Oliver Potzsch: The Poisoned Pilgrim

“Where is your hangman’s sword, Kuisl?” one of the boys taunted. “Did you forget and leave it at home? Or are you going to carve yourself one here?” Again this was followed by loud, gloating laughter. Mumbling and hissing, the mob moved toward the hangman, who stood with his back to the warehouse.

“I would never have thought you’d get involved with a group like this, Berchtholdt,” Kuisl growled. “Your father would turn over in his grave.”

“Shut up, hangman,” the baker’s son shouted. “If my father were still alive he’d whip the whole Kuisl gang and drive them out of town.”

“I’m the one here who whips people and drives them out of town, Berchtholdt. Don’t forget that.”

The hangman tried to size up the group of young men blocking his path. Kuisl was fifty-four now, no longer a spring chicken, but people still feared his anger and strength. They’d seen how he broke the bones of a bandit chief, one by one, and how he cut off the heads of condemned murderers with a single blow. Kuisl had a bloody reputation all over the region; nevertheless he could sense that his authority was beginning to crumble. Today loud words or a quick blow would no longer suffice to drive away this mob.

Especially not with two babbling, thumb-sucking kids on his arm.

“Let me tell you, Kuisl,” Hans Berchtholdt hissed as a mean smile spread across his lips. “You bow your head and ask humbly for forgiveness for your daughter, that good-for-nothing hangman’s girl, and we’ll let the three of you go.”

As raucous laughter broke out, little Peter began to cry, and it wasn’t long before his younger brother joined in. Kuisl closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly. They wanted to anger him, but he couldn’t endanger the children. What could he do? He didn’t want to risk a brawl because of his grandsons. Should he call for help? It was a long way up to town, and the rushing water would no doubt drown out any sound. Should he accept Berchtholdt’s demand?

Remorsefully, Kuisl bowed his head. “I plead-” he began softly.

Hans Berchtholdt grinned, his eyes glistening like two pieces of ice. “Humbly,” he snarled. “You plead humbly. ”

“I plead humbly,” the hangman continued. He paused, then he continued in a monotone: “I plead humbly that God will give me the strength to endure such a big mob of stupid, blockheaded, low-down bastards like this without bashing their heads in. Now for the sake of the Holy Virgin let me through before I smash the nose of the first one of you.”

A horrified silence ensued. It seemed the young journeymen couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. Finally Hans Berchtholdt got control of himself again. “You’ll… you’ll regret that,” he said softly. “There are a dozen of us, and you’re an old man with two children in his arms. Now the little bastards will learn how their grandfather can put up with-”

He stopped suddenly, screamed, and put his hand to his forehead where blood was pouring out. Now other boys were howling and wailing as they sought refuge behind carts and barrels while a hail of stones fell down on them. Kuisl looked around, puzzled. Finally, up on the roof of the warehouse he spied a crowd of children and young people tossing stones and clumps of dirt down on the gang.

At the crest of the ridge up front stood Kuisl’s thirteen-year-old son, Georg, with a slingshot in hand.

The hangman was shocked. What was that snotty little brat doing down here? Wasn’t he supposed to be cleaning the knacker’s wagon in the barn? Wasn’t it enough for the two grandchildren to be in danger?

Kuisl was about to give the boy a good tongue-lashing when he realized the possibility that his son might just have saved his life. Again he looked up at the roof. Georg Kuisl looked very big for his age; everything about him seemed to have been hewn out of solid rock. A little fuzz was starting to form around his lips and his shirt and trousers looked much too small for his hefty body.

Just like me once , Kuisl thought. He’s almost as old as I was then in the war. My God, now my own boy has to get me out of this jam. Jakob, you’re getting old …

“Run, Father,” Georg shouted. “Now!”

Jakob shook off his gloomy thoughts, clasped his grandchildren, and ran off. All around him the stones were still raining down. When he saw a shadowy form lunge at him, he picked up his foot and kicked his attacker, a young carpenter’s journeyman, with full force in the groin. The man collapsed, groaning, just as another attacker raced toward Kuisl. The two young children in his arms were screaming now like stuck pigs. Kuisl hugged them tightly, bent down, and butted the journeyman right in the stomach; then he stood up again and ran. Behind him Hans Berchtholdt shouted as he was struck by another stone. “You’ll pay for that, Kuisl,” Berchtholdt shouted furiously. “You and your whole clan! Just one word to the city council, and I’ll take care of your two snotty little brats.”

In just a few minutes the hangman had left the dock area and arrived at the Lech Bridge, where two unsuspecting Schongau guards were standing, halberds in hand. They turned to watch the fast-approaching hangman; it appeared they had no idea of the fight going on behind the warehouse.

“My God, Kuisl,” one of them cried. “You’re running like the devil is on your heels.”

“Not the devil, just the Berchtholdt gang,” the hangman panted. “You’d better have a quick look at what’s going on behind the warehouse, before the Augsburgers start asking where their wheat is.”

Then and there, Kuisl decided not to let his grandchildren out of his sight again.

As Simon left the Andechs Monastery, he remembered with a start the herbs for Magdalena. He fumbled for the full leather pouch on his belt with the medicinal plants inside, then he hurried as fast as he could down to the village. He only hoped Magdalena hadn’t notice how long he’d been away or he could no doubt expect trouble.

When he got to the knacker’s house, he was surprised to find it empty. Only a few ragged goats were grazing in the little yard in front of the cabin, and the door stood wide open. Neither Michael Graetz, his helper, nor Magdalena was anywhere in sight.

“And I told her three times to lie down and rest,” Simon muttered, perplexed. “Stubborn woman.” Inwardly he prepared for a strong tongue-lashing.

After hesitating briefly, he decided to go back up to the monastery, where he might find Magdalena in the church or at the building site. Looking up, he saw a new group of pilgrims just arriving at the gate, where they were greeted by one of the monks and given a blessing. Singing and praying loudly, the pilgrims slowly made their way up to the monastery with their candles, where they no doubt planned to visit the church first. Because the Festival of the Three Hosts was only a week away, some people had already arrived and were crowding the narrow roadway.

To avoid them, Simon hurried along the wall until he found another open gate closer to the forest. Here, too, there were a number of barns-cows mooed, somewhere a pig grunted, and everywhere there was an odor of manure and beer mash. To the left of a well-worn path stood a neat little stone house that, with its freshly whitewashed walls and quaint garden of poppies and daisies, seemed out of character with the dirty farm buildings. Behind it, a steep stairway led up to the monastery.

Just as Simon was about to start up the stairs, a loud crash made him turn quickly and he saw a cloud of smoke emerge from behind one of the shutters of the stone house. Something must have exploded inside.

Without hesitating, the medicus ran toward the front door and pushed it open. Black sulfurous clouds billowed toward him, making it impossible to see.