The Play of Death Read online

  Barbara spent many sleepless nights thinking about leaving this stinking town forever, and once, about two years ago, at the wedding of her uncle in Bamberg, she almost did. But she knew it would break her father’s heart. Jakob Kuisl’s only son, Georg, her beloved twin brother, was serving as a hangman’s journeyman in that distant city. It was doubtful he’d ever return, and thus she kept putting off her decision.

  Until I’m so old I’m no longer able. And until then, I’ll clean and cook and . . .

  With a grim face she wiped the cobwebs from the shelves that held the books on healing herbs and poisons that her father had taken with him to his small quarters down by the river. The books had always been his favorite possessions, along with the large chest that stood next to them. He had forbidden her from ever looking inside, but of course she’d disregarded this order. Most of what it held was just old junk, anyway—stuff from the war like a rusty handgun, a shortsword that was equally rusty, and a soldier’s uniform with so many moth holes that you could see through it in places. They were her father’s memorabilia from the time he’d served as a sergeant in the army.

  Much more interesting were the contents of a smaller trunk with ornamental fittings standing alongside it. This is where Father kept what he referred to as magic and hocus-pocus—a length of gallows rope, vials of the congealed blood of executed men, scraps of tanned human skin, and tiny bones fashioned into amulets. From time to time Jakob sold such objects to superstitious townspeople and got a good price for them. There had been a time when Barbara also thought of these things as magic, but all that changed suddenly when she happened to find some objects Father must never know she had.

  Ever since then, Barbara could not get enough of magic.

  Now the trunk gave off a somewhat musty odor, and she wrinkled her nose. Curious, she raised the lid and at first saw just the usual pans, tins, and boxes, but now another object was lying inside. It wasn’t much larger than a burl on a tree branch and it was wrapped in a soiled rag. She couldn’t resist. She reached carefully into the trunk and unwrapped it, then with a scream she dropped it on the floor.

  Before her lay a severed thumb.

  After the initial shock wore off, she examined it more closely. It had been cut off cleanly just below the ball of the hand, and here and there dried muscle fibers still clung to it. It had already turned black, the nail had fallen off, and it had a god-awful stench. The odor was spreading throughout the room, as if someone had shaken out a burial shroud.

  “If you’re finished screaming, you can put the piece back in the chest. You’re scaring the whole Tanners’ Quarter.”

  The familiar deep voice made Barbara jump. With a flush of guilt she spun around and saw her father bent over in the doorway. In one hand he held a sack with dark wet spots all over it, and with the other he was waving a jug of foaming beer.

  Grimly, Jakob Kuisl glared at his younger daughter. With his height of over six feet, broad shoulders, and prominent hooked nose, he was still a frightening figure, but now the once black hair and bushy beard had turned gray and his face was deeply furrowed. As he so often did, he clenched a pipe stem between his lips. The hangman had acquired a habit of leaving the pipe in his mouth when he spoke, making his few words sound even more like the growls of a beast.

  “I said put the piece back in the chest before I tan your hide, you nosy wench,” Jakob snarled. “Haven’t I forbidden you from opening the trunk?”

  “What is it, for heaven’s sake?” Barbara replied with disgust, without answering her father’s question. Gingerly she wrapped the rotten piece of flesh in the cloth again and put it back in the chest.

  “Well, what do you think it is? A thumb,” he said. “To be exact, a left thumb, and to be more exact, that of Hartl the shepherd.”

  “You . . . you mean the thief and drifter you hanged more than two weeks ago?” Barbara asked. She felt like she was going to throw up.

  Jakob nodded. “Simon Rössle, the owner of the big farm in Altenstadt, is going to pay me a lot for it—he thinks the thumb of a thief in his cattle trough makes his cows’ pelts shiny and soft.” He grinned and held up the dripping sack. “Now he’s heard from somebody that a thief’s heart buried under the oak tree in front of his house will ward off burglars. Well, that naturally costs more.”

  Barbara was about to let out another loud scream, but quickly clapped her hand over her mouth. “You’re not telling me you went back to Gallows Hill . . .” But her father waved her off, grinning.

