Oliver Potzsch: The Dark Monk

“Oh, come now!” the hangman panted as he continued to struggle with the stone slab. “The dead don’t care, and this one has been dead for so long that the living won’t complain, either.”

There was a grinding sound as the slab moved aside a half inch or so. Simon watched with fascination as Kuisl, all by himself, raised the slab that had probably been wrestled into place by a whole group of men long ago.

And no doubt they had used tools and ropes for that, too…

He was always astonished by the hangman’s enormous strength. Once more the slab moved with a grinding sound, and a crack the width of a hand appeared.

“Don’t just stand there gaping,” Kuisl cursed between gasps. “Help me!”

Simon pushed, too, even though he was sure he couldn’t be of much help. After a few minutes they had shoved the slab back a good half a yard, and panting, Kuisl shone his light around inside. A musty stench rose from the coffin and a skull grinned back at them. Faded white bones lay at the bottom of the coffin amid dust and rusting pieces of knight’s armor. The hangman picked up a bone and held it to the light. Simon recognized from the few anatomy courses he had taken at the university in Ingolstadt that it was a man’s upper arm bone. But what a huge one!

“My word,” Kuisl whispered. “I have never in my life seen such a huge bone. He must have been a monster of a man…”

Simon gulped just thinking of a knight like this carrying a broadsword as big as the one on the relief.

“The sword,” he whispered to the hangman. Suddenly, he was excited at the thought of rummaging through the grave of a mysterious warrior. He couldn’t help but think of the ballads of King Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable, which he had enjoyed reading at the university so much more than the same old nonsense about the four humors. “Check and see if the sword is in the coffin, too.”

Jakob Kuisl nodded and continued rummaging about inside the sarcophagus, pulling out armament, rusty scraps of chain mail, some withered brown rags, and finally, a femur as large as a cudgel.

The only thing missing was the sword.

The hangman was about to give up when his hands suddenly felt something cold and smooth. It was a thin marble slab the size of a book and engraved with an inscription. He carefully removed it from the coffin. Each individual letter was decorated in gold leaf, and the inscription itself was in Latin, just like the one on the stone block.

After they had both studied it for a moment, Simon translated aloud, “ And I will tell my two witnesses to prophesy. And when they have ended their testimony, the beast that arises from the depths will fight, conquer, and kill them. ”

“What a confusing rant,” Kuisl grumbled. “Can you make anything out of it?”

“I have to confess, it doesn’t make any sense to me, either,” Simon said, turning the marble slab over in his hands. “But it seems important, or it wouldn’t have been placed here in the coffin. No sword, just this slab…”

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of steps in the neighboring room. Someone was descending the stairway! Suddenly, seized with panic, Simon reached down for the femur on the ground and held it out like a club in front of him. The hangman stood alongside him gripping the silver candelabra even tighter in his right hand. Both waited for the steps to come nearer. Finally, a face appeared in the entrance-an exceptionally pretty face.

It was Magdalena, closely followed by another woman with red hair and a pale face. Each held a votive candle in one hand and seemed less frightened than surprised at seeing the two men before them.

“What in all the world are you doing down here, Simon?” Magdalena asked. “And what in God’s name do you mean to do with the bone in your hand?”

Embarrassed, Simon placed the bone back in the coffin.

“That’s a long story,” he began. “It would be best for us to go upstairs.”

Up above, outside the portal of the St. Lawrence Church, a dark figure crouched behind one of the snow-covered, lopsided gravestones, cursing softly. He had come too late! Obviously, the fat priest had already talked. There was no other way to explain how the quack doctor had been able to find the crypt so fast. And now two women knew the secret, too, as did this big, broad-shouldered fellow. Things were getting out of hand. He would have to ask around and find out who these people were and whether they were dangerous. Especially threatening was this grim-looking giant who was always smoking a pipe. The man could sense that. Something about the giant troubled about him. Pearls of sweat crept across his forehead like little bugs.

Hectically, he pulled a little glass phial from under his black cassock and dabbed a few drops on his neck and behind his ears. The enchanting fragrance of violets wafted through the cold air, and at once the stranger felt safe and unassailable again. He doubted that these simple people had found more down there than he and his allies had, but just to be sure, he would keep a close eye on them from now on. Maybe he would be able to learn more about this bear of a man who reeked of tobacco.

Like a dark shadow, the figure emerged from behind the gravestone and slinked away. Only the sweet fragrance hovered in the air for a while, and then it, too, was gone.

Without saying a word, the hangman, Simon, and the two women climbed up the narrow stairway from the crypt. When they got to the main room of the rectory, Magdalena stared expectantly at Simon and only then did he begin to tell his story. But after just a few words, he hesitated. In all the excitement, he had forgotten to ask who the beautiful woman was sitting next to Magdalena. She was not someone from the village-that much was certain. Magdalena noticed his questioning gaze.

“I didn’t introduce you yet,” she said. “This is Benedikta Koppmeyer, the sister of Father Koppmeyer. She is looking for her brother.”

Jakob Kuisl, who until now had been puffing glumly on his pipe, began to cough. His face was hard to make out behind thick clouds of smoke. Embarrassed, the medicus looked to one side. After a short while, Benedikta began to speak.

“What about my brother? There’s something going on. I can see it in your faces.”

Finally, Simon pulled himself together and began to speak hesitantly. “Well, your brother is…how shall I say-”

“He’s dead,” Kuisl interrupted. “Dead and gone. Pray for him. He will need it.” Having said this, he stood and went outside. The creak of the door seemed to resound through the house for a long time as Simon struggled for words.

Benedikta Koppmeyer’s face, already pale, seemed to become even more diaphanous as she stared at the medicus in disbelief. “Is it true?” she whispered. “Andreas is dead?”

“What does this mean?” Magdalena asked now, too. “Simon, explain yourself!”

Inwardly, Simon cursed the tactlessness of the dour, boneheaded hangman. He had seen him behave this way many times, yet Simon was always irritated by his coarse behavior, which was so unlike that of the Jacob Kuisl he knew who would spend hours poring over books or playing catch in the yard with his seven-year-old twins, Georg and Barbara.

After some hesitation, the medicus began to recount the morning’s events. As he spoke, the priest’s sister seemed to get a hold of herself again. She listened intently, with clenched fists and a look that showed Simon that this elegant woman had dealt with other tragedies in her life before this.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said finally. “But it at least explains the letter my brother sent me. He wrote of a strange discovery and that he didn’t know whom to turn to. My brother and I”-she hesitated for a moment and closed her eyes briefly, her lips tightening into two narrow lines-“were very close, and this is not the first time he asked me for advice in an important matter. He always listened to his little sister,” she said, forcing a smile.