Death and the Devil

“Anything’s better than sitting around doing nothing,” Jacob agreed. By now they had reached St. Pantaleon. Above the door in the solid wall an oil lamp was swinging in the wind, knocking against the stone at irregular intervals.

Shoulders hunched, they squeezed in under the narrow projecting roof and knocked. It wasn’t long before a tiny window was pushed up. Watery eyes twitched uneasily to and fro under bushy brows.

“It’s after vespers,” an old man’s voice croaked.

“True, reverend Brother,” said Jaspar. “I would not have been so bold as to ask for admittance at this late hour, if I and Brother Jacob here were not engaged on a mission of Christian charity to thwart a devilish attempt to ensnare innocent people body and soul.”

“And who are you?”

“Jaspar Rodenkirchen, dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s. Also physician and Master of Arts.”

The fluttering of the pupils became even more hectic. “I must ask the abbot.”

“We quite understand,” Jaspar assured him, “and respect the prudence of venerable old age. The only thing we would ask is that you do so as quickly as you can since it has pleased the Lord to make the heavens shed tears at the sins of the ungodly.”

“Wait here.” The flap slid down.

“Senile bloody half-wit,” growled Jaspar. “I know Saint Benedict, talking about monks, said, ‘Become a fool for Christ’s sake,’ but he didn’t mean they should ignore the gift of reason.” In fury he strode up and down along the wall. “‘I must ask the abbot, I must ask the abbot.’ And who’s the abbot to ask? Does God have to decide every time whether a door is to be opened or closed? Will these monks never learn to think?”

It was quite some time before the door creaked open and they hurried inside.

A monk who was indeed very old and bent indicated the tall man at his side who was regarding them with a benevolent gaze. He and Jaspar grasped each other by the shoulders and exchanged a brief kiss.

“What can I do for you at this late hour, Brother Jaspar?” the abbot asked.

“A small matter. It is very important I speak to someone in the hospice.” Jaspar smiled. “If it is no trouble, of course.”

Clasping his arms behind his back, the abbot assumed a lofty expression. He looked as if he were giving the matter earnest consideration. “You’re late,” he said skeptically.

“I know.”

“Did you not say something to Brother Laurence here about the machinations of the Devil? As you will know, the monks in this monastery fear the Devil at all times, but experience tells us that he is at his most dangerous after dark. That is why we have to subject guests who arrive this late to particular scrutiny. You must not interpret our cautiousness as suspicion, but—”

“Not in the least,” Jaspar broke in. “To be precise, the Devil I was talking about is the fiend that comes from the past to torment our innermost souls. Old wounds reopen. But often it is the old wounds that lead us to new weapons, if you get my meaning?”

The abbot clearly did not, but he nodded affably.

“Furthermore,” Jaspar went on, “this fiend manifests itself in madness and speaks out of the mouths of those whose spirits are confused. I do not mean to suggest you are housing this fiend here. The balm of your care, I have heard, soothes the sufferings of those poor souls whose minds rave in a confusion of tongues.”

“We have established a special section for that kind of case,” said the abbot, not without pride.

“Yes, it is praised far and wide. Your reputation for compassion is only exceeded by the fame of your learning. Or was it the other way around? I know that the brothers here have astonishing expertise in that area. But to get to the nub of my request, there is in that section a poor soul whose name, I believe, is Hieronymus and who may be able to help us track down this foul fiend.”

The abbot pricked up his ears. “What am I to understand by that?”

“The precise details,” said Jaspar mysteriously, “must remain a secret. It is an extremely delicate matter involving some very important personages.”

“Here in Cologne?” the abbot whispered.

“In this very city. The poor man I am looking for lost both his legs at Acre.”

“Yes, that’s Hieronymus.”

“Excellent. We have to speak to him.”

“Hmm, that will not be easy. He’ll be asleep. Hieronymus has been sleeping a lot recently. I think he will soon go to his eternal rest.”

“All the more important we speak to him before that,” declared Jaspar. “It will not take long, and if Hieronymus has nothing to tell us, he can go straight back to sleep.”

Jacob shivered. They were standing in the cloisters around the inner courtyard and the wind was blowing in through the narrow arched windows, tearing at the flames of the torches in the iron rings.

Again the abbot thought long and hard.

“Very well,” he said eventually, “I would not want to stand in the way of a holy work. Our reputation for good works has always imbued our monastery with a—let us say an aura of mystical greatness which gives it a radiance we must strive to keep shining untarnished.”