The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (55 page)

“Believe me, I don’t really want you to die,” the watchmaker said. “Just as I didn’t really want the death of the others, either; but each time it was unavoidable. Tell me yourself: how can I take a paralyzed person with me? My servant will have his hands full carrying my beloved Aurora.”

Humming softly he removed a small chest from one of the shelves that was still intact and spread a white powder on the floor.

“I hope you understand that I must destroy these passageways,” Virgilius continued. “My knowledge mustn’t fall into the wrong hands, and certainly not those of this stupid, narrow-minded prior who people say will soon be replacing my brother
as abbot. I’ve always produced this phosphorus powder with the thought it could someday cleanse everything here in a great conflagration.”

Simon struggled in vain to rise. By now he no longer cared whether Virgilius became suspicious. If he didn’t move soon, both he and his children would be consumed here in a truly apocalyptic sea of fire. Simon had seen what the phosphorus did to Vitalis, Laurentius, and the corpse of the monk in the cemetery. The powder already spread on the ground would be enough to turn the room into one huge fireball. Desperately, Simon looked over at Peter and Paul, who had begun to cry again. Virgilius followed Simon’s gaze and passed his hand through his thinning hair contemplatively.

“Ah, yes, the children,” he said sadly. “Hm, what shall we do with the children? I am an old, hunchbacked man and I’m sure you understand I can’t carry the two of them through the passageways. But perhaps one of them?” He smiled slyly. “You tell me—which of the boys shall I take with me? The little one or the big one?”

Once again Simon tried to reply in a croaking voice, but Virgilius interrupted him with an angry wave of his hand. “I have no more time for your babble. I’ll take the little one along; he’s lighter. The older one can accompany his father on his last voyage.”

The monk pulled a cookie out of his robe and beckoned to Paul. Trustingly the two-year-old crawled to Virgilius, reached for the cookie, and let the hunchbacked old man pick him up. “Very well,” Virgilius purred, stroking Paul’s tousled hair as the child stuffed the treat in his mouth. “I’ve got even more sweets where that came from. Shall we have the woman sing again?”

Simon watched in horror as Virgilius rocked the boy in his arms. The child was delighted by the singing automaton, which the watchmaker had just wound up again. After a while, heavy steps could be heard approaching in the corridor.

“Ah, my servant,” Virgilius said with relief, pulling a lever on the back of the automaton that made it suddenly fall silent. “Enough dancing. I thought we’d never leave.” Abruptly he raised his finger, then turned to Peter. “You’ll be good and stay with your father, won’t you? He needs you now. Do you understand? You won’t leave.”

The three-year-old boy nodded earnestly as he held his father’s wet, cold fingers firmly in his little hand

“Wonderful. Then let’s go now, but first my helper and I have to do just a few things.”

Virgilius turned toward the exit where a figure drenched from the heavy rain had just appeared. His clothing was steaming in the warmth of the cave, and with the back of his broad, hairy hands he wiped the rain from his face. When Simon finally recognized him, he quivered like a fish out of water, but he could only watch helplessly as his sons opened their arms to the new arrival, greeting him with shrieks of delight.

“See, I always knew my servant had a heart of gold,” Virgilius said. “Sometimes it’s even an advantage to lack a tongue, to not be able to talk back.”

Gasping, Simon stretched out his hand toward the man, but his arm fell limply to the ground.

Standing in the darkness of the cave was the mute Matthias.

Cautiously, Magdalena slipped into the dark hole while the two guards followed, grumbling softly.

It was clear the men could think of better things to do than to descend into the utter darkness beneath the former Andechs castle. Cursing under their breath, they jumped down onto the stones the hangman had piled up there just half an hour before. They lit up the end of the tunnel with their torches and stared anxiously into the darkness in front of them.

“We have to go back quite a way,” Magdalena said, brushing the dirt from her hair. “Farther ahead, another corridor branches
off that I haven’t explored yet. Quickly now; we have no time to lose.”

“I can’t believe we’re taking orders from a dishonorable hangman’s daughter,” the older soldier complained. He appeared to be sweating profusely under a beaten helmet and an equally battered cuirass.

