Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

The abbot pricked up his ears. “What am I to understand by that?”

“The precise details,” said Jaspar mysteriously, “must remain a secret. It is an extremely delicate matter involving some very important personages.”

“Here in Cologne?” the abbot whispered.

“In this very city. The poor man I am looking for lost both his legs at Acre.”

“Yes, that’s Hieronymus.”

“Excellent. We have to speak to him.”

“Hmm, that will not be easy. He’ll be asleep. Hieronymus has been sleeping a lot recently. I think he will soon go to his eternal rest.”

“All the more important we speak to him before that,” declared Jaspar. “It will not take long, and if Hieronymus has nothing to tell us, he can go straight back to sleep.”

Jacob shivered. They were standing in the cloisters around the inner courtyard and the wind was blowing in through the narrow arched windows, tearing at the flames of the torches in the iron rings.

Again the abbot thought long and hard.

“Very well,” he said eventually, “I would not want to stand in the way of a holy work. Our reputation for good works has always imbued our monastery with a—let us say an aura of mystical greatness which gives it a radiance we must strive to keep shining untarnished.”

“It will shine ever more brightly, I promise you.”

“You would be willing, er, to bear witness to that?”

“Wherever I can.”

“So be it. We humbly praise Thee, Lord. Brother Laurence will take you to Hieronymus. But do not keep him from his divine repose for too long, I beg you. The grace of the Lord is about him.”

The abbot dismissed them with a wave of the hand and they followed the old monk as he shuffled around the cloisters. After a while they turned down an unlit corridor at the end of which Laurence pushed open a door.

In the semidark they saw a room full of wooden beds with men, or what was left of them, asleep on them. The abbey looked after the sick men without charge, solely for God’s mercy and grace, as long as they came with a recommendation from the city council. That kept the situation in St. Pantaleon within bounds. Really bad cases, those who were raving or dangerous, were locked up in the towers of the city walls, with windows facing out toward the countryside, so that those who lived nearby were not disturbed by the shouting and screaming. The worst were kept in chains. The straw in their cells was changed four times a year, when the barber also came to shave their beards and heads, generally with the help of strong men. Some families sold their lunatic members to showmen who made large wooden cages, known as loony boxes, for them outside the city gates. For a few coppers people could observe their drooling, grimacing, and frequent fits for as long as they could stand it.

Compared to these, the poor souls in St. Pantaleon were relatively well off, even if they were bound to their beds with leather straps and ate out of iron pans. The monks regarded them as material to study the boundary between madness and possession by the Devil, something that was of the greatest importance for the spiritual welfare of their patients. The treatment consisted of benedictions and other ecclesiastical rites; occasionally it was even successful.

A monk with a candle came hurrying up to them. He had obviously been sleeping. He was rubbing his eyes and stretching his neck.

“What’s this?” he mumbled. “Oh, it’s you, Brother Laurence.”

“What were you doing, Henricus?” the old monk asked irascibly.

“Preparing myself for compline.”

“You were sleeping.”

“I wasn’t. I was deep in meditation—”

“You were sleeping. I must report it to the abbot.”

The monk looked over the old monk’s shoulders at the two visitors and rolled his eyes. “Of course, Brother Laurence, you must tell the abbot. Is that why you’re here?”

“Take these two gentlemen to Hieronymus. They wish to talk to him.”

“He’s probably asleep.”

“Then wake him up.”

Jaspar gave the monk a friendly nod. The monk shrugged his shoulders and turned. “Come with me.”

They followed him between the beds. Most of the patients were sleeping or staring into space. One was muttering a litany of animal names. When Jacob looked back, he saw the old man disappear into the corridor, shaking his head.

Hieronymus was not asleep. He was sitting on his bed, his little finger boring into his left ear, an activity which seemed to demand his full attention, for he ignored the new arrivals. A threadbare jute blanket covered him up to his waist. Where the outlines of his legs should have been it lay flat on the bed.

“Hieronymus,” said the monk in a friendly voice, stroking his hair, “someone’s come to see you. Look.”

A toothless, twisted face covered in white stubble squinted up at them. “Not now,” he said.

“Why not? It’s a long time since you had a visitor.”

Hieronymus dug his finger farther into his ear. “Leave me in peace.”

“But Hieronymus, we haven’t prayed to Saint Paul yet today. Saint Paul won’t like that. And now you refuse to receive your visitors.”

“No! Wait! Wait!” Hieronymus suddenly shouted. “I’ve got him. He’s trapped. Think you can get away from me, do you? I’ve got you now.”

Henricus gave them a significant glance.

“What’s he doing?” whispered Jaspar.

“He’s convinced someone moved into his ear some time ago. With all his furniture and everything. And he makes a fire in the winter, Hieronymus says, and complains of earache.”

“Why doesn’t he just let him stay there?”

Henricus lowered his voice. “Because the creature in his ear keeps telling him evil things. So he says. We’ve checked up in various books. It’s obviously a manifestation of the Devil, any child could see that. On the other hand, the Devil taking up residence in someone’s ear is new.”

“He resides in hell, and that’s what I would call earache.” Jaspar bent down and gently pulled Hieronymus’s finger out of his ear. “We need your help,” he said softly.

“Help?” Hieronymus seemed so confused he forgot the squatter in his ear for the moment.

“You’re a brave man, Hieronymus. You fought for the Cross. Do you remember?”

Hieronymus gave Jaspar a suspicious look and pressed his lips together. Then he nodded vigorously.

“I knew it.” Jaspar grinned. “A hero. Fought with the bravest of the brave. Truly impressive.”

“Side by side,” declared Hieronymus.

“Do you remember all the proud knights?”

“Wasn’t a knight,” said Hieronymus in a tone of regret. “Had to go on foot. I like going on foot, even now. Not like the knights. Always up on some nag, loaded down with iron. But there’s nothing inside the iron.”

“What does he mean, he likes going on foot?” Jacob asked in surprise.

“Well”—Henricus shrugged—“he likes it.”

“But he hasn’t got—”

“Quiet back there,” Jaspar hissed. “My friend Hieronymus and I have matters to discuss.”

“There’s nothing inside the armor.” Hieronymus giggled. “I looked inside some. It was lying in the sand.”

“But you remember the knights, the noble lords?”

“Of course. I like going on foot.”

“Yes, I know. They all liked going on foot in those days, didn’t they. You got as far as Acre.”

Hieronymus twitched. “Acre,” he whispered. “As far as Acre. Cursed city.”

“Hieronymus can remember everything if he wants,” said Henricus proudly.

“That’s not the impression he gives me,” said Jacob doubtfully.

“That’s enough!” Jaspar stretched out his arm and pointed to the other side of the room. “Off you go and lie down, or dance or whatever, but get away from here. Off you go.”