Oliver Pötzsch: The Dark Monk

“I can swear to it,” Kuisl said. “I almost thought it was Simon myself. The problem is that the Rottenbuchers believe our medicus had something to do with it, and they want to draw, quarter, and burn him-the sooner, the better.”

Johann Lechner laughed. “Simon Fronwieser a defiler of holy relics? The only thing he defiles are the young maidens in town.” He laughed and shook his head. “What a crazy idea. I’ll send the Rottenbuch superintendent a letter telling him there must be some mistake. That should take care of the matter.”

Reaching for some parchment and his quill, he began to write a short note. Simon smiled furtively at the hangman. Once more, Jakob Kuisl had gotten him out of a jam.

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Simon said, bowing slightly in the clerk’s direction. “Such a regrettable misunderstanding. I don’t know myself how-”

“All right, all right,” the clerk interrupted. “Express your thanks in deeds. We need our physician, after all, to take care of this dreadful fever, don’t we? Since you left, three more people have died. You’re not on very good terms with your father, to put it mildly.”

Simon blushed, remembering that he’d visited neither his father nor little Clara since his arrival.

“You’re right,” he replied in a subdued tone. “I really ought to get right back to work.” He said a hasty good-bye and rushed back to the Schreevogl house on the market square. In this miserable search for the Templars’ treasure, he had completely forgotten about the terrible illness still raging in Schongau. So many people had died while he was out chasing a fantasy. For a while, he’d even forgotten Clara!

After he had knocked a few times at the patrician’s house, Maria Schreevogl opened the door. Her face was pale and she held a rosary in her scrawny fingers. “It’s good you’re here again,” she whispered. “Our Clara is worse again. She hasn’t awakened since yesterday, drinks nothing, and is coughing up red mucus. May God have mercy on her! My husband is upstairs with her now. Ave Maria, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women…”

Without paying any further heed to her prayers, Simon hurried up the stairs and knelt alongside the bed, where Jakob Schreevogl was holding the feverish hand of his stepdaughter. The alderman looked up briefly, then continued wiping the perspiration from Clara’s forehead. The girl’s breathing was shallow and irregular, like a little bird’s, and interrupted occasionally by a dry rattling sound from her mouth.

The physician realized at once that Clara didn’t have long to live if her condition didn’t quickly improve. In recent days, he’d seen the same symptoms in Schongau over and over. Once the patient started spitting blood, it wasn’t long till the trumpets of heaven would be sounding.

“I hope your trip was successful,” Jakob Schreevogl said softly, without turning his eyes from Clara, “even though all the gold in the world means nothing to me now. Clara is so precious to us, and if she dies, a part of me goes with her…”

Simon shook his head. “Our search was a failure. But that’s of no importance anymore. The only important thing is that your daughter gets better. No Templars’ treasure can restore her health, and it appears that I can’t, either. Only God can do that.”

“God!” The patrician closed his eyes. “You sound like my wife! We always depend on God, and then God abandons us! Is there no medicine-perhaps something that hasn’t been tried yet-that can save my Clara?”

“I don’t know of any.” Simon stood up. “Jesuit’s powder might help, but I don’t have any left, and it will be April before the merchant makes his way over the mountain passes from Venice. Perhaps there’s something in Augsburg…” Suddenly, a thought came to him, and he hesitated.

Jesuit’s powder.

Didn’t the hangman say that Magdalena had gone to Augsburg to get herbs and medicine? How could he have forgotten? Perhaps some of the medicines she brought back could help him now!

“Excuse me,” Simon said, standing up from Clara’s bedside. “But I have to check. Perhaps there’s something that can help your daughter, after all.”

Jakob Schreevogl looked at him hopefully. “Then run! Every moment is precious.”

Simon ran back to the market square, where he bumped into Magdalena, who had paid the blacksmith a visit after the meeting with Johann Lechner. Their grumpy old Walli urgently needed new horseshoes after Simon’s escapades.

“Magdalena,” he gasped. “The medicine you were supposed to pick up in Augsburg…Do you still have it?”

The hangman’s daughter looked surprised. “Of course, I even have it with me, but-”

“Then let’s hurry back to my house,” he cried, turning to leave. “I want to have a look and see if there’s anything there for a fever.”

“Simon, wait, I…”

But the physician had already run off down the Weingasse to his father’s house. Clara needed help-at once! Any delay could mean her death. His inability to heal his patients from the fever, plus his guilty conscience at not having been there to help in recent days, came into focus on this one little person. It seemed to him that if he failed Clara, he would never become a doctor worthy of the name. He would be like…

His father?

Bonifaz Fronwieser tore open the front door even before Simon reached it.

“Aha, my noble son back from the country?” he snarled. “People are dying on me like flies while you’ve been away, touring the local monasteries with beautiful ladies.”

Simon opened his mouth to speak, but his father wouldn’t be interrupted.

“Don’t lie to me! This sort of thing gets around fast in a little place like Schongau. First, there was that dissolute hangman’s girl, and then some flighty tramp from Landsberg. You are bringing shame to me and the Fronwieser name!”

Suddenly, Magdalena appeared behind Simon, gasping for air. “Simon, I must tell you something-” she whispered.

But Bonifaz Fronwieser launched right back into his tirade. “And here she is! Speak of the devil! Stop following my son around, do you hear? Right away! We are decent people and want nothing to do with you hangman riffraff.”

“Oh, come on, Father, just shut your goddamned mouth!” Simon blurted out. “I can’t stand your yammering anymore, you old quack!”

Even as he spoke, Simon was startled by his own words. He’d gone too far this time. Bonifaz Fronwieser was stunned as well. Blanching, his mouth fell open. In the houses nearby, people were peering out from behind their shutters. Finally, the gaunt old man pulled himself together, buttoned his coat in silence, then made his way out toward the market square.

Simon knew that his father was no doubt heading to one of the taverns to wash down his anger with a mug of beer. The young physician shook his head as he entered the house. He would never be able to make his father happy, not as a son, and certainly not as a doctor! But that was of no importance now. He had to help Clara-that was all that mattered.

“Quick, Magdalena! Show me what you brought!” Simon hurried toward the living room window, where a big worn table covered with all sorts of mortars and pestles doubled as a pharmacist’s workbench. “Maybe there’s something here we can use. Do you have Jesuit’s powder? Tell me you have it.”

Without saying a word, Magdalena pulled the little linen bag from her jacket and emptied the contents on the table.

Simon studied the damp, whitish-green clump tied together with a string. In addition to the aromas the various herbs gave off, they smelled of decay.

“What…is this?” Simon asked, horrified.

“The herbs I brought with me from Augsburg,” Magdalena replied. “Ergot, artemisia, daphne…I also took a few other herbs, but I don’t know what they are, except that they’re all moldy! I’ve been carrying them under my jacket far too long. I kept trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen!”