  “Nonsense, it’s a pig’s heart. I got it from the butcher, who promised not to tell anyone,” he added with a wink. Evidently he’d already forgiven her for poking around in the trunk. “People are so dumb, they can’t tell a pig from a person. Aside from the doctors, the only ones who can tell the difference between this and a human heart are executioners. So keep your mouth shut, will you? Recently there haven’t been so many hangings, and we can use a little extra money.”

  “If you charged a decent price for your healing herbs and treatments, like Magdalena and Simon, perhaps you could afford a new shirt now and then,” Barbara shot back. “It’s almost impossible to get the stains out anymore.”

  Jakob snorted. “Everyone pays what they can. How can I squeeze the last few coins from poor people? They’ll be healthy, but they’ll die of hunger.”

  “Promise me at least you won’t keep that heart here in the house but out in the shed,” Barbara replied with a sigh. She didn’t mention they needed the money because Father had been drinking more and more recently. Even now the sickly-sweet odor of alcohol hung over the room, though at least it masked the stench of the rotting thumb.

  Her father took the sack over to the shed and soon returned, and in the meantime Barbara had tidied up the room and taken a seat on one of the stools.

  “Do you believe all that about the thief’s heart?” she wanted to know. “I mean, that there’s really something magic about it?”

  Jakob took a seat alongside her and silently poured himself another mug of beer. “If that were the case, soon I wouldn’t have any more work,” he said after a while, “because then everyone would bury a heart in front of his house, and there wouldn’t be any more burglaries.” He took a deep swig and wiped his mouth. “Let people believe what they want—I’m not telling anyone what to do.”

  “But what if there really are such things as magicians and witches?” Barbara persisted. “Your grandfather Jörg Abriel accused some women of being witches, then he tortured and burned them. Didn’t he ever tell your father anything? Maybe there were some real witches among them.”

  Jakob set his cup down and eyed his daughter suspiciously. More than eighty years ago, during the great Schongau witch trials, their ancestor had executed several dozen women. Barbara was afraid she’d probed too far with her questions.

  A sudden thought flashed through her mind. He suspects something!

  “Why do you ask that?” Jakob asked.

  Barbara tried to look innocent. “Well, wouldn’t it be good if there really were sorcerers and magicians? I mean, those who could do good things? I thought maybe you could tell me more about them.”

  Abruptly, her father slammed his fist down on the table. “How often have I told you I don’t want to hear such nonsense! It’s enough that half the town council believes in it. It’s already caused so much bloodshed.”

  “This blood is also on the hands of our family,” Barbara mumbled in a flat voice, but it seemed her father hadn’t heard her.

  “That’s enough,” he grumbled. “Is the stew ready? I’m hungry.”

  Barbara shrugged. Secretly she was glad her father hadn’t asked any more questions. “It’s simmering on the hearth, but the meat is still pretty tough. I’m afraid it will be a while.”

  Jakob stroked his beard. “In the meantime you can bring your tired old father some fresh beer from town.” He held up the old jug. “This one here is almost empty.”

  Barbara glared at him. “Don’t you t
hink you’ve had enough? And by the way, you’d let Karl take me to the dance tonight.”

  “Once you’ve finished your chores. In the meantime, I’ve been thinking, and perhaps it’s not such a good idea for you to go to the dance. People in the taverns are gossiping about you, especially the young lads.”

  Barbara jumped to her feet, furious. “You promised me! All afternoon I’ve been slaving away for you. You could do a little cleaning up yourself. I’m not your maid, as Mother used to be.”

  She stopped short, realizing she’d gone too far, and for a moment it seemed her father was about to go into one of his famous fits of rage, but then he just nodded and got to his feet.

  “Very well, I’ll go myself. The air in here is too poisonous for me, anyway.”

  Barbara watched sadly as her father left, a defiant, lonesome giant, stomping down the garden path past the apple orchard to the road leading to the Lech Gate. She was sorry about her last remark but couldn’t take the words back now.

