The Hangman's Daughter (36 page)

“For you I don’t need more than that,” he said. “When I’m through with you, not even your mother will recognize you. If indeed you ever had one.”

He continued smiling, but inside Jakob Kuisl was cursing. What an ox he had been! He had shown the soldier the way to the children! Hadn’t it been obvious that the devil would follow him? Like perfect fools, they had fallen into his trap!

From the corner of his eye, he tried to make out the tunnel behind him. The devil was right. He wouldn’t have a chance against a man with a saber, if only because of the greater reach. Besides, the man in front of him was an experienced fighter. From his movements alone and the manner in which he swung his saber in a circle, Jakob Kuisl could see that he was facing at least an equal adversary. The soldier’s slight limp did not seem to affect him in any way. The disability probably only became a nuisance on longer marches. In any case the man in front of him was dangerous and itching for a fight.

Jakob Kuisl thought over all the possibilities left him. Retreat was out of the question. He could not flee through the narrow tunnel toward the well without being first cut to pieces by the devil. The only hope left was if Simon became aware of the fight soon enough and came to his aid. Until then he had to stall for time.

“Well, come on, or are you only brave against women and children?” Jakob Kuisl shouted, loud enough so that he could assume that Simon would hear him. Once more he glanced toward the way out.

The devil grimaced, feigning pity.

“Oh, you are hoping that help will come?” he asked. “Believe me, these passages branch out in so many directions and are so deep that your shouting only reaches as far as the nearest wall. I know burrows like these. I smoked out a number of them during the war. When the peasants came staggering out of them half choked to death, I was able to kill them off without any trouble. And as far as the physician is concerned…”

He pointed at the waist-high, narrow exit.

“It would be nice if he came. As soon as he sticks out his head I’ll chop it off like that of a chicken.”

“Devil, I swear to you, I’ll break every one of your bones if you so much as harm one hair on Simon’s or my Magdalena’s head,” whispered the hangman.

“Oh, yes, of course you can do that. After all it’s your profession, isn’t it?” said the soldier. “But don’t worry, I’m saving your daughter for later. Although…I don’t know what my friends are doing with her at this very moment. It’s been a long time since they had a woman, you know? That renders them a bit…disorderly.”

Anger was building in Jakob Kuisl’s head. Rage was rising, immense rage.

I must pull myself together. He wants me to lose control.

He took a few deep breaths. The rage ebbed back to his innermost being, but it was not completely extinguished. Carefully the hangman took a few steps back, trying to cover the exit with his body while he continued to speak. If Simon crept out of the tunnel, the devil would have to get past him first. And then? A skinny student and an old man with a club against a well-trained, armed soldier. He needed time to think.

“I…I know you,” he said. “We have met once before, that time in Magdeburg.”

Brief hesitation flared up in the devil’s eyes. His face seemed to become distorted, just as earlier in Jakob Kuisl’s garden.

“In Magdeburg? What was your business in Magdeburg?” he finally asked.

The hangman swung his club in a circle.

“I was a soldier…just like you,” he said. His voice was getting hoarse. “I’ll never forget the day. It was on May 20, 1631, that we entered the city with Tilly. The old man had declared early that morning that everyone in Magdeburg was fair game…”

The devil nodded.

“That’s right. So you were actually there too. Well, then, we indeed have something in common. How nice. Unfortunately I can’t remember you at all.”

Then recognition flashed across his face.

“You are…the man on the street! The house at the city wall…Now I remember!”

The hangman closed his eyes for the briefest instant. The memory was there again. That which had only been vague and fragmentary earlier in the garden in front of his home was taking on form now. The images rained down on him like hailstones in a summer thunderstorm.

Cannon fire…A breach in the wall. Screaming women and children running along the street. Some trip. The soldiers quickly grab them and cut everything to pieces with their sabers. Blood is running in streams down the street so that people shriek as they slip and fall. To the left is a patrician house from which crying and shrill screams are rising. The roof and the upper floor are already in flames. A man is standing in the open door, holding an infant head-down by its legs like a little lamb about to be slaughtered. The baby is screaming so loud that his cries rise above the cannon fire, the soldiers’ laughter, the crackling of the fire. On the ground, a man lies in his blood. A woman crawls on her knees before the soldier and pulls on his doublet.

