Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [213]
“Because Eifelheim is deep within the Forest,” I said. “It will be a long drive and a hike, even if we can locate the site quickly. You will need a good night’s sleep to recover from the jet lag.” I took another bite of my streussel and set my fork down. “And another reason, my friends. Monsignor Lurm from the diocesan office will be joining us once he has received the bishop’s permission. I have not, naturally, told him what we expect to find. Thus, he will be a valuable check on our preconceptions.”
Tom and Judy glanced at each other. “What do you mean?” asked Tom. “Why do we need someone from the diocesan office?”
Sometimes my friend is a little slow. “It is a Catholic cemetery, nicht wahr? You did not come all this way only to look. Surely you will want to exhume the grave and see who, or what, is buried there. For that we need the permission.”
“But …” Tom frowned. “That cemetery is seven hundred years old.”
I shrugged. “What of it? Some things are eternal.”
He sighed. “You’re right. I suppose we must wait until morning then.”
Americans are in too much of a hurry. A single fact is worth a volume of deductions. Best to plan carefully how to find that fact. Tom would have had us on the site sooner—but without a shovel.
WE DID do one thing first. I took them to the crypt in the Franziskanerkirche and showed them the mural of the grasshoppers in imitation of the Last Supper. The colors were faded and the paint chipped, and the figures had that odd appearance that those unused to Klimt or Picasso think unnatural.
Tom stood close and peered at them. “Do you suppose this is them?” I only shrugged. “Why are there only eight?” he wondered.
“I suppose to avoid a charge of blasphemy.”
Judy said, “There are names under some of them.”
That, I had not noticed on my previous visit. We gathered round and tried to read the corrupted letters. There had once been names under all, but the centuries had destroyed many of the letters, even entire names. One grasshopper wore the mantle of a Knight of the Hospital and was called—if we guessed the missing letters properly—Gottfried-Laurence. Another sat with its head tilted back and its arms outspread—in death? In prayer? That name began with the letter U, and must have been very short. Uwe, I thought, or Ulf. The one in the center, sharing out its bread, was “St. Jo—” and leaning on its breast was “-earic-.”
“Not your traditional names for the apostles,” I commented.
But Tom made no answer. He could not take his eyes off the figure in the center.
MONSIGNOR LURM met us outside the hotel the next morning. He was a tall, gaunt man with a high forehead. Dressed in a faded bush jacket, only his collar revealed his calling.
“Na, Anton, mein Alter,” he said, waving some papers. “I have them. We must pay the proper respect and disturb nothing but the one grave. Personally, I think Bishop Arni will be more than happy to bury this Dracula nonsense.” He looked at Tom and Judy. “That is something, isn’t it? To bury it, we must dig it up!” He laughed.
I winced. Heinrich was a virtuous man, but his puns had earned him many years in Purgatory. I also felt guilty that I had deceived him regarding our intentions. “Permit me,” I said. “This is my friend from America, Tom Schwoerin, and his assistant, Judy Cao. Monsignor Heinrich Lurm.”
Heinrich pumped Tom’s hand. “Dr. Schwoerin. It is to me a great pleasure. I much enjoyed your paper on the gene frequencies of the Swabian tribes. It greatly clarified the routes of their migrations. A good thing for you that my ancestors dropped their genes everywhere they went. Eh?”
Before Tom could respond to this latest bon mot, I interrupted. “Heinrich is an amateur archeologist. He has excavated several Swabian villages from before the Völkerwanderung.”
“You’re that Heinrich Lurm? The pleasure is mine. I’ve read your reports, father. You’re no amateur.”
Heinrich flushed. “On the contrary, ‘amateur’ comes from the Latin amare,