at night, the village lads did. They wanted to burn down my house. If it hadn’t been for the farmer Michael Kossl, I’d be stone dead! He brought them back into line.”
“It’s because of Martha Stechlin, isn’t it?” asked Magdalena as she sat down on a rickety chair near the fireplace. Her legs were weary from the walk. Katharina Daubenberger nodded.
“Now all midwives will be witches again,” she murmured. “Like in my grandmother’s day. Nothing ever changes.”
She sat down beside Magdalena and poured her a cup of something dark and fragrant.
“Drink it,” she said. “Honey water with beer and
“Aqua what?” asked Magdalena.
“Essence of ephedra. That’ll get you back on your feet again.”
Magdalena sipped the hot liquid. It was sweet and invigorating. She felt the strength returning to her legs.
“Do you know what exactly happened in the town?”
Katharina Daubenberger wanted to know.
Magdalena gave the midwife an outline of what she knew. The night before last, as they were walking along the Lech, Simon had told her of the dead boy with the witches’ mark on his shoulder. She also had been able to overhear most of the conversation between her father and the physician through the thin wooden wall of his room on the previous night.
“And now it seems another boy’s been killed, and he had the same sign on his shoulder,” she concluded. “Simon went to see him last night. I haven’t heard from him since then.”
“Elderberry juice scratched into the skin, you say?” asked Goodwife Daubenberger, deep in thought. “That’s strange. You’d think the devil would’ve used blood, wouldn’t you? On the other hand—”
“What?” Magdalena interrupted impatiently.
“Well, the sulfur in the boy’s pocket, and then this sign…”
“Is it really a witches’ sign?” asked Magdalena.
“Let’s say it’s a wise woman’s sign. An ancient sign. As far as I know, it shows a hand mirror, the mirror of a very old and powerful goddess.”
The old midwife rose to her feet and walked to the fireplace to put on another log.
“At any rate it’s going to cause us a great deal of trouble. If matters go on like this, I’ll move in with my daughter-in-law in Peissenberg until this nightmare’s over.”
Suddenly she stopped in her tracks. She had caught sight of a tattered calendar lying on the mantel.
“Of course,” she murmured. “However could I forget that?”
“What is it?” asked Magdalena, moving closer to her. Meanwhile the midwife had picked up the calendar and was leafing through it frantically.
“Here,” she said finally, pointing at a faded image of an abbess holding a pitcher and a book. “Saint Walburga. Patron of the sick and of women in childbed. Her day is next week.”
“So?”
Magdalena had no idea what the midwife was trying to say. Puzzled, she looked at the stained print. The page was charred in one corner. The woman in the picture had a halo; her eyes were cast down modestly.
“Well,” Goodwife Daubenberger began her lecture. “The day of Saint Walburga is May first. The night preceding it is therefore called Walpurgis Night…”
“Witches’ night,” Magdalena whispered.
The midwife nodded and continued.
“If we want to believe the peasants of Peiting, that’s the night when the witches meet in the forest up at Hohenfurch to woo Satan. The sign right at this time may just be a coincidence, but it is strange in any case.”
“You think?”
Katharina Daubenberger shrugged.
“I don’t think anything. But it’s just one week till Walpurgis Night. And didn’t you find another dead boy with just the same mark only yesterday?”
She hurried to the room next door. When Magdalena followed her she saw how the midwife hurriedly shoved some garments and blankets into a knapsack.
“What’re you doing?” she asked in surprise.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” the old woman wheezed. “I’m packing. I’m going to my daughter-in-law’s in Peissenberg. If the killing continues, I don’t want to be around. On Walpurgis Night at the very latest the lads will set my house on fire. If there’s really a witch around here, I don’t want anyone to think it’s me. And if there isn’t one, there’ll always be the need for a culprit.”
She looked at Magdalena and shrugged.
“And now get out of here. Better for you to be gone. You’re the hangman’s daughter, and in their eyes you’re just as loathsome as a witch.”
Without turning around, Magdalena hurried out. On her way down to the Lech, past the barns and farms, she felt that there was a pair of suspicious eyes staring at her from every window.
It was about ten o’clock in the morning. Simon was sitting at one of the tables in the back of the Stern Inn, lost in thought and stirring a stew of mutton and carrots. He didn’t really have much of an appetite, although he hadn’t eaten anything since last night. But the memories of that night—the sight of young Kratz, his parents’ tears, and the turmoil in the neighborhood—had turned his stomach into a tight lump that wouldn’t accept any food whatsoever. However, in the Stern he at least had some peace to think through everything that had happened yesterday.
The physician let his eyes roam through the lounge. There were over a dozen inns in Schongau, but the Stern was doubtlessly the best in town. The oaken tables were clean and smoothly planed, and chandeliers with fresh candles hung from the ceiling. Several maids watched over the few wealthy patrons, continually filling their goblets with wine from glass decanters.
At this time of day, the inn was frequented by only a few wagon drivers from Augsburg who had dropped off their cargo at the Ballenhaus early in the morning.
From Schongau, they would continue their journey to Steingaden and Fussen and across the Alps to Venice.
The drivers were smoking their pipes and had already drunk their fair fill of wine.
Simon could hear their loud laughter.
Seeing the drivers, Simon remembered the brawl the raftsmen on the Lech had told him about. Josef Grimmer had started an argument with some of his competitors from Augsburg. Was it because of this that his son had to die? But what about the other dead boy, then? And that man with the hand of bone whom Sophie had spoke of?
Simon sipped at his mug of weak beer, thinking. For a long time now, the Augsburgers had been planning a new trading route on the Swabian side of the Lech to avoid Schongau’s transportation monopoly. So far, the Duke had always thwarted their plans. But there was no doubt that in the long run things were in their favor. If Schongau were avoided on account of diabolical activities, more and more merchants would be in favor of a new route. Furthermore, Schongau was currently planning a leper house. Not a few of the aldermen believed that it could frighten away merchants.
Was the man with the bony hand perhaps an emissary sent by Augsburg to spread fear and chaos?
“This one’s on the house.”
Awakened from his thoughts, Simon looked up. Burgomaster Karl Semer himself was standing before him. He plunked down a tankard of bock beer on the table so that the foam splattered. Simon eyed the landlord. It was not a regular occurrence that the presiding burgomaster of Schongau visited the lounge of his inn in person. Simon couldn’t remember if he’d ever been addressed by Semer, except that one time when Semer’s son had been in bed with a fever. But then the burgomaster had treated him condescendingly, like a vagrant barber, and had rather reluctantly handed him a couple of hellers. Now, however, he smiled in a friendly way and took a seat at his table. He beckoned to one of the maids with his chubby ringed fingers and ordered another beer. Then he raised his tankard to Simon.
“I’ve heard of the Kratz boy’s death. Nasty business, that. Looks like the Stechlin woman has an accomplice here in town. But we’ll find that out soon enough. Today we’re going to show her the instruments.”
