The Werewolf of Bamberg (21 page)

The stranger was still standing behind the frame holding the fishnets, but in the gathering darkness it was hard for Kuisl to see more than the vague outline of a man wearing a floppy hat and an overcoat. Slowly, the hangman walked along the path—the only access to the pier, so the man wouldn’t be able to escape. Unless he decided to fight. But Jakob had been in many fights, more than most people.

“Hey, you,” the hangman said, addressing the stranger. “Stop, I need to have a word with you.”

When the man saw he’d been discovered, he froze like a cornered animal. And then he did something Kuisl never would have expected.

He jumped.

It was a full three yards to the next pier, almost ten feet, but the man landed safely on the creaking planks. For a moment it seemed like he might fall backward, but then he got his balance again and ran down the pier toward the shore. Kuisl was startled to see that the stranger had a slight limp. He knew only one person in Bamberg who limped—and that was his own brother.

That’s impossible,
he thought.
Or is it?

Cursing, he turned and ran back through the little alleys full of rotted rowboats up on jacks, handcarts, and barrels of fish. The man with the floppy hat had a lead of at least twenty paces, and Kuisl had to remember what his daughter Magdalena had said earlier: he wasn’t so young anymore. In a fight he could count on his experience, but in running, younger was better. Nevertheless, he’d already gained a few yards on the stranger when suddenly he made a sharp right and ran back down to one of the four piers.

“Now I’ve got you,” Kuisl panted.

He ran toward the pier as fast as he could and only at the last moment saw what the other was planning to do. A small rowboat was tied to one of the posts with the oars tossed carelessly into the stern. In one fluid move, the man jumped in, pulled out a knife, and quickly cut the rope. Just as Kuisl reached the end of the pier, the boat cast off and started floating down the river with the current. The distance between them grew from one second to the next.

There was no time for Jakob to reflect. He just kept running and, with a final sprint, jumped off the pier toward the boat, and—

Missed.

He hit the cold water with a loud splash, the waves closed over him, and in the next moment his clothes filled with water and threatened to pull him under. As he thrashed about wildly, Kuisl pulled off his heavy coat. Only then, and with powerful strokes, could he make his way back to the surface. Breathing hard and paddling to keep afloat, he looked around in all directions.

The boat was drifting slowly down the river, already some distance away. Jakob watched as the stranger put the oars in the oarlocks and pulled vigorously.

Then the boat disappeared around the river’s next bend.

The man with the floppy hat was breathing heavily as the small, half-timbered houses in the Fishermen’s Quarter, with their balconies and piers, slowly receded. Night was falling over Bamberg, but the shadows did not fill him with happy expectations, as usual, but something approaching fear. His foot hurt, and his whole body shivered. To add to his misery, he’d evidently sprained his ankle jumping off the pier. That was nothing critical, but it showed him he was not invulnerable.

For the first time, he’d been not the hunter but the hunted.

He cursed himself under his breath for returning to see the furrier, but on his most recent visit he’d taken a liking to the beautiful furs, and so he planned to buy the last two pieces in order to continue his search for prey. For now, he enjoyed the musky odor and softness of the furs. When he wrapped them around him, he felt like someone else. The first time, it was the apothecary’s wife who had given him the furs to try on. They were like a second skin wrapped around him, protecting him, and turning him into some sort of monster.

Something that inspired fear in people—as much fear as he had once known, long ago.

But then he’d made an unforgivable mistake. It had given him a feeling of power to observe unnoticed, practically invisible, a potential victim, and this thrill had almost caused his ruin. He bit his lip nervously. His coat, floppy hat, and fake beard might conceal his true features—but he’d still have to be very careful.

The buildings along the river were thinning out—just a few more sheds and an old mill. Then the beginning of the forest, the wilderness, the realm of the beasts—a realm where, more and more, he was beginning to feel at home.

Old Schwarzkontz had broken down faster than any of them, and he was the first to die. The first woman also confessed quickly—her heart stopped beating from the fright, and he disposed of the corpse in the usual way. But he learned quickly. The young woman who was his next victim had survived four questionings before she, too, finally died.

