The Dark Monk (38 page)

Cherubs fluttered around the head of the Savior, who was wearing a crown and looking down at her compassionately from the cross. St. Luke and St. John were off to one side, keeping watch over the starry heavens, while down below, the serpent Lucifer writhed about, impaled by the lance of the Archangel Michael, and high above, the twelve apostles sat enthroned in glory on the clouds. All the figures were ablaze in gleaming gold, bright silver, and all the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Never before had Magdalena seen such splendor.

Was she in heaven?

At least I’m no longer lying in the coffin,
she thought.
That’s an improvement, in any case.

As soon as she turned her head, she could see she was not in heaven, but in a sort of little chapel. She lay on her back on a stone altar surrounded by four burning candles. The walls of the whitewashed room were so densely covered with lavish oil paintings depicting various scenes from the Bible that there was hardly any space between them. Sunlight entered the room from the east through a tiny window, but the stone was so cold that her muscles felt like ice.

The murmuring came from one side. Turning her head a bit farther, Magdalena could see Brother Jakobus dressed in a simple black robe kneeling before a small altar to the Virgin Mary, his head bowed in quiet prayer. A golden cross with the two beams dangled at his chest.

“Ave Maria, the Lord be with you, blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your body, Jesus Christ…”

Magdalena tried to sit up. Could she flee without the monk noticing? Only a few steps behind her, she spotted a low wooden door with a golden handle. If she could only get to it…

When she tried to prop herself up, she found she was bound by her hands and feet like a lamb on its way to slaughter.

Christ, Lamb of God, who bears the sins of the world…

Magdalena panicked remembering the words from the Bible. What did this madman intend to do with her? Was he going to sacrifice her on the altar? Was this the reason for the lighted candles? Another Bible quotation came to mind.

God spoke to Abraham: Take your son Isaac, whom you love, and bring him to the mountain as a sacrifice…

The monk’s monotonous chant grew louder and higher in pitch until he was almost screaming in a falsetto. Magdalena tried to fight the fear rising in her and forced herself to breathe calmly and evenly. Perhaps she could even manage to crawl through the door? Crawling, creeping, hopping—it didn’t matter. She just had to get away from here. She rocked back and forth, managing to reach the left side of the altar. Just a few more inches and she would be there. She could already feel the edge underneath her when she tipped over and fell…

Her feet bumped against a large candlestick, which fell to the ground with a crash.

The singing stopped abruptly. She could hear footsteps, and a moment later, Brother Jakobus stood over her, his dagger drawn. Magdalena screamed as he pointed the dagger at her.

“Hold your tongue, stupid woman. Nobody is going to hurt you.” The monk cut the cords tying her hands and stepped off to one side. “If you promise to hold still, I’ll cut off the shackles on your feet as well. Do you promise?”

Magdalena nodded and was free a moment later. She stood up and tried to move her arms and legs but was still too weak even to remain standing. Breathing heavily, she sank down onto one of the pews and felt as if she were going to pass out.

“The poison does that to you,” Brother Jakobus said, sitting down on the bench alongside her. “A mixture of opium poppies and a few rare plants from the nightshade family. You’ll feel weak for a while; then it will pass.”

“Where…where am I?” Magdalena rubbed her wrists, which tingled as if ants were crawling around inside them.

“That’s of no concern to you,” the monk said. “This is a place where no one will disturb us. The walls are thick, and not a sound can penetrate the windows. A wonderful place to find God.”

He let his gaze wander over the splendid fresco on the ceiling. “Don’t worry. For now, you are our guarantee that your father won’t disturb us, and later…” He looked her directly in the face with what suddenly seemed like a soft, tender look. Again, the sweet scent of perfume wafted over to her.

“Magdalena…” he sighed. “The name brings many things to my mind.” He paused for a long time. “You do know Mary Magdalene, don’t you?” he asked suddenly. “The woman who was always at our Savior’s side? The patron saint of whores and adulteresses, and unclean women like you…”

She nodded. “My father named me for her.” Her voice sounded strange and grating after having remained silent for so long.

