Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

A cross with two beams.

I sinned, too, when I stared at that handsome fellow, Peter, who works on the Huber farm, and just last week, I drank the cream from the top of the milk…and…And when I was a kid, I once threw a piece of horse dung at old Berchtholdt, and I never confessed to that…”

Magdalena was struggling for words. She was slowly running out of sins, and Brother Jakobus still showed no reaction to the poisons. Sitting alongside her in the pew, he bowed his head and only occasionally nodded or murmured his “ Ego te absolvo. ”

The monk sat completely still with closed eyes, lost in his narrow little world, soaking up her confession like a dry sponge and not reacting.

“Also, a week ago last Sunday, I was dreaming in church and made eyes at Simon, and during the hymns, I just mouthed the words…”

The hangman’s daughter continued confessing…on and on…But inwardly, she was cursing. Were the thorn apple seeds and dried belladonna too old? Had they lost their effect? Or did this monk simply have the constitution of a horse?

This was her last plan, and if it failed, she had no idea what to do. The monk kept nodding and mumbling his pious prayers.

“Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat, et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo…”

Suddenly, something seemed to be happening to Brother Jakobus. Little beads of sweat were forming on his brow, and he licked his dry lips. Then he started rubbing his legs together as if he were trying to smother a raging fire between them. Finally, he cast a glance at Magdalena that made her blood run cold. His eyes were huge black holes, his pupils so dilated that he looked like an old woman slathered with makeup. Saliva drooled down from the corner of his mouth, and he reached out to grab her thigh.

“Oh, Magdalena, the sins!” he whispered. “The sins are overwhelming me again. Help me, Holy Virgin Mary, help me to be strong in the face of sin!”

Magdalena pushed his hand away, but moments later it was back, his fingers crawling up her thigh like a fat spider, toward her breasts, and his whole body beginning to quiver.

“Oh, Magdalena! Demons are coming to get me! There are too many of them! They are touching me in unclean places, licking me, kissing me with their clammy lips, fondling my naked skin. Holy Mother of God, help me. Help me! ”

With a loud cry, the monk leaped up and threw himself at her. Only at the last second was Magdalena able to jump away. He knocked over the pew, fell to the ground with it, and like a bull in heat, rubbed his thighs against the polished wood. When he stood up, Magdalena could see how his robe bulged out from the huge erection underneath. His eyes gleamed like those of an animal.

Magdalena took a few cautious steps back.

Damn, I should have used less belladonna and more of the thorn apple seeds! She cursed under her breath at her error. She should have known better! Both her father and the midwife Martha Stechlin had often used belladonna as an aphrodisiac, but Magdalena hadn’t been expecting such a strong reaction. By now Jakobus was bathed in sweat, breathing heavily, and his words came haltingly.

“Magdalena…Is it really you? Your breasts…your white skin…I will follow you wherever you go…”

The monk smiled as large drops of sweat rolled down his pale face. He seemed like a completely different person to Magdalena now.

“The brothel in Augsburg…” he whispered. “I’ll pay fat Agnes a lot of money to let you go. We’ll go…far away. To Rome…to the West Indies…From now on, your body must belong to no one else…no one but me!”

With a hoarse cry, he flung himself at her. She was so spellbound by his words that his sudden attack caught her by surprise. Flying through the air like a whirling dervish, the monk knocked her to the ground. His thin groping fingers seemed to be everywhere at once: between her thighs, inside her bodice, forcing her to the ground while his mouth searched for her lips. Screaming, Magdalena turned her head from side to side, nearly fainting from the stench of his putrid flesh. She could now clearly see the festering wound that stretched from his chest up to his chin, a wet, putrid wound pressing against her breasts.

“Magdalena…” Jakobus panted. “The sin…the two of us…can…be…one…”

Suddenly, his whole body began to convulse as if a crowd of devils were shaking him-all of them at the same time. But as fast as the convulsions came on, they stopped, and now he simply lay on her like a dripping sack, his arms outstretched.

It was eerily silent in the vault, the only sound being Magdalena’s own panting.

She hesitated a moment, then pushed the limp body off her in disgust. Jakobus rolled to one side, coming to rest on his back, eyes staring straight up, a final ecstatic smile playing around his lips. A damp spot spread from his robe.

“You pig! You filthy pig!”

Magdalena struck out wildly at the man on the floor. As bright blood began flowing from his nose and mouth, she suddenly realized that Jakobus was probably dead.

Frantically, she searched his robe for the key, rushed to the door, and then down a long dark corridor. On and on she ran, her only thought being to flee from this man.

In the underground chapel, Brother Jakobus stared with a frozen grin up at the ceiling, where a few fat, naked cherubs danced to heavenly music that played just for him.

The hangman hurried along the quickest route to Rottenbuch, his head pounding. He avoided the main highway-the danger was too great that he would come upon people there who didn’t feel too kindly toward him after the execution that morning. Kuisl knew he’d ruined the big party for all of them. For far lesser shortcomings, other executioners had been strung up from the nearest tree.

As he moved quickly along, he only briefly thought about Hans Scheller and the four accomplices whom he’d hanged. The Schongau executioner felt no remorse. Hanging was his job, and he did it as quickly and painlessly as possible. He knew that all five condemned men had killed people, and probably in a far more bestial manner than he did. Now they were all in a better place, and Kuisl had seen to it that they hadn’t had to suffer unnecessarily. Breaking a convict on the wheel had always repelled him, and he gloated over how he’d been able to spoil the celebration for Johann Lechner and the Schongau patricians.

He plodded through the snowy forest on narrow paths, his wide-brimmed hat pulled far down over his face and his ragged coat wrapped tightly to protect him from the cold and the wind. He walked purposefully, like a beast of prey following a scent. He’d learned in Schongau that Simon and his companion had set out in the direction of Rottenbuch around noon the previous day. The fact that they hadn’t yet returned didn’t necessarily mean anything, but he was worried.

Kuisl’s worry grew when he arrived at the Rottenbuch Monastery. He noticed at once that something was wrong. The church portal was sealed with a heavy bolt and guarded by two grim-faced guards with halberds. On the square in front of the church, monks and workers stood around in small groups, talking softly. Only then did the hangman notice that nobody was working. Nobody was on the scaffolding, and none of the men here was holding a bucket of mortar or even a trowel in his hand. Walking by a few wildly gesticulating monks, he overheard what they were saying.

“I tell you it was the devil himself…”

“No, it was the Protestants. The war is starting all over again, and they are robbing the last of our church’s treasures…”

“The devil or the Protestants, it’s all the same! In any case, Judgment Day is close at hand.”