For the first time, he felt pity, a feeling that he immediately suppressed. Pity was weak, and he could never show weakness. Just the same, he kept putting off the torture of his next victim, the apothecary’s wife. Each time he looked into the woman’s eyes, a shudder came over him, and he felt disgusted with himself.

Fortunately, though, he had come across Thadäus Vasold the night before.

The old fool had fallen into his trap in just the right place. It warmed his heart to see that wrinkled face frozen in horror. The feeling of revenge had been so sweet, like thick, golden honey. Now the old man was all tied up in the house, awaiting his next interrogation.

Confess, witch, confess.

The old man had been the fifth.

But his greatest satisfaction was yet to come. For a long time he’d been waiting to carry out his boldest plan. It couldn’t be much longer.

Just three . . .

The man listened intently and could hear a long howling coming from the forest across the river. It was like a greeting of closeness, of intimacy—of home. Something he’d never experienced before.

The wolves were accepting the man as one of their own.

7

M
AIN ROOM OF THE
B
AMBERG HANGMAN
’S HOUSE, MORNING
, O
CTOBER
30, 1668 AD

T
HE NEXT MORNING, THE KUISLS
sat around the table in the hangman’s house, spooning from a large communal bowl the warm barley porridge Magdalena had made for them earlier. The wedding was only four days off, and until then, everyone had their own daily chores to do to help in the preparations.

Bartholomäus and Georg had already been down to the city moat, where the Bamberg City Council had given the executioner the thankless task of shoveling out garbage that had been clogging the moat—a job responsibility that Bartholomäus hated even more than the occasional torturing of criminals. Jakob had promised to help him that day, but first there were a few loose shingles in the adjoining shed that had to be replaced. Magdalena planned to bake bread for the week with Barbara, while Katharina had to help her father with his paperwork at city hall.

The two boys were, for a change, playing tag peacefully with a few of the neighboring children outside in the alley, so the Schongau Kuisls could enjoy some quiet moments together for the first time in a long while—even though Georg was absent, and there seemed to be trouble brewing.

Magdalena blew onto her wooden spoon to cool the porridge a bit, though her mind was occupied with thoughts of the strange man her father had tried to catch the night before. Finally, Jakob had turned up, soaking wet and without his coat, by the furrier’s house, and Magdalena could tell from the way he looked that even the slightest query would make him explode like gunpowder—so she’d held her tongue.

“You still haven’t told us why you ran after that stranger,” she finally asked. “You were frozen when you got back here yesterday, and you’re lucky you didn’t come down with a cold.” She shook her head. “Falling into the river, at your age. Besides, your overcoat cost a lot of money. Do you know—”

“When I need a nurse, I’ll tell you,” Kuisl snorted angrily. “You’re worse than my beloved Anna used to be, God rest her soul.” For a moment he stared into space, then continued, speaking quickly. “But I will tell you what happened yesterday. The furrier described a man to me who’d bought five wolf skins from him last week, and this description seemed to match very closely the man who was watching you.”

Magdalena frowned. “Wolf skins? But why—”

“There are too many werewolf stories going around town now to suit my taste,” Kuisl interrupted. “When someone goes out and buys five wolf pelts, I get suspicious, especially when he tries to run away from me. I’d like to know what he’s doing with them. Perhaps he’s making himself a big coat, a coat he can hide under—”

“Just a minute,” said Simon, putting down his spoon. “Do you think this fellow bought the fur so he could dress up as a werewolf? But why would he do that?”

“To spread fear in the city? So no one recognizes him when he goes out to murder people? I don’t know.” Kuisl shrugged, then started rummaging in the pocket of his trousers, looking for his tobacco pouch. “Perhaps there really is a werewolf causing trouble around here. I’ve heard that some of them clothe themselves in pelts in order to look like animals.”

“So you believe in werewolves?” Simon asked skeptically.

“I’ve seen so many evil and crazy things in my life—so why shouldn’t there be werewolves as well? Or at least men who seriously believe they’re werewolves.” Jakob opened his tobacco pouch and began filling his pipe with the dry leaves.