  He’s so alone now that Mother is gone and Georg has left, too, she thought.

  But then she brushed aside the gloomy thoughts and walked over to the stable. Yes, she’d go to the dance that evening, she’d laugh and joke around, and there was nothing her grumbling, stubborn, sour-faced father could do about that.

  And perhaps after that she’d have a look at the books . . .

  Those books whose reappearance Jakob Kuisl must never know about.

  Creaking and groaning, the wagon moved along over the Ammergau moor as Simon pondered the strange roadside cross. Their trip now took them along the Ammer River, past hedges and low bushes where some blackbirds were chirping. They passed other wayside shrines and crosses, but the wagon driver just kept on moving. Simon didn’t see any other stone circles, and Peter had turned back to his pictures, engrossed in them as if in a trance. Simon admired his son’s ability to block out the rest of the world, while he himself couldn’t help brooding and worrying constantly. His mind never actually seemed to rest.

  I hope it was the right decision to bring Peter here, he thought. But at least in this valley he’s no longer just the grandson of a hangman.

  After a while, another village right on the riverbank appeared before them. Not far away, a brook poured down from the mountains into a swirling pool while a few scrawny-looking cows grazed in the Alpine meadows above.

  “Oberammergau,” the wagon driver grumbled. “If you ask me, I’d never spend a night in this place. All you find here are barren fields, moorland, rocky cliffs, and a lot of weird stories. The people in Oberammergau can be glad the old trade route goes by this miserable place, or nobody would ever venture out here. I’m telling you, not even an old billy goat, well, maybe a crazy one—”

  “Thanks. I think we’ve got the idea,” Simon interrupted as he watched Peter put on a long face and start to turn pale on hearing the man’s words. This superstitious fool would make his son start believing in ghosts and demons again.

  In fact, Oberammergau was not an especially hospitable place. A row of dingy farmhouses huddled along the river and behind them were a few larger buildings with a stone church in the middle. To the right was the strange Kofel Mountain, and to the left other high mountains, making the valley especially narrow at this point. Simon felt like he was locked up in a musty cage. They were passing some isolated farms and dilapidated stables when suddenly a man on horseback came toward them at full gallop, his horse foaming at the mouth. The man, dressed in black, bent far down over his horse and raced by so close that the wagon driver’s two horses shied away.

  “Hey, you idiot!” the driver called after to the rider. “Watch what you’re doing!” He shook his head angrily. “May God see to it that he breaks his neck.”

  “Evidently someone else who can’t stand it in Oberammergau,” said Simon with a grin.

  The driver gave him a sullen look, then turned to the two horses and tried to calm them down. Then the wagon moved forward again, shortly thereafter arriving in Oberammergau.

  A wooden bridge spanned the rushing Ammer River, and the road on the other side led straight through the center of town. Simon could now see, scattered among the simple farmhouses, a few fine-looking taverns and multistory buildings, some with shops on the ground floor. He knew from previous visits that Oberammergau certainly had a better side. The once busy trade route had brought a degree of prosperity to some villagers.

  The wagon stopped at a crossing where a few especially handsome buildings stood, among them the house of the village judge and the Ballenhaus, an office and warehouse where the wagon drivers stored their merchandise. The wagon driver planned to spend the night in the adjacent Schwabenwirt tavern, the best place in town, and put up his horses in its stables. Simon thanked him, then continued on his way with Peter. Night was already falling, and it was deathly quiet in the manure-spattered street. The only sound was the occasional whinnying of horses in their stalls. Simon sensed a mood of depression in the town. The few people they saw were stooped over and passed by without saying a word. An old farmer seemed to hiss an evil oath at them as he passed, but his voice was so low it was impossible to say.

  Simon suddenly noticed the many bouquets of St. John’s wort hanging on the closed doors everywhere, said to drive away the devil and evil spirits. The bouquets, sprinkled with holy water, were usually put out on Walpurgis Night, when witches were said to gather for their secret meetings. But Walpurgis Night was already a week ago, and the bouquets looked very fresh.

