The Werewolf of Bamberg (15 page)

“William Shakes . . . Shakespeare,” she said, looking puzzled as she deciphered the writing. Then her face brightened. “Ah, Shakespeare! Is that the fellow Malcolm’s playwright Markus thought so highly of? Do you read plays?”

The old man smiled. “I actually bought a few of them just last year from a traveling book salesman. They are especially popular translations into German, published here for the first time under the name William Shakespeare. This Shakespeare is a celebrity in England, though all that anyone knows about him here are his plays. But I’m afraid they don’t appeal to me—there’s too much blood and heartache, and no numbers or balance sheets at all. You’re welcome to visit me and have a look . . .” He hesitated and regarded Barbara, puzzled. “But can you read—I mean more than just a few letters?”

“As you probably heard earlier, we come from a hangman’s family,” Magdalena explained. “We have to read. After all, we deal with medicines, and much of our knowledge is found only in books.”

Jeremias nodded and, for a moment, seemed surprised. “I see. Well, if you come from a hangman’s family, you must know how it feels when people go out of the way to avoid you.” He pointed at the books. “I taught myself how to read. It’s a consolation during all those lonely hours. Very well . . .” He clapped his hands, and Magdalena saw that they were also scarred. “I’m afraid I have to take care of some wine that’s being delivered. The wagon is no doubt standing outside the door.” He smiled as he turned to Barbara. “And, young lady, my offer stands. If you want to read theater pieces, you are always welcome here. Biff likes you, and I rely on his judgment.”

The little dog ran to its master, jumped up, and barked as Jeremias petted him. Barbara curtsied, then turned to run after Magdalena, who had already stepped out into the yard.

“That poor fellow,” said Barbara after they were back at the harbor. “He really does look like a monster.”

Magdalena shrugged. “The nicest people can look like beasts, and the evilest of people sometimes have the faces of angels. Never rely on outward appearances.” She picked up her pace. “And now let’s get home quickly, before the rascally boys drive good Aunt Katharina completely out of her mind.”

The next day, when Simon knocked on the door of the Bamberg city physician, it took only a few moments for the door to open. Once again, it was the haggard old housekeeper, but in contrast to their first meeting, this time she was noticeably friendlier.

“Ah, the old friend from the university,” she said in a saccharine voice. “Excuse me—but if I had known . . .”

“Of course.” Simon pushed past her into the house. “Where can I find the doctor?”

“He . . . he’s over in his study. Follow me.”

They walked down a freshly plastered hallway. On his right, he got a brief glimpse into a room furnished with exquisite chests of drawers and stools. The walls were decorated with splendid tapestries, and though it was just after noon, a cheerful fire was already burning on the hearth. Simon sighed softly to himself. He wondered again if he might have enjoyed such comforts if he hadn’t broken off his studies in Ingolstadt.

But then I probably would never have met Magdalena, and I’d be married now to the daughter of some boring Munich burgher who would spend the whole day nagging me and trying to stop me from reading.

All morning he’d been looking through Bartholomäus’s little home library, which, except for a few writings on veterinary medicine, contained nothing of interest. Simon’s greatest joy had been helping his son Peter learn to read, and the five-year-old had made astonishing progress. Little Paul, meanwhile, had gutted fish with Katharina for supper, and working with a knife seemed to be in his blood. Magdalena and Barbara were now probably at the theater performance they’d looked forward to so much, the children were playing with Katharina in the hangman’s room, and Simon could finally pay the visit to Samuel that he’d promised the day before.

The housekeeper knocked quietly on a door at the end of the hallway, and Samuel answered, smiling broadly.

“Ah, Simon, I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, greeting his friend with a firm handshake. “Do come in.” He turned to the elderly housekeeper. “And Magda, please, no more patients today.”

The housekeeper nodded silently, then walked away with a majestic bearing, leaving the two men alone.

Simon looked all around the room, impressed. The walls were lined with bookshelves on three sides, filled with books right up to the ceiling. Heavy books, notebooks, and rolls of parchment were piled on the floor and on a side table, as well. Simon felt jealousy welling up inside him. The Schongau bathhouse owner loved books above everything else. What he wouldn’t have given to someday have a library like this.

“I’m sorry things are such a mess here, but I’ve spent half the morning trying to learn more about this accursed werewolf,” Simon said. “We need to be well prepared, after all, when we attend the bishop’s council,” he added with a smirk.

“We?” Simon looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean,
we
?”

“Well, perhaps you remember. You are no less than Doctor Simon Fronwieser, the learned physician from Munich, an experienced and well-traveled gentleman—as I described you again yesterday to the prince-bishop.” Samuel grinned from ear to ear. “I’ve urged His Excellency to invite you to the meeting of the council.”

Simon shook his head. Suddenly it felt terribly hot in the stuffy room. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. If they find out that—”

“Oh, how would they learn about that?” Samuel interrupted. “Munich is very far away. Besides, I really value your curiosity and insights, Simon. Come on.” Samuel looked at his friend, pleading. “You can’t leave me alone with that gang of superstitious priests. Anyway, I have a little surprise for you.” Bowing like a magician at a carnival, he reached behind the books on the table and pulled out a little silver box. When he removed the cover, a tantalizing odor spread through the room.

“I hope you still like coffee the way you did during our time at the university,” Samuel said, pouring them each a cup. “This is a very special aromatic blend from Turkey. I order it at sinfully expensive prices directly from Genoa. It will help us to separate pure superstition from crystal-clear logic.” He grinned. “Maybe I should bring a little packet of it to the pious suffragan bishop.”

