The Werewolf of Bamberg

Начало книги

On the day his father died in great agony, Jakob Kuisl resolved to turn his back forever on his hometown.

It was the coldest February anyone could remember. Three-foot-long icicles hung from the rooftops, and the old beams in the half-timbered houses creaked and groaned from the frost as if they were alive. But nonetheless, hundreds of people had gathered in Schongau along the Marktgasse, which led from the city hall down to the town gates. Everyone was heavily wrapped in scarfs and furs; the wealthier wore warm caps of bear or squirrel skin, while many of the poorer had frostbite on their faces or feet, wrapped in rags, which offered only scanty protection from the cold. Silently, but with beady, eager eyes, the residents of Schongau stared as the small group made its way past from the northern town gate on the wide, slush-covered road toward the execution site. Like hunting dogs who had picked up a scent of blood, the crowd followed the condemned man, the four bored-looking bailiffs with the halberds, and the hangman with his two helpers.

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