“We were here, in this region,” Kuisl mused, as the eastern city wall receded behind them. “I’d almost forgotten. In the distance there was a castle atop a hill, a ruin.” He opened his eyes and looked at Teuber. “It was big, and it overlooked a burned-out market town on the Danube. Is there anything like that around here?”
Teuber nodded hesitantly. “That must be Donaustauf, just a few miles downriver. The Swedes set fire to the castle a long time ago, just after the occupiers ran off with an entire load of salt. Did you have anything to do with that?”
Kuisl looked out over the Danube winding through the forests like a muddy green monster. A mill stood on the right-hand bank, but otherwise there were no buildings in sight.
“We were there a few years afterward,” he said, closing his eyes again. “The castle had been destroyed sometime before that, but our winter encampment was somewhere very near there. In the spring we were supposed to go back to Bohemia again for yet another murderous campaign.” He spat into the water. “By God, for every one of them I’ll roast in hell a hundred years.”
Teuber dipped the rudder below the river’s glassy surface. A flock of ducks scattered and flew off, quacking.
“You were in the war a long time, weren’t you?” Teuber asked finally.
“Far too long.”
For a while neither spoke. The boat drifted gently downriver as the sun rose over the eastern treetops and burned down on the backs of the men’s necks.
“What did you do in the war?” Teuber asked. “Pikeman, swordsman, musketeer?”
“I was a sergeant.”
Teuber whistled through his teeth. “A hangman sergeant-well, isn’t that something! You must have been a good soldier to have risen so far above your station.”
“I know a thing or two about killing.”
They were silent once more, until at long last, around a bend in the river, a dreary little city came into view with a hastily repaired castle perched atop a hill. A crooked jetty lined the shore, where a number of boats and rafts were docked. As they drew closer, Kuisl could see that many of the buildings were in ruins, their roofs collapsed and walls black with soot. The wall that once surrounded this city had been eaten away like a piece of old cheese.
“Donaustauf,” said Teuber, steering the boat toward a mud-splattered pier. “Used to be a pretty little market town, but once the Swedes were done with it, Plague and hunger ravaged it only further. No doubt it’ll be a while before they can rebuild it, and the next war will come along.” He laughed softly and tethered the boat to a rotted post. “So, then, where did your dreams tell you to look?”
Kuisl held his nose in the air as if trying to catch a scent. “Don’t know. Weidenfeld… was a little village, actually more like a hamlet, just a few miles from our winter quarters. More or less that way.” He pointed uncertainly toward the castle on the hill. “We could see that ruin from there.”
“Great,” Teuber said. “Behind that hill the forest begins. That won’t get us very far. Wait here.”
He approached the jetty, where a few ragged fishermen had spread out their morning catch. They eyed him warily at first but didn’t seem to recognize him as the Regensburg executioner. When he asked about the town, they shook their heads and pointed toward the other side of the hill.
In a few minutes Teuber returned. “I have news-some good and some bad,” he reported. “Your Weidenfeld is in fact back in the forest over there-a little hamlet. The older men can still remember it. But there isn’t much left of it. Everything’s ruined and overgrown, and nobody lives there anymore. Why don’t you finally come out with it and tell me about this Weidenfeld?”
“Later.” With a deep sigh, Kuisl stood up in the boat and climbed onto the shore. “There’s no time now. Let’s get this over with.”
“Wait.” Teuber pulled a two-foot-long boat knife and a nicked rapier from under the rowing bench. He clamped the rapier onto his belt and handed Kuisl the other weapon. “We’ll need these. I talked the old fisherman who lent us this rotten boat into letting me have them. The old fellow was probably in the war himself.”
Kuisl stopped to think for a moment. “I’d prefer a good old larch-wood cudgel,” he said. “And if it’s a ghost we meet, even the sharpest blade won’t do us any good.”
“If it’s a ghost, you won’t need a club either,” Teuber said. “And now stop fussing and take the damned knife!”
Kuisl took the weapon. As he ran his fingers along the rusty blade and the discolored greenish handle, his eyes glassed over. “I’ve always fought with a two-hander or a shortsword,” he said. “That’ll rip open a stomach like paper. This here is nothing more than a toy. But what difference does it make?” He turned to leave without looking back. “Come on.”
They left Donaustauf and entered a narrow lane behind the village that led into a dense forest. Soon tall beeches and firs surrounded them, and the path was bathed in an almost surreal green light. Apart from the rustling trees and a jaybird call, an oppressive silence prevailed. Down here on the forest floor it was shady, almost cool, and their boots sank into the swampy ground an earlier thunderstorm had left in its wake. From time to time broad wheel treads were visible in the mire.
“This road continues on to a hammer mill,” Teuber explained, looking around intently. “Just before it a small hidden path ought to branch off to the left. The fishermen in town said it’s mostly overgrown now, so we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled.”
“That won’t be necessary-look!” Kuisl pointed to fresh prints in the swampy ground that trailed off further down the path. “These are fresh, not three hours old.”
Teuber bent down to study the prints. “There’s not just one of them-evidently your ghost has a helper.”
Kuisl nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out there were three. They always come in threes… three men, risen from the dead.”
“Quit that, or I’ll be seeing ghosts, too.” The Regensburg executioner crossed himself and made another sign to ward off evil spirits. “You’ll drive a man crazy with your superstitious blathering.”
All of a sudden he stopped. To their left a narrow, overgrown path-more like a deer trail-led off into the forest. They’d almost overlooked it. On closer inspection they spied a border stone among the leaves and rotting branches. And next to that, half rotted and buried in foliage, were the remains of a wayside cross.
Kuisl picked up the splintered crucifix and leaned it almost reverently against the stone.
“Weidenfeld,” he murmured. “We’re on the right track.”
They headed down the path, making their way with difficulty through fallen trees and dense undergrowth. Freshly broken branches indicated someone had recently passed this way. The air filled with the odor of mushrooms, decay, and rotting wood, and all they could hear now were their own footsteps and muffled breathing.
After a good quarter-hour the forest brightened and a sunny clearing with tall bushes and young trees opened before them. It took Kuisl a while to realize this grove concealed the remnants of houses. Nibbling on a hazelnut bush that grew out of a crumbling well, a deer caught sight of the two intruders and bounded away, leaving behind it a deep silence that took Kuisl’s breath away.
Weidenfeld…
His mind awash in memories, the hangman looked around. Roofs had collapsed, scorched beams rose out of the ground; all that was left of the houses were piles of stones among which blue forget-me-nots were growing. In the town center a street was now overgrown with ferns and wild grain, and a little tower rose up over a pile of stones in the distance. Crooked mossy gravestones reminded Kuisl that at one time a village church must have stood there.
High in the tower, in a burned-out window, a man sat, legs dangling over the ledge. He beckoned to them, but instinctively the hangman took a step backward.
How is this possible? From what hell has he returned?