“Lots of poor creatures live in the forests,” he continued. “Crazy people rejected by society who are more animal than human. Long ago, I had to break a man on the wheel who’d lived in the forest since childhood. During the great famine of ’49, he began hunting people to kill and eat them, especially children who’d run away from home. Their flesh was the most tender, he confessed later on the rack. Was he a werewolf?” Jakob picked up a burning piece of kindling to light his pipe and began puffing with enjoyment. “I don’t know. But in any case, he was a danger to people, and for that reason had to be put down.

“Here in Bamberg, the case is not as clear,” he continued. “I’m afraid this werewolf commission under our unholy prince-bishop will simply pick up some random person and have him tortured, just to find someone to blame.” Simon had already told them about the first meeting of the commission the night before, and the commission’s intention of finding an alleged perpetrator and dispatching him without any further ado.

Jakob grinned. “Good for Bartholomäus. Maybe he’ll have his new hangman’s house earlier than he’d even dreamed of.”

“You are disgusting, Father. How can you even say something like that about your own brother?”

Astonished, Magdalena looked over at the bench in the corner where Barbara sat. Until then, she’d been sitting silently, as if daydreaming and paying no attention to the conversation. Since the night before, Magdalena thought she’d detected a faint smile now and then on the lips of her little sister. Barbara hadn’t told her much about the performance with Matheo and the other actors, but that wasn’t necessary. Afterward, she’d been gone for a long time, and Magdalena thought she knew with whom. Until then, she’d told only Simon about her suspicions, and he’d cast a knowing look in her direction.

Now the smile was gone from Barbara’s face. “Georg is right,” she continued angrily, glaring at her father. “Ever since we’ve been here in Bamberg, you’ve been saying mean things about your brother. What did he do to you? You . . . you’re just jealous because he’s more successful. And because, unlike you, he found another wife.”

Jakob slapped her hard on the cheek, and though she didn’t cry, Magdalena could tell she was having trouble holding back her tears.

“You don’t talk to your father like that, understand?” he growled. “Not you, and not your impudent brother, either. What do you know about Bartholomäus and me?”

“Yes, what do we know?” Magdalena said in a soft voice. “Actually, nothing, because you don’t tell us anything.”

“And that’s the way it’s going to be. Don’t poke your nose into things that are none of your business. And now, I’m going over to the moat to help your accursed uncle shovel shit. That’s better than sitting here and listening to you going on and on.”

Jakob was just about to get up from the table when the door flew open with a loud crash. Georg was standing in the doorway, completely out of breath.

“They . . . got him,” he panted.

“Who did they get?” Magdalena asked, puzzled.

“Well, who else? The werewolf,” Georg replied, his eyes flashing. “I saw with my own eyes how the guards led him away. They found his wolf pelt, and a few citizens recognized him, too. But they say he won’t confess. Uncle Bartholomäus and I are going to put the screws to him as soon as possible.”

Barbara put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God! Who is it?” she asked anxiously.

Georg grinned. “One of that group of actors, by the name of Matheo—a little Italian-looking guy. If you ask me, I knew right away that something was fishy about those actors.”

For a long time, no one said a thing, and Georg looked from one to the other, puzzled.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

Magdalena looked at her sister, who was so shocked she couldn’t say a word. Simon, standing beside her, just stared at the floor. Jakob, the only one who didn’t know about their special friendship, just shrugged.

“Well, now the hunt is on, no doubt,” he grumbled. “But there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s always the same—they need someone to blame, the faster the better. And as I said, it’ll pay off for Bartholomäus, too, you’ll see.”

“Matheo is innocent!” Barbara suddenly shouted in despair. “There’s no way he’s a werewolf. And anyone who says that is . . . is . . .” She broke down sobbing and collapsed on the bench.

Magdalena took her gently in her arms and started talking to her softly, as if to a child.

Georg just stood there in the doorway, his mouth open wide in astonishment.

“You know this little punk?” he finally asked. “But why . . .”

“Well, Georg, I’m beginning to feel like the two of us are the village idiots,” Jakob said, folding his arms in front of his broad chest. “Perhaps someone in this esteemed family can explain this to me, hm?”

Simon cleared his throat. “Well . . . I don’t know the details, but it appears that Barbara and this Matheo . . . well, they have some sort of special friendship . . .”

