Hexenkolk - Cradle of Curse. E-Book

Thomas H. Huber

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 454

Beschreibung

CAUTION: This book contains violence, drugs, and sex. Some disturbing scenes are described. Under no circumstances should it be given to minors. This turbulent fantasy adventure takes the reader back in time and is based in part on true events that occurred between 1618 and 1680. The process of "kolken" is what gave this fateful place its name. In the Hexenkolk, women accused of witchcraft were buried in a linen sack. If the woman died during this violent act, it was considered proof that she was a witch and deserved to die. If she was pulled from the water alive, the evidence was even clearer. She must have been a witch, for a normal woman would not have survived such torture. With this overwhelming verdict, she was burned at the stake, where she met her agonizing end. In the novel, Elizabeth of the Palatinate (1618 - 1680) leads a lonely fight against patriarchy and for women's freedom. As in the novel "Cicadas Code" and the story "Plan Eden 2021", the reader will find in "Hexenkolk" some of the protagonists and thus the spiritual, unique magic. Story: New York, August 21, 2019: For the citizens of the city it is a day like any other, they have no idea that a catastrophe awaits them. A mysterious scientist claims to know what's behind it. He is convinced that a woman who was convicted of witchcraft almost 400 years ago has cast a curse that is still working today. Is he right? Or is a more sinister force at work? These two questions remain unanswered until he embarks on a journey through time with a group of chosen people to unravel the mystery. The story shows the cruelties of the late Middle Ages, as well as the romantic glorification of that era. But it also shows the effects of superstition and the consequences of religious fanaticism. Sex and violence are as much a part of it as hope, comfort, and confidence. Good and evil are two sides of the same coin. This story is not for the faint hearted.

Leseprobe

Elisabeth of the Palatinate in front of the Herford Minster

Cover graphic: iStock 829164074 Photos and illustration:iStock Daniel Schneider, Bielefeld Editing/Correction: Annchen Knick, Anja Huber

Dear Reader,

when people ask me about my hometown, I always say "Heidelberg", even though I haven't lived there for many years. Older people often respond with the song lyrics: "I lost my heart in Heidelberg". And this is usually followed by the reproachful question, "How can you move away from there?"

I can only think of two answers: "I lost my heart in Herford" and "Heidelberg has a castle, Herford has Elizabeth of the Palatinate, who was born in that castle.

In fact, the two cities are so intertwined that it really doesn't matter which one you live in.

The only thing that surprises me is that there has never been a town twinning.

By the way, Herford has a lot more to offer than this modest East Westphalian is willing to talk about. So I thought it was time to tell a story about these treasures of history. Three cities play an important role in this story: the Hanseatic city of Herford, Heidelberg, and New York, of which I have already explained the connection between the first two.

To understand what New York has to do with it, you have to realize the following. For some, New York is the most beautiful city in the world; for others, it is hell on earth. But for both, it is a place with the same past: Old Europe once settled here, with all its glamorous debauchery, as well as its abysmal lowlands. Here they wanted to create a new and peaceful world, without considering that the past was stored in the cells of each settler and thus became a part of this new world. The story shows the cruelties of the late Middle Ages as well as the brutalities of modern times. Sex, violence, and a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions are as much a part of the story as hope, comfort, and confidence. As the book's title suggests, it is about alleged witches and curses, but it is also about the madness of a patriarchy that has lasted for millennia and in whose shadow we still live today. The historical facts are based on conscientious research, the plot, of course, is fantasy. Some similarities of names are intentional, others purely coincidental. Much of it is true, others might be. But one thing is for sure: we must never stop believing in love and humanity.

I wish you much fun and shivers on your journey through time.

Thomas H. Huber

Note to the historians among the readers: When I describe people or events from the 17th century, I speak of the Middle Ages, because the reader can better imagine the conditions of that time than with the term "early modern times".

Middle Ages: from the 6th to the 15th century Modern: from 1500 to the present

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

HANSEATIC CITY OF HERFORD, GERMANY PRESENT

NEW YORK, MELISSA AND JEREMIAH December 31, 2010

HERVORDIA (HANSEATIC CITY-HERFORD)

NEW YORK, JONATHAN KRAMER 2019

NEW YORK, CONOR MATHESON, 2019

NEW YORK, THERAPEUTIC PRACTICE DR. WILLIAM SUTHERFORD, 2019

CHAPTER 2

NEW YORK, JACK AND RACHEL 2019

HERVORDIA (Hanseatic City of Herford), August 21, 1627 PRIEST CONSTANTINE ALBA

NEW YORK, JONATHAN KRAMER Dr. WILLIAM SUTHERFORD PART 1 AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, CHARLY RODRUIGEZ AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, SARAH STONE 2019

HERVORDIA (Hanseatic City of Herford) THE PRIEST'S CONVERSION, AUGUST 21, 1627

CHAPTER 3

NEW YORK, CONOR + CHARLY AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, VANESSA, July 14, 2000.

NEW YORK, SUBWAY STATION, TIMES SQUARE August 21, 2019

NEW YORK PLAZA, Dr. WILLIAM SUTHERFORD. PART 2, AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, VANESSA,July 15, 2000

HERVORDIA (Hanseatic City of Herford) NOAH IN THE PRIEST'S ROBE, 1627

CHAPTER 4

NEW YORK, CONOR, THE 18TH BIRTHDAY

NEW YORK, COURT MEDICINE, Part 1. AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, VANESSA JULY 15, 2000

NEW YORK PLAZA Dr. WILLIAM SUTHERFORD, Part 3 AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, CHARLY RODRUIGEZ 2019

NEW YORK, DANNY, JULY 14, 2000

CHAPTER 5

NEW YORK, COURT MEDICINE, Part 2. AUGUST 21, 2019

HERVORDIA (Hanseatic City of Herford), Germany AUGUST 21, 1627

NEW YORK PLAZA, DR. WILLIAM SUTHERFORD, PART 4 , AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, VANESSA, JULY 17, 2000.

