Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

Just then, he was interrupted by angry shouts coming from the street.

Silently, Jakob Kuisl slipped through the streets of Bamberg with Georg and Bartholomäus at his side. He’d spent half the day in the forest alone, but the odd, shadowy figure that he had come upon did not appear again. He’d returned to the office of the city guards, where Bartholomäus and his own son, Georg, had given him a cool reception. Now the three men were walking along the stinking city moat back to the hangman’s house, where hopefully a good meal would be awaiting them. Jakob had told no one of his strange encounter.

He was trying to sort out the events of the last two days-the dead prostitute with the slashed-open chest, the strange odor emanating from her, Captain Lebrecht’s report about the missing persons, the various body parts, the growing rumors of a murderous werewolf. . But as hard as he tried, he wasn’t able to make sense of it all. In addition, his thoughts kept turning to his son, Georg. As he watched him walking like an old friend alongside his brother Bartholomäus, he felt deeply hurt.

Just what did Bartl tell him about me? Does he know everything?

“Katharina promised to make some fish chowder,” Bartholomäus said, breaking the silence as they passed the dilapidated houses along the moat. “I love fish chowder. Let’s just hope she’s gotten around to it, with everything she has to do to prepare for the wedding.” He grinned. “I’m eager to see her wedding dress. The fabric cost a pile of money.”

“No wonder, given how big she is,” Jakob grumbled.

Bartholomäus broke out in a loud laugh. “It’s true, if you marry Katharina, you don’t need any soft comforters in bed during the night. But she’s a good soul, and I love her, believe it or not.”

“Her? Or her money?” Jakob asked.

“You may have a point, but it’s still no business of yours,” Bartholomäus shot back. “This marriage may make it possible someday for me to buy my citizenship. Other hangmen before me have been able to do that.”

“And where does it get you?” Jakob retorted gruffly. “People will still shy away when they see you coming.”

Georg spoke up. “Just ask Magdalena or Barbara how they feel, being cursed all the time as hangman’s brats. Believe me, Father, if they could, they wouldn’t waste any time-”

He stopped suddenly, hearing angry shouts coming from a narrow lane that led down to the marketplace. A moment later, an elderly man with tattered clothing and an unkempt beard came running out of the lane. He looked around anxiously but at first didn’t notice the three men in front of him. He bumped against Jakob Kuisl’s broad chest and fell over.

“Hey, what’s the rush?” the Schongau hangman asked. “You haven’t been up to some mischief, have you?”

Gasping for breath, the man struggled to his feet and grabbed Jakob’s shirt. “Oh, God no, help me!” he panted. “They’re. . they’re going to kill me. They. .”

Now he noticed Bartholomäus and Georg, and he winced. “Oh, no, the Bamberg executioner and his apprentice. Did they call for you? Now I’m as good as dead.”

“Take it easy, now. .,” Bartholomäus started to say, but at that moment an angry mob burst out of the lane. There were nearly two dozen of them, some armed with pitchforks and scythes and others with clubs. When they saw the old man standing beside the three hangmen, they stopped with triumphant looks on their faces.

“Aha! The hangman has already caught the beast,” shouted an old farmer at the front of the group. “Let’s go, let’s take him away right now to be burned. There are plenty of bales of straw over at the Hay Market.”

“What’s going on here, folks?” Bartholomäus asked in a threatening tone. “Speak up, and be quick about it. Exactly what did this fellow do?”

“This is the werewolf!” cried a skinny man standing farther back in the crowd, in a shrill voice. “We’ll make short work of him before he attacks any more of us!”

“What makes you think he’s a werewolf?” the Bamberg executioner asked.

“Can’t you see?” a third man spoke up, a young wagon driver with broad shoulders and a broken nose. “This is Josef Hartl, the shepherd in the Bamberg Forest. Day after day he’s out there with his animals. Karoline Furtwängler swears to God that he makes an ointment that he can rub onto himself to turn into a werewolf.”

“But that’s just a salve I rub onto their inflamed udders,” Hartl retorted, wringing his hands. “Haven’t I told you that a thousand times?”

“Hah! And how about the strange herbs you used to sell at the Green Market?” the older farmer hissed. “Admit it, we’ve seen you slinking into the city to peddle your magic tinctures and turn everyone into werewolves.”

“That was arnica and ground oak bark, for the sick horse belonging to the tavern keeper at the Grapevine. The horse has scabies, that’s all.” Josef turned to the Bamberg executioner. “Master Bartholomäus,” he pleaded. “You know me. You yourself have bought ointments and herbs from me for your dogs.”

Bartholomäus nodded. “Indeed I have, and I don’t think-”

“Just look at his eyebrows,” the skinny man shouted again, pointing at the trembling shepherd. “They have grown together in the middle-a sure sign that he’s a werewolf.”

“If that’s the case, then all three of us are werewolves,” Jakob Kuisl growled. “We have bushy eyebrows, we sell ointments and herbs, and by God, when I see dumb-ass farmers like you, I might howl like a wolf and devour you, too.” He took a threatening step forward. “Now get out of here, every last one of you, before things really do get violent.”

“Who are you to boss us around, stranger?” the burly wagon driver asked.

“He’s my brother,” Bartholomäus replied and stepped between the two men. “And, just incidentally, a lot tougher than any of you. If you want Josef Hartl, you’ll first have to deal with us Kuisls. All right, now, who’s first?” He cracked the knuckles of his right fist, and the people stepped back.

Finally the powerfully built wagon driver stepped forward, swinging a club as he ran toward Jakob. “You son of a-” he started to say, but at that moment the Schongau hangman punched the large man in the stomach, sending him sprawling onto the ground, gasping for air. When he tried to get up again, Georg kicked him for good measure.

“Just stay right there on the ground, big fellow,” Georg said, shaking a finger at him. “That’s the safest place for you right now.”

In the meantime, a few other men had drawn closer with their pitchforks, flails, and scythes and started threatening the three Kuisls with clubs and swords, but from a safe distance. Josef Hartl had taken refuge behind his protectors, where he cowered against the wall of a house, crying.

“Oh, God, they’ll kill me, they’ll kill me. .,” he kept repeating.

Jakob, Bartholomäus, and Georg stood shoulder to shoulder, warding off the attacks as best they could. Shouts, gasps, and heavy breathing combined to make a noise reminding Jakob of the war. He had not yet reached for his large hunting knife, knowing that once blood was shed, he might wind up on the gallows himself.

And who is going to hang me? he thought. My own brother?

In a rage, another large man came running toward him. Jakob tripped him, then he punched another attacker in the nose, so hard that the man sank to the ground, moaning. Nevertheless, one blow hit Jakob in the face, and warm blood ran down his cheeks. The fight was dirty and mean, and Jakob knew that in the end they would lose. There were simply too many attackers, and they had heavier weapons. What should they do? Flee and abandon the old shepherd to his fate?