The Sorcerer of Sistrans
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| Geographic Coordinates: 47° 14' 14.71" N, 11° 26' 45.20" E |
Once, a man lived in Sistrans near Innsbruck who was a brawler like no one else. He went to all Kirchweih festivals where the strongest and bravest young men once used to gather to brawl. But he never found anyone who was able to overcome him.
However, this supernatural strength was not his only remarkable trait, for he knew other arts as well. He could do more than boil pears without wetting the stems. If a stout fox or a stout hare ran around in the forest outside, then the man from Sistrans put up the snare right behind the oven — and in the morning, the animal would be sure to hang within the wire. If someone had been stolen from, they would go to him, for he was able to get the stolen possessions back. He merely took a small book which was bound in pig leather out of a box and started to read. And no matter where the thief was, he was driven by an irresistible higher power to pick up the stolen item and carry it to the reader — and the owner would of course be next to him. But this book had such power that the thief was forced to take a step with every read word. Thus, three times woe to those who had stolen something large and heavy, and who had to travel with these from a faraway place or over steep slopes — particularly if the sorcerer was reading too fast. Such people could be heard wheezing from afar, and their bodies were bathed in sweat.
One day, this sorcerer fashioned a stool out of nine types of wood, kneeled on it next to the organ within the church, and looked down on the people down below. Then he saw all the witches within the church, and how they were sitting backwards. But after mass was over, these witches assaulted him as a mob, and they would have torn him apart if the priest had not freed him. For the witches had realized that he now knew all of them.
Once, during Christmas Night, his man had stolen the consecrated host from the priest while the latter was holding it, and carried it away beneath a piece of cloth. Since that time, he wore it on his left arm, and from this he derived all his arts as well as his gigantic strength.
But at the end the reaper came and threw him on his deathbed despite all his power and cleverness, and he had to die. But this was terribly difficult. Three days and nights the brawler was lying in a state and could not expire. The priest was called repeatedly, and after long cajoling and pleading the dying man finally started to confess. The host was cut out of his arm, as it had already grown into it, and the magical tomes and writings discovered in his home were burned. When these were thrown into the flames, there were horrible cracks and thunder, and there was such a heat that the lead was running down from the windows. While this infernal noise was going on, the brawler died.