NEW YORK, FORENSICS, PART 3, AUGUST 21, 2019

NOAH'S HOSTS 1627 - 2019

CHAPTER 6

NEW YORK, VANESSA, JULY 02, 2019

ELIZABETH OF THE PALATINATE 1618 - 1680

NEW YORK, DANNY 2000

NEW YORK, FORENSICS, PART 4 AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK PLAZA, Dr. WILLIAM SUTHERFORD. PART 5 OF HIS PRESENTATION AUGUST 21, 2019

JOSEF SMITH, AUGUST 21, 1627

CHAPTER 7

NEW YORK, VANESSA 2019

NEW YORK, JONATHAN KRAMER 2019

NEW YORK, DR. WALSH 2019

NEW YORK, JACK AND RACHEL AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK PLAZA, Dr. WILLIAM SUTHERFORD. PART 6, AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, THE STARE, AUGUST 21, 2019

CHAPTER 8

NEW YORK PLAZA, PRELIMINARIES

JOSEF SCHMIED VS. NOAH AUGUST 22, 1627

NEW YORK CONOR AND CHARLY AUGUST 21, 2019

THE SANCTUARY, ST. ELIZABETH, PART 1

TIME TRAVELERS, PART 1 AUGUST 21, 2019

NEW YORK, MELISSA AND JEREMIAH AUGUST 21, 2019

CHAPTER 9

TIME TRAVELERS, PART 2 AUGUST 21, 2019

HERFORD, MAXIMILIAN GOSEJOHANN 05 JULY 1618

NEW YORK, COURT MEDICINE, Part 5. AUGUST 21, 2019

HEIDELBERG, ELISABETH AND RENÉ OCTOBER 1651

TIME TRAVELERS, PART 3 AUGUST 21, 2019

HEIDELBERG, ELIZABETH OF THE PALATINATE FEBRUARY 1652

CHAPTER 10

NEW YORK PLAZA, Arrival Dr. Walsh AUGUST 21, 2019

TIME TRAVELERS, PART 4 AUGUST 21, 2019

THE GUARDIANS, YEAR 0 - 2019

NEW YORK, Bernhard Smith AUGUST 21, 2019

HERVORDIA (Hanseatic City of Herford) VIKTOR, AUGUST 13, 1664

TIME TRAVELERS, PART 5 AUGUST 21, 2019

CHAPTER 11

NOAH, INCARNATION, 1627

THE GENESIS UNIT AND THE HYPERHOLE

NEW YORK, HOUSE OF SMITHS, 08/21/2019

JOSEPH BLACKSMITH AND HENRIETTA, 1627

NEW YORK, THE GAS, AUGUST 21, 2019

THE EGERSTER STONE (Externsteine), 1627

CHAPTER 12

NEW YORK PLAZA, THE CHOSEN ONES August 21, 2019

NEW YORK, NOAH'S REVENGE AUGUST 21, 2019

HERVORDIA (Hanseatic City of Herford) ELIZABETH, JANUARY 1680

NEW YORK, PLAZA HOTEL, AUGUST 21, 2019

HERVORDIA (Hanseatic City of Herford) AUGUST 22, 1627

NEW YORK, PLAZA HOTEL, AUGUST 21, 2019

CHAPTER 13

THE REFUGE, ST. ELIZABETH August 21, 2019

HERVORDIA (Hanseatic City of Herford) ELISABETH, 08 February 1680

FUSION OF SPACE AND TIME

NEW YORK, AUGUST 21 JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT

THE SANCTUARY, ST. ELIZABETH August 22, 2019

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Are dreams the result of complicated biochemical processes that take place unconsciously in our brains? Or are they the messengers of curses?

Some primitive people say that the dream is the actual reality and the state we call life is actually the dream. Others believe that the world around us is the result of karmic events, according to which each individual creates his own reality. Modern science, of course, considers these ideas to be nonsense, but most religions claim that faith can move mountains.

According to them, there is only black or white. But if we agree that the truth is somewhere in the middle, we have to replace the word "or" with the connective "and" to get a nice neutral gray. This neutral gray now offers us unlimited possibilities to look left and right, up and down, forward and backward.

Now we can even ask ourselves if our lives and deeds are influenced by a curse that was pronounced long before our time.

After all, the fear of witches and curses is as old as mankind itself, so it cannot be ruled out that curses have been passed down from generation to generation and are still in effect today. Even the pre-Christian Germanic tribes feared the so-called damage sorcerers, whom they blamed for violent storms, the premature death of a beloved family member, lost battles, and other disasters. Although the polytheistic Teutons tolerated dissenters without killing them for their beliefs, they felt it appropriate to make an exception in the case of a harmful spell. In the late Middle Ages, long after the Germanic Empire had ceased to exist, the Holy Inquisition took over the persecution of the heirs of these harmful sorcerers, labeling them witches. In its beginnings, the Inquisition was an instrument of the Roman Catholic Church for the detection and conversion of heretics, but it quickly evolved into the well-known witch hunt that lasted until modern times.

But anyone who thinks that the witch hunt is long over is sorely mistaken. Even today, millions of women are still mistreated, persecuted and deprived of their freedom. Can you blame them for cursing their male tormentors? In light of this knowledge, the conclusion that even medieval curses could still have an effect today is quite justified.

