Monster

My journey to Leipzig took three days. Several times I had to steal into villages to get my bearings, and once I surprised a gang of bandits, who, while blanching severely at my appearance, provided me with the directions that I sought. A few times I came across wayward and seemingly dispirited troops from Napoleon’s army, and while I considered doing my duty as a Bavarian citizen and sending them into flight, images of the wolves that I left dead on the ground invaded my thoughts, and instead I chose to avoid them. They seemed miserable enough as it was without having a daemon chasing them away.

During those three days I didn’t feel the need to sleep again, but did rest several times. I also found that a diet of the mushrooms and berries that I came across in the woods was sufficient.

Near the end of my journey I approached a woodsy area, maybe three miles from Leipzig, and there I spotted a distinguished-looking man who appeared to be searching for different varieties of plants. He was a short man of slight build and possessing a highly pronounced forehead, and dressed finely in his white silk stockings, short tight trousers and dark coat. I watched curiously as he examined different plants. I grew suspicious, however, when he stopped at a nightshade plant to collect its leaves. As I watched him my anger boiled over.

“Another Voisin?” I yelled out.

My voice startled him and he nearly jumped out of his buckled leather shoes. I stepped out from the trees that had hidden me. His complexion paled as he saw me, but he didn’t run away as others of late had done.

“Sir,” he said, his voice showing none of his fright, his eyes holding steady on me, “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. But no, I am no Voisin. I assure you that I am not a poisoner, notorious or otherwise.”

Even with the hood hiding my face, I must have been a frightful image with my enormous height and the ominous way in which I was clothed. Still, he stood his ground as I approached him.

“That is a nightshade plant whose leaves you are picking,” I said. “I know for I was once a pharmaceutical chemist in the employ of the Ingolstadt Apothecary, as well as also having an interest in botany. The leaves are deadly and their only purpose is to poison. If you are not picking these leaves for mischief, then why are you?”

“I am collecting them for curative reasons and not harmful ones.” His eyes all at once blazing with indignation, he added, “Sir, if you have been employed in the preparation of medicines, then you too have been up to your own share of mischief.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Why? Because the accepted medical profession is barbaric!” He made a face to show his disdain, and had to take several deep breaths before he could continue. “I know of what I speak,” he stated, his voice only slightly calmer. “I was trained as a doctor, and was employed as such for many years, and I can tell you that the tried and true methods employed today are absolutely primitive! Tell me, what is the point of bloodletting? To rob the patient of the vital fluids necessary for the restoration of health? And the harsh purgative medicines that doctors prescribe only to leave the patient in a weaker and more debilitating state? Bah!”

“I never performed any medical procedures,” I said. “My profession required me to prepare the medications that were prescribed. Whether the purgatives that I would prepare were too harsh, I cannot say. But I do know that herbal balms that I produced for burns and rashes were effective.”

“Yes, I know, and I did not mean to condemn you and your profession.” He smiled at me benevolently, adding, “But I have seen firsthand the damage that doctors in their ignorance can cause, and it can be difficult for me at times to keep my temper in check. But I apologize for my outburst. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Samuel Hahnemann.”

That left me at a lost for several seconds before grunting out that my own name was Friedrich Hoffmann, which seemed a better choice than to introduce myself as a wretched abomination brought forth into the world by a wicked sorcerer. I shook my head at the hand that he held out to me. I was beginning to feel an affinity to this man, and I did not want him seeing the monstrous construction of my own hand. “My skin is sensitive to the touch,” I said. “I cannot shake hands for that reason.”

He peered at me curiously, but nodded. “You may believe that belladonna, or nightshade as you know it, can only be used as a poison,” he said, “but taken in very low dosages I hope to prove that it can be curative. In fact, it may even be able to prevent scarlet fever.”

“I have never heard of such thing.”

“Nobody has,” Herr Hahnemann said, smiling inwardly. “I have a belief of like curing like, and this is a theory that I have been experimenting with lately. The basic principle behind it is if a patient is showing symptoms similar to what the poisoning from a certain substance might cause, then that substance taken in minuscule portions will allow the body to heal itself. Just as belladonna poisoning will cause symptoms that are similar to scarlet fever, a small dosage of belladonna may very well act as a preventive treatment for that disease.”

While Herr Hahnemann explained this to me, I could see him peering at me intently as if he were trying to discern what I might look like under my hood.

“You desire to see my face?” I asked.

“I apologize, Herr Hoffmann. You mentioned that your skin is sensitive to the touch, and I was wondering if that is why you are covering your head with a hood on such a mild day. Perhaps if you would accompany me back to my home, I could treat you using this new methodology that I am currently exploring.”

“I do not wish to accompany you.”

“Why? My home is only a short distance from here.”

“It would be pointless. I am beyond the cure of any treatment.”

“Nonsense! I do not believe that.”

His face held only compassion. I shook my head. “Herr Hahnemann, I am a dead thing brought to life by dark satanic forces. There is no cure that could help me.”

“Interesting,” Herr Hahnemann said softly. “This is the reason you did not wish to shake hands earlier, and not because of your skin being sensitive?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “My hands are of such a hideous nature that it would give you nightmares if you viewed them.”

Herr Hahnemann stood rubbing his chin with one hand, his eyes appearing vacant as if he were deep in thought. When he looked back at me a light shone in those eyes.

“Herr Hoffmann, with the symptoms that you have expressed to me, I believe I can help you. If you accompany me to my home I will prepare a remedy for you.”

“I cannot do that.”

My answer frustrated him. Muttering softly to himself he began searching through the leather satchel that he carried. At last he found what he was looking for and held an envelope out to me.

“This envelope holds leaves from a jimson weed. I will explain to you how to produce a remedy from it. If you were once a pharmaceutical chemist, then you should be able to do this easily.”

Jimson weed. The Devil’s trumpet. Hell’s bells. The Devil’s weed. I couldn’t help smiling as I thought of the other names that jimson weed was known as. I listened, though, as Herr Hahnemann explained the procedure for producing a remedy from these leaves, which amounted to little more than generating a tincture, then mixing one drop of the tincture with eight ounces of water and a scruple of alcohol and mixing that vigorously. When he was done with his explanation he saw that I was not going to expose my hand to him by reaching for his envelope, and smiling gently, he placed the envelope instead by my feet. After that he nodded to me and went on his way. Once he was gone from sight, I picked up the envelope and fitted it within a pocket that the tailor had made within the inside lining of the cape. And then I continued on to Leipzig.

CHAPTER

9

When Johanna and I would talk of our future life together, my beloved had had only modest wants. She wished to have a home with a small garden where she could grow vegetables and herbs, and she wished to fill our home with many children, having been deprived of growing up within a large family, with her three older siblings dying unexpectedly before childbirth and her mother being unable to conceive again after her own birth. Johanna’s