The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 20, 1638 – Margarete Wende – The Widow with the Teeth of Ash

 The sky above Goslar was leaden gray, heavy and oppressive. No rain, but the promise of thunder. The streets smelled of dung, stale beer, and the smoke from the tannery on Marktstraße.

Margarete Wende was the oldest of them all.
Sixty-two, widow of a mercenary who had vanished in Bohemia twenty years before. Since then she had lived alone in a crooked little house at the end of Köppelsbleekweg. She was seldom seen on Sundays, and even less on feast days. She baked her own bread, grew her own onions, and spoke to no one.
Until a girl cried out:
“The old Wende whispers to bones!”
And the carpenter found a sack of burnt teeth near her shed.
She said they were pig’s teeth.
The pastor said, “There were children’s teeth among them.”
The Council needed to hear no more.

She was brought into the chapel, bent but unbroken. Her hair like cobwebs beneath her hood. Her eyes small, sharp. Her mouth like a closed wound.
I asked her:
“What did you do with the teeth?”
She was silent.
“What did you speak in the dark?”
She lowered her eyes.
“What did you put into the oven at full moon?”
Then she raised her head.
“I called no one. Only my husband. He does not come back.”

I felt something tighten in my chest — but I gave the signal.
The rack.
Her old joints cracked like dry twigs. At the first pull she twisted. At the second she began to growl, low, animal-like. No fear. No pain. Only defiance.
I pressed her thumbs into the screws.
She bit through her tongue.
Blood trickled down her chin.
Then she said:
“They were pigs. I swore it. But I wanted their strength. Flesh. Fat. Something to make me warm again.”
The theologian asked:
“Did you anoint yourself with ash?”
She nodded.
“I had no one to keep me warm. I am only an old woman.”

I took the iron.
Not for her flesh.
But for her mind.
I held the fire close to her face until her eyes filled with tears.
“Did you see him?”
She nodded.
“He had no face. Only teeth. Teeth of fire.”
The theologian wrote:
“Confession of a demonic apparition.”
I noted:
Ready for the fire.

Note (evening):
She laughed as they took her away.
A dry laugh.
Like ash in the wind.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, May 3, 1638 – Fire

Image
 The sky above Goslar shimmered with dryness. It was early May, yet the wind carried dust and smoke. No rain had fallen in weeks, and the town was as parched as parchment. The streets echoed hollow beneath my boots, as if even the stones wished to flee from what was to come. Gese Schraders. A woman of forty. Daughter of a weaver, widow of a brewer. She lived by the Gose, near the bridge, in a house that smelled of herbs and yeast. Her name had long drifted through the whispers of the town. They said cows went lame when she looked at them, that children took fevers when she anointed their heads, that she spoke with cats by night. I had seen her once or twice at the market, bent forward, a basket of linen on her arm. Not a woman who joined in talk. Not a woman who smiled. Her arrest was no surprise. I had heard her name whispered in the pews since Candlemas. When the child of Councillor Witte died of convulsions, all glances soon turned one way. And the Council... the Council was...
Read more

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, November 11, 1639 – At the Guild

Image
 It was cold on the market this morning, sharp as a blade across the skin. Mist lay like a cloth over the stalls, and the air smelled of soot and old bacon. At the entrance to the meat hall stood a man with a pouch under his arm, clearly returning from an inspection, his head bowed, shoulders hunched. I was expected — not out of courtesy, but out of necessity. The meat-inspectors’ guild had sent a messenger. No official letter, no seal, only a spoken request: “The Master wishes to see you. There is something wrong with the meat from Langelsheim.” The tone was not hostile, but neither was it welcoming. In the guild room sat Guildmaster Cordt Bäumer with two other men, brothers of the craft, grown fat on the meat they judged. They sat by the hearth, steaming mugs before them, their eyes fixed on me as if I were already cutting. “The goods from Langelsheim stink,” Bäumer said curtly. “Too many entrails, too little salt. We want you to tighten inspection on the market.” In his...
Read more

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, January 9, 1640 – The Miller

Image
 Four nights ago it had snowed — not soft, silent snow, but sharp, uneven flakes that gathered between the cobblestones and in the folds of my cloak. The city smelled of wood smoke and ice. People no longer spoke of hunger aloud, but it was felt in everything: in the empty market stalls, the thin winter soups, the red noses of children with worn-out shoes. There was no flour. Barely any beer. Even the rats seemed unwilling to leave their holes. And then they brought Sigebert Meurer . A miller. A strong man, broad-shouldered, with calluses like leather on his palms. His mill stood by the water near the southern rampart, and for months there had been whispers that his sacks were fuller than he admitted. Rumors said he had hidden grain while others buried their children. That he sold flour to soldiers outside the gate. That his wife wore new shoes. I believed nothing without proof. But the Council needed a reason for confiscation. They did not seek vengeance, but possession. Land....
Read more