Oliver Potzsch: The Poisoned Pilgrim

“Stop, stop,” Simon groaned, trying to chase the boys off the bed again. “Take pity on your poor, sick father!”

“What your father needs more than anything is a bath,” Magdalena responded with a smile. “You look like Beelzebub in person,” she laughed as she pulled the covers off. “Come on. Graetz put out a fresh basin of water for you on the table in the next room. He asked to be excused because he had to go and see the priest about the burial service for Matthias.” Her face darkened suddenly. “He still can’t believe that his helper was conspiring with Virgilius. Nor can I, to be honest. Graetz is arranging for a mass to be said for Matthias tomorrow at the parish church in Erling.”

She shook her head as if to cast off evil thoughts, then she gave her husband a gentle kick. “Now get up, I said. Everybody in town has been up for hours while you’ve lolled around here in bed.”

“Please, please, I’m coming.” Simon stood up with a yawn and rubbed his eyes. “We were able to save most of the books last night, and for that, we should be allowed to sleep a little longer.” With a serious face, he turned to his wife. “The church treasures were destroyed for the most part, I assume?”

Magdalena shook her head. “On the contrary, all the relics were saved. The fire stopped right in front of the holy chapel. Only the wooden bolts were charred.”

“By all the saints, that’s really a miracle.”

“That’s what everyone is saying,” she replied with a grin. “No doubt that means even more pilgrims will come flocking to the Holy Mountain in the future. The abbot spoke to the pilgrims this morning and already promised them a new, even more beautiful monastery. The workmen in Wessobrunn, as well as those from Schongau, will be busy. Hemerle and a few others want to stay right here.”

Simon entered the next room, leaned over the washbasin, and rubbed the worst of the dirt from his face, while Peter and Paul played with a wooden top at his feet.

“Basically, that’s exactly what the prior always wanted,” he said finally, shaking the water from his hair. “A new monastery. That’s why he and the librarian melted down all the monstrances, golden chalices, and reliquaries.”

“But they’ll keep none of it. Wartenberg’s soldiers carted them both off to Weilheim before dawn, where they’ll soon be put on trial.” Magdalena’s lips narrowed. “To judge from my father’s description of Master Hans, they’ll soon wish they were dead.”

“And Nepomuk?” Simon asked.

Magdalena handed him a fresh towel. “The abbot promised to plead for his release, and until then, the torture won’t proceed,” she replied with a wink. “My father is already on his way to Weilheim to bring Nepomuk the news personally. He was smart enough to take advantage of the chaos here and run off. After all, he’s still a wanted man. Maurus will ask that he not be prosecuted for killing the dead hunter, however, as the other guards have apparently admitted to shooting their own comrade with a crossbow.”

“Then Maurus will remain abbot of the monastery?” Simon asked.

“Well, it certainly won’t be the prior, and there’s no other candidate for the position.”

“We probably won’t stay here much longer.” Simon put on his old jacket, still wet from the rain the day before, along with his bucket-top boots, which were slightly burned at the tips. “But there’s one thing I still have to do,” he said. “I should have done it much sooner, but then all this got in the way. I’ll be back again soon, I promise.”

With a final smile, he slipped out the door.

“Simon,” Magdalena picked up her skirt and ran into the garden after him, but her husband was already far down the path on his way to the monastery. The ground was still wet from the day before, and mist was rising in the bright morning sun. “Wait, I wanted to tell you something! We-”

With a sigh she threw up her hands and turned to her children, who were rubbing their sleepy eyes after a little quarrel. “Your father will probably never change,” she said, patting the boys on the heads. “Too bad for him. He just won’t find out. We can keep the secret to ourselves for a while, can’t we?”

The children clung to her legs, and Magdalena felt a knot burning in her abdomen. With a gentle smile, she turned around and reentered the house.

Even if the church had been reduced to ashes, she would light a candle for Saint Walburga that night.

Still unsteady, Simon hurried toward the Holy Mountain, which looked like an enormous pile of charcoal under the radiant blue sky.

The fires had been extinguished, but all that remained of many of the buildings were blackened skeletons and the columns of smoke rising above them. Here and there, monks and some local residents were looking for the few things that could still be salvaged. The apothecary and the watchmaker’s house had also been destroyed by the fire. Simon could see workmen standing in front of many buildings, trying to estimate the damage and calculating how much wood, stone, nails, and plaster would be needed to rebuild. As bad as the fire was for the monastery, the reconstruction was a gold mine for local citizens impoverished by the war. And no one seemed too concerned that the money had been amassed through the sale of melted-down relics.

That, too, is a sort of miracle, Simon thought grimly. Perhaps even the dear Lord wanted the church’s treasures to be redistributed among the people in this way.

Finally the medicus reached his destination. Before him was the clinic that had been nothing but a foul stable a little more than a week ago. He was relieved to see the damage here wasn’t serious. Some of the roof shingles had been singed and there were a few piles of ashes on the square out front, but evidently the sick were already back in their beds.

As Simon approached, the door suddenly opened from within and Jakob Schreevogl looked back at him with surprise.

“You’re here?” the patrician said with a smile. “They told me you collapsed last night and were unconscious. I had no idea I’d see you so soon again.”

“It appears I’m no longer needed here,” replied Simon, entering the large, well-ventilated room and nodding his approval. It had been recently swept, and fragrant reeds had been spread across the floor. Around two dozen patients lay dozing in their beds. All of them seemed well cared-for, and their bandages and compresses recently changed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sell your brick factory and try your hand as a medicus?” asked Simon, amazed. “You really seem to have talent for health care.”

Schreevogl shook his head. “I wouldn’t have been able to do it without the help of some of the monks. Besides, the worst is behind us, thank God, and the number of patients is falling. I will admit I have enjoyed it, even though it doesn’t pay even half as much as owning a business in Schongau. But you surely didn’t come just to pay me pay me compliments, did you?” he said with a wink. “You asked me yesterday to look around in the tavern and find out where they get their food. Well, I can imagine now why you had me do that, and I have a surprise for you.”

Simon nodded excitedly. “This damned plague must have something to do with the tavern. There are just too many patients who ate there before getting sick. What did you learn?”

“You were right.”

Simon looked at the patrician, puzzled. “What do you mean? For God’s sake, don’t make me drag it out of you. Does that mean-”

“The food in the tavern all came from the same supplier,” Schreevogl replied with a grin. “I inspected the meat, eggs, and vegetables. Much of it was old, and maggots had even infested some of the meat. The tavern is almost surely the source of the illness.”