If a dream were indeed the bearer of a curse, would it not be possible for the messenger himself to become the curse?

If the dreamer believes that his dream might come true, doesn't the message become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Who hasn't dreamed of something that has come true?

But why do some dreams come true and others do not? Is it perhaps because of the emotional impact they have on us, or simply because of the intention of the person who sent the dream on its journey through the universe?

We may never know.

PLACES AND TIMES OF ACTION

Herford

1627 - 2019

Heidelberg

1651-1652

New York

2019

CHAPTER 1

HANSEATIC CITY OF HERFORD, GERMANY PRESENT

Out of nowhere, a group of thirteen people stepped out of a small grove at the edge of a manicured park. There were seven men and six women. One of the men was very tall and wore a dark brown monk's habit. He towered over the others by almost half a meter. Whether they were tourists or perhaps members of a theater group, no one could say for sure. The only thing that seemed strange was their clothing, which was reminiscent of a time far in the past. The fabrics of their dresses, pants, and jackets were coarse, with gray and beige dominating. Their footwear resembled that of medieval peasants. Only one of the six women wore a modern black shift dress and pumps, setting her apart from the rest of the group. The tall man in the robe was either their guide or the director, for he led them, explaining where they were at every step: "Yes, my friends, this is modern Herford. Right now we are in the Aawiesen Park. The small forest we've just come from used to be a cemetery, but you've probably already noticed that from the gravestones standing around. Now let's take a little walk around the city walls, or rather "what's left of them since the Middle Ages". In front of them was a magnificent avenue of lime trees, lined with Art Nouveau villas and beautifully restored halftimbered houses. They walked along the rampart for about half an hour, crossing a street now and then. Sometimes passersby stopped and looked at the strangely dressed group with curiosity. Some of them greeted the strangers friendly, others let them pass by with their mouths agape. "What you are about to see on the left, you surely know," commented the leader of the group, not without pride in his sonorous voice. And indeed, each of them immediately recognized the extraordinary building. The red brick walls, with no right angles, seemed to cross the sky. "This is MARTa, the local art museum. It was designed and planned by one of our compatriots, the architect Frank Owen Gehry. He also designed the famous Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao and the Weis Art Museum in Minneapolis, as you may know." The museum resembled an organic mass rather than a building of stone and metal, and inevitably attracted all eyes because of its uniqueness. After another ten minutes of walking, he spoke again, "We entered the city through this gate, remember? But none of them knew where they were, after all, almost four hundred years had passed between their visit today and their visit back then. Besides, there was not much left of the old city gate. But after a few minutes of walking and crossing narrow alleys inside the former city walls, they saw the Minster, its limestone walls gleaming golden in the sun, and they rejoiced like children. "It looks just like it did then," exclaimed the oldest woman in the group, and the man next to her added proudly, "I can't believe we've been here before." They stopped in front of the large Gothic entrance portal and marveled at how well the structure was preserved. "Did you know it's as old as Notre Dame? Hardly anyone talks about it, which is a shame," he sighed. Of course, the adjacent townscape had changed considerably since their last visit, but they could still feel the medieval flair. Residential buildings now stood in what had once been open fields, and across from the church stood a magnificent neo-baroque building that housed the offices of the mayor and city officials. But as they walked around the church, they felt transported back in time. There was probably no market there now, but it seemed as if the cobblestones had stored all the sounds and smells of yesteryear. They suddenly heard the market women screaming again, saw the bards and fire-eaters in their minds' eyes, and of course the bonfires at the edge of the square where innocent women met their painful end. "We came in through that door," one of the men said, pointing to the south side of the church. "Without Wilhelm, we wouldn't have been able to get in or out." "I'd say you couldn't have done it without our gold coins," the guide added with a laugh.

Then he led them past the former abbey grounds, back toward Radewig, the oldest part of Herford. When they stopped in front of the Hexenkolk, the modernly dressed woman leaned close to the tall man, who put his arm around her shoulders in a fatherly way: "This must be a terrible sight for you. Would you like to continue?" But the woman shook her head vehemently. "It's over, fortunately. I'll get over it." Then they strolled through the park again, watching parents watching their children play, and finally reentered the small grove. They paused briefly in front of a wall of fog that looked like billowing mercury before disappearing into it, one by one.

NEW YORK, MELISSA AND JEREMIAH

December 31, 2010

It was love at first sight, and it was New Year's Eve. Jeremiah Clover had been standing on the corner of Broadway and 47th Street with a few friends for hours. Like every year, they wanted to see the ball drop, New York's most famous New Year's Eve event. However, if you wanted a good view of the ball, you had to get there very early, preferably in the afternoon. It was almost midnight now, and Jeremiah tucked his gloved hands deeper into the pockets of his parka to protect himself from the freezing temperatures of the night air. As he did so, he stepped from one leg to the other to keep his circulation going. He worked as a construction worker and was used to the cold. But he usually moved, not stood motionless in the snow as he did on this New Year's Eve. Jeremiah was thirty-five years old and enjoyed his work. Although he had a degree in mechanical engineering, he decided to take this job out into the fresh air. Critics might say that New York is not known for its fresh and clean air. Others, however, would reply that it is filled with something very special: life.

In fact, as you meander through the crowded streets, you get the impression that everyone is out on the sidewalks and in the parks at the same time. Everywhere you look, there are faces as far as the eye can see. Sometimes they are beaming with friendliness, sometimes they are grumpy. Sometimes frightened, sometimes brave and full of confidence. The faces come in all colors and their owners come from all ethnic backgrounds. In New York you have the true feeling of being a citizen of the world, and at the same time you could think that the whole world is in this place. And that feeling was the real reason for Jeremiah's decision. He wanted to be at the center of this global interconnectedness every day, and what better job could he have had than that of a road worker? He couldn't imagine being cooped up in an office drawing plans. His job offered him everything he needed to live, and that was to be close to life, to people. That's why, on this particularly cold New Year's Eve, he went back to the heart of this wonderful city.

