Suspense Magazine July 2013

Special Preview from Oliver Pötzsch
The Poisoned Pilgrim
A Hangman’s Daughter Tale
Prologue
Erling, near Andechs
Saturday, June 12, 1666 AD, Evening
By Oliver Pötzsch
Dark thunderclouds hung overhead as the novitiate Coelestin, with a curse on his
lips, marched toward his imminent death.
In the west, beyond Lake Ammer, swirling clouds towered up, the first flashes
of lightning appeared, and a distant rumble of thunder could be heard. When
Coelestin squinted, he could make out gray rain clouds
over the monastery in dießen, five miles away. In only a
matter of minutes the storm would be raging over the
Holy Mountain, and now, of all times, the fat monk of
an apothecary had sent him to fetch a carp from the
monastery pond for supper. Coelestin cursed again and
pulled the cape of his black robe farther down over his
face. What could he do Obedience was one of the three
vows of the Benedictine order, and Brother Johannes was
his superior—it was that simple. An occasionally hottempered,
often enigmatic, and above all gluttonous lay
brother, but nevertheless his superior.
“Porca miseria!” As so often when he was in a bad
mood, Coelestin switched to his mother tongue. He had
grown up in an Italian village on the other side of the
Alps, but in the turmoil of the war, his father had become a mercenary and his mother a whore who followed army camps.
Here in the monastery on the Holy Mountain, Coelestin had found a home in the pharmacy at Andechs. Even though the
incessant litanies and nightly prayers sometimes got on his nerves, he felt safe here. Three times a day he got a good meal;
he had a warm, dry place to sleep, and the Andechs beer was said to be one of the best in the entire Electorate of Bavaria. In
these hard times, one could have it much worse. Nevertheless, the spindly little novitiate cursed under his breath, and not just
because he would soon be as wet as the carp in the pond of the Erling Monastery.
Coelestin was afraid.
Ever since the discovery he made three days ago, fear had been eating at him like a rabid beast. What he saw was so
horrible that his blood almost froze in his veins. It still followed him at night in his dreams, when he woke up screaming
and bathed in sweat. God would never allow such a crime to go unpunished; that much was certain. To Coelestin, the dark
clouds and the flashes of lightning in the sky seemed like the first harbingers of an Old Testament revenge that would soon
be visited on the monastery.
Even more threatening than the heresy, actually, was the man’s hateful gaze. The man had recognized Coelestin when the
novitiate tried to make a hasty escape—at least that’s what Coelestin thought. And the look on the novitiate’s face said more
than a thousand words. In recent days they had reached out to him, prodding, as if checking that Coelestin hadn’t betrayed
the secret.
Coelestin knew that the other one had powerful advocates. Why would they believe him, the little novitiate The
accusation was so monstrous that he could be considered insane. Or even worse, a character assassin. This comfortable life,
with meat, beer, and a warm, dry bed, would then no doubt be gone forever.
Nevertheless, Coelestin had decided to speak up. The next morning he would tell the monastery council what he’d seen
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