The three holy hosts had returned to the bosom of the church.
The well was located in the cemetery next to the monastery.
Simon thought back on his visit there the day before. The cemetery, with its weathered stone crosses and ivy-covered burial mounds, exuded an air of tranquility in stark contrast with the noisy bustle outside its walls. The sun shone warm and bright on the many faded inscriptions on the gravestones, and the grass grew thicker and lusher along the paths than anywhere else in the area.
They say bones are a good fertilizer, Simon thought. How many monks have been buried here in the last few centuries?
They’d laid out the corpse in the grass next to the well and spread a shroud over it. Flies buzzed around the bundle, which was so small Simon expected to see a child beneath it rather than a grown man. When the librarian carefully pulled the cloth to one side, the medicus realized why.
The entire body of the man before him was so badly burned it had curled in on itself and shriveled up like a prune. What was left of the mouth was open as if in a final scream, and the teeth gleamed a sickly yellow. Brother Benedikt stooped to pick up a burned piece of wood. Only on second look did Simon realize it was Virgilius’s walking stick with the ivory decorations. Its silver handle was still recognizable, though it was twisted out of shape now and covered with a layer of soot.
“That should be proof enough,” he exclaimed with disgust, casting the stick into the flowery meadow. The two Benedictines who accompanied him stepped aside in shock. “I’m glad we’ve finally solved this gruesome murder,” the librarian continued. “People no longer need to fear a golem living in a dungeon, an automaton in a crypt, or anything else. In his hatred of his colleagues, Brother Johannes simply incinerated the automaton along with its creator and threw them both into the well. Let us return now and allow the dead to rest in peace.”
“Who found the body?” Simon asked.
The librarian smiled. “You may be astonished to hear this, but it was the abbot himself, who, along with one of his assistants, came upon the corpse this morning. You certainly don’t doubt his word, do you? Then let’s finally leave-”
“Just one more moment.” Simon bent over to examine the charred corpse briefly. Unfortunately the individual body parts were so disfigured it was impossible to tell whether there’d been any injury prior to death. The face looked like that of a crudely carved wooden figure that had been cast into the fire and no longer resembled the living Virgilius at all. While examining the twisted right arm, however, Simon noticed something about the hand.
A finger was missing.
The finger with the ring that the abbot showed us the night before last, Simon thought. Then this really is Virgilius’s body. Did Nepomuk really kill him?
He looked up into the smiling face of Brother Benedikt.
“You knew the monstrance was stolen a few days ago, didn’t you?” the librarian asked Simon. “Evidently Abbot Maurus told you, the old fool. Is that so?” When Simon remained silent, the monk shook his head. “Why in the world would he do that? All hell would have broken loose if the word had gotten out. Well, everything worked out well in the end: the monstrance is back, and the festival can begin tomorrow.”
“Do you seriously believe that Brother Laurentius stole the relics?” Simon asked.
Brother Benedikt shrugged. “Who knows? Does that really matter now that the monstrance has appeared again? Who cares who really stole it? The main thing is that the people have a culprit. Aside from that”-he said, shaking his finger-“it was an open secret among the monks that Laurentius was a sodomite, so he has received his just punishment.”
Simon eyed the old monk suspiciously. Evidently Brother Benedikt really didn’t know that it was the abbot himself who’d stolen the monstrance with the hosts, or that the abbot’s brother, Virgilius, had been abducted. Was all this just a game of make-believe? Could the librarian be the sorcerer who abducted and killed the watchmaker to get ahold of the hosts?
Suddenly Simon had an idea. He cursed himself for not having thought of it earlier. Perhaps there was a way for him to find out whether Brother Benedikt knew more than he let on.
“Did you examine the containers in the monstrance to make sure the hosts were really there?” he asked curiously.
Brother Benedikt didn’t bat an eye. “We’ll do that, of course, at the appropriate time,” he said in a flat voice. “But you can rest assured they’re there-the containers are sealed.”
“Wax seals can be forged,” Simon replied.
The librarian snorted. “You have a lively imagination, bathhouse surgeon. Now excuse me; I have to prepare for the next mass. It will be a great service of thanksgiving in honor of the return of our three holy hosts. You are warmly invited to attend.”
He turned and left with his head high-a little old man who nevertheless had an authoritative air, fostered by years of book learning. The other monks who had been standing around silently picked up the cloth containing Virgilius’s corpse. It seemed as light as a child’s. Praying softly, the Benedictines carried Virgilius’s remains to the funeral chapel at the edge of the cemetery.
They wouldn’t need a very large coffin.
Incense swirled up like a cloud toward the church ceiling as the chorus of the faithful joined in with the organ’s mournful melody and the entire space seemed to tremble.
From his vantage point, the sorcerer watched the many pilgrims opening and closing their mouths like bleating sheep. Open and close, open and close… It was astonishing that so many stupid farmers, so many narrow-minded, simple people, could engender such energy. The sorcerer could feel their faith flashing through the church like lightning through a thundercloud. So much power concentrated in a simple baked good: three ancient, crumbling oblates of water and flour.
The three sacred hosts.
Finally he had them in his possession. His plan had worked, though not quite as smoothly as expected. Still, all the dead strewn along his path had been necessary. All that mattered was the result of his efforts.
As the deep bass notes of the organ rumbled through the church, the sorcerer could once again see the fire before him and hear the cries and pleading of the dying. He realized now that he felt sorry for those who had to die, especially those who had died in severe pain. Their constant pleading almost awakened pity in him.
But only almost… What were a few deaths really in view of what he planned? Man could be God; all he needed was faith-and that was something stronger here than anywhere, except perhaps in Altotting, St. Peter’s in Rome, or in Santiago de Compostela. And central to this faith here on the Holy Mountain were the hosts.
As the sorcerer recited the kyrie eleison with the many faithful around him, he himself felt overwhelmed by faith.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa… Kyrie eleison…
Yes, he, too, had sinned. Tears welled up in his eyes when he thought of her. She had vanished from his life so long ago, yet he believed in her, and this faith would bring her back to life again.
If only those damned Schongau busybodies weren’t around.
The sorcerer clenched the prayer book so hard his knuckles turned white. They were close on his heels-he could feel that-and his assistant brought him more shocking news every day. They were evidently close to solving the mystery. He’d given his assistant clear orders, but all he got were new excuses. Was he too cowardly or just too softhearted? For now the sorcerer needed him, but he would have to find a more reliable servant soon.
It wouldn’t be much longer-he was just waiting for the right conditions. He’d once almost reached that point, but what he was hoping for didn’t happen. He felt it couldn’t be much longer now, though, and until then he’d have to be patient.