The first snowflakes had already fallen in the morning, and with them the temperature. It was probably snowing now, too, but fortunately not as hard as a few hours before. That would have spoiled their beautiful view of the whole spectacle and the hours of waiting would have been in vain. Just as he watched a snowflake gently land on the tip of his friend and co-worker Sammy's nose and turn into a tiny drop of water in the blink of an eye, he saw her, a woman about his age. She had long dark hair that spilled out from under a crimson knit cap. She was wearing almost the same parka as him, and she, too, had her left hand buried deep in its side pocket. She carried a suitcase in her right hand, making her look like a tourist who had just visited the most beautiful city in the world. When their eyes met, they both knew immediately what was happening to them. Most people would have called it love at first sight, but in their case, time seemed to melt away. Everything seemed so familiar, and yet it was new. Even though they were meeting for the first time on that cold New Year's Eve, they both felt at the same time that they had always belonged together, separated only by space and time, not by their souls. "Hey, I'm Jeremiah. Nice to meet you." She looked at him with her emerald eyes and replied, "I'm Melissa, and I just got here," pointing her chin at her suitcase. When the ball drop was over and the crowd had slowly dispersed into the city streets, Jeremiah took his dream girl by the hand, packed her suitcase, and took her home with him. The years that followed were filled with happiness and harmonious togetherness, until one day the world came to a halt and a heavy, oppressive fog descended upon them.

HERVORDIA (HANSEATIC CITY-HERFORD)

Der Hexenkolk (The Hexenkolk has no English translation)

LINK: Der Hexenkolk

August 21, 1627

The sun crept slowly over the horizon, bathing the small town in a golden, warm light. Even at this early hour, the inhabitants could sense that they were in for a hot day. Numerous merchants set up their stalls in the two marketplaces, one in the oldest part of town, the Radewig, and the other, which had been established some time ago, next to the cathedral. The market at the Radewig was the original market, where food, cloth and other goods for daily use were sold. The young market at the Cathedral, on the other hand, was known for its grilled food, wine, singing and other attractions.

People came from all over with heavily loaded carts to offer their goods for sale. Some of them pulled an ox, others one or two heavy cold-blooded horses, which differed from all other horse breeds by their particularly calm temperament and were made for this back-breaking work. No cart was too heavy for them, no path too difficult. On the Werre and Aa rivers, too, many barks lay laden with cloth, jewelry, grain, and all sorts of exotic spices. Jugglers and fire-eaters appeared in the marketplace, giving the scene something magical and mystical.

But this apparently ideal world of the market could not hide the fact that only a few meters away many women were subjected to a very violent procedure, the so-called water test.

This archaic element of legal history, dating back to the third millennium B.C., was used to convict a person of sorcery.

The suspect, usually a woman, was placed in a linen sack and thrown into the river. In Herford in the late Middle Ages, the Radewiger Bridge was used for this purpose. This place was made for the water test because there was a weir underneath. Over the years, the falling water had formed a depression in the riverbed, called a scour. This depression fulfilled two requirements of the scour test. First, the water at this point was deep enough to completely submerge an adult human being, and second, the impacting water masses created a swirl that ensured that the human being would not be swept downstream, but instead would rotate on its own axis in place. Now the sack had to be weighted down with stones to prevent it from floating to the surface. If the woman did not survive this gruesome procedure, which often lasted several minutes, she was acquitted of witchcraft, but she was still dead. With each survivor, the torturers had airtight proof that she was a witch, because no normal person could have survived this gruesome act alive. "Even pure water she spurned," they would say, without any doubt. Depending on the severity of the accusation, she was either taken to the so-called torture tower, where more secrets were extracted from her, or to the pillory, where she was spat on and insulted by all the townspeople. In most cases, however, she was taken directly to the stake in the name of God. The human, or rather the male, madness of that time ensured that with every single woman, not only an innocent living being died, but also an irretrievable knowledge, to which no man ever had access and still does not have access. Most of the time, they were distinguished by a great knowledge of herbalism and medicine, or by a superior intelligence. One reason alone was usually enough to subject them to the water test. If these knowledgeable women had been honored and protected instead of being accused of witchcraft, our world would probably be a more peaceful place today, without wars, crime, and disease.

On that Saturday, probably the darkest in the city's history, thirty innocent women met their deaths either directly at the Radewicz Cathedral or shortly thereafter in the all-destroying hellfire of the Holy Inquisition.

Of course, the clerics did not personally get their hands dirty in killing the innocent, that was done for them by another, Maximilian Gosejohann. He was the son of a wealthy, God-fearing landowner. Maximilian was of simple mind, he could hardly read and write, although his father had employed two teachers for his education since his early childhood. Unfortunately, all attempts to teach him the simplest principles of grammar and mathematics had failed. The teachers finally gave up, and Maximilian's father was distraught. "He is too stupid to put one and one together. Dear God, what will become of him? How will he manage the farm and my fortune when I'm gone?" he murmured with sad eyes, scratching his gray beard in deep thought. But one day, after watching the strong men at the scourge throw the whimpering, pleading women into the river, he saw his child's bright eyes. The boy was probably only nine years old at the time, but that did not stop his father from handing him over to the clergy. The real reason he gave the boy away, however, he kept to himself. No one was to know, at least not at that moment. "Take him under your wing," he said to the high priest of the Inquisition tribunal, pressing a heavy sack of gold coins into his hand. "He will serve you well and faithfully at the Kolk. Miraculously, Maximilian became a pretty good student from that point on, with passable grades, though he never quite made up for his grammar deficit. On the other hand, he quickly developed an interest in the workings of the human body, especially how pain could make it talkative. Thus, on his eighteenth birthday, he was appointed chief torturer and executioner of the city of Hervordia, and shortly thereafter was given the title of "Saint Kolker". His work soon earned him a high reputation throughout the region, as he freed all the God-fearing inhabitants from the evil witches. From his point of view, by killing the corrupted women, he was taking up the fight against Satan personally, which would surely make him rise in God's favor.