“You’re right, Hans,” the other agreed. “How did it ever come to this, crawling around down here like rats in this filth? Did you raise your skirt for the count?”

“Should I repeat that to His Excellency, or would you rather tell him yourself?” Magdalena responded coolly.

“God forbid. I… I…” the guard stammered.

“Good. Then we can get moving.” Magdalena took the torch from the hands of the astonished soldier and trudged on ahead. Cursing softly, the two guards followed while the hangman’s daughter tried to hold back her tears and her anger.

It was hard for Magdalena to rein in her emotions. Her heart pounded as she thought about what this sorcerer might have done to her children and her husband, but she had learned from her father that it was sometimes necessary to control one’s feelings to reach a desired goal. If she cried and complained now, the men wouldn’t follow her. They might take a few steps into the passageway, so as not to disobey their superior’s orders, but then quickly return to the surface. So whether she wanted to or not, she would have to keep control of herself.

After they had groped through the darkness for several minutes, the odor of rot and urine grew stronger. The older guard turned up his nose in disgust.

“It stinks here like the devil’s latrine,” one of them growled. “Good God, what is that?”

“It
is
the devil’s latrine,” Magdalena said. “But we mustn’t worry about that. All we have to do is—”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The young guard stopped suddenly, his mouth open wide as he pointed at the light green glimmer
in front of them. “Look for yourself. Ghosts! They’re luring us to our doom. By all the saints, let’s turn around at once.”

Angry at herself for having forgotten the shining phosphorus in the old latrine, Magdalena closed her eyes. She should have prepared the men for this. Now they seemed ready to dash off frantically.

“Ah, that’s a little hard to explain,” she began. “But they aren’t ghosts, they’re only…”

“The dead—who find no rest,” Hans wailed, crossing himself and pounding loudly on his cuirass. “What sort of hellish place have you lured us into, hangman’s daughter?”

“Damn! Listen to me. My father explained it all to me. It’s a powder that…”

“Look over there! It’s coming from that room,” the young guard wailed, pointing at the passage leading to the latrine. “And do you hear that? That music? By God, the dead are having a dance.”

In fact, the automaton’s familiar melody could be heard far off. Magdalena’s heart beat faster. Evidently Virgilius was still down here with his automaton. Were her children and husband down here with him? Listening closely, she tried to make out where the music was coming from—it seemed not to be coming from the adjacent latrine, but from somewhere in front of them, from another passage. She thought she could hear another soft noise now, as well.

The wailing of children.

With a trembling voice, she turned to the guards. “Do you hear that? We’re getting closer. Let’s move along as fast as we can…”

But the passage behind her was empty. The guards had already turned around and were running back toward the keep. All she could hear now was the sound of their running feet echoing through the darkness.

“I’ll tell the count about this, you superstitious cowards,” she cried after them. “My father will whip you for this until you see stars of every color. He’ll…”

With a sigh she fell silent and continued trudging through the passageway alone, always listening for the barely audible music and the whimpering children. More than once she cursed the two guards who had abandoned her so shamefully. It looked now as if she was on her own, and the very thought of that made her shudder. She could probably handle Virgilius by herself, but how about the helper the crazy woman had spoken of? Was he down here somewhere, as well?

Magdalena wrapped her shawl around her neck and tried not to tremble. At least she still had one of the soldiers’ torches, which would give her about another half-hour of light. She didn’t want to think what would happen after that. Only fear for her children and her husband drove her on.

She stopped for a moment and listened intently. Had she just imagined the crying? She picked up her pace, stumbled several times, got up again, gasping, and groped her way down the corridor littered with stones, beams, and scattered bones.

After a while, it seemed that a green glow was coming from the floor of the tunnel, as well. Traces of the white powder that she and her father had seen only in the former latrine appeared here, as well, though she couldn’t remember seeing it in the passageway before. Still, she was in too much of a hurry to attach any great significance to this discovery.

