Oliver Potzsch: The Poisoned Pilgrim

“In general I agree with you, Fronwieser.” Schreevogl turned to Simon and pointed at the sky. “Such violent storms aren’t unusual in June, but when the lightning strikes right beside you, it’s like you’re feeling God’s anger.”

“Or the anger of your fellow citizens,” Simon added gloomily.

Almost four summers had passed since his marriage to Magdalena, and since then, a number of Schongau citizens had let Simon know just how they felt about this marriage. As the daughter of the hangman, Jakob Kuisl, Magdalena was an outcast, someone to be avoided if possible.

Simon reached for his belt to check that a little bag of healing herbs and medical instruments was still attached there. It was quite possible he’d need some of his medicines during this pilgrimage. The Schongauers had often sought his help in recent years. Memories of the Great War still haunted some of the older people, and plagues and other diseases had swept over Schongau in recent years again and again. Last winter, Simon and Magdalena’s sons had also fallen ill, but God had been merciful and spared them. In the following days, Magdalena prayed many rosaries and finally convinced Simon to take a pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain with her after Pentecost, along with nearly two dozen other citizens of Schongau and Altenstadt-citizens who wanted to show their gratitude to the Lord at the famous Festival of the Three Hosts. Simon and Magdalena had left the two children in the care of their grandparents-a wise decision, in view of the last hour’s events, the medicus again admitted to himself.

“It looks as if the rain will finally quench the fire.” Jakob Schreevogl pointed at the storm-ravaged beech, where only a few flames still flickered. “We should move along. Andechs can’t be far off now-perhaps one or two miles. What do you think?”

Simon shrugged and looked around. The other trees were just smoldering now, but the rain had in the meantime become so heavy that the pilgrims could hardly see their hands in front of their faces in the growing dusk. The Schongauers had taken refuge beneath a nearby fir to wait out the heaviest rain. Only Karl Semer, still looking for his horse, was wandering around somewhere in the nearby forest, shouting loudly. His son had decided in the meantime to sit down and pout on an overturned tree trunk, trying to drive the cold from his bones with help of a flask he’d brought along. His Excellency Konrad Weber frowned at the young dandy but didn’t interfere. The old Schongau priest was not about to pick a fight with the son of the presiding burgomaster.

Just as the pilgrims were beginning to calm down, another bolt of lightning struck not far away and once again the Schongauers ran like spooked chickens down the muddy slopes, farther into the valley below. The priest’s wooden cross came to rest filthy and splintered between some rocks.

“Just stay together,” Simon shouted into the thunder and rain. “Lie down on the ground. On the ground you’ll be safe.”

“Forget it.” Magdalena shook her head and turned to leave. “They don’t hear you, and even if they did, they’d hardly obey a dishonorable bathhouse owner.”

Simon sighed and hurried after the others with Magdalena. Beside them, the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle carried an almost thirty-pound pilgrimage candle. Though its flame had gone out, the powerful, nearly six-foot-tall man held it up as straight as a battle flag. In comparison, Simon looked even smaller and more slender.

“Stupid peasants,” Hemerle grumbled, stepping around a muddy puddle in great strides. “It’s just a thunderstorm. We have to get out of this goddamned forest-fast. But if those cowards keep running around like that, we’ll get completely lost.”

Simon nodded silently and rushed ahead.

In the meantime darkness had descended completely under the dark canopy of trees. The medicus could see only vague shadows of some of the Schongauers, though he heard anxious cries farther off. Someone was praying loudly to the Fourteen Holy Helpers.

And in the distance now howling wolves could be heard.

Simon shuddered. The beasts had multiplied considerably in the years since the Great War and by now had become a true plague upon the land, like wild pigs. The hungry animals were no threat to a group of twenty hardy men, but for anyone wandering alone through the forests, the wolves presented a real danger.

Branches lashing his face, Simon struggled not to lose sight of at least Magdalena and the sturdy Balthasar Hemerle’s pilgrimage candle. Fortunately, the carpenter was so tall that Simon could see him over the tops of bushes and even some low trees.

Suddenly the huge man stopped and Simon stumbled, almost bumping into him and Magdalena. The medicus was about to utter a curse, when he froze and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

In a small clearing directly before them stood two wolves with drooping jaws, growling at them. Their small eyes were red dots in the night, and their hind legs were tensed, ready to pounce. Their bodies were thin and scrawny, as if they hadn’t found prey for a long time.

“Don’t move,” Balthasar Hemerle whispered. “If you run, they’ll attack you from behind. And we don’t know if there are any more nearby.”

Slowly Simon reached for his linen pouch, where along with his medical instruments and herbs, he kept a stiletto as sharp as a razor. He wasn’t sure the little knife would help against the two famished beasts. Beside him, Magdalena stared at the wolves, unmoving. A few steps away Balthasar Hemerle raised the heavy candle above him like a sword, as if he were about to smash the skull of one of the beasts.

A pilgrimage candle sullied with wolf’s blood , Simon thought. What would the abbot in the monastery have to say about that?

“Stay calm, Balthasar,” Magdalena whispered to the carpenter after a few moments of silence. “Look how they have their tails between their legs. The animals are more afraid of us than we are of them. Let’s just slowly step back-”

At that moment, the larger of the two wolves lunged for Simon and Magdalena. The medicus dodged to one side and, out of the corner of his eye, saw the animal rush past. Scarcely had the wolf landed on his feet than he turned around to attack again. The animal snarled and opened his mouth wide, revealing huge white fangs dripping with saliva. Simon imagined he could see every drop individually, magnified as through a microscope. The wolf prepared to jump again.

From somewhere a shot rang out.

For an instant, Simon thought lightning had struck again nearby, but then he saw the wolf whining and writhing in agony before falling to the ground where he twitched one more time and died. Red blood flowed from a wound in his neck onto leaves on the ground. The second wolf growled once more before running off and, a second later, disappeared into the darkness.

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Amen.”

Now a broad-shouldered figure appeared between the trees holding a smoking musket in one hand and a burning lantern in the other. He wore a black habit and a hood drawn over his face. In the pouring rain, he looked like an angry forest spirit in search of poachers.

Finally, the stranger pushed back his hood. Simon found himself looking into the friendly face of a bald man with protruding ears, crooked teeth, and a bulbous nose furrowed with veins. He was probably the ugliest man Simon had ever seen.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Brother Johannes from the Andechs Monastery,” said the fat monk, squinting at the three lost pilgrims. “Have you by chance seen any bloodroot growing nearby?”

Rain and cold sweat pouring down his face, the medicus was too exhausted to answer. He slid to the ground alongside the trunk of a beech, mumbling a little prayer of thanks.