Even before the fateful day of August, in the year of our Lord 1627, he took the lives of countless women. Today, it is said that the history of witch hunts peaked in Europe in the late Middle Ages and early modern period, and then spread to other continents, such as America, where the Salem witch trials are still remembered.

History books do not quite agree on the duration of this madness, but it could have been about 400 years. It was not just a battle of the sexes in which men killed women of their own free will, but an outright mania to destroy the entire patriarchy. Some say that 9 million people, most of them women, died on the funeral pyres of Europe. There are even those who say 30 million. If the truth is somewhere in the middle, there were about 12 million victims, or 30,000 per year. How many women ended up at the stake as a result of Maximilian's work is uncertain, but there is plenty of room for speculation.

Initially, Maximilian carved a small cross for each of his victims on his walking stick, which he had received from his father when he was nine years old. Although driven by hatred, he thanked God for his mercy and, of course, for choosing him as his right hand by working on the cross. When space for crosses on the staff became scarce, he began to carve small horizontal notches in the spaces instead. After only a few years he ran out of space and stopped, and with the end of his engravings he also found himself at the height of his cruel and bizarre career. On August 21, 1627, he pulled the heavy canvas sack out of the water thirty times and knew, despite his physical exhaustion, that he had once again done a good turn for God and the Church.

But that was not all. With one of the women, he felt an especially deep sense of satisfaction after pulling her out of the water alive. "I knew it! You are a witch," he whispered in her ear, "now you will find your just punishment at the stake. Then he handed her over to the fire master and ordered him, "Don't light it until I'm done here. I want to see how the whore burns. And already he placed the still wet linen bag of her predecessor on the next woman. She, too, was frozen with fear, unable to defend herself against the rough and strong Maximilian. It was late afternoon, the sun's rays long past their peak, when he pulled the last dead woman from the water. Since her death was once again proof that she was not a witch, he knelt down and prayed a fervent "Our Father". However, it was unclear for whom he was doing this, whether for his own soul or that of his innocent victim. Then he took four stones of equal size from the dripping linen sack and hung them neatly to dry over a wooden rack he had built with his own hands. With the same care he placed the four stones next to the rack, two on the left and two on the right. No one knew why there had to be four stones of the same size, and not three or more unequal ones, but only Maximilian knew the reason. He imagined that there were several spirits or souls in the stones, all of whom should have the same space at their disposal. In the first stone was the power of God, on the surface of which he had carved a triquetra, the Celtic symbol for the Trinity. In the second was the essence of Satan, symbolized from the outside by a devil's hook. The third stone contained the souls of the witches, and on top of it was a pentacle, which was supposed to trap the evil power of black magic in the stone forever. The fourth and final stone offered refuge to the souls of innocent women and was marked with a double spiral, also a Celtic symbol representing birth and death. Having placed his personal objects of worship, he lit a big white candle and placed it in front of the drying rack and the stones, crossing himself again. Then, whistling, he strolled toward the cathedral, where twelve bonfires had been erected in front of the main entrance, only twenty meters from the marketplace, where fire-eaters and bards were still performing their art. While some drank, danced and laughed, the condemned women faced their agonizing death. "Maximilian, come here and drink a cup of honey wine. You've earned it today!" cried a short, fat man with a shrill voice who owned the only inn in town. But the Kolker just raised his hand in refusal and walked on until he finally saw her, his very special witch. As promised, the firemaster had not yet begun to burn her, and Maximilian stood with his legs spread before the pyre, staring at her with cold, hateful eyes. At the same time he stared at her belly, as if he wanted to convince himself with an x-ray that the womb she had torn from his loins was still there.

Katharina Seidenweber, the daughter of a poor tailor, was a very beautiful and intelligent woman who was the center of Maximilian's desire from an early age. He pursued her at every opportunity, and at first she even took a liking to him. But as time went on, he became more and more brutal, taking her as often and as hard as he wanted. Sometimes he even hit her and insulted her in a foul way. "If you tell anyone about us, I'll kill you, understand?" he would say when he was done with her. "If you don't keep your mouth shut, I'll shut it for you." Since she was far below Maximilian's social standing as a tailor's daughter, she took it all in stride. Only one day, when her bleeding stopped, she could not help but confront him. "Maximilian, it is your child. You must marry me, or great shame will come upon us." "Us?" he snapped at her with clenched fists, "there is no us, you understand. Who knows who else you're doing it with, you filthy woman," he shouted, beside himself with rage. "You are a miserable hussy, nothing more. I'll show you and your brat." Then he stomped off. The next Sunday, as all the faithful streamed through the church door, he sneaked up behind Catherine and tore her dress from her shoulders without anyone noticing. "Look!" he cried theatrically, "Look! She has the mark of Satan on her back!" He had seen it the first time he had seen her from behind, a rather respectable birthmark on her right shoulder blade. It looked like a harmless, perfectly proportioned butterfly, but Maximilian interpreted it as a symbol of evil. "There, look at it. They are the wings of the Antichrist as he rises from hell. She is undoubtedly a witch".