“Your money, where’s your goddamn money, you heretic sow, speak up!”

The woman can only weep and shake her head. The baby screams and screams. And then the man lifts the writhing child higher and flings it against the doorjamb. Once, twice, three times. The screaming stops. A blow of the saber and the woman falls sideways. The soldier looks over to the other side of the street. Madness flickers in his eyes. A mocking light, his mouth twitching, convulsed. He raises his hand and waves. The hand is white, crooked bony fingers inviting others to share in the great blood frenzy. Then the man disappears inside the house.

From above, screams can be heard. You’re running after him, jumping over man, woman, and infant, up the burning stairs, it’s the room on the left. The soldier is standing before a young girl. She lies on a table among broken dishes and shattered wine carafes, her bloodied dress pulled up to her knees. The soldier smiles at you and makes an inviting gesture. The girl stares up with horror-widened eyes. You reach for your saber and you lunge at the man. But he ducks and runs out on the balcony. As you rush toward him he jumps down the ten feet to the street. He lands the wrong way and rolls over. Then he limps into a side street. Before disappearing he points at you with his bony hand as if he wants to nail you down with his fingers.

A hissing sound.

Jakob Kuisl’s remembrances were interrupted suddenly; the devil swung his saber straight down toward the top of his head. At the last moment the hangman was able to jump to one side, but the blow grazed his left shoulder. He felt a dull pain. Jakob Kuisl staggered back against the wall. The devil’s face, distorted by hate, glowed in the torch’s light. The long scar going from his ear to the corner of his mouth twitched nervously.

“That was you, hangman! You are the one who gave me that crooked leg. It’s because of you that I’m limping! I swear to you, your death will be painful. At least as painful as your daughter’s!”

The soldier had gone back to where he was at the beginning, standing in the center of the chamber and waiting for his adversary’s next opening. Cursing, Jakob Kuisl rubbed the wound on his shoulder. His hand was smeared with blood. He quickly wiped it on his coat and concentrated once more on the soldier. In the light of the lantern he was hard to see. Only his foe’s torch gave Kuisl an indication as to where he should strike. He feigned an attack to the right, then whirled to the left, throwing himself against the devil. The soldier took a sudden step to one side and let the hangman stumble past him, over to the wall. At the last moment Kuisl lifted his club. The hard larchwood did not hit his opponent at the back of the head as planned, but at least on the shoulder blade. Crying out in pain, the devil jumped back until he, too, was leaning against the wall. Panting, they were now facing each other, leaning against the wall, looking at each other with icy stares.

“You’re not bad, hangman,” said the devil between two breaths. “But I knew as much. Even back in Magdeburg I saw an equal opponent in you. Your agony will amuse me. I have heard that in the West Indies the savages eat the brains of their strongest enemies in order to acquire their strength. I think I’ll do that with you.”

Without any forewarning he jumped directly toward Jakob Kuisl. The saber whirled through the air, aimed directly at his throat. Instinctively the hangman lifted his club, deflecting the blade to one side. The larchwood split, but it did not break.

Jakob Kuisl rammed his elbow into the devil’s stomach, causing him to gasp with sudden alarm, then he ran over to the opposite wall. They had changed sides. Shadows were dancing across the walls, lantern and torch bathed the chamber in a reddish, flickering glow.

The soldier moved about, groaning in an almost lascivious way and holding his sword hand across his belly. Nevertheless he never for a second let the hangman out of his sight. Kuisl used the pause to look after his wound. There was a large gash in his doublet near his shoulder and blood was spurting out. Nevertheless the wound did not appear to be deep. Kuisl made a fist and moved his shoulder until he felt a stabbing pain. Pain was good; it meant that his arm was still working.

