Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

“Out of the question,” Aloysius interrupted. “And now, excuse me, I have to go back to my bones.” Suddenly he stopped, and a grimace spread across his face. It took a moment before Jakob realized it was a smile.

“They say your younger daughter is a real beauty,” Aloysius said, now in a much milder tone of voice, “and the master tells me she still doesn’t have a husband. I’d like to meet her sometime. Perhaps we can talk about that during one of our hunts.” He broke out in a loud, nervous laugh, and Jakob felt goose bumps rising on his neck.

Maybe the actor isn’t such a bad choice, after all, he thought.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.

Aloysius nodded, then returned to his simmering kettle and left the hangman by himself. Jakob examined the bloodhounds and mastiffs a bit longer, then finally strolled toward the log house and the buildings behind it. Immediately Aloysius stopped stirring the kettle.

“What are you doing there?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well, I thought you might have some more dogs in back to admire,” Jakob replied with feigned innocence.

“These up here in front are all we have. The only thing in back is the place we bury the waste. It’s not a good place-it stinks to high heaven.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I won’t bother you any longer.”

The hangman raised his hand in farewell, then headed through the front gate and back onto the path heading toward the city. Singing an old army song from his mercenary days, he trudged on.

His visit had gone differently than he’d expected, but he’d learned a few things. He hadn’t asked about the branding marks, but Aloysius was eager to tell him all about them, as if quickly trying to dispel any suspicions. And why had he flared up when Jakob wanted to see the building in back? Was something hidden there?

Something smells bad here, and it’s not just the garbage.

He had gone about a half mile when he met a group of men coming toward him from the city. They were carrying scythes, pitchforks, and clubs, marching in step like a group of soldiers. As they drew closer, Jakob could see they were simple Bamberg workers, but their stride had something pompous about it, something artificial, as they looked all around from side to side where the dense stands of firs formed a barrier.

Jakob stepped to the side of the path to let the group pass, but the first man suddenly stopped and looked at him suspiciously. Only now did the hangman see they were the same men who had chased the unfortunate shepherd through the city two days before. The man in front was the wagon driver whom Jakob had beaten over the head with a club at the beginning of the fight.

“Who are you and what do you want?” one man asked in a loud, brash voice.

Jakob sighed under his breath.

Well, isn’t this just great. This is the last thing I need.

“You know who I am,” he answered. “I had the pleasure of meeting you a few days ago-so stop this nonsense and let me by, or we’ll both do something we regret.”

The tall, broad-shouldered wagon driver acted as if he hadn’t recognized Jakob until then.

“Ah, of course,” he exclaimed. “The brother of the Bamberg hangman, how delighted I am to see you again.” He turned around to his friends. “Standing here all by himself, he doesn’t look so big, does he? Almost as if he’d shrunk.”

The men laughed, but their leader stood up straight and threw out his chest.

“We’re the Bamberg citizens’ militia,” he declared. “If the city council and the bishop can’t do anything to protect us from this werewolf, we have no choice but to do it ourselves.”

“And that’s the reason you’re running around like rabbits in the forest?”

“You’ll soon regret your fresh remarks,” the man hissed. “We’re looking for suspicious characters-charcoal burners, shepherds, people who steal wood. . The forest is full of such riffraff, and it’s quite possible a werewolf is hiding among them. They can change their appearance. But with holy water, we will be able to view their true form.” He shook a little bottle hanging on his belt as if it were a deadly weapon. Then he jutted out his chin in a defiant gesture and demanded, “So tell me again. What are you doing here?”

“I went to visit the knacker. Is that forbidden?”

The man grinned. “No, it’s not forbidden, but it makes you look. . suspicious.” He stepped closer to Jakob and began sniffing.

“Do you smell this, too, men?” he asked with a sneer. “It’s the smell of a wild beast, of dirt and feces, and hm. . yes, a bit like sulfur. Phew!” He held his nose tightly. “So this is either a werewolf or a hangman who’s never taken a bath.”

While the men grumbled, Jakob closed his eyes and tried to keep a cool demeanor. He couldn’t let them get under his skin, though he suspected the wagon driver wouldn’t stop needling him. The last time, Kuisl had sent the powerful man sprawling to the ground with a single blow and made him look foolish in front of his friends. The wagon driver wouldn’t pass up this chance to pay the hangman back in kind.

So let’s get it over with.

Jakob reached for the cudgel hanging on his belt. There were six of them, but if he was fast enough, he could get the best of the leader and perhaps one or two others. Then he could seize the moment of surprise to flee into the forest. But he wasn’t as fast as he used to be, and once again he could feel the ripping of his tendons as if on a rack. Probably they’d catch him, and then-

“What a lovely autumn day,” a loud voice behind him suddenly proclaimed. “Much too lovely for a quarrel. Don’t you think so, men?”

He turned around and saw his brother coming down the path from the knacker’s house.

But how. .

By now, Bartholomäus had already reached the group of men and placed his arm around Jakob in a friendly gesture.

“My brother came to visit me in the forest,” Bartholomäus said. “Is there a problem?”

The wagon driver and the other men were clearly disappointed. They could have easily done away with Jakob; he was from out of town and no one would miss him. Bartholomäus, on the other hand, was known in town. If he disappeared or was beaten, there would be unpleasant questions.

“We have the right to question any suspect,” the leader snapped. “Your brother is a dubious character; we don’t want him in our city. We want him out of here.”

“If anyone should get out, it would be you,” Bartholomäus shot back.

The wagon driver picked up his cudgel and seemed about to throw caution to the winds. “You damned bastard,” he shouted. “I’m not going to let some dishonorable person-”

“Just stop, Johann,” one of the men interrupted. He was an older farmer with small, rat-like eyes that darted around nervously. “I wouldn’t take on two hangmen. That can only bring bad luck. It’s bad enough that we had to come across them here in the forest.”

He turned away and murmured a quiet prayer. Now the other men hesitated as well, and some in the rear made a sign to ward off curses and bad magic.

Jakob grinned. Even back home in the Priests’ Corner, there were many superstitions concerning the executioner. Now, for once, it seemed to be an advantage to be a social outcast allegedly in league with the devil.

“Your friend is right,” he growled. “If anyone touches me, they will have seven years of bad luck in everything they set their hands on. Their children will become sick and their wives will be dry and infertile, I swear to you as surely as I am the accursed hangman.” He stepped forward with a threatening look in his eye, and the men murmured to each other anxiously. Their leader, the burly wagon driver, also seemed uncertain.