The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 23, 1638 – Talke Rode – The Maid with the Brandmark

 She spat on the ground before I had spoken a word.

Talke Rode, tavern maid, twenty-three, red hair, teeth like pearls — but her soul, they said, black as coal. She worked at Zur goldenen Kanne — where men drank, danced, and slept with whoever smiled at them. And Talke smiled often.
They said her skin was “too warm.” That flesh shrank when she touched it. That men who spent a night with her dreamed — and woke weeks later covered in sores.
On her left hip — a scar, circular, with lines like branches. According to her: a burn from oil.
According to the preacher: a witch’s mark.

She was brought into the Ulrich Chapel with the look of someone who already knew the end.
I asked:
“Why did you hide the mark?”
She said:
“Because you don’t want to hear — only to scream.”

I had the iron made ready.
First, the thumb screws — a short introduction.
She closed her eyes but did not scream.
“Is that all, Master?”
Then the shin straps.
At the second turn:
“You call me sinful. But what do you call yourselves?”
I was silent.
The preacher said:
“Her tongue is pierced with blasphemy.”

I took the branding iron.
No symbol — only a stroke of fire.
I held it above her chest.
She laughed.
“Then do it.”
I pressed.
Her back arched, her mouth opened for a scream that did not come.
Only breath. And blood.
Then she said:
“He came into my room. Not as a goat. Not as a shadow. As a man. An ordinary man.”
I asked:
“What did he say?”
“That I was better than the others. That I was free.”
The theologian cried:
“Lie. Possession. Condemned.”
I wrote:
Full confession under pain. Visible marks. Worthy of fire.

Note (night):
She fought. But not to survive.
To be seen.
And tomorrow — she will be.
In fire. Before all.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, November 8, 1640 – Before a Pyre

Image
 The morning had a gray skin. Mist rose from the Gose and drifted like a ghostly veil through Rosenberg Street, as if the dead themselves were still breathing over the city. I was up early; the fire had to be ready before noon — the Council had ordered it so. The woman – Grietke Klenze – was still locked in the Ulrich Chapel, chained to the iron ring. She had not spoken since yesterday, nor screamed. Only her eyes still moved, tightening at every footstep on the stairs like a rope stretched to the point of breaking. I bore the task in silence, as always. For the people, the fire is purification, justice. For me, it is work — arithmetic. The carpenter brought the wood: dry fir from near the Zwinger, together with a bundle of twigs and a few blocks of beech. I paid him one thaler and spoke no words. He did not look up, nor did I. It was work, nothing more. We both knew this wood would not serve for warmth, but for consumption — of flesh, hair, and prayer. My oldest servant, crooke...
Read more