Oliver Pötzsch: The Werewolf of Bamberg

Simon smiled. There were often times when he wanted to beat the daylights out of the two little pests, but for now his heart was overwhelmed by an ocean of love.

“Tonight you’ll finally see your uncle Georg again,” he said cheerfully. “The one who always whittled swords for you from oak wood. Do you remember? Perhaps he’ll whittle some for you this time, as well.”

“Yes! Yes! An executioner’s sword,” little Paul cried. “I want an executioner’s sword so I can cut the chickens’ heads off, just like Stechlin did in the garden. May I, Father, please?”

“Don’t you dare!” Simon looked crossly at Paul. He couldn’t help thinking of the horrible bloodbath that Paul had inflicted a few months ago on the chickens belonging to Martha Stechlin, the Schongau midwife. What disturbed him more than anything else was the grin on the face of the child, who had obviously had a grand time slaughtering the animals, celebrating his first execution like a church mass.

“Is Uncle Georg now a hangman, too?” asked Peter, who was calmer and more thoughtful than his younger brother. Sometimes he seemed far older than his five years. Simon assumed that was due mainly to his tousled black hair and his serious, always attentive gaze whenever he spoke.

Simon nodded, happy for the diversion. “You’re right, Peter. Georg is apprenticed to your great-uncle in Bamberg, and when Grandfather gets too old, he will no doubt become the new Schongau executioner.”

“And then I’m next, am I?” Paul asked excitedly. “I’ll be an executioner someday, too.”

“Uh. . perhaps,” Simon replied hesitantly.

Suddenly, Peter clutched his father’s hand tightly and stopped. “I don’t want to be a hangman. Everybody’s afraid of Grandfather, and I don’t want that. They say he’s in league with the devil and brings misfortune.” Stubbornly, he stamped the ground with his foot. “I want to run a bathhouse, like you, Father, and be someone who helps people.”

He squeezed his father’s hand, and without realizing it, Simon returned the gesture. In fact, Peter was already observing his grandfather in executions and could recite the first words in Latin. Unlike his brother Paul, he was fond of poring through the colorful engravings in the Kuisl family library. He could sit there for hours, passing his little fingers back and forth over the drawings.

He’s like me, Simon thought. But they’ll never allow him to become a doctor, not as the son of a hangman’s daughter, not in times like these.

“I smell death, Father. Up there is death.”

Paul’s thin, bright voice interrupted his daydreams. As usual, when Paul said something horrible, it sounded strangely detached.

“Do you smell death, too?”

“What do you mean by-” Simon started to say, but Paul had already let go of his hand and raced off deeper into the forest.

“Hey, damn it, stop!” Simon called after him. But Paul had disappeared among the trees, paying no attention to him. The medicus cursed, put his older son on his shoulders, and ran with him through the damp undergrowth, stumbling and almost falling several times. Branches struck him in the face, tearing at his leggings.

After a while, Simon heard the gurgling sound of flowing water. The pine trees thinned, and he found himself in a low marshland with occasional birch trees and a dark channel of water running through it. Paul stood alongside the channel, pointing proudly at a huge, swollen carcass partially submerged in the water.

“Here, here!” he shouted excitedly. “I found it!”

When Simon got closer, he saw it was the cadaver of a large stag. Its throat had been cut so deeply that the head, with its huge, sixteen-point antlers, hung down into the water and was oscillating back and forth in the current. Its belly had been slit open, as well, and beneath the wet fur he saw deep, bloody gashes, like those that might be inflicted by a sickle or a rake.

“What in God’s name. .”

Simon set Peter down carefully and walked slowly toward the cadaver. The sweet odor of decay lay in the air. Simon assumed the stag had been dead just a few days, but the worms, beetles, and insects had already begun their work. Paul pulled so hard on the antlers that it appeared the head might separate entirely from the body.

“Stop that,” Simon snapped at him. “We don’t know if the animal was sick. Maybe he’s giving off poisonous fumes and you could be infected.” But even as he said that, he felt foolish. Certainly the stag hadn’t died of an illness; it had been ripped apart. The only question was what animal would be able to inflict such a deadly wound.

A pack of wolves? A bear?

Simon looked around, trying to think. The silence that just a few moments earlier had seemed so pleasant had now suddenly turned ominous. Even if it had been a huge predator, it was strange that it hadn’t devoured its prey at once, or at least dragged it off to hide it.

Perhaps because the predator is still around here somewhere?

Nearby there was a sound of a snapping branch, as if something large had stepped on it, and suddenly, the trees around the clearing seemed to have moved a bit closer. Simon had an uneasy feeling that he couldn’t explain-as if the forest around them had stopped to hold its breath.

“Peter, Paul,” he said, “we’ve got to go back now. Mama is no doubt worried about us. Come.”

“But the antlers,” Paul whimpered, tugging again at the decaying carcass. “I want to take the antlers back with us.”

“Forget that.” The father seized the two boys by the hand and pulled them away from the brook. A trail of blood, slender as a thread, curled through the water. Suddenly the father was overcome by a wave of fear, like a raging storm bearing down on them with thunder and lightning.

Up there is death. . it smells sweet, like a decaying plum.

“I said we’re leaving.” Simon forced a smile. “If you behave, I’ll tell you what kind of sweets you’ll find at the markets in Bamberg. And who knows, maybe Uncle Georg will buy you a few candied apples tomorrow. So let’s go.”

Grumbling, Paul backed off and followed his father, leaving the rotted carcass behind. The three of them stomped through the wet marshland, and soon the gurgling of the brook was barely audible in the distance.

A couple of times Simon thought he heard steps behind him like those of a large animal, but every time he turned around, there was nothing there but the dense wall of pines and the rain dripping from their branches. When they finally got back to the pass among the wagons and noisy peasants, his fear was nothing but a slightly queasy memory.

And the stench of putrefaction that clung to his clothing.

Full of curiosity, Magdalena and Barbara walked along the pass down to the ford in the river, with the wagons forming a long line on either side. Mud and feces spattered their clothing, and several times they had to dodge grunting pigs or anxiously bellowing cattle. There seemed to be no end to the long line of wagons.

“I wonder how all of this will manage to squeeze inside the walls of Bamberg,” Barbara sighed.

“Don’t forget that this is not Schongau,” Magdalena reminded her sister. “You should have been with me and Simon in Regensburg, where even the alleys are as wide as the market square at home.” She frowned. “But you’re right. If things don’t get moving soon, we’ll never reach Bamberg before dark, and the farmers will have to spend the night outside the walls. Tomorrow is butchering and market day, and everyone wants to get there first. It’s no wonder people are angry and impatient.”

The two sisters hurried past grumbling old women with huge piles of cabbages, apples, and pears; young men staring straight ahead while driving their horses forward; and noisy farm owners, bringing cartloads of grain to the town market. More than once, a little lost goat or calf scurried by.