Oliver Pötzsch: The Dark Monk

Simon stared mutely at the moldy pile on the table in front of him. The herbs from Augsburg had been his last hope. “It’s…all right, Magdalena,” he finally said. “At least we tried.”

He was about to sweep the damp herbs off the table and onto the floor, when he stopped. He couldn’t disappoint Jakob Schreevogl! Simon had seen the spark of hope in the patrician’s eyes when Simon spoke of a possible cure. If he went back empty-handed now, the Schreevogls would die of grief even before their stepchild. Experience had taught Simon how important it was for sick people and their families to believe in a cure. Faith was sometimes the best medicine.

Often the only one, Simon thought.

And so the physician tossed the moldy seeds into a mortar and ground them into a fine powder.

“What in the world are you doing?” Magdalena asked. “The herbs are spoiled! They can’t do anyone any good now!”

“Clara needs medicine,” the physician murmured, laboriously grinding the seeds with the pestle. “The rest is out of my hands.”

After a while, Simon added honey and yeast to the ground herbs and rolled the mix into little pills that he dried in a small pan over the fire as Magdalena watched, frowning. Finally, the physician placed the medicine in a box of polished cherrywood embossed with an alchemist’s symbol. He closed the little box and said a quiet prayer as he passed his finger over it.

“After all, our medicine has to look impressive, too,” Simon said with a sad smile, as if he’d already been caught in this little deception. “Otherwise, it won’t work.”

Magdalena shook her head. “Medicine from moldy herbs! Who ever heard of anything like that? Just don’t let my father hear of it.” Then she suddenly kissed him on the cheek. “And don’t let your father know about this, either.”

A warm feeling passed through him from deep inside, extending right out to the roots of his hair. He would love this woman forever, no matter what their two fathers and all the people in Schongau thought of it! Tenderly, he passed his hand through her hair and pulled her to him. She smelled of sweat and ash.

But Magdalena pushed him away. “I don’t believe our beloved physician has time for that sort of thing now.” She broke into a broad smile. “But he can come to my window and visit me tonight…”

Simon sighed and nodded with resignation. One last time, he passed his hand through Magdalena’s hair, then stuffed the cherrywood box in his coat pocket and headed straight for the Schreevogls, who were anxiously awaiting his return.

“My husband already told me about your miracle drug!” exclaimed Maria Schreevogl, standing at the door with the rosary still in her hand. “Praise be to God! Perhaps there is hope, after all!”

“I can’t promise you it will work,” Simon protested. “It’s a…new, very costly medicine from China. The doctors there are very knowledgeable. They call it…uh…mold that grows on herbs.”

“Mold that grows on herbs?” The patrician woman looked at him, confused.

“I myself prefer the term fungus herbarum, ” Simon quickly added.

Maria Schreevogl nodded. “I like that better. It sounds more like medicine.”

Taking several steps at a time, the physician hurried to the top floor. In Clara’s room, Jakob Schreevogl was still kneeling by the bed, just as Simon had left him, his face almost as gray and haggard as his stepdaughter’s.

“Do you have the medicine?” the alderman asked softly.

Simon nodded, carefully opening the little box and placing three little pills in Clara’s mouth. Her lips were narrow and hard as leather, and her mouth was dry. Then he gave her something to drink from a cup and tenderly passed his hand over her sweaty brow.

“There’s nothing more I can do,” he whispered.

Jakob Schreevogl nodded humbly and closed his eyes. It seemed to Simon that the alderman had aged years in the last few hours. Fine gray strands appeared in his otherwise blond hair and wrinkles framed his narrow lips.

Suddenly the physician fell to his knees alongside the patrician and folded his hands. “Let us pray,” he said softly.

First haltingly, then in firmer voices as the words came back to them, they murmured the words of consolation they had both learned as children.

“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters…”

It was the first time Simon had prayed in a long time. He’d never been an especially devout person, but he was suddenly seized by a longing-something in him wanted to believe. God had allowed so many terrible things to happen, and the horror had to end sometime!

O, God, if you really exist, help this poor little girl…If you let her live, I will make a pilgrimage to the black madonna in Altötting, barefoot, in the winter!

After a while, when the physician looked up at Clara again, he thought he saw a slight smile on her lips. Her breathing seemed easier and regular, and her eyelids were no longer fluttering. He stopped praying, leaned over the bed, and felt her pulse.

It was quiet and slow, just like that of a healthy sleeping girl.

This isn’t possible…is it?

Only now did Simon notice an object on the bare wall in front of him-an object so ordinary it hadn’t attracted his attention until now, almost as if it hadn’t been there before.

Over Clara’s bed hung a plain, small wooden cross.

IT WAS THEsecond of February in the year 1660. The bells of the Altenstadt basilica resounded through the countryside around Schongau as people streamed into the large church to celebrate Candlemas. In the Schongau market square, booths had already been set up with fat sausages frying over charcoal fires, roasting chestnuts, and long white candles awaiting consecration. Even a group of acrobats from Munich was on hand.

According to tradition, Candlemas signaled the end of winter, and people came from miles around to celebrate mass in the largest church in the area. Even though it was bitter cold in the basilica, the people in their Sunday best-clean, colorful clothes-looked happier and more lighthearted than they were just a few days ago.

This was, to a large extent, because the dreaded fever that had been plaguing the town for so long finally seemed to have passed. On every street corner, people were talking about the young Schongau physician and his miracle drug, fungus herbarum -or as some said in an undertone, the China Mold. The physician gave all his patients the little round pills from that distant land, and in a short time they’d all recovered! Since then, people doffed their hats and greeted Fronwieser’s son with respect on the street. Only a few still grumbled about his love affair with the hangman’s daughter down in the Tanners’ Quarter. Indeed, some aldermen even wondered whether Fronwieser might be a good match for their young daughters, now that he seemed prepared to follow in the footsteps of his father and would surely become a rich and respected doctor. He looked impressive in his tailored jackets from Augsburg and with his perfectly trimmed Vandyke beard. One could learn to overlook his small stature and lower-class origins…

Simon sat in one of the rear pews of the Altenstadt basilica, glancing over the shoulders of the aldermen and their families, who had taken their seats in front. Among them were the Schreevogls, including Clara, who had now completely recovered. Not far from them, a great wooden cross hung over the altar. For hundreds of years, the Great God of Altenstadt had looked down benevolently on churchgoers. The physician enjoyed listening as his voice merged with those of all the others in the congregation, swelling into a single mighty voice reciting the Lord’s Prayer.