The Hangman's Daughter

When Magdalena passed by the first houses in Peiting, she noticed that the peasants turned around to look at her and were whispering. Some crossed themselves. She was the hangman’s daughter, and the villagers feared her. Many of them suspected she was having it off with Beelzebub. And they had heard that her beauty was based solely on a bargain with the prince of darkness. What he had received in return for it was nothing less than her immortal soul. She let people hold on to their illusions. At least it kept away obnoxious suitors…

Without a second thought for the peasants, she turned into a lane on the right and soon stood before the small, ramshackle house of the midwife.

At once she noticed that something was wrong. The shutters were closed despite the beautiful sunny morning, and some of the herbs and flowers in the little garden in front of the house were trampled. Magdalena approached the door and pushed the latch. The door was locked.

By now she had realized that something was fishy. Goodwife Daubenberger was known for her hospitality. Magdalena had never found her door locked. All of the women in the village could call upon the old midwife anytime.

She knocked vigorously on the heavy wooden door.

“Are you in, Goodwife Daubenberger?” she asked. “It’s me, Magdalena from Schongau! I brought you Our Lady’s Powder.”

After quite a while, the gable window was opened. Katharina Daubenberger looked down at her with a suspicious eye. The old woman looked worried. There were more furrows on her face than ever. She looked pale and tired. When she recognized Magdalena, she forced herself to smile.

“Oh, Magdalena, it’s you,” she called. “That’s kind of you to come. Are you alone?”

Magdalena nodded. Cautiously, the midwife looked in all directions, then she disappeared inside the house. Footsteps could be heard on the stairs and a bolt was pushed back. Finally the door opened. Hurriedly, Goodwife Daubenberger waved her in.

“What’s the matter?” asked Magdalena as she entered. “Did you poison the burgomaster?”

“You ask what’s the matter, you silly goose?” she snapped, stirring the fire in the hearth. “They waylaid me at night, the village lads did. They wanted to burn down my house. If it hadn’t been for the farmer Michael Kössl, 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 ephedrae.”

“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.