Oliver Potzsch: The Poisoned Pilgrim

Magdalena stared at the strapping assistant in horror. “Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”

“Don’t fret. He’s no doubt already forgiven you. Matthias is a good fellow, a bit shy around people, but we deal more with dead animals, in any case.”

Michael laughed, and his assistant joined in with a dry coughing fit, casting a mischievous grin at Magdalena. He had a handsome face, a full head of sandy hair, and under his black smock, strong, bulging arm muscles like those of a blacksmith’s assistant.

If they hadn’t cut your tongue out, you would certainly be the cock of the walk , Magdalena couldn’t help thinking. I wish men would hold their tongues more often .

“No offense,” she said, standing up. “I think I’ll stretch my legs a bit. Simon isn’t coming back.” With a last nod to the mute assistant, she started down the path toward the village just as the bells began to ring.

“Where are you going?” Michael called after her as the bells continued to ring. “Your husband said-”

“My husband doesn’t tell me what to do,” Magdalena shouted. “If I were really sick, he wouldn’t have taken off and be spending so much time chitchatting with the apothecary. Now attend to your dead horse and leave the living alone.”

She hurried off toward the monastery that was teeming now, in the late morning, with throngs of pilgrims and workmen. The walk in the fresh air made her feel noticeably better. The odor in the knacker’s house had reminded her too much of her own home in Schongau, the nasty looks and whispers of her fellow townspeople, and the feeling of being an outcast-your whole life.

Without realizing it, Magdalena had climbed the hill and was standing now on the wide square directly in front of the church. From here it was easy to see the damage the lightning strike had caused. The roof of the belfry had burned almost entirely, and there was a huge hole in the ceiling in the front of the side aisle. Masons in overalls covered with plaster, as well as sturdy-looking carpenters and day laborers, ran about everywhere hauling stone, erecting new walls, and applying plaster to the parts already finished. At the edge of the building site, Magdalena found the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle from Altenstadt involved in a deep discussion with the patrician Jakob Schreevogl.

Noticing the hangman’s daughter, the Schongau alderman beckoned to her. “You look pale,” Schreevogl said, concerned. “Are you well?”

“Thanks,” Magdalena replied coolly. “I already have a husband and a cousin who are watching me like a hawk. That’s enough.” She pointed to the church belfry, which was covered with scaffolding. “It’s hard to believe the damage lightning can cause,” she said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t look like the church will really be finished in time for the Festival of the Three Hosts.”

“We’re on a really tight schedule,” Hemerle grumbled. “Only seven days left, just time enough to repair the worst damage.” He pointed to the alderman at his side. “Master Schreevogl assured us, though, that he can deliver the new stone from his brickworks in Schongau by tomorrow.”

Magdalena looked the young patrician up and down. “Then at least the lightning is good business for you, isn’t it, Master Schreevogl?”

“Don’t worry about that, I’m giving you a special discount,” he assured them. “In Augsburg or in Landsberg I’d get a lot more. If someone has a good deal here, it’s our dear burgomaster.” He winked slyly and lowered his voice. “Karl Semer sold thirty barrels of Bolzano wine to the Andechs Monastery tavern, as well as wax for pilgrim candles, pickled fish from the North Sea, and petitions he had printed cheaply and wants to palm off on the pilgrims. For the Schongau mayor, the Festival of the Three Hosts is better than any Easter mass.”

Magdalena whistled through her teeth. “I had no idea. I wondered what the old moneybags was doing on a pilgrimage. He insisted on our getting to the Holy Mountain last night in the middle of the thunderstorm.”

“Because he was afraid the merchants from Munich and Augsburg would get there first.” Schreevogl grinned. “At present that pious pilgrim is down at the tavern negotiating with the monastery’s business manager. And one of the Wittelsbachers is supposedly interested in what Semer has to sell. I just have to wonder what the elector’s family intends to do with all this stuff.”

The hangman’s daughter nodded. Mention of the previous night had awakened memories of the strange light flickering in the belfry. She shielded her eyes and looked up. “Is there any construction being done up there?” she asked curiously.

“In the belfry?” Hemerle shook his head. “The framework is complete, but we’re working our way up from the bottom. There’s still quite a bit of work to do up there where the lightning hit the tower. All that remains are charred beams and rubble. It’s a miracle that none of the bells has come down.”

Suddenly Magdalena remembered how unfriendly Brother Johannes had been the night before when she asked whether there was someone up in the belfry with a torch. What had the monk said? Why would anyone be up there at this time of night? To enjoy the view?

Magdalena stared up at the belfry ruins again. Even as a child, she never liked it when someone tried to hide something from her. And something deep inside warned her that Brother Johannes was not telling the whole truth. Suddenly feeling dizzy, she placed her hand on the patrician’s shoulder.

“You really should lie down for a while,” Schreevogl told her. “My wife, God bless her soul, had the same dark rings around her eyes at the end.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she said angrily, “is there anyone here who thinks I’m still alive? Goodbye, gentlemen. And if one of you sees my dear husband, that good-for-nothing bathhouse surgeon, tell him he can drink his potion himself. I’m going inside now to pray.”

Leaving the dazed men standing there, she walked quickly toward the monastery church. Though she was not as pious as many others in Schongau, she had nevertheless come to Andechs with the firm intention of thanking God for the preceding good years. So why not start with a prayer, especially since she felt so miserable now? Perhaps there was something after all to Simon’s worries.

She passed along the south side of the church, where the fire had caused the most damage. The foundation had collapsed and was covered with soot, and sun was falling through the narrow slits in the makeshift canvas beneath the hole in the roof. Magdalena took a deep breath and entered the old Gothic building where monks had more or less put things back in place. Now, after morning mass, only a few people were inside. On the right was the high altar with two golden statues of Mary, and in the nave four smaller altars. Narrow passageways led into dark side chapels lit only by flickering candlelight. Halfway up the wall was a gallery where a half dozen plasterers were busy cleaning dirt and soot from the frescoes or replacing the burned-out gothic windows. None of the workers seemed to have noticed Magdalena yet, so she sat down in one of the back pews, closed her eyes, and prayed. She soon realized, however, that she was having trouble concentrating. Her thoughts kept turning to her husband’s disappearance; Michael, her lice-ridden cousin; the storm the night before; and the light in the blackened belfry. Especially the light.

Opening her eyes, she looked around and discovered a winding staircase leading up to the balcony and from there farther up.

Perhaps up into the tower?

Just a few minutes , she thought. If I don’t find the entrance to the tower after a few minutes, I’ll come back and keep praying-I promise, Dear Lord .