“Your father is a smart man, Magdalena. A…prophet, one might say.” Brother Jakobus laughed, bending his haggard, hunched body down to her like a scarecrow in the wind and passing his long fingers gently over her dress—hands as slender and delicate as a woman’s. “St. Mary Magdalene…” the monk whispered. “You really do resemble your namesake—beautiful and clever, but a pariah. A dirty hangman’s daughter, the scum of the city. A pious whore who secretly devotes herself to the sins of the flesh.”

“But—”

“Silence!” The monk’s voice sounded shrill again. “I know women like you only too well! Haven’t I seen you with your physician friend? So do not lie to me, Daughter of Eve!”

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and finally managed to calm down again. “But you are a believer, I can see that,” he said, laying his hand on her forehead as if to bless her. “Deep inside you, there is a good heart. You women are not all bad. Even Mary Magdalene became a saint, and you, too, can be saved.” His voice fell to a whisper now, and Magdalena struggled to hear what he was saying.

“Do you know the Bible, Hangman’s Daughter?”

He was still holding his hand on her forehead. Magdalena decided to remain silent, and he kept on speaking without waiting for an answer.

“Luke, Chapter Eight, Verse One. Jesus was traveling with a few women he had healed and saved from evil spirits, among them Mary Magdalene, from whom he had driven out seven demons. Seven demons…” The monk’s eyes flashed in the light of the candles. “You, too, are possessed by seven demons, Magdalena, and I will drive them out later, once your task here has been completed. Then you will be pure and good, a chaste maiden. Do not be troubled. We will find a place for you here in the monastery.”

He walked toward the door, but then he stopped and turned around to her again.

“I will save you, Magdalena.”

The monk smiled, then opened the door and disappeared. There was a grating sound as a key turned in the lock, then footsteps that became fainter until they finally faded away.

The hangman’s daughter remained behind with the angels, the evangelists, and a savior. Two women knelt at the foot of his cross and wept.

Simon looked into the rigid eyes of the man laid out on the bed in front of him and put down his doctor’s bag. The medicus didn’t have to listen to his heart, feel his pulse, or put a mirror under his nostrils anymore. He knew the man was dead. Gently, he closed the old man’s eyes, then turned to the deceased’s wife, who stood alongside, whimpering.

“I’ve come too late,” Simon said. “Your husband is already in a better place.”

The farm woman nodded, looking intently at her husband as if her gaze alone could bring him back to life. Simon guessed she was in her mid-forties, but the hard work in the fields, the yearly births, and the bad food made her look older. Her hair was gray and unkempt, and deep wrinkles had formed in the corners of her mouth and eyes. A few rotting, yellow stumps of teeth could be seen behind her cracked lips. Simon wondered if Magdalena would look like this in twenty years.

Simon had been up all night thinking about the hangman’s daughter. How was she doing in Augsburg? Her father had received no news from her yet, though he expected her return at any moment. But because of the blizzard, it was quite possible she’d be further delayed. No doubt she was waiting to join a group of merchants who awaited better weather—and an end to the attacks.

A child’s cry startled Simon out of his thoughts. A girl about four years of age was fondling the face of her dead father, and at the back of the room, six more of the farmer’s children were standing about with lowered heads. Two of them were coughing loudly; the medicus hoped they hadn’t caught the fever, too.

In the last two weeks, over thirty people had died in Schongau from the mysterious illness, most of them the elderly or children. Along the city wall, St. Sebastian’s Cemetery was filling up, and a number of the old graves holding victims of the plague were now being turned over to make room for the new arrivals. Simon and his father had tried everything. They had bled their patients, given them enemas, brewed them a drink of linden blossoms and wild marjoram. Bonifaz Fronwieser had even leafed through the pages of the so-called
Dreckapotheke,
or
Dirty Pharmacy,
in search of a magic potion for fever. When his father started mixing dried toads in vinegar and making powder from mouse droppings, Simon ran out of the treatment room, cursing.

“Faith, it’s faith that helps,” his father called after him.

“Faith! Is that the best we can do?”

