Oliver Potzsch - The Poisoned Pilgrim

She staggered through the second room with the canopy bed and dressing table, where flames were already licking at the walnut veneer. Finally, gasping, she reached the round doorway as another bookshelf came crashing down somewhere behind her, burying the ivory horn, the globe, and the shiny bronze astrolabe. She was relieved to see that Simon was now able to hold on by himself and that his legs were moving slightly. The paralysis, in fact, seemed to be abating.

Coughing, Magdalena peered into the smoke-filled passageway through which she’d entered just a few minutes ago. She was unable to save her torch from the burning room, but it wasn’t really necessary now. Horrified, she saw little fires burning on the floor of the tunnel as well. Virgilius must have strewn the phosphorus powder all over the catacombs, and now Magdalena realized what that meant: as soon as the flames arrived at the latrine where the laboratory was located, everything would explode.

Frantically she looked around for her son but couldn’t find him in the clouds of smoke. She couldn’t even imagine what might have happened to her second child. She could only hope that Peter had told her the truth and little Paul was somewhere outside with the treacherous Matthias and unharmed.

“Peter!” she shouted, her husband still clinging to her shoulders with his almost one hundred pounds. “Peter, where are you?”

She heard crying and finally a voice. “Mama, Mama, I’m here!”

Magdalena listened intently. The cry hadn’t come from the right where the corridor led to the hermit’s cave but from the left. Peter had run the wrong way, and she’d have to bring him back as soon as possible. If they spent too long down here, they would all be lost-either they would burn up or the smoke would suffocate them.

Cursing and struggling for breath, she stumbled through gray, foul-smelling clouds, her eyes tearing up from the smoke and Simon’s weight practically crushing her to the ground. Nevertheless, slowly, yard by yard, she moved ahead, calling her son’s name again and again. “Peter! Peter! Here I am!”

The damp, low passageway turned slightly upward, and after a short while, Magdalena noticed that there were fewer mounds of phosphorus, then eventually none at all. Behind her she heard the crash of another wall collapsing. Clouds of smoke reached out to her like long fingers, but she could feel a draft of fresh air coming from somewhere ahead, and the smoke was thinning out. Evidently Peter had intuitively chosen the right direction.

Turning another corner, she finally saw her son. She cried out with relief but just as quickly caught her breath. The passageway ended there; Peter was pounding frantically on a heavy wooden door without a handle.

“Mama! The garden! I want to see the garden.”

“The… garden?” She looked at her son blankly. His face was as black as coal and he was coughing, but she didn’t see any burns on his body. On the contrary, the three-year-old seemed almost cheerful. Carefully she set her husband down on the ground and examined the locked door.

“Which garden do you mean?” she responded.

“The garden with the jolly stone man who spits water,” he said excitedly. “It’s behind this door.”

“You mean the… the monastery garden?” Suddenly she realized how the boys had been abducted. Virgilius must have lured the two from the garden into a hidden passageway there. Anxiously, she examined the weathered wood but couldn’t find a handle or a keyhole. The hinges were massive.

“Damn,” she hissed. “Another of the crazy watchmaker’s infernal objects.” She kicked the door, but it felt like solid brick. Nervously she looked back down the steep, slippery corridor from which clouds of smoke were still rising.

“If we can’t think of something soon, we’ll suffocate here like foxes in a burrow,” she mumbled. In vain she examined the rock walls for hidden cracks or holes. Finally, she turned helplessly to Simon, who was lying on the ground behind her.

“Simon, can you hear me? We’ll suffocate here. Wake up. I need your help.”

Simon groaned and struggled to move as if he was in great pain; finally he managed to turn on one side and sit up. He was panting hard; clearly that little movement had caused him unbelievable effort.

Torn between hope and despair, Magdalena stared at her husband, whose paralysis was slowly beginning to wear off. Would it happen fast enough for him to help her? She doubted that, and in any case, she didn’t know what she expected him to do. Snap his fingers and make the door open? The little medicus had so often come up with an idea that saved the day. She prayed now he would be able to walk and speak again as soon as possible. Tears welled up in her eyes when she thought of the unavoidable fate that awaited them both.

Suffocated to death on the wrong side of a door leading into a blooming garden.

“Mama, when can we leave?”

Magdalena awakened with a start from her dark musings and smiled wearily at her son. “We… we can’t go, unfortunately, Peter. Father is sick and I don’t know how to open this door.”

“But all you have to do is press on the stone.”

“What?”

She jumped up-she’d almost forgotten that Peter had been here before. It was possible the boy had observed how the door was opened.

“Which stone, Peter?” She took him up in her arms and looked him directly in the eye. “Listen now. This is very important. Which stone do I have to push?”

Silently Peter pointed to a square stone about as large as a fist, which protruded a finger’s breadth from the wall. Magdalena hadn’t noticed it before among all the other irregular stonework, but now it really stood out. The image of a laughing face, etched into its surface, seemed to jeer at her.

“ This stone?” she asked cautiously.

Peter nodded, and Magdalena pressed the square button. Silently the stone slid back into the space behind it, and there was a click as the heavy wooden door opened a crack. Heavy rain could be heard now on the other side, accompanied by thunder and lightning that lit up the passageway for a moment.

“You… you are wonderful, Peter,” Magdalena laughed. “For this, you can have honey cakes, as many as you can eat. But first I have to get your father out of here. Come, the fresh air will surely do him some good.”

When they turned around, Magdalena was relieved to see Simon had already gotten onto his knees. He swayed like a reed in the wind, but he didn’t fall. Breathing heavily, he reached out to his wife.

“I ccccaaaan… wallllk all by myyyself,” he croaked. “By myyyself…”

Magdalena ran to help him before he could fall. “That’s what you think,” she replied, pulling him up and guiding him carefully to the door.

When the door opened all the way, they found themselves staring into another cave.

Magdalena uttered a brief cry of disappointment. She was sure they’d just entered another underground passageway, but then she felt the wind on her face, heard the rain coming down, and smelled the flowers in the garden. She realized they’d entered the artificial grotto the abbot had shown her just two days before. In the middle was the basin with the statuettes of the Greek gods. The door through which they’d entered the grotto was covered with gray plaster so as to blend in perfectly with the rock.

Peter had already run into the garden and was climbing jubilantly onto one of the little walls as the rain drummed down on him, washing the soot from his face. He waved to his mother cheerfully, seeming to have survived the recent terror unscathed.

Magdalena felt a lump in her throat when she thought of her younger son. Where had Matthias taken little Paul? Was he even still alive?