Oliver Potzsch: The Poisoned Pilgrim

Her dead mechanical eyes glowed, and for a brief moment it looked to Kuisl as if it wasn’t Virgilius clinging to his automaton but the automaton clinging to its creator.

Then more burning beams fell from the ceiling, burying the two.

The hangman rushed down the stairs, away from the chaotic scene above, just a few yards behind Magdalena and Paul. He could hear the wind whistling through the tower, fanning the fire, a flaming hell they struggled to escape as they staggered down the steep stairway. They stumbled a few times but always managed to grab hold of the railing at the last moment.

Arriving breathlessly in the nave, Kuisl felt enormous relief on finding his second grandchild and son-in-law unharmed and waiting. The Andechs abbot stood to the side, coughing, his robe burned up to his knees and his face blackened with soot, but otherwise apparently uninjured.

“That… that was the punishment of God,” Maurus Rambeck gasped, staring blankly into space. “We’ve seen the face of God.”

“If we don’t hurry, we’ll see it again soon,” replied Kuisl, nudging the others toward the exit. “This fire will destroy the entire monastery.”

Standing in front of the church, they watched the burning steeple light up the darkness like a mighty torch. Glowing beams and shingles fell on the church roof below, and soon the entire structure was in flames, threatening to spread to the neighboring monastery buildings.

More and more monks-as well as pilgrims and simple villagers-gathered in the square, staring up in disbelief at the roaring conflagration that continued to grow as the rain gradually eased off.

“This is the end of the monastery,” whispered the abbot next to Kuisl.

“Or the beginning,” the hangman replied. “Didn’t you want to build a new, finer one anyway? If not now, when?”

Suddenly shouts could be heard in the crowd, voices of the count and his soldiers assigning men to various fire brigades. Armed with buckets, people ran like frightened ants in all directions-pilgrims and Benedictines side by side, all trying to control the fire. Kuisl spotted his cousin Michael Graetz in the front row of the crowd with some other dishonorable people. The hangman suspected the battle was hopeless. Wind whipped flames toward the monastery and the outlying buildings, and a few glowing roof shingles were already falling from the far-off brewery.

“Damn it, hangman,” cried Leopold von Wartenberg, who had fought his way over to them. “What did you do up there? I’ll have Master Hans personally boil you in oil for this.”

Unlike the figures around him, who were covered with ash, mud, and soot, the count was still as neat as a pin, lightly perfumed, and untouched by the slightest smudge of dirt. Evidently Leopold von Wartenberg was better at giving commands than at doing things himself. When he raised his hand to strike the dishonorable hangman, the Andechs abbot intervened.

“Your Excellency, this man is innocent,” Maurus Rambeck said firmly. The abbot seemed to have regained his former haughty manner. “It was the lightning that struck in the tower, burning my brother to death and destroying the automaton.”

“Your brother who is already dead?” The count sneered. “Then it’s true what this shrewd hangman surmised? Virgilius was behind all of this?”

Maurus Rambeck nodded. “I’ll draft a report first thing tomorrow morning and make a clean breast of it all. But for now, let’s all lend a hand. We must at least save the library.”

“My God, the library!” Simon hobbled toward the burning monastery, wringing his hands. “All the beautiful books. We must save them.”

“Damn it, Simon, stop,” cried Magdalena, while both children clung to her singed skirt. “You can’t run that fast yet. Come and care for your two little boys instead.”

But Simon had already disappeared with one of the fire brigades.

She sighed. “Perhaps it would have been better if that strange poison had affected him a bit longer. Then he wouldn’t always be running off on me.”

“When will you women finally understand you can’t change us men?” the voice of her father grumbled behind her.

He smiled at his daughter, his black beard burned away in spots and little embers still glowing in others. “Your husband loves his children, Magdalena,” he continued with feigned severity. “But they’re safe now, and at present he has to care about his other beloved things.”

“As long as he still remembers his family,” she sighed. “Books, books, books are all this dreamer thinks about. I’d better not tell him that a few especially valuable ones went up in flames down in the catacombs, or else-” Suddenly she seized her father by the arm. “My God, Nepomuk’s and Virgilius’s notebooks. Are they perhaps…?”

The hangman nodded grimly. “They burned up in the tower. In all the confusion, they must have fallen out of my pocket. What a shame.” He looked at his daughter seriously, but she noticed a slight flicker in his eyes. Only she and her mother were able to tell when he was lying.

“Believe me, it’s better like this,” Kuisl continued. “Knowledge like this can always be used both for good and evil. Nepomuk was committed to doing good, but as long as there are men like Virgilius, such books shouldn’t be allowed in our libraries. Their time will come soon enough.” Without another word he turned to leave.

“Where… where are you going?” she cried. “Damn it. Can’t you men just say what you’re doing and stop disappearing without saying a thing?”

Kuisl turned to her again. “I’m going to the clinic. What else? If Simon isn’t there tending his patients, I’ll have to do it myself. Or do you just want to let the sick there burn to death?”

With a defiant look on her face, Magdalena fell silent; then finally she broke into a smile.

“Do you know what?” she said, squeezing her children’s hands hard as Kuisl hobbled off toward the clinic. “Your grandfather is a stubborn, dishonorable, eccentric scoundrel, but I think the dear Lord loves him just the same.”

TEN O’CLOCK ON THE MORNING OF MONDAY, JUNE 21, 1666 AD

It was late morning when Simon struggled to open his eyes, feeling almost as if he was still paralyzed. Then he realized dirt and soot were still sticking to his eyelids. He had worked until late in the night, along with some Benedictine monks, to save the books in the library. Simon had been one of the last to venture into the burning building. As he emerged from the library at around two in the morning, an especially large pile of books in his arms, the flaming roof had crashed down behind him. He’d at least been able to save Athanasius Kircher’s Ars magna sciendi , but the Andechs chronicle that Matthias had stolen from him in the clinic was still missing.

Simon lay in bed in the knacker’s house, staring out a little window at the blue morning sky. Birds were twittering, and a ray of sun fell directly on his face. He still couldn’t believe the monastery had been almost completely destroyed by fire the day before. Only the tavern and a few outlying buildings had been spared, and all that remained of the church was the foundation. When Simon had finally collapsed with exhaustion, the fire still hadn’t been completely extinguished.

Stretching, he was relieved to see he could move his arms and legs again. They hurt as if he’d been lying all night on a cold stone floor, but at least the paralysis was gone. What kind of devilish poison could Virgilius have given him yesterday?

Virgilius …

He shuddered when he thought about the last few terrible days, days he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life. Only the laughter of his children brought his mind back to the present. They were standing in the doorway with Magdalena, grinning, and when they saw he was awake, they hopped onto the bed and began jumping around noisily. They seemed to have coped well with the dreadful events of the past day. Perhaps they were just too little to understand.