Oliver Potzsch: The Dark Monk

Suddenly the physician fell to his knees alongside the patrician and folded his hands. “Let us pray,” he said softly.

First haltingly, then in firmer voices as the words came back to them, they murmured the words of consolation they had both learned as children.

“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters…”

It was the first time Simon had prayed in a long time. He’d never been an especially devout person, but he was suddenly seized by a longing-something in him wanted to believe. God had allowed so many terrible things to happen, and the horror had to end sometime!

O, God, if you really exist, help this poor little girl…If you let her live, I will make a pilgrimage to the black madonna in Altotting, barefoot, in the winter!

After a while, when the physician looked up at Clara again, he thought he saw a slight smile on her lips. Her breathing seemed easier and regular, and her eyelids were no longer fluttering. He stopped praying, leaned over the bed, and felt her pulse.

It was quiet and slow, just like that of a healthy sleeping girl.

This isn’t possible…is it?

Only now did Simon notice an object on the bare wall in front of him-an object so ordinary it hadn’t attracted his attention until now, almost as if it hadn’t been there before.

Over Clara’s bed hung a plain, small wooden cross.

It was the second of February in the year 1660. The bells of the Altenstadt basilica resounded through the countryside around Schongau as people streamed into the large church to celebrate Candlemas. In the Schongau market square, booths had already been set up with fat sausages frying over charcoal fires, roasting chestnuts, and long white candles awaiting consecration. Even a group of acrobats from Munich was on hand.

According to tradition, Candlemas signaled the end of winter, and people came from miles around to celebrate mass in the largest church in the area. Even though it was bitter cold in the basilica, the people in their Sunday best-clean, colorful clothes-looked happier and more lighthearted than they were just a few days ago.

This was, to a large extent, because the dreaded fever that had been plaguing the town for so long finally seemed to have passed. On every street corner, people were talking about the young Schongau physician and his miracle drug, fungus herbarum -or as some said in an undertone, the China Mold. The physician gave all his patients the little round pills from that distant land, and in a short time they’d all recovered! Since then, people doffed their hats and greeted Fronwieser’s son with respect on the street. Only a few still grumbled about his love affair with the hangman’s daughter down in the Tanners’ Quarter. Indeed, some aldermen even wondered whether Fronwieser might be a good match for their young daughters, now that he seemed prepared to follow in the footsteps of his father and would surely become a rich and respected doctor. He looked impressive in his tailored jackets from Augsburg and with his perfectly trimmed Vandyke beard. One could learn to overlook his small stature and lower-class origins…

Simon sat in one of the rear pews of the Altenstadt basilica, glancing over the shoulders of the aldermen and their families, who had taken their seats in front. Among them were the Schreevogls, including Clara, who had now completely recovered. Not far from them, a great wooden cross hung over the altar. For hundreds of years, the Great God of Altenstadt had looked down benevolently on churchgoers. The physician enjoyed listening as his voice merged with those of all the others in the congregation, swelling into a single mighty voice reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

Since his experience at Clara’s house two weeks before, Simon’s attitude toward God had changed. Had he witnessed a miracle? Had the pills actually cured Clara completely-and the others as well? He still hadn’t figured out why the moldy herbs had worked. The hangman told him mold could prevent infections. For this reason, Kuisl occasionally placed moldy rags on the wounds of his patients, but the assertion that the white strands were effective against fever and coughing was something new, even to the hangman.

By now he’d used up all the miracle pills and took to pestering Magdalena with questions about exactly which herbs were in the bag she had taken from the Augsburg pharmacy. But she couldn’t remember for the life of her.

Simon sighed. He probably would never be able to recreate those pills. Well, at least they helped improve his standing in Schongau and with his father. Bonifaz Fronwieser was seated beside him, reciting the Lord’s Prayer in a croaking voice. He still smelled of last night’s brandy, but he’d come to church with Simon, something they hadn’t done for a very long time.

Simon looked out of the corner of his eye to see Magdalena kneeling with the women in the last row of pews. Her hands were folded and her eyes closed, but as if sensing his gaze, she suddenly turned to wink at him. The physician felt a tingle course through his body. Perhaps they’d have a chance to be alone for a while this evening at the Candlemas celebration…

“Don’t fall asleep during the doxology,” a dark voice grumbled next to him. “And if I catch you with Magdalena tonight, the Lord’s Prayer itself won’t be enough to save you.” With a grin, the hangman nudged him and sat down next to him in the pew. Usually, the hangman’s place was at the rear of the church, but at the Candlemas service, the priest didn’t pay much attention to ceremony.

“When do you set out on your pilgrimage?” the hangman asked loudly enough that some of the parishioners turned around. “If you wait until summer, going barefoot won’t be a problem, but I think God wants to see you suffer a bit.”

Simon cursed himself again for having told the hangman about his promise at Clara’s bedside. “There’s still too much to do here,” he whispered. “My patients-”

“Your father can take care of them,” the hangman interrupted. “I’ve already told Lechner you’ll be traveling the next few weeks.”

“You did what? ” Simon’s voice was loud enough now that even the priest up at the altar cleared his throat. “But…”

“Magdalena also didn’t think that was a good idea,” Kuisl sighed, lowering his voice again. “She still doesn’t trust letting you out of her sight, so I made her promise to go along with you to Altotting. You’ll go through Munich and pick up a few herbs for me, and some books. A fellow named Athanasius Kircher has written a new book about the plague and how to cure it…” The hangman’s face broke out in a broad grin. “If you don’t behave yourself in the next few days, I’ll think it over and perhaps come along, too.”

Simon could hardly believe his good fortune. He’d have a few weeks together with Magdalena, far from this place where she was the ostracized hangman’s daughter. Nobody would know her!

“Kuisl, how can I thank you…?” he whispered.

“Don’t thank me; thank the one up there,” he replied, pointing up at the Great God of Altenstadt. “He convinced me to do it. Now I’ve done him two favors.”

“Two favors?” Simon asked, baffled.

Jakob Kuisl drew on his cold pipe as if he were at home and not in the church. “The larch wood in his back was rotten,” he began. “The day before yesterday, the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle had to repair the Savior for Candlemas, and he couldn’t find a good piece of wood for it…old, solid wood that had already survived sixteen hundred years…”

Slowly, it dawned on Simon what he was talking about. “The True Cross of Christ in Steingaden…” he started to say.