He remembered now, this was where the river had flowed. The Ottakringerbach to be precise. He remembered a draw bridge that used to allow for a safe crossing. It was at that moment, when he raised his head to look at the former bridge building, that he saw the next monster. The Grant was so thick around this one, he had felt his presence from a long distance away. It looked curious though, it was clearly a Turk, holding up a curved sabre. Hadn’t it been a Saracen from Arabia carrying a bow? And why was this place called “where the heathen shoots”? It seemed anything foreign was condemned here, it didn’t matter who they were. From Saracen to Turk, the dangerous heathen was always someone else. The other. The one unbefriended. So why fear them? Why not befriend them instead? The one brought spices, the other coffee. Things that enriched a life, not endangered it. He knew the bakers had been an important force in defending the city and he felt it ironic that they were the ones, who were benefiting from what those foreigners brought with them. Spices for the bread and coffee to go with it.
Alas there was no time to dwell on it. The presence of the monster hunters had clearly appeased the Turk (or was it a Saracen?). The Grant was gone. The statue felt noticed and appreciated.
Onwards, towards the next, he thought and remembered a cute little secret passage he had taken back in the day, the alley “Naglergasse”.