“She’s in love with the guy. Is that so hard to understand, you dopes?” Magdalena looked up briefly as she continued to hug her crying sister. “We were at the theater performance two days ago,” she continued, a bit more calmly, “and then yesterday she was at the wedding house again, and she helped Matheo a bit during the performance. She told me they were standing together on the stage . . . and since then the two have no doubt become closer.”

“My daughter stood on a
stage
?” Jakob shook his head in disbelief. “With these wandering rogues and pickpockets?” He clenched his fists angrily. “Good God, can’t we leave you women alone for a minute without you going out and doing something to embarrass us?”

“These actors are almost as dishonorable as hangmen’s families,” Magdalena answered dryly. “In that sense, Barbara is staying true to her social standing.”

“And to make matters worse, you’re sticking up for her?” Jakob laughed grimly. “Do you think she should marry the boy?”

“Well, at the moment this Matheo won’t marry anyone, because he’s sitting in the dungeon and suspected of being a werewolf,” Simon interjected hesitantly. “And unless there’s a miracle, your brother and Georg will no doubt be interrogating him.”

“Monster! You monster!” Barbara jumped up suddenly and charged at her twin brother, hammering his chest with her little fists. “If you harm even a hair on his head, I’m no longer your sister. I’ll . . . I’ll scratch your eyes out, I’ll—”

“Barbara, Barbara! Just stop, please.” Georg tried to grab her arm, but each time she wriggled away. “What do you want me to do?” he wailed. “Even if you think this man is innocent, the new Inquisition Commission ordered me to question him and torture him. There’s nothing more I can do.”

“You . . . you beast! You ogre! To hell with all executioners!” Beside herself with anger, Barbara kept beating her brother’s chest. Finally, Jakob Kuisl stepped in between them. With one hand he seized Barbara’s wrist and held it in a viselike grip, and with the other hand he gave her another resounding smack in the face.

Barbara fell silent at once and glared at her father while trembling all over. The blow seemed at least to have quieted her down.

“Now you listen to me, Barbara,” Jakob began in a slow, firm voice. “You’re striking the wrong person. Georg has nothing to do with the fact that your Matheo has been put in the dungeon. And there’s nothing he or Bartholomäus can do but torture the fellow. After all, he’s the executioner in this city, and you know what that means.”

He let go of her and walked over to the executioner’s sword hanging in the devotional corner. Barbara stood in the middle of the room as if turned to stone, her lips pressed together in two thin lines. “It’s our living, it’s what we do,” Jakob continued, pointing to the sword. “We didn’t go looking for it, God put us here in this place.” He tried to sound comforting. “But I can talk with Bartholomäus. If Matheo is cooperative, there are means of expediting him as painlessly as possible into the hereafter.”

“Is that what you’re suggesting?” Barbara asked in a toneless voice. “That you kill Matheo like . . . like a sick mongrel, even if you yourself don’t believe he is this werewolf?”

“You heard your father,” Georg replied. “We’re just the tools, and—”

“Then let me tell you this, you . . . you
tool
,” Barbara interrupted, slowly backing toward the door. Her voice was now sharp and cold, not at all like that of a fifteen-year-old. “I’m going now, and I won’t come back until you get Matheo out of prison.” She looked at her father. “I know you can do that. You’ve helped other people before. If he doesn’t get out, Sir Malcolm’s troupe will soon need someone new who can play the role of the girl, and that will be me, for God knows I have
talent.
”

The door slammed shut, and the rest of the family just sat there, motionless.

“It looks like we have real problems now,” said Simon, breaking the silence. He sighed. “There’s one thing I know for certain—Barbara is serious. After all, she’s just like the rest of you—an accursed, stubborn Kuisl.”

Down in the crypt of the Bamberg Cathedral, Suffragan Bishop Harsee knelt before a simple stone altar and struggled to commune with God. That was not so easy, as the large, whitewashed church was crowded with worshippers even on weekdays. Smaller masses were being held in the side aisles and individual chapels, pious sinners waited to speak with their confessor, and some beggars used the church pews for a short nap before the sexton came and roughly poked them to wake them up.