Peasant Fires: the Drummer of Niklahausen, written by Richard Wunderli, published in 1992, tells the story of a young shepherd boy named Hans Behem, in southern Germany during the latter half of the fifteenth century. It describes Hans’s transformation from a pitiable illiterate drummer boy that would be lost to history to a powerful and influential preacher that drew huge crowds to his small town of Niklahausen, against all odds. Likewise it relates the equally astounding story of his suppression by the Catholic clergy. Ironically enough, the bishop in charge of Hans’s case shared many of Hans’s beliefs about reform; however, the fear of peasant revolt and loss of power by both said bishop and many of the other clergy members involved—as well as Hans’s extreme solution, the death of the current clergy—barred the two men from working together. Peasant Fires tells the story of a deeply religious boy being touched by divine hands and becoming a tool of the Virgin Mary to call her people—the poor and downtrodden—to arms and destroy the corruption poisoning the church, and of the sad but common triumph of said corruption.

Altogether, Peasant Fires is a remarkable book. Interesting but thorough, short but complete, bittersweet, evocative—it somehow manages to seamlessly combine two distinctly different genres, historical nonfiction and fantasy narrative, into something unlike any other book in its league. Wunderli crafts a story, complete with protagonist, antagonist, and plot points, while also relating a history lesson. He showcases every point of view of Hans’s story and goes to great lengths in some cases to provide evidence for each theory. He describes the corruption of the Catholic church and the oppression of the German peasants, and the underhanded way Hans is dealt with, but also chronicles the fears felt by the clergy of this strangely powerful boy who is calling for their murder. In doing so, Wunderli calls attention to the main issue that plagues historians: the matter of point of view. Historians’ greatest resource is first-hand accounts of past events, but every first-hand account comes with a certain spin of events, a certain opinion that pervades the entire document. It is seen firsthand in trying to piece together the story of Han. Most information available about the drummer boy was written by the hands of his enemies, and so he is seen through their eyes. It is difficult to pick through the information provided and figure out how much is fact or truth, and how much is opinion, spun to protect the clergy and destroy Hans’s legacy. Indeed, this issue is Peasant Fires’ greatest failing. Though Wunderli does a marvelous job of documenting each version of Hans’s story, the fact remains that little documentation exists about Hans and much of what is available is written by his enemies; it is nigh impossible to tell which version is the true account of those events so many years ago.

Perhaps, however, Peasant Fires’ greatest weakness is actually its greatest strength. The truth is slippery, and changes from eye to eye—in reality, all the versions of the story may be truth. The clergy’s truth is that Hans was illiterate, dangerous, and likely just a figurehead for another man’s ideas. The poor’s truth may be that Hans was a hero, touched by the Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, sent to deliver her people from their suffering.  The cold “truth” is lost to time, so we are left with scraps of other truths, to piece together into a logical narrative. Peasant Fires is a superb example of such a disconcerting truth, a narrative fantastically woven by Wunderli, spinning not just Hans’s story, but the people’s, the clergy’s, the nobles’ stories as well. In the end, the only person who can decide what the “truth” is is the reader who sees the evidence and decides which version of the truth he wishes to believe.