Only now did Jakob Kuisl have time to get a closer look at the bony hand of his opponent that had once caught his attention in Magdeburg. It actually seemed to consist of individual finger bones connected to one another with copper wire. On the inside was a metal ring. The devil had stuck the burning torch into this ring, where it was now swinging slowly from side to side. The hangman figured that other objects could also be attached to that ring. From the war he was familiar with different prostheses, most of them carved rather roughly out of wood. He had never seen a mechanical bone hand like this one.

The devil appeared to have noticed Kuisl’s stare.

“You like my little hand, eh?” he asked swinging the hand and torch back and forth. “I like it too. These are my own bones, you know? A musket ball shattered my left arm. When the wound became gangrenous they had to cut off my hand. I had them make me this pretty souvenir from the bones. As you can see, it perfectly serves its purpose.”

He held the hand up so that the light of the torch illuminated his pale face. The hangman remembered how the soldier had hidden earlier in the ceiling of the shaft. Only now did he realize that the man must have pulled himself up with nothing but his one healthy hand! What power lay in that body? Kuisl felt that he did not have the slightest chance. But damn it, where was Simon?

To gain time he continued his questioning.

“So you were told to mess up the building site, weren’t you? But the children saw you doing it, and that’s why they had to die.”

The devil shook his head.

“Not quite, hangman. The children had bad luck. They had been hiding down here when we received our instructions and the first portion of our money. Moneybags was afraid they might have recognized him. He gave us the order to make sure they would never talk.”

The hangman winced.

So the children had known the devil’s employer, the patron! They knew who was behind all of it!

No wonder they didn’t dare return to town. It must have been a very powerful man, someone they knew and someone they knew people would be more inclined to believe than themselves. Someone whose reputation was at stake.

Time. He needed more time.

“The fire at the Stadel, that was pure diversion wasn’t it?” he said. “Your friends set the fire while you slipped into town to steal away Clara…”

The devil shrugged.

“How could I have gotten to her otherwise? I kept my ears open. The boys were easy. After all the little rascals were hanging around outside. And sooner or later I would have caught that redheaded girl too. But little Clara was sick. She had caught a cold while snooping around, poor darling, and she had to stay inside…”

He shook his head compassionately before continuing.

“And so I had to figure out a way to make sure the dear Schreevogl family would leave their foster child alone at home. It was clear that this patrician had goods stored down in the Stadel. And when it burned, he and his servants came running immediately just as I expected. Unfortunately the little brat still got away from me, but now I’m going to get her. That is…as soon as I’m finished with you.”

He feinted a move with his saber but remained standing where he was, as if trying to seek out his opponent’s weak point.

“And the witches’ marks? What are those all about?” asked Kuisl, speaking slowly and without leaving his post in front of the exit. He had to keep the other fellow entertained. Talk, continue to talk until Simon finally came to his aid.

A shadow of confusion passed over the devil’s face.

“Witches’ marks? What damn witches’ marks? Don’t talk nonsense, hangman.”

The hangman was taken aback but did not let it show. Could it be that the soldiers had nothing to do with the marks? Had they been following the wrong track all this time? Did the Stechlin woman practice some witchcraft after all with these children?

Did the midwife lie to him?

Still, Jakob Kuisl continued to ask questions.

“The children had a mark on their shoulders. A mark just like the ones witches wear. Did you paint that on?”

There was a brief moment of silence. Then the devil burst out in shrill laughter.

“Now I understand!” he cried. “So that’s why you locked up the witch! That’s why you all thought there was witchcraft involved! What a bunch of stupid moneybags you are in the end! Ha! The witch burns, and all is well once more. Amen. Three paternosters on top of it. Why, we couldn’t have concocted anything better than that!”

The hangman thought frantically. Somewhere they had gone wrong. He had the feeling that the solution was very close. Just one more piece of the mosaic, and everything would fit together.

But which piece?

He had other problems for the moment. Where was Simon? Had something happened to him? Was he lost?

“If I am going to go to hell anyway,” he continued, “why not tell me who employed you?”

The devil laughed again.