NEW YORK, JONATHAN KRAMER 2019

Friday, Manhattan, 5th Avenue: Jonathan Kramer has just come from a meeting with his publisher's creative team. After writing a bestselling novel a year ago, the publisher has become his second home. They wanted him to follow up his current success with a new story as soon as possible. "You have to ride the wave while it's there, or you'll quickly be forgotten by your readership," said David Jennings, Jonathan's young and ambitious literary agent. Naturally, Jonathan took this advice to heart and within a few months wrote a new book. Again, it was about unrequited love, sex, and drugs. "That's what people are interested in," David postulated, "you see, nothing sells better than murder and manslaughter, sex and crime."

Today's meeting was all about coming up with the right title, and that was mostly a matter for the creative forces, so Jonathan basically just sat there nodding his head in agreement or shaking his head vehemently. After several hours of brainstorming, it was time to decide on a title: "Death Wears a Black Mantle". Lost in thought, he sat behind the wheel of his silver-gray Mercedes E-Class and waited for the light to turn green. "I wonder how many hours we waste in traffic during our lives?" he muttered almost silently to himself, peering through the passenger window to observe a man in a blue jumpsuit carrying a silver tin bucket in one hand and an aluminum ladder covered in paint stains in the other. A bright white rag was slung over his shoulder, and a rolled-up newspaper protruded from his back pocket.

He stopped abruptly in front of a rather dirty storefront window, deftly unfolded the ladder with one hand, and hoisted the obviously full bucket onto the top step. "That window really needs it," Jonathan thought, comparing it to the spick and span windows of the neighboring stores. Then he wondered what kind of person the window washer might be. "How old will he be? Is he married? Does he have children? Is it his job to clean store windows, or does he own the store? What kind of business is it?" Suddenly, he was jolted from his thoughts as the car behind him honked energetically. While Jonathan had been watching the man with the bucket, the light had changed to green and the traffic now forced him to react quickly. As his car began to roll again, he raised his right hand to apologize to the driver behind him for his inattention.

Then he glanced back at the window washer, as if to say goodbye. "After all, I've been dealing with you and your supposed circumstances for what feels like twenty seconds," he muttered. Then he abruptly slammed on his brakes, causing the car behind him to crash into his rear with a clatter. The hulking driver of the rear-ended vehicle, a light blue Nissan Note eaten away by rust, got out, ran up to Jonathan, snorted with rage, and banged on his side window, cursing: "Are you out of your mind? What are you doing, asshole?" But Jonathan did not respond to the angry man, because all of his attention was focused on the face of a woman he had just heard behind the shop window that the window cleaner was working on with his sponge. "Who are you?" Jonathan asked himself, staring as if spellbound at the flawless, beautiful face of a woman about his age. She was slender, with shoulder-length brown hair, and wore a red dress.

He felt drawn to her in an unbelievably deep way, but was catapulted back to reality by the vehement knocking on his side window. Meanwhile, two men were standing next to his car, staring at him reproachfully with wide-open eyes. One of them was in uniform, standing with his gun drawn. "Get out of the car right now," the policeman ordered. Jonathan unbuckled the seatbelt and slowly got out. "Hands on the roof and spread your legs." As Jonathan did as the policeman asked, he stared again at the beautiful woman who seemed to return his gaze.

"Have you been drinking alcohol or using drugs?" the voice of the policeman echoed in his head. "No," Jonathan replied quietly, "I'm sorry, I was just distracted for a moment."

After the policeman had completed all the formalities and the rear-ended driver had regained his composure, Jonathan dropped into his seat and drove off. The woman in the window had disappeared.

Half an hour later he reached the house of his friend Jack Bishop, with whom he had an appointment.

"What kind of louse has gotten into you?" Jack wanted to know when he saw the slump in Jonathan's shoulders and the sullen look on his face. Jack lived in his late parents' house, a nice townhouse on the west side of the Upper East Side, New York's wealthiest neighborhood.

"Oh, nothing," Jonathan replied with a shrug, "I got hit by a car at a stoplight." "Badly?" "No, just a little bump." "And that's why you're making that face?" Jonathan hesitated, then shook his head in the negative. He didn't want to tell Jack about the woman he'd seen in the shop window. He'd just make fun of him again. "No, I'm just not feeling very well today."

"Well, maybe an ice-cold beer will cheer you up a bit. Jack pushed his friend into the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of Budweiser from the fridge.

"We got a storm-free pad!" Jack beamed with childish enthusiasm, ignoring the fact that the storm-free pad was the status quo, since he lived alone in the big house. "I guess you'll never grow up," Jonathan retorted, causing Jack to gyrate his hips with his arms raised as if doing a courtship dance. He moved his lower jaw in a very silly way, sometimes forward, sometimes backward, like a pigeon, back and forth, back and forth. All that was missing was for him to start cooing. Instead he imitated the Bee Gees and sang "Night Fever, Night Fever". Then he added with a grin, "You know, you gotta celebrate the holidays as they come. We can really let our hair down and invite some hot babes over.

