Oliver Potzsch - The Beggar King

With a stiff grin, Simon shook his head, keeping an eye on the two officious watchmen who approached as Magdalena slipped through the narrow doorway.

“I would never dare interfere in God’s mysterious ways,” he cried out, his voice cracking. “When the Lord calls us, we are obliged to follow. It’s not up to us to bring back the dead, were it even in my power to do so!”

Good God, what is this nonsense I’m spouting! Simon thought. I can only hope that Magdalena is in and out in a hurry.

“Hey, you!” The two bailiffs had finally reached the cart. “Get down this instant! Who the hell do you think you are, hawking your magic brew on a Sunday in front of city hall? Don’t you know that around these parts quackery is against the law?”

“Quackery?” shouted Simon, tearing at his hair in feigned outrage. “I am a medicus with university training who has come upon hard times. Permit me at least to demonstrate my art.”

“Nothing doing,” one of the guards replied. “You’ll come down right now, and into the stocks you’ll go until morning. That’ll purge this nonsense from your head!” He pointed at a stone column smeared with rotten fruit and excrement off to the side of the square adjacent to the market tower.

Simon’s face turned a shade whiter. Magdalena, I’ll never forgive you for this…

“Just give him a chance!” a bystander chimed in. “Maybe he really is a medicus, and if he isn’t-well, you can still give him a good thrashing.”

After a moment’s consideration the soldier nodded. “All right, then, it’s Sunday and the people want some entertainment; so come on, doc-show us what you can do.”

The other bailiff appeared to have been struck by an idea and, with a broad grin, waved for someone in the crowd to approach. “What good fortune! We’ve got a patient for you right here.”

Ducking, Magdalena hastened through the gate, which was slightly ajar, and entered an expansive vault whose low ceiling was so covered with soot and dirt it was pitch black. A few cannons stood rusting in the corner. On her left she spied the wooden gate of a cell that turned out to be empty. Farther back, in a room next to a pile of cannonballs, a few soldiers were sitting around playing dice.

When Magdalena attempted to breeze by, one glanced up and glared. “Hey, girl,” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

Magdalena curtsied and looked demurely at the ground. “The two gentlemen at the gate said I could have a look at the bathhouse monster.” Feigning embarrassment, she fumbled with her bodice. “Is it true that at the full moon he changes into a werewolf, with fur and teeth and all that?”

“Who told you that?”

“The-the two gentlemen, upstairs, just a minute ago.” Like a stupid farm girl, Magdalena drew little circles in the dirt with her right toe and pouted. “And they said I should come back at night sometime so I could see it-I mean, see how he changes.”

The man laughed and winked at his comrades. “Sure, girl, go ahead and have yourself a look! And when the big bad wolf growls at you, we’ll come and save you.” He pointed toward a corridor on the left where a door stood open, then picked up the dice again. “You’ll find the monster back there-just be careful he doesn’t bite you.”

She curtsied again as the other guards laughed, then entered the dark corridor. Looking around frantically, she saw a few sturdy doors with iron fittings. Which one is it? She didn’t have much time. The guards would no doubt come after her soon enough, most likely with an invitation to join them in one of the cells for a little fooling around. She didn’t even want to think about what might happen after that.

“Father!” Magdalena whispered, knocking against the wooden walls. “Can you hear me? It’s me, your daughter!”

There was a clatter behind the middle door, and finally Jakob Kuisl replied.

“Magdalena! Good Lord, what are you doing here in Regensburg?”

The hangman’s daughter pressed her forehead against a small hole beside the door no bigger than the palm of her hand. In the dim light she could see her father’s head, his shaggy, matted beard, and the whites of his eyes gleaming out of a dark face. The stench of rot and excrement nearly took her breath away.

“I’ll tell you about that some other time,” she whispered. “Simon’s with me. Now tell me what’s happened to you and how I can help. The guards will come back at any moment!”

“Good Lord, who gave you two permission to just get up and leave Schongau!” Kuisl cursed. “Your mother’s probably worried to death, and surely Lechner’s hopping mad with nobody home shoveling the shit! When I get out of here, I’m going to give your ass such a whipping that-”

“Papa,” Magdalena whispered, “you really have more important things to worry about. So tell me what happened!”

“It was a trap,” Kuisl whispered once he’d calmed down. “Someone killed Lisl and her husband and wants to pin the murder on me now.” Quickly he reported what had happened since he’d arrived. “I don’t know what dirty bastard did this to me,” he finally muttered, “but by God, when I find him, I’ll break every last bone in his body.”

“But you’ve got to get out of here first,” Magdalena replied.

She looked around frantically for a key, but in vain. Finally she began to rattle the door handle.

“Quit that,” her father said. “I can’t get out of here, unless you can prove before the awful inquisition begins that someone else bloodied his hands with this dirty deed; then perhaps they’ll put off the torture.”

Magdalena frowned. “But how do we do that?”

Her father’s mouth was now very close to her ear-she could smell his familiar scent, sweat and tobacco.

“Go to my brother-in-law’s house and try to find some kind of clue,” he whispered. “Anything. I’ll bet the culprits didn’t try very hard to cover their tracks. Why should they? They’ve already got their suspect in custody.”

Magdalena nodded. “And if we don’t find anything?”

“Then your father will meet his Maker. The Regensburg hangman, so I hear, is savage.”

There was a lengthy pause; then voices sounded from just outside the dungeon gate.

“I think someone’s coming,” Magdalena whispered.

Kuisl pushed his fingers through the little hole and pressed his daughter’s hand so hard she almost cried out.

“Quick now,” the hangman said, “Get out!”

The hangman’s daughter took one last look into her father’s eyes before she turned and hurried down the corridor. Just as she was about to set foot in the vaulted anteroom, the watchman she’d been speaking with stepped in front of her.

“Well? Is the werewolf sprouting fur?” He ran his hands over her bodice and pushed her back down the long hallway. “Do you want to have a look at my fur?”

Magdalena pointed back down the hallway. “But-but the monster isn’t there anymore. The door to the cell was just standing wide open.”

“What the devil?”

Pushing her aside, the watchman ran toward the cells. In a flash Magdalena was in the sooty vestibule again. From there she could see sunlight streaming in through the open gate. Without slowing down, she fled past the astonished guards still playing dice and hurried toward the exit, then out the front gate.

When she finally reached the city hall square again, she could see that Simon had gotten himself into a mess of trouble.

Inch by inch, the point of a needle closed in on a wide-open eye. The beggar’s head quivered, but the strong hands of the guard held him, vise-like, while two other guards pinned his arms to his sides. The old man had stopped whimpering and just stared in pure horror at the needle about to pierce his eye. There was no escaping now.