The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 16 April 1638 – Losie Slingsman – The Lantern in His Eye

 

He was not from Goslar. He came from outside, and that was enough.
Losie Slingsman, tinker and peddler, with a mouth like a knife. No one knew his origin. He slept in the hunter’s barn near the Zwinger and spoke with a northern accent — Holstein, perhaps, or worse.
They said he laughed with women, kicked cats, and heard singing where there was none.

They found on him:
– a knife with strange markings
– a small leather pouch of hair
– a tiny bone wrapped in linen

The pastor said:
“Clearly. A servant of the Devil.”
And the Council said:
“He will speak.”

When he was brought in, he spat on the floor.
“Which of you is the hangman?”
I stepped forward.
“I am the Scharfrichter.”
He laughed — an ugly laugh.
“Good. Then we can speak man to man.”

I bound him to the breaking wheel.
He cursed in three tongues. He sang an obscenity about the Holy Virgin.
I gave the signal.

First the thumbs.
The screws turned slowly.
His fingertips turned purple, then black.
He screamed.
But he said no names.

I had the iron brought in. Not glowing — but cold.
I struck it against his knees. His scream cut through bone and marrow.
Still no confession.

Then I brought the lantern.
A small oil lamp we sometimes used to examine eyes during fever.
I held the flame close to his face.
He bit.
He bit Jörg on the hand.
I grabbed his hair and forced his head back.
“Say it.”
He spat.
I turned his head aside — and held the flame before his left eye.

The oil quivered.
He screamed. He screamed as I have seldom heard.
And then:
“I have mixed blood with wine!”
“I have danced in the field under the summer moon!”
“I have seen the goat with silver horns!”

The theologian nodded.
“Confession sufficient.”
I signed it.
My hands smelled of hair and scorched flesh.

Later, when he was taken back to the cellar, he looked at me with his right eye.
“You did well, Master. But the goat laughs at you all.”
I did not answer.
But something in his voice stayed with me.
Not the words.
The tone.




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