Jonathan had met Jack just a few years ago at a New York Mets vs. Brooklyn Cyclones baseball game and found his swashbuckling ways interesting in a bizarre way. Bizarre because Jonathan was a quiet, deep person and Jack was the opposite. He was loud, never minced his words and was not afraid to use his fists if he met with resistance to his loose talk. Jack was 185 cm tall, had pitch black hair, was well trained and had a very winning nature, at least with the female part of creation. In short, he was a ladies' man and screwed everything in sight while Jonathan waited for true love. Maybe that was what he liked about Jack, that looseness, that incredible self-confidence that got him into bed with almost any woman. On the other hand, he was sad that the woman of his dreams had taken so long to come. Secretly, he hoped that Jack's irrepressible dynamism would rub off on him, that he would shed his profundity and give his melancholy a kick in the pants. But nothing happened, and the more Jack took off with a stranger, leaving Jonathan alone, the more Jonathan doubted that his plan to wait for Mrs. Right was even feasible. After all, how was he supposed to find the woman of his dreams among billions of women at his rate of one date per leap year when his buddy was hooking up with someone else almost every day without ever developing into a committed relationship? Well, Jack didn't want a commitment per se, and Jonathan's standards were so high that it now seemed almost impossible for him to ever find true love. Maybe it would even have been good for him to have casual sex with a complete stranger every now and then without proposing, but he just wasn't cut out for it. He was desperate for a deep relationship in which fidelity would be an important cornerstone.

While with Jack it was all about sex, with him true love played a supporting role. But even though his hopes were currently at rock bottom, at least whenever he was with Jack, he felt deep inside the certainty that his ideal woman already existed and was waiting for him somewhere in New York. Only where and when they would meet was still up in the stars. But when the time came, he was sure he would recognize her among thousands. For in his mind a detailed image of her was imprinted, and it was much more than a cheap "booty model" that Jack used to choose his women by, namely blonde, slim, horny. Instead, in Jonathan's heart was the blueprint of his wife, which allowed for no mistakes or confusion. After several unsuccessful dates and short relationships, he was firmly convinced of this. At first, this blueprint expressed itself as a perfectly normal booty pattern, according to which his dream woman was 165 cm tall and had green eyes that shimmered amber in the sunlight. She had brown hair and was also intelligent, articulate, and humorous.

Every once in a while, he would meet women who came pretty close to his "booty pattern", but unfortunately not close enough. Usually after a few weeks, sometimes after a few hours, and most of the time it was only a few seconds, he would feel a real sense of disgust. One person talked like a book, far from intelligence and eloquence, another was superficial and egotistical, another's body odor made him gag, and so on and so forth.

Finally, he summarized all his feelings, desires, and ideas in a kind of balance sheet, which he jokingly called "Kramer's Sensogram.

He was absolutely certain that the woman created for him would satisfy each of his five senses 100%.

The first sense was sight: Her appearance would be exactly as he imagined it, without any ifs or buts.

The second sense, hearing: The frequency of her voice would unfold in his brain into an absolutely perfect symphony.

The next sense, taste: The taste of her body triggered in him a truly erotic cascade of feelings to which he could surrender completely.

Likewise the smell: Her scent reminded him of a rose and caressed his senses.

The fifth sense was touch: Her skin, her hair and her whole body felt wonderful and nestled 100% against his body.

His self-created sensogram became his navigation system that would surely show him the right way. One day, when he decided to believe that this special woman really existed and that she would choose him based on the same considerations, he swore to himself that he would never go out with anyone else again, let alone go to bed with her, until she was finally standing in front of him.

"Hey, Dreamer," Jack snapped him out of his second waking dream of the day, "want to watch Terminator and have some more beers?" Jonathan looked at Jack uncertainly, obviously irritated that his friend didn't want to drag him to a bar in the red light district, and nodded, "Yeah, great, good idea.

NEW YORK, CONOR MATHESON, 2019

The class was a hullabaloo. It wasn't until Conor loudly slammed the classroom door into the lock that the angry students noticed the presence of their math teacher. With flushed faces, completely upset by the scuffles during recess, they took their seats in wild confusion.

Conor stood next to his desk and smiled, remembering his school days in 3rd grade. Not much had changed since then. At least not for kids that age. They loved to test their strength and lost themselves in the here and now during physical activities, just like he and his classmates did back then. The older students in the upper grades, however, were very different in their behavior from those of his time. Whereas they used to sit together in small groups and think about how to make the world a better place, they now seemed to be keeping to themselves. Isolated from the outside world, their entire attention was focused on a single friend, the smartphone. Whether alone, sitting at a desk, walking, or doing other activities, they stared at the screen and chatted with people they knew and strangers. They were never really present, or at least that's the impression you got from looking at their bored faces.

Conor decided on his career relatively early. Already in high school it was clear to him: "I want to be a teacher, and that means a teacher of theology and mathematics. On his eighteenth birthday, however, he was struck by something that clouded his consciousness and robbed him of his clarity. From then on, he could only perceive his surroundings through a thick, almost impermeable veil. Not that he felt sick, no, on the contrary, he felt strong and alive. Still, somehow everything had changed. He felt like an oddity, a loner.

Today, from his point of view, everything was fine again, except for a few inexplicable blackouts, which he could not attribute to alcohol or drugs, because he did not take either substance in excess. He was also quite convinced that he could have a relationship with another living being, but so far he had not found a partner. Was it perhaps because he was a strange bird who had to measure everything around him with numbers? Admittedly, sometimes he really got lost in his calculations, whether it was about such mundane things as his household budget, the exact fuel consumption of his car, or the dimensions of our solar system compared to the entire size of the universe. Everything that happened around him had to be calculated in some way. Newton's world of gravity and Einstein's theory of relativity fascinated him so much as an adult that he often got lost in them. Still, he was a nice, openminded guy, a person with a big heart, one would think. He was well-groomed, had a good sense of humor, a decent income, and, as he often pointed out to himself in the mirror, he wasn't bad-looking.

