an embroidered hat with earmuffs. His beard was flecked with gray and the eyes fixed on him had a cold gleam.

“Sorry,” whispered Jacob.