The Living Dead

"That doesn't matter. It's his spiritual qualities that matter most," Adolph Mueller, who was on the Council—and another of Kaspar's cousins—had asserted.

But the fact of his health remained. He was older, frailer. The part of Christ was grueling—each Passion Play lasted eight hours, with only a break for lunch; and then there was the matter of hanging on the Cross—

—and then there was the matter of Kaspar's falling from his front porch and breaking his ribs.

Father Meyer had assumed that would end the discussion; they would have to choose another, younger man. But Kaspar let it be known that he wouldn't hear of it, wouldn't share the stage with anyone else. Nor would he allow his understudy to take over the role.

The priest was concerned, and let that fact be known to the Council. And in deference to his office, the discussion continued. But Father Meyer should have realized the weakness of his position: the Muellers were one of the founding families of Oberammergau, and they owned the largest hotel, two restaurants, and four taverns. They also donated generously each year to the village's State Woodcarving School. Father Meyer's family hadn't arrived until near the end of the nineteenth century. To most Oberammergauers, the Meyers were little better than interlopers. And of what benefit would it be to please the parish priest over the largest employer in town?

Yet finally, after much deliberation, Kaspar announced he would allow the placement of a double of himself upon the Cross during the crucifixion scene: one of the zombies, the wandelndere Leichname—changing corpses—as they were called in German, changed yet again, to look like him.

"Think of it," Adolph Mueller had exhorted the Council. "At last we can depict the true Passion of Christ. We can drive nails through its palms, and pierce its—"

"Father, really, you must watch or people will talk," Cardinal Schonbrun said as he stood.

Father Meyer shook himself. The sun was high in the sky. The stage was empty, the curtains closed. It was the lunch interval. Four hours had passed.

It was time. He called upon the Virgin for courage.

"People already talk, Eminence," he said. "The talk hasn't stopped since I stepped down from the Council."

"Which is why we're here," the cardinal cut in, gesturing to the bishop and the many priests assembled around them. "To prove that the Church approves of these proceedings, even if you do not."

Bishop Ahrenkiel put his arm around Father Meyer. "Come. Let's go have some sausage and a beer. The cardinal would surely not object?"

Father Meyer's heart jumped in his chest. Now was the moment. Goodbye, his soul whispered to Holy Mother Church. Forgive me.

"I'm—I'm not hungry," he stammered, his fear showing. "If I may be excused to go to my house for the interval?"

The cardinal regarded him. "I think not. I think you should eat with us, Father."

He forced himself not to panic. "But I'm not feeling—"

"Nein. You must come with us, Father Meyer."

Father Meyer sagged. The cardinal must have guessed his plan to slip backstage and free the ten Leichname the village had purchased. Why had he dreamed it would be possible? He was a fool. A cursed old fool.

"Father Meyer?" Cardinal Schonbrun pressed, gesturing for him to walk beside him.

Father Meyer forced back tears. Perhaps he could find another way. He could not believe that in four hours they would actually crucify the pitiful thing.

"It's done in movies and things all the time," Bishop Ahrenkiel murmured as Father Meyer plodded slightly behind the cardinal. "It has been approved by the various humane organizations, the unions, the—"

"Don't speak to me." Father Meyer turned his head away from his old friend.

"But, Johannes—"

"Don't."

They sat in the crowded rooms of the Mueller Hotel, among the tourists, who were titillated by the presence of live zombies in their midst. Though long ago the contagion had been stopped, still people held the old fears.

Maria Mueller, Kaspar's daughter, brought the priests large mugs of beer and plates of pork ribs and sauerkraut. Though in her forties, she curtsied daintily to the bishop and the cardinal, but pointedly turned her back on Father Meyer. No one in the village had spoken to him since he'd resigned from the Council.

"It goes well, does it not?" Bishop Ahrenkiel asked her. "Everyone must be so proud."

She frowned. "This is our holy obligation, Your Eminence. We don't do it out of pride."

Father Meyer pursed his lips. One of the Lord's own creatures would be made to suffer horribly this afternoon, for another's sin of pride.

They had told him the zombies had no nerve endings.

Father Meyer sat hunched in his seat with tears running down his cheeks. He clutched his rosary while he watched the creature writhe in agony as they stretched open its palm and slammed the nail through.