The very thought of what his father was doing made Simon curse under his breath. Mouse droppings and dried toads! Next they’d be painting pentagrams and magic signs on the doors of the sick. If only he had some of that Jesuit’s powder! The physician was sure this medicine, acquired from the bark of a tree in the West Indies, would quickly reduce the fever. Simon had long ago used his last bit of it, however, and the next Venetian merchant would not be heading their way until the mountain passes were open again.

Once more, he turned to the farm woman and her coughing children. “It’s important now that you bury your husband as soon as possible,” said Simon. “He could be carrying something that will infect you and the children as well.”

“A…spirit?” the farm woman asked anxiously.

The physician shook his head in resignation. “No, not a spirit. Think of them as tiny creatures that—”

“Tiny creatures?” The woman’s face became even paler. “In my Alois?”

Simon sighed. “Just forget about that and bury him.”

“But the ground is frozen, and we’ll have to wait until—”

There was a knock at the door. Simon turned around to see a dirty little boy in the doorway, looking up at him with a mixture of fear and respect.

“Are you the Schongau physician?” he asked finally. Simon nodded. Secretly, he was happy to be addressed this way, because most residents still regarded him as nothing more than the coddled son of the local doctor, a dandy and a womanizer who had run out of money at the university in Ingolstadt.

“The…the Schreevogls have sent me,” the boy said.

“I’m supposed to tell you that Clara is coughing up snot and mucus. And please, can you stop by as soon as possible?”

Simon closed his eyes in a silent prayer. “Not Clara,” he murmured. “God, not Clara.”

He grabbed his doctor’s bag and, after exchanging a few more words with the farmer’s family, rushed off after the boy. On the way to the marketplace where the Schreevogls lived, Simon couldn’t help thinking of Clara. So much had happened in the last few days that he’d completely forgotten her! Usually, he stopped to pay a visit to his little friend several times a week. And now she was sick; perhaps she even had this terrible fever!

Maria Schreevogl was waiting for him by the front door. As so often, she appeared pale and agitated. Simon never understood what the patrician saw in the overly pious, sometimes hysterical woman. He assumed there were financial considerations involved in the marriage. Maria Schreevogl’s maiden name was Püchner, and she came from an old influential family with political connections.

“She’s in bed up in her room!” the woman lamented. “Please Mary, Mother of God and all saints, don’t let it be this fever! Don’t let this happen to my Clara!”

Simon hurried up the wide staircase and entered the room of the sick girl. Clara lay in her bed coughing, her pale face peeking out from a thick comforter.

Her stepfather, Jakob Schreevogl, sat anxiously at the edge of the bed. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Fronwieser,” he said, standing up. “Would you like something to drink—perhaps some coffee?”

Simon shook his head, noticing with concern that the patrician peered back at him with vacant eyes. The councillor looked like he was in a trance. Just the evening before, he’d returned with the hangman from their trip with Karl Semer, and clearly, he was severely shaken by the news of his daughter’s sickness.

Simon bent down to look at Clara. “Clara, it’s me, Simon,” he whispered, but Clara didn’t react. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing fast. In her sleep her whole body shook from time to time with a coughing fit. The physician placed an ear to her chest and listened to her breathing.

“How long has she been this way?” Simon asked, trying to speak over the crying and wailing of Schreevogl’s wife, who had followed him into the room, anxiously passing rosary beads through her fingers.

“Just since yesterday,” Jakob Schreevogl replied. “The fever came on in the evening, very quickly. Since then we haven’t been able to talk to her. Good Lord, woman, be quiet for a moment!”

The praying stopped. “Does she have the fever, Simon?” Maria Schreevogl asked through tears. “You can tell me! Oh, good Lord, does she have it?” She stared at the medicus wide-eyed.

Simon hesitated. The sudden onslaught of the illness, the rasping cough, the high fever—everything pointed to Clara’s having been infected. Once more the medicus cursed himself for not having been able to ask Magdalena to pick up some medications for him in Augsburg. Perhaps the apothecaries there even had the Jesuit’s powder! But now it was too late.

When Simon remained silent, that was sign enough for the patrician woman.

“St. Barbara, I will lose her!” she moaned. “St. Quirinus, help us!” She fell to her knees, fingering her rosary beads again.

Her husband tried to ignore her and turned to address Simon in a serious voice. “What can we do?”