Oliver Pötzsch: The Werewolf of Bamberg

“Come on, tell us,” Magdalena begged him. She knew how much her father loved stringing people along, and she, too, was curious. “Just tell us before Simon starts losing sleep over it.”

Kuisl grinned. “I guess I owe him that.” As the others walked ahead, he explained.

“The skin was wrinkled like that of an old man, but there were no calluses on his hands-on the contrary, they were soft as a baby’s bottom. In addition, the remaining fingertips showed spots of ink that had eaten their way deep into the body. Ah, yes, and on one of the well-manicured fingernails there was still a tiny speck of sealing wax. As I said, I have eyes. That’s all you need.”

“But all that stuff you said about looking for a bride, and gout,” Simon persisted, “what’s that all about?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what are you? A bathhouse owner or a quack? Didn’t you notice the gnarled joints and the white spots? If you can read books, why can’t you read people?” Jakob Kuisl spat on the ground, disgusted. “The joints were so enlarged that I almost didn’t see the pale, whitish circle on the ring finger. The man had worn his wedding ring a long time, probably several decades, but had taken it off recently. That’s something a man does only when he’s out looking for someone else. He was traveling and probably looking for another woman. But. .”

Kuisl stopped to think as the wagons in front of them slowly started moving again. Their own wagon, steered by the old peasant, approached, rattling and squeaking.

“What else did you learn?” Magdalena asked. “Is there perhaps something you’ve kept from us and the others?”

Jakob Kuisl shrugged. “Well, actually, there is something that puzzles me. You could assume the man was murdered-and that his murderers left his body in the forest where wild animals finally found him and ripped him apart. He came to rest with his arm in the water and was washed ashore today by the rain.”

“But that’s not what happened,” Simon said softly. “Right?”

“No, that isn’t what happened. I took a close look at the joint, and there are no bite marks. The arm was severed cleanly. It was no animal; only a person makes a clean cut like that. This poor devil was slaughtered like a piece of meat-but why, and by whom? I have no explanation for that.”

The hangman shook the rain out of his hair and pulled himself back up onto the coachbox, where the farmer, who had heard the last part of what he’d said, stared at him and trembled like he was looking at a nightmare incarnate.

They arrived in Bamberg shortly before dusk, entering through the Tanggass Gate. In the last few hours they’d heard wolves howling several times, though very far away in the forests. Nevertheless, after the events at the river, the sounds had been enough to make Barbara, in particular, turn white. Was that perhaps the beast the people were talking about?

At least the rain had finally stopped, though the road was still as muddy and full of puddles as before, so the progress of the wagons was very slow. The whole area surrounding the city was swampy and full of small rivers, brooks, and canals, especially in the southern part, which was an almost impenetrable wilderness. In the east there were fields and farmland, though now, at the end of October, they were barren and fallow.

Magdalena turned up her nose in disgust; the odor with which the city greeted them was so pungent it made them gag. Along the right-hand side of the street was a wide ditch that dried up just before reaching the gate, forming a thick, foul-smelling morass. Rotten fruit and the carcasses of small animals floated in the puddles. A wide, moldering walkway led across the swamp toward the city wall, where now, shortly before it was time to close the gates, the wagons were backing up. Surely a good number of people in the wagons would have to spend the night in the fallow fields outside of town, a prospect that caused Magdalena to shudder, after hearing the wagon drivers’ gloomy accounts of their strange finding down at the river. What in God’s name was lurking in the forests around Bamberg?

Hastily the Kuisls bade farewell to the old farmer, who was visibly relieved to finally be rid of them, then made their way toward the narrow pedestrian gate next to the vehicle entrance, arriving none too soon. Some time had passed since the bells in the clock towers had signaled the end of the day for the Bambergers, many of whom had been working their little vegetable patches outside of town. The night watchman with his key to the city was standing by the gate, beckoning the last of them to hurry. He looked concerned, almost anxious. He asked the Kuisls briefly why they were there, then quickly closed the gate behind them.

“Get moving,” he shouted at Barbara, who was at the end of the procession of wagons, giving her a shove. At the same time he pointed at the sun, which had just set behind the western part of the city wall. “Soon it will be as dark here as in hell.” He shivered and rubbed his hands together. “Damned autumn nights-the daylight fades faster than you can say amen. ”

“If it makes you shiver so much you shit in your pants, perhaps you should have become a baker and not a watchman,” Kuisl replied with a grin as he passed under the archway, which was much too low for him. “Then you’d already be in bed with your wife, kneading her fat behind.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t shoot off my mouth like that, big fellow. What do you know about this damned city?” The watchman seemed to want to say something else, but then he just shrugged and shuffled up the steep stairway to his room in the guardhouse to begin his regular nightly duties.

Magdalena peered ahead at the dark forms where the first houses began. The last time she’d been in a large city was some years ago in Regensburg. At that time, the sun had been shining, it was midsummer, and the size and splendor of the buildings had nearly taken her breath away. On the other hand, there was something depressing about their arrival in Bamberg. It might have been the time of year; with the arrival of autumn, the nights had suddenly turned cool, and mist was rising from the moors and settling like a heavy blanket over the roofs of the town, first in little wisps, then in larger and larger clouds. The wide road leading up to the gate quickly branched into a labyrinth of unpaved, winding alleys.

With dark fingers, dusk reached out toward the crooked half-timbered houses, so that Magdalena could only imagine the size of the city. It was said that Bamberg, like Rome, was built on seven hills, and in fact Magdalena could see three dark hills in the southwest of the city, with the cathedral, the landmark of the city, standing majestically on the one in the middle. Atop the hill on the right, the outline of a large monastery was visible in the fading light of day, and a bit farther away, engulfed in mist, the ruins of a castle. In front of her, Magdalena could hear the rushing of water in a canal or river. At least the stench here was not as overwhelming as by the city gate.

The many carts and wagons that had just a short while ago been backed up behind the city gate were now clattering toward their destinations, finally disappearing in the growing darkness. While Magdalena wandered through the filthy, stinking alleys with her family, she heard occasional laughter, hasty footsteps, or squeaky wagon wheels, but otherwise everything was quiet. The hangman’s daughter was familiar with such quiet nights in Schongau, but for some reason she had imagined that Bamberg would be livelier and happier. The loneliness in the dark lanes had something oppressive about it, something sinister.

Like in a cemetery, she thought, tying her scarf more tightly. I wonder if the others feel the same way?