Because of his love for the cosmos, which the veil had also brought with it at that time, he had bought a 3D beamer, with all the trimmings, of course. 3D glasses, one for himself, two for possible friends, a sound system, and countless movies, all purely scientific, of course. "Tonight I'm going to see an IMAX movie. Hubble in 3D. Want to come?" he asked Charly, the cell phone pressed tightly to his ear. Charly was a friend from the neighborhood. "Sure, I'd love to. But I'm on call this week. I might have to leave in between." Of course, Conor knew that Charly was a paramedic and was called out on a regular basis. He often told the shy, kind man that he admired him for his courage. "I couldn't do that," he always insisted, "pulling bloody people out of cars, it scares me." At the same time, he shook himself and patted the nice Charly on the shoulder: "It's good that there are people like you.

He had barely hung up when the doorbell rang. "I brought us a bag of chips. It's good for the nerves," smiled Charly, who was standing at the door in full professional regalia. "Get comfortable, the show's about to start," Conor said excitedly. He couldn't wait to finally fly into space, if only on the big screen, which in his case was a bare, whitewashed living room wall. "Three and a half feet of screen diagonal," he gushed, and Charly nodded appreciatively. Once they were both seated on the couch and had donned the 3D glasses, Conor said with anticipation, "Tataaa, and here we go." The intro alone elicited an enthusiastic "Ahhh!" from both viewers. Huge numbers appeared on the screen as a countdown and flew toward them, whereupon the two men unconsciously made a dodging motion with their upper bodies and laughed. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and .... "Wow!" Charly exclaimed enthusiastically, "this is better than the movies!" not noticing how much pride shone in Conor's eyes at that moment, as if he had made the movie himself.

Then they heard Leonardo DiCaprio's voice in a tremendous sound that accompanied their journey into space. He led them first into the space shuttle, then into a giant pool of water where astronauts practice their work in weightlessness, and finally to the birthplaces of the stars. "This is hands-on science," Conor said, feeling like he was standing in front of his class, expressing his fascination with math and astrophysics.

Like Conor, Charly loved his job. Helping injured people was his passion. But it was never enough for him to study medicine. It wasn't that he didn't have the brains to get through medical school, no, it was his financial situation that made that impossible. His parents, Miguel and Bonita Rodriguez, both Mexican immigrants, barely had enough money to feed their family of six. From an early age, he had to work to share his meager wages with the family. At some point, he decided to do the next best thing and become a paramedic.

Shortly after getting his first steady job, he left home and rented a small apartment in Brooklyn. It wasn't the best location, but it was close to work, and it was a place where he could live a quiet and, most importantly, anonymous life, because he had a secret he didn't want anyone to know. Not even his parents knew, and certainly not his former friends. Charly was gay, and he was ashamed of it. If his clique had gotten wind of it, they would have attacked him and probably beaten him to death. After all, he had to see that himself often enough. "Taco faggot or Latino faggot," they called his kind, and then they tortured the poor bastards, kicking them until they were nothing but a bleeding heap of misery. Some of them did not survive this ordeal. That's why he left his hometown and was grateful to have such good neighbors like Conor.

His co-workers were also nice, and some of them were gay, but he still would never have come out.

His fear of being ostracized because of his homosexuality was greater than his desire for a partnership and a free, self-determined life. Therefore, he preferred to stay alone and basically existed only for his work. If it hadn't been for Conor's occasional invitations, he would have rarely had the opportunity for private conversations. But luckily there was this nice, charming neighbor. He felt safe and secure with him, even though he hadn't even confided his dark secret to him. But he would make up for it soon, he told himself every time he left Conor's apartment, with a tiny feeling of hope in the pit of his stomach that he and Conor would become a couple.

NEW YORK, THERAPEUTIC PRACTICE DR. WILLIAM SUTHERFORD, 2019

"It's always the same dream," Vanessa began, as her therapist, William Sutherford, listened intently, taking notes now and then. "There's a woman about my age. Her hair is almost black, shoulder-length, and she's beautiful. She is wearing a light gray flowing dress with long sleeves and finger loops." Noticing her therapist's clueless frown at this description, she added, unprompted, "This is a finger loop," holding out her hand and pointing to a lacetrimmed fabric appliqué on the sleeve of her red blouse. "See, the loop goes around the middle finger. Looks great and is sexy, don't you think?" Of course, Sutherford didn't elaborate, responding in her usual matter-of-fact manner, "Thank you for this foray into haute couture. Now perhaps you'd like to continue your story?" Vanessa cleared her throat sheepishly, "Uh, sure, sorry. So, yes, this woman visits me every damn night. Before she appears, a thick, white fog forms around me. But I'm not in the fog, I'm sort of standing in a circular clearing that's surrounded by a wall of fog. Then the woman steps through the wall and comes to me in the clearing. She is very beautiful and I feel attracted to her in a very special way. It's nothing sexual..." she paused, searching for the right words, before continuing seconds later, "There's an incredible familiarity for which I have no explanation. I don't know her, even though we resemble each other in some way. And even though I know every one of her sentences by heart, she throws me off every time. She says I have to take revenge for her. "Would you mind telling me exactly what she's telling you, word for word, so I can get a better picture?" Sutherford interrupted his client. "Well, uh, sure, I can do that. Are you ready?" When Sutherford nodded in agreement, Vanessa closed her eyes, as if willing herself into a dream state so she wouldn't miss any details. "She calls me by name: "Vanessa, you are the vessel of my vengeance and bound to me for all eternity. Your soul is my soul and it cries out for vengeance. We must avenge what has been done to me and my unborn child. You must kill the man who bears the blood of my executioner. And this must be done on August 21st, 2019." Vanessa opened her eyes and blinked, looking at her therapist, who seemed to be writing down everything his patient was about to confide in him. "Hmm," he muttered, "this sounds familiar." "Are you saying you