Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

“What in the world are you doing here, you wimp?” he growled. “You’ve gotten yourself into a lot of trouble, little fellow.”

“I know him,” cried Guiscard, who in the meantime had struggled to his feet and was leaning on one of the tables with an anguished expression. Breathing heavily, he dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “That’s the pretty boy in Malcolm’s troupe. Beat him black and blue. Then we’ll see if he can still play the part of the young hero.” He smirked. “Without the handsome hero there’s no play, and thus no permission from the bishop. Compris? ”

Guiscard’s helper was now back on his feet. Along with the other guard, he rushed at Matheo, who looked in vain for a way to escape. He was still holding his weapon in his hand, but it was trembling noticeably.

“One more step, Guiscard, and I’ll send my whole troupe after you,” Sir Malcolm said in a threatening voice as he sought protection behind a tree. “Then you’ll be lucky if you can leave this town on all fours.”

Guiscard Brolet let out a shrill laugh, like that of a little girl. “And just where is your oh-so-brave troupe? I see here only a weakling, a mere youth with a big mouth.”

“We’re here,” a high voice replied. “And now get out before we have to spill any blood.”

Astonished, Guiscard looked toward the wall, where Barbara was still hiding, and his helpers stopped fighting, as well.

Barbara had spoken up instinctively, and now she was thinking feverishly about how she could help her friend. She couldn’t fight herself, and calling the guards would take too much time-if they would even be interested in a fight between two actors. Finally, she did something she’d always had fun with, even as a child.

She disguised her voice.

“You heard the lady, get out, you dirty frogs,” she growled, trying to sound as rough and deep as a barroom brawler.

“Before we break your legs, you filthy Frenchmen,” she grumbled in an even lower pitch with a Swabian accent.

“Come on, let’s get them!” Barbara shouted then in a brighter, resonant tone, sounding like a real Bavarian. “There are only three of them. This will be a bloodbath.”

She threw a few stones over the wall, then quickly grabbed Matheo’s hat still lying in the flowers, pulled it far down over her face, clambered to the top of a rock pile near the wall, and started bombarding Guiscard and his men with stones. One of them shrieked loudly when a rock hit him right in the temple.

“Damn, there are a bunch of them over there,” he whimpered, ducking down like a whipped dog as he ran over to the back door of the inn. The second thug was hit in the shoulder by a rock and looked around anxiously. He, too, ran off when he noticed the hat of his ostensible attacker on the other side of the wall.

“Monsieur Brolet, come quickly!” he called to the theater director. “We must get some reinforcements. There are too many for us.”

“ Sacrement! You cowards.” With another French curse on his lips, Guiscard struggled to his feet and ran after his two bodyguards, who had already disappeared inside the building.

“You’ll come to regret this, Malcolm! You’ll regret it!” he shouted again in the direction of the English theater producer, who was still hiding behind the tree. “We’ll see you again, and then the bishop will allow only one troupe of actors here in Bamberg. And that’s us!”

He slammed the door to the tavern with a loud thud.

For a while there was not a sound in the garden, then Sir Malcolm stepped out from behind the tree and turned to his comrade-in-arms, who was gasping for air.

“Well, Matheo, how many warriors did you really bring along with you? And why don’t they come out from behind the wall?”

Matheo was still standing there, his mouth open in amazement. Suddenly he broke out in a loud laugh, shook his head in disbelief, and began clapping his hands.

“ Mamma mia , that was the best performance I’ve heard in a long time,” he exulted, as tears of laughter ran down his cheeks. “This girl is a natural.”

Sir Malcolm looked at him in astonishment. “Girl? Which girl? I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Matheo clapped a few more times, then called out, “Barbara, you can come out now. The play is over.”

Hesitantly, Barbara peered over the wall, still wearing Matheo’s hat, but her pale face showed how terrified she really was.

“Have they. . have they left?” she stammered.

Sir Malcolm seemed puzzled at first, but then his face broke out in a wide smile.

“ She is our men?” he asked. “A whole troupe of actors played by one girl behind the wall?” He bowed deeply. “On my honor, young lady, if that was meant to be an audition to convince me of your abilities, you have come across better than any actor before you.”

Barbara had to catch her breath. “Audition?” she asked softly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Sir Malcolm grinned. “I can see in your eyes that you have the talent befitting an actor. Have you ever thought of appearing on the stage? Well? Now that Matheo is too old, we need someone new for the leading female role.” He sighed with satisfaction. “Matheo and you would be perfect for the roles of Romeo and Juliet. There’s never been a more perfect couple.”

Barbara became weak in the knees. She wanted to reply, but in contrast to before, she was now speechless.

“I. .” was all she could say. “Matheo. .”

With his arms open wide and his body quivering with emotion, Sir Malcolm approached her. “My lady, welcome to my troupe. So much talent positively cries out to be expressed on the stage. I can’t pay much, but I promise you, you’ll have the whole world at your feet.”

The apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, listened to the screams echoing down the corridor from the room at the other end. They sounded like the howling of a beast, but she could tell they were made by a man. They were occasionally interrupted by a soft murmur when the stranger asked his questions. And even though Adelheid couldn’t quite hear the voice, she knew what it was saying.

Who taught you the art of magic?

Who are your brothers and sisters?

Where do you meet? In the forest? In the cemetery? Up in the ruins of the old castle?

Where do you go on the witches’ Sabbath?

How do you make the drink that lets you fly?

Confess, witch, confess, confess. .

Confess. . Confess. . Confess. . Confess. . Confess!

“Oh, God, I don’t know anything,” the victim shrieked. “Who are you? What do you want from me, you devil?”

Adelheid wished she could hear the answer to that, as she still had no idea why the stranger had locked her up here. Why her? And why the constant questioning and torture in the horrible chamber? The man had to be crazy, a deranged murderer, and they had all become his victims by sheer coincidence. There couldn’t be any other reason.

Could there?

The screaming of the young woman had stopped the day before. Was she already dead? Wounded? Unconscious? Adelheid didn’t know, but evidently the stranger had found another victim, and the chalice had not yet been passed on to her.

Again there was a loud scream, and Adelheid froze with fear. She couldn’t help thinking of the beast that had attacked her-the tapping in the bushes, the odor of wet fur. Was this perhaps nothing but a ghost, a figment of her imagination? Were the stranger and the beast one and the same? Or was there not only a madman prowling around out there, but a beast obeying his commands?

“On my honor, yes. I’m a witch! Yes, I have kissed the devil’s anus. Yes! Yes! Yes! Anything you want, just please stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!”