The…the devil was close behind me, he grabbed me…” Her words were lost in sobs. Sophie took Clara’s head and laid it in her lap to comfort her.
All at once Clara felt an infinite weariness. She felt that feathers were growing on her arms, wings that would carry her away from this vale of tears to a distant, warm land…
With her last bit of strength she asked, “Did they really kill Peter and Anton?”
Sophie nodded. Suddenly she seemed to be a long way away.
“And Johannes?” asked Clara again.
“Don’t know,” said Sophie. “I’ll have a look for him while you sleep.” She stroked Clara’s hair. “Don’t think about it. You are quite safe.”
With her newly grown wings Clara soared upward toward heaven.
“I…I can never go back home again. They’ll burn us,” she muttered, almost asleep.
“Nobody will be burned,” said a voice from far away. “There’s somebody who will help us. He’ll catch the devil, and then everything will be as it was, I promise…”
“An angel?”
“Yes, an angel. An angel with a huge sword. An avenging angel.”
Clara smiled. “Good,” she whispered. Then the wings carried her away.
About eleven o’clock in the morning Jakob Kuisl knocked at the door of the keep. From inside he heard a key turn in the lock, the heavy door opened, and the surprised bailiff Andreas looked him directly in the eye.
“You, here already?” he asked. “I thought the questioning wouldn’t begin until midday-”
Kuisl nodded. “You’re right, but I have to do some things to get ready. You know…” He gestured as if pulling at his own arm. “Today we begin with the pinching and pulling. I need a hot fire. And the ropes are worn out.”
He held a coil of new rope under the chalk-white nose of the bailiff and pointed to the interior.
“I suppose it will be all right,” Andreas muttered and stepped aside for the hangman to enter. Then he seized him by the shoulder.
“Kuisl?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t hurt her, will you? No more than you must. She brought my children into the world.”
The hangman looked down at the young man, who was a good head shorter. A smile came to his lips.
“What do you think I’m here for?” he asked. “To cure somebody? To set limbs? No. I unset them. You folks want me to do that, so that’s what I do.”
He pushed the bailiff aside and entered the dungeon.
“I…I didn’t want that to happen, no, I didn’t!” Andreas called after him.
Awakened by the shouting, Georg Riegg scrambled to his feet. As an instigator of the fight down at the Stadel he was still keeping the watchman company in the cell on the left.
“Ah, now we have important visitors!” he cried. “Now it’s going to start! Hey, Kuisl, you’ll do it nice and slowly, won’t you, so that we can have some fun when we hear the witch whimper!”
The hangman walked up to the cell and looked thoughtfully at the bridge watchman. Then suddenly he reached through the bars and grabbed him firmly by the crotch. He squeezed hard, so that the eyes of the man on the other side stood out of his head and he gasped for breath.
“You just watch it, Riegg,” whispered Jakob Kuisl. “I know your dirty secrets. I know all of you. How often have you come to me for some herb to give you a hard-on or a bottle of angel’s bane, so that the wife can abort another kid? How often have you fetched the midwife to your house? Five times? Six times? And now she’s the witch, and you’re doing just fine. Bah, you make me sick!”
The hangman let his prisoner go and hurled him backward. He slid slowly down the wall of the cell, whimpering. Then Kuisl went across to the other cell, where Martha Stechlin was already awaiting him with frightened eyes, her fingers clutching the iron bars of the cell.
“Give me back my coat, I’ve brought you a blanket,” said Jakob Kuisl loudly. He passed a woolen blanket in, while the midwife, shivering, took off his coat. As she reached for the rolled-up blanket, he whispered to her, almost inaudibly.
“Unroll the blanket in the dark at the back. There’s a little bottle there. Drink it.”
Martha Stechlin looked at him questioningly. “What is-?”
“Don’t talk, drink,” he whispered again. The bailiff Andreas had meanwhile taken a seat again on a stool near the door. Leaning on his pike, he watched them with interest.
“The important gentlemen are coming when the bell rings at midday,” Jakob Kuisl continued loudly. “You had best begin saying your prayers.”
And quietly he added, “Don’t be afraid. It’s all the best for you. Trust me. But you must drink that bottle now.”
Then he turned and descended the damp stairs down to the torture chamber to get things ready.
The two men sat together over a glass of port wine, but for one of them drinking was difficult. His pain caused him to tremble, so that drops of the precious liquid fell on his gold-brocaded coat. Spots like bloodstains spread over the garment. Since yesterday it had become worse, even though he had still been able to conceal it from the others.
“They got away from you,” he said. “I knew that you’d just make things worse. You can’t do anything by yourself, absolutely nothing!”
The other man sipped absently at his wine. “They’ll get them all right,” he said. “They can’t be far away. They’re children.”
Once again a wave of pain flooded the body of the older man. Only with difficulty could he regain the mastery of his voice.
“This is getting out of control!” he groaned. His right hand clutched the cut-glass crystal goblet. He must not give up now, not relax, so near to the goal…
“This can be our ruin, not only yours or mine but the whole family, don’t you understand? Our name will be disgraced forever after!”
“Oh, nonsense,” said the other as he leaned back in his chair. “They are children. Who’s going to believe them? It’s good that the matter of the witch is dragging on. First the children must go, then the witch can be burned. Then no suspicion will fall on us.”
He stood up and went to the door. Business was waiting; things had been neglected for too long. Someone like himself had been lacking, someone who would take the reins in his hand. They had all misjudged him.
“And what about the actual job you have to do?” the older man asked, as he tried to rise, holding on to the table.
“We paid them well to pull that off!”
“Don’t you worry, that’ll be taken care of. Perhaps even today.” He pushed down the door handle and turned to go out.
“I’ll give you another five days,” the older man shouted after him. “Five days! If the matter isn’t taken care of by then, I’ll send our men to take care of the murderers. And don’t think that you’ll get one single penny!”
While he was still speaking, the other man left, shutting the heavy oaken door behind him, which made the shouted threats hardly audible anymore.
“In five days you’ll be dead,” he mumbled, knowing well that the older man inside couldn’t hear him. “And if the devil doesn’t take you, I’ll send you to hell myself.”
As he walked across the balcony with its elaborately decorated balustrade, his gaze wandered over the roofs toward the black, silent forest that stood just beyond the gates of the town. He felt a short thrill of fear. The man out there was unpredictable. What would happen when the children were out of the way?
Would he ever stop? Would he himself be next?
They came punctually with the midday pealing of the bells. An escort of four town bailiffs led the way, with the court clerk and the three witnesses following. Jakob Schreevogl’s face was pale; he had slept badly. His wife kept waking up with nightmares and calling for Clara. Furthermore, he was still suffering from a hangover from drinking with the physician. He could no longer remember exactly what he had said to young Fronwieser. But he had the feeling he had been a better talker than listener.
In front of him walked Michael Berchtholdt. The baker had a bunch of herbs with mugwort hanging at his belt, which was supposed to protect him from witchcraft. He was softly reciting his prayers and fingering a rosary. When