Hesitantly Simon raised the cup to his nose and sniffed. The fragrance was divine. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

“This is pure and simple bribery. You really know how to make a case, Samuel.” Simon made a dour face, but inwardly he was thrilled by the chance to take part in the meetings of the council and eager to see what proof the members of this commission would offer for the existence of a werewolf.

But I’ll be sure to keep my damned mouth closed,
he resolved,
so no one gets it into their head to learn more about the world traveler and scholar Doctor Fronwieser. If I don’t watch out, I’ll be hanged by the brother of my father-in-law for fraud.

Simon tasted the bitter brew, and almost at once he felt the stimulating effect. This coffee was incomparably better than the dried beans he’d bought in the market the day before.

“Really excellent,” he acknowledged. “Bitter, as it should be. Though I often wonder if something creamy or sweet might be used to balance the bitterness—warm milk, for example, or that expensive sugar from the West Indies, the way the Arabs are said to drink it.”

Samuel laughed. “You haven’t changed. Never content, always looking! That’s exactly what these crusty old councilors need!”

The steam from the coffeepot spread through the room, and soon the two friends were talking about old times. Simon told about his life as a medicus and bathhouse owner in Schongau and his marriage to Magdalena, which had cost him his standing in society.

“Believe me, Simon, a high social standing can also be a prison.” With a sigh, Samuel took another sip of coffee. “Count yourself lucky that you were able to start a family and have a wife at your side who loves you. Look at me.” He pointed at all the costly books on the shelves and the expensive furniture around them. “What good is all the money if the only woman in this house is a withered old housekeeper who jealously observes the few rendezvous I have? I’m almost afraid I’ll never find the right woman.” He waved his hand. “But enough complaining. I’m afraid it’s time to talk about a much more serious topic.” He set down his cup and reached for one of the books on the side table. It was bound in leather; the text was not printed but handwritten in a flowing script, with colorful pictures and drawings. The city doctor flipped to a page in the back, where a number of headless men were drawn, each with a face in the middle of his abdomen. Other figures had duck beaks instead of mouths, or colorful, shimmering fish tails instead of feet.

“Megenberg’s
Book of Nature
,” he explained. “For hundreds of years the standard work about all living things. You are no doubt familiar with it. Konrad von Megenberg devotes one chapter completely to animal men, or human animals—and he mentions the werewolf, though his description is very vague.” He turned to another page showing a wolf standing erect while it was eating a child. Only the poor child’s feet protruded from the wolf’s mouth. Simon couldn’t suppress a shudder.

“There have no doubt been stories about werewolves for as long as there have been people to tell them,” Samuel continued. “I’ve read about them in German legends. The Roman historian Pliny the Elder also mentions such wolf-men. They are always hybrid creatures imbued with enormous strength because of a pact they have made with the devil, and they kill sheep and cattle, just as wolves do. In their wolflike form they cannot control themselves—they keep killing and devouring their prey and are practically invincible.”

“Practically?” Simon asked, curious. “So it is possible to defeat them?”

Samuel shrugged. “Well, it is said that a potion made from the highly poisonous wolfsbane flower, commonly called monk’s hood, can kill them. Others swear by silver bullets. It is safest to completely burn their bodies.” He snorted disapprovingly. “I suspect this is the method Suffragan Bishop Harsee would prefer. He can cite as his authority
The Hammer of Witches
and a few more recent writings. Scholars, however, are not in complete agreement whether the werewolf is truly transformed or if the change is just a perfidious illusion. On the other hand, no one denies their existence. To dismiss it as nonsense would be tantamount to blasphemy.”

Simon looked again at the drawing of the wolf-man devouring the child and shook his head.

“Do you think there really are such creatures?” he asked. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen a werewolf, a real witch, or a sorcerer, even though most scholars are convinced they exist.”

Samuel grinned. “Interestingly enough, a few hundred years ago, people were put to the stake for saying witches and sorcerers
did
exist. Times have changed. But have they really, as far as the werewolf is concerned?” He walked to the bookshelf and took out a little book, which he handed to Simon. It contained a number of old, crudely drawn engravings, among them a wolf on its hind legs attacking a child. Other illustrations showed a chase with hunting dogs, a trial, and finally an execution, in which the head of a wild-looking old man was chopped off while he was tied to a wheel. Simon put the book down with disgust.

“That’s the execution of Peter Stump,” Samuel explained, sipping contentedly on his coffee. “Years ago you could buy this print at any fair for a few kreuzers. Almost a hundred years ago, in the vicinity of Cologne, they say Stump killed two pregnant women and thirteen small children. He ate the brain of his own son before he was finally caught and executed. The case was a sensation all over the Reich, but there were many more like it. Just a few decades ago, in France, hundreds of so-called werewolves were tried and burned, and in Franconia there were werewolf trials, as well. The last case I heard of was just a few years ago.” The physician set his cup down carefully on a pile of books. “Everyone talks about witches and charlatans, but most people are much more afraid of werewolves.”

“You didn’t really answer my question,” Simon quickly replied. “Are there werewolves—or not?”

Samuel remained silent for a long time, then began to speak hesitantly. “For some years I’ve been a member of the Academia Naturae Curiosorum, a circle of honorable men who are dedicated to scientific research into the natural world, and believe me, Simon, this world contains more wonders than you can even imagine. I’ve seen the tusk of a real unicorn . . . There are camelopards in Africa with necks as long as trees . . . And washed up on the shores of our oceans, eyeballs have been found as large as pig heads. So I can’t rule out the existence of what the common folk call werewolves. Perhaps they are just especially large, aggressive dogs; perhaps they are men who have been turned into monsters by a cruel fate—who knows? But I’m afraid that the pursuit of such a monster here in Bamberg will hurt many innocent people. That’s just what we saw during the last witch trials. In any case, we’ll have to proceed very carefully in the council.”