After what seemed like an eternity, she came to the branch in the tunnel where they’d previously decided to turn right. She closed her eyes and tried to listen for the soft sound of the music and the crying children, but was distressed now to find she could hear nothing.

All around her, the silence was almost palpable, interrupted only by drops of water falling from the ceiling.

She swallowed hard, then decided to throw all caution to the wind and call out. “Peter? Paul? Are you here somewhere? Can you hear me?”

At first the only response was the soft sound of dripping water, but all of a sudden she heard something in the second passageway that she didn’t recognize at first. It sounded like the distant growling of a bear; it was a while before she realized it was someone moaning. A moment later she heard a voice that brought tears to her eyes.

“Mama? Mama? Where are you?”

“My God, Peter!” She raced frantically down the passageway while she could hear footsteps receding in the darkness in front of her. She thought she could see a few shadowy figures far off, but they’d soon vanished.

“Peter!” she shouted. “Is it you?”

“Mama, over here! Here I am!”

The voice of her older son didn’t come from where she’d seen the shadowy figures but from somewhere behind the wall. As she rounded another turn, she saw a round entrance on her left framed by large blocks of stone. The moaning was now close at hand, interrupted only by the wailing of her child. She stumbled through the portal to enter a low vault filled with a splendid four-poster canopy bed, a chest decorated with roses and ornaments, and a dressing table—all furniture like that owned by noble ladies in Augsburg and Munich. The cavelike room, covered with dirt and the soot from the torches, looked like a perverse parody of a ladies’ boudoir.

What in heaven’s name have I stumbled across here?
she thought.
Is this the automaton’s bedroom? Virgilius must have loved this automaton more than anyone could imagine.

Frantically she looked around. On the other side of the vault, a second passageway led to another room from which the crying and moaning were coming.

“Peter! Simon, Paul! Where are you?”

Her heart pounding, she entered the second vault—and let out a loud shriek.

The room looked as if it had been vandalized by an angry devil.

Shelves had been knocked down and the floor was strewn with curious apparatuses, broken horns, stones, and bits of bone. Some traces of greenish phosphorus glimmered in the torchlight, and in some places, there were even large piles of it. On a kind of black altar stood a tiny stump of a flickering candle that cast bizarre, dancing shadows on the wall behind.

But all this was only of passing interest to Magdalena. In the far right corner of the room, her husband lay on the floor, his once so fashionable tailored jacket torn to shreds and his face deathly pale and contorted. Alongside him stood Peter, who came running to his mother now with open arms. His clothes were filthy, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.

“Oh God, Peter,” Magdalena exclaimed, taking her boy in her arms. “I… I was so worried about you. Where is your brother? And what has this crazy man done to your father?”

She set the boy down and turned to Simon, who lay in a strangely contorted position on the bare stone floor, his whole body twitching. He turned his head toward her and struggled to speak, but Magdalena couldn’t understand a word that came out of his mouth.

“Annal,”
he mumbled again and again.
“Annal…”

As she bent down to him and stroked his sweaty brow, his eyes rolled wildly and his fingers splayed out like cat’s claws. The entire rest of his body seemed paralyzed.

As she looked at Simon, she couldn’t help thinking of a young Schongau farm lad whom her father had tried to cure many years ago. The strapping young man, who had scratched himself on a rusty nail, was overcome by a strange paralysis—
just like Simon now—and shortly later suffered a seizure and died. Magdalena’s father had been unable to help him. Did the same fate await her husband?

“My God, Simon,” she cried, “what did this madman do to you? And where is Paul? Please say something. I don’t know what to do.”

“Annal, annal,”
was all he could say. Still Magdalena had no idea what that might mean. In her despair, she finally turned to her three-year-old son.

“Peter, can you tell me what happened to Paul?”

The boy nodded eagerly. “Paul is playing with Matthias,” he said cheerfully.

“With… Matthias?” Magdalena gasped in horror. “But… but does that mean…”

“Matthias and Paul left with the bad man,” he exclaimed. “The man said I had to stay here and keep an eye on Papa.”

“That’s… that’s very good,” she stammered. “You’re a good boy, a really good boy.”