  Almost as if they’d been hung on the doors just this morning, Simon mused. What in God’s name has happened here?

  The schoolmaster’s house was just a stone’s throw from the church. It was an attractive little building with a vegetable garden and some green already appearing amid the last remnants of the winter’s snow. Muffled sounds of men’s voices could be heard coming from the open window.

  “You’ll soon get to meet your teacher,” Simon said in a deliberately cheerful voice, turning to Peter as he opened the squeaking garden gate. “It’s really extremely kind of Georg Kaiser to take you into his house,” he said with a smile. “Do you know I also lived with him for a few months when I was a young student? That was in Ingolstadt. I had my own room in his house, and it cost just a few kreuzer a week. And his wife—”

  At that moment the front door opened, and two men emerged. The elder one wore a priest’s cassock, and the other was a tall young man dressed as a simple laborer and carrying a rolled-up bundle of papers. Both men seemed very serious, though Simon noticed a certain gleam in the eyes of the younger one that didn’t seem in keeping with his sad face.

  “I’ll see you in two days at the rehearsal,” the older man said to the other. “And make sure you’ve learned the text by then, Hans, or we may have to change our minds about doing this.”

  With a brief nod the priest walked past Simon and Peter, as if he hadn’t noticed them. His face looked like it had turned to stone. The young man walked behind him in silence, completely ignoring the two visitors.

  “A good day to you as well,” Simon mumbled and shrugged. Then he knocked on the front door that had just closed. Quick steps approached, the door was torn open, and Simon found himself face-to-face with a withered, slightly stooped man about sixty years old. On his nose he was wearing pince-nez, and he looked at the new visitors with annoyance.

  “Good Lord in heaven, what in the world—” he started to say, then his face suddenly brightened.

  “Oh my God, it’s Simon!” he cried. “How could I forget? You said you would be coming today.” He embraced his friend warmly then stooped down to Peter, who was hiding bashfully behind his father.

  “And you must be the child prodigy I’ve heard so much about,” he continued with a smile, and held out his hand. “It’s good that you’ve come. I’m Georg Kaiser, the Oberammergau schoolmaster.”

  When Peter bashfully reached out his hand, a few of his sketches slipped from it, landing on the floor, wet from the melt
ing snow. When Kaiser leaned down to pick them up, he uttered a cry of astonishment.

  “Did you do these yourself?” he asked, handing the drawings back to Peter.

  The boy nodded silently, and Simon answered for him.

  “He insisted on bringing them along,” he said with paternal pride. “Sometimes he works on a page like that for several days. Peter is fascinated by everything that has to do with anatomy—he’s always prodding me with questions about medicine.”

  Kaiser smiled. “Just the way you pestered me back in those days, Simon. Do you remember? What you always were asking me, though, was about which taverns had the best music and where to find the cheapest wine in Ingolstadt.”

  “Thank God Peter hasn’t gotten to that stage yet,” Simon answered with a laugh. But then his face darkened. For Simon, his university days in Ingolstadt were an embarrassment. He’d studied medicine there for only a few semesters before his money ran out, partly because he’d spent it less on furthering his education than on fine clothing, wine, and gambling, but also because his stingy father never gave him more than the bare essentials. Georg Kaiser had been Simon’s salvation back then. Kaiser was teaching theology and music in Ingolstadt and adopted the young playboy, treating him like a son.

  Actually, I really was a son to him, Simon thought, grimly. He’d never had a warm relationship with his own father, who was now dead.

  “But come on in and warm yourself up,” Kaiser said finally, in order to break the embarrassing silence. “You must be hungry.”

  Together they entered the narrow, dark hallway with a sooty little kitchen. An old, almost toothless maid was stirring a pot and looking at the guests expectantly.

  “Go ahead and make a bit more, Anni,” Kaiser told the maid. “This boy looks like he still has a bit of growing to do. And be generous with the honey in the porridge.”

  “Porridge?” Peter’s eyes sparkled for the first time that day. Just like Simon, he’d had only a little bread and hard cheese since the morning.