Oliver Potzsch - The Poisoned Pilgrim

Michael Graetz shook his head. “I have some chamomile growing in my garden, but the rest…” He shrugged. “Ever since my wife and my two dear children died of the Plague three years ago, I’ve been all alone in the house. I skin the dead cows and horses and take the hides to the tanner down in Herrsching on Lake Ammer. It’s a long, steep way, and I don’t have time to plant more than a few carrots and cabbages behind the house.”

“Don’t worry,” Magdalena said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll sit outside on the bench in the sun and-”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Simon interrupted. “You’ll stay right here in bed while I go and get some herbs. The only question is…” His face brightened. “Of course, that ugly monk we saw last night. Didn’t he say he was out gathering herbs? I’ll go over to the monastery and ask him. I need a few other herbs, in any case. Andre Losch has a bad cough, and Lukas in Altenstadt can’t get his hand to heal.” He took another quick spoonful of the tasty porridge. Then, smoothing his rumpled clothing, he headed for the door.

“Just don’t try to get up.” Simon raised his finger with feigned severity. “You can come over to the monastery later. Just be glad you have a bathhouse surgeon caring for you free of charge.”

“All right, fine, Mr. Bathhouse Surgeon.” Magdalena lay back down on the bed, exhausted. “And while you’re out, bring a little rosemary and some fresh reeds for the floor. This room stinks like the inside of a dead horse. It’s no wonder I feel ill.”

The sun was just rising over the forest in Kien Valley as Simon left the knacker’s house. Dew was rising on the meadows around Erling, and the day promised to be pleasantly warm. In the fields, farmers with scythes were harvesting the meager winter barley.

Simon buttoned his vest and trudged along the narrow path, still muddy from last night’s rain, that led from the forest to the village. So far, the year had been much too cold; there had been frost as late as May. In the last few weeks, a number of storms brought torrential rain and hail across the Alpine foothills, flattening what little grain remained. Men prayed to God for drier weather in the coming months. Only those whose granaries were filled could expect to survive the coming winter.

The path passed behind a barn by the edge of town and then ascended steeply to the monastery. Behind a low wall was a huge complex of all kinds of buildings. On the right, some granaries were surrounded by apple and plum trees, while on the other side of the wide, muddy street were some low wooden houses with thick white smoke billowing out of their chimneys. In an open shed nearby, a blacksmith hammered loudly on an anvil. Beyond that were a low-lying bakery that smelled of fresh bread, a whitewashed tavern, and a large, multistoried stone building-until finally the walls of the inner monastery appeared: a labyrinth of nooks and crannies with the church towering up in the center.

Simon noticed groups of simply clad pilgrims holding walking staffs, dressed in black habits and singing and praying as they approached the monastery. It appeared they either wanted to pay an early visit to the monastery or were just hoping for a free breakfast. Other Brothers were working with dirt-stained hands in the surrounding vegetable gardens or pushing carts loaded with barrels through the narrow entrance of the monastery. Simon stopped one of them and asked for Brother Johannes.

“The apothecary?” The man grinned. “If I know the ugly bugger, he’s lying in bed snoring loudly. He didn’t show up for morning prayers. Well, he’ll hear from the abbot about that. But you can try your luck.” He pointed to a tiny, nondescript house down by the storage buildings. “But you better knock loudly, or he’ll sleep till noon prayers.”

Moments later Simon stood at the apothecary’s house below the monastery. It was a low-lying building with narrow windows and a thick oaken door. He was about to knock when he heard voices inside. Though the sound was muffled, it was clear that two men were having a heated argument. Simon waited in front of the house, uncertain about what to do as the voices approached along with the sound of footsteps.

The next moment, the door flew open and a lanky, black-robed Benedictine stomped out. Red-faced and furious, he clutched a walking stick decorated with ivory, waving it around wildly. Simon noticed that the monk’s cape concealed a small hunchback and that he was dragging one leg. The angry, pitiful cripple hobbled off and had soon disappeared amid the apple trees.

Simon was so intrigued by what he saw that he didn’t notice in time that someone had crept up on him from behind. When he turned around, he found himself looking directly into the ugly countenance of the apothecary.

“What is it?” growled Brother Johannes, standing in the doorway with a suspicious look on his face. The monk seemed anxious and harried, and his swollen face was as white as soft moonlight. Clearly he’d also been troubled by the argument. Finally a look of recognition appeared in his face.

“For the love of Mary!” he cried in surprise. “Aren’t you one of the lost people from Schongau last night? Listen, if you wanted to express your thanks, this is a bad time. I suggest you come-”

“My wife is ill, and I urgently need some anise and silverweed,” Simon interrupted calmly. “And a few other herbs. Can you help me?”

For a moment the monk appeared about to turn away the uninvited guest, but then changed his mind. “Why not?” he grumbled. “In any case, I’ve got to inform the abbot at once. Then the gossiping can begin.”

“What gossiping?” Simon asked. “About the argument you just had with your colleague? I didn’t really hear anything, it’s just that…”

But Brother Johannes had already disappeared in the darkness of the apothecary’s house. With a shrug, Simon followed, entering a low-ceilinged room illuminated by a half dozen tallow candles. A narrow shaft of light fell through the shutters onto a huge cupboard on the opposite wall, which contained innumerable little drawers all identified by tiny hand-painted parchment labels. There was a bewitching odor of herbs-sage, rosemary, marigold, and chamomile. But he thought he detected a sweet scent, too, that briefly made him feel sick. It smelled almost like…

“Tell me again. What did you say you needed for your wife?” Brother Johannes asked abruptly. “Silverweed?”

“Yes, and anise,” said the medicus, turning again toward the ugly monk. “She has stomach pains and feels sick all over. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“God forbid. Now, let me see…” Brother Johannes set an eyepiece to his right eye, making his already frightening face just a bit more so. Then he walked over to the cupboard, paused a moment to think, and finally opened a drawer at eye-level. In the meantime he seemed to have forgotten his quarrel with the little monk. “Silverweed is really an excellent medicine for stomachache,” he mumbled, taking out a bundle of herbs, “though I actually prefer liver compresses and a mixture of gentian, centaury, and wormwood. Do you know the doses to use with the herbs? Always remember: dosis facit -”

“Venenum. The dose makes the poison. I know.” Simon nodded and stretched out his hand in a greeting. “Excuse me if I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Simon Fronwieser. I am the bathhouse surgeon from the little town of Schongau on the other side of the Hoher Pei?enberg. I lecture my patients almost every day with Paracelsus’s words about the correct dosage.”

“A bathhouse surgeon who speaks Latin?” Brother Johannes smiled and shook Simon’s hand cordially. The monk’s grip was firm, as if he’d been swinging a hammer on the anvil all his life. With the ocular in his eye, he looked like a misshapen cyclops. “That’s rather unusual. Then are you familiar with the Macer Floridus in which the eighty-five healing plants are listed?”