Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

“Ergot, artemisia…” he mumbled. “Just where do I have the damned daphne…? Ah, yes, here it is.”

Biermann couldn’t help but laugh as he watched Magdalena, standing wide-eyed in the midst of the six-foot-high shelves. “Well, you never saw anything like this before, eh?” With a sweeping gesture, he announced, “This is the largest collection of herbs from here all the way to Munich, you can take it from me. Probably not even the venerable Paracelsus had an apothecary shop like this.”

He had just opened another drawer when the little bell up front in the shop rang again. He stopped, annoyed. “Please excuse me,” the little hunchbacked man said to Magdalena, placing the bag of herbs he had already weighed in her hand and scurrying out of the room. “I’ll be right back.”

The hangman’s daughter stayed behind and looked around in wonderment at the fragrant labyrinth.

It was the voice that caught her attention, the demanding voice of a man who was clearly annoyed; he was talking with the pharmacist, and this was not a friendly conversation. Out of sheer curiosity, she walked over to the door leading to the shop up front and listened in.

“I need the same thing that I got once before from you,” the stranger growled.

“The…the same?” Nepomuk Biermann asked. “You know it’s hard to get, and actually, I’m not supposed to sell it. That…could cost me my business.”

Magdalena could sense the pharmacist’s anxiety. Carefully, she stepped back against the wall in order to hear better.

“I’ll pay you well,” the man said to the sound of jingling coins. “But I’m depending on it really working right this time! The last time death came much too fast. This time it has to be slow so no one notices, or else…”

“You must always use it in small doses,” Nepomuk Biermann insisted. “If you use only small doses, no one will become suspicious, I swear by God!”

“Then swear by the Savior,” the stranger said, and laughed raucously. “ Deus lo vult. ”

Magdalena gasped when she heard these last few words-the same words the man in the crypt had spoken to her father shortly before they’d stabbed him.

Was it perhaps the same man?

Although Magdalena was aware of the danger she was in, she moved closer to the door. Sidling up to it, she slowly turned her head toward the front of the store. From here, she could see only a small section above the counter, but it was enough to cause chills to run up and down her spine.

Magdalena glimpsed a black cowl and, dangling from a golden chain, a golden cross with two crossbars. Not until now did she notice that a new scent had joined the mix in the apothecary.

Violets.

“I need something else,” the stranger said, scratching his chest. “Quicksilver. As much as you can get hold of.”

Nepomuk Biermann nodded. “I…understand. Give me until tomorrow-”

“I shall be here tomorrow morning,” the man interrupted. “The other preparations I’ll take along with me right away.”

The stranger reached out for a little silk pouch the pharmacist offered him, then without a further word, turned to leave, slamming the door behind him.

Magdalena hesitated briefly, then gathered up the herbs that Biermann had already packed for her and stuffed them into her linen bag. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed other herbs lying out on the table. Quickly, she grabbed these as well and put them in her bag. Who knows what I might be able to use them for? she thought.

With the bag in hand, she hurried back to the sales room and, from there, out the door.

“Hey!” Nepomuk Biermann called after her. His face was as white as a sheet, and pearls of sweat had formed on his forehead. “What are you doing? You have to pay! Stay here. That man is dangerous! You don’t understand…”

Whatever else he said was drowned out in street noise. Magdalena hurried after the priest’s murderer, past snowdrifts and astonished pedestrians. She didn’t know what she was going to do when she caught up with him, but she wouldn’t be a Kuisl if she allowed this chance to slip by.

In Schongau the blizzard raged, too, and people stayed inside their warm houses, hoping they wouldn’t run out of firewood. In the surrounding forests, the howl of wolves could be heard now and then, and on the rooftops snow piled up, making the beams creak. Even the oldest Schongauers had rarely seen a storm like this, and it was certainly the worst since the Great War had ended.

The streets and narrow lanes in town were empty except for a single figure making his way through the blizzard, up from the Tanners’ Quarter, toward the dungeon. Jakob Kuisl held onto his wide-brimmed hat with his right hand, shielding his eyes with his left and trying to see ahead through the chaos. He looked like a black giant in a sea of white. He cursed under his breath. His pipe had gone out in the blizzard, and though he needed it to concentrate now more than ever, it would no doubt take a long time for him to relight the wet pipe.

Immediately after the council meeting, Johann Lechner had told the hangman he would send him out to hunt for the second group of thieves. This time, however, he would be allowed to pick out his men himself. The hangman decided to keep the company small. From what the robber chief told him, he knew that there were probably only four bandits roaming around out there, but they were all experienced fighters. Somehow they had managed to find out the planned routes of individual merchants, even though the victims all claimed they had discussed their plans only among themselves. Was there a leak somewhere among the Schongau patricians? Could one of them be involved in the raids?

Matthias Holzhofer’s injured drivers had been questioned but revealed little. The attackers were disguised, they said, wrapped in black coats and armed with crossbows, muskets, and rifles. They were clearly a small but ferocious group and far superior to the ordinary highway bandits.

To learn more about this mysterious group, the hangman decided, despite the blizzard, to visit the dungeon and question Hans Scheller again.

There was no watchman standing guard at the door to the massive tower, and Jakob Kuisl assumed the bailiff was either in the tavern or inside the dungeon. Who could blame him in such weather? The hangman knocked loudly on the iron-reinforced door and heard steps coming from inside.

“Who’s there?” a voice asked.

“It’s me, Jakob Kuisl. Open up before the storm blows me away.”

There was a grinding sound as a key turned in the lock. The door opened a crack, and the pinched face of the city bailiff Johannes peered out. “What do you want, huh? Your last visit cost me a fine of eight kreuzers and an extra day of guard duty. Lechner’s not happy when somebody crosses him.”

“Let me talk with Scheller once more.” The hangman gave the door such a shove that the bailiff was pushed aside.

“Hey, Kuisl, you can’t do that!”

Kuisl tossed him a little bag. “Take this and be quiet.”

The bailiff looked inside curiously. “What is it?”

“Chewing tobacco. From the West Indies, where the snakes are as fat as the trunks of oak trees. Chew it, but don’t swallow. It will keep you awake and warm.”

Withdrawing to a stool in the corner with his little bribe, Johannes sniffed at the dried weed. “Chew it, huh?” He looked at the hangman again. “But don’t crush Scheller’s other hand, or he’ll die on us in the dungeon, and it’ll be my fault.”

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

The hangman approached the cells in the rear, where the robbers were detained. In contrast to his last visit, they appeared listless now. The men and women crouched in the corners on filthy straw. They had wrapped themselves in threadbare coats and tried to keep each other warm against the January cold. In their midst lay the feverish boy, trembling all over. The wind whistled through the barred window behind them. Alongside the robbers sat a bowl of moldy bread and an apparently empty pitcher of water. A bucket of excrement stank so badly that Kuisl had to step back. Hans peered out at him from behind the bars with an empty gaze, his small right finger festering like a bloated sheep intestine.