The Master's Apprentice, page 18
part #1 of Faust Series
The men conversed quietly in French, and Johann pretended to be focused on his book while casting furtive glances at the master and the foreigner. Why had the man named Poitou addressed Tonio as a baron? Was the master a descendant of French nobility? The other man’s submissive behavior seemed to suggest as much. Johann didn’t like the way they’d spoken about him—like a precious object. What were their plans for him?
He listened intently to the strange-sounding conversation, trying to understand anything at all. The words diable and réunion were mentioned several times and sounded familiar, but other words sounded harsh and throaty to him, like garache, béliche, and bête bigourne. Johann couldn’t make any sense of it, and he sank deep into thought.
Following the gruesome execution in the morning, he and the master had returned to the inn, where Johann told the master he wanted to study. But in truth he’d needed some time to think. He owed the master a lot. Tonio had taught him so much already, and he’d teach him more still.
On the other hand, Johann grew more afraid of Tonio every day. He was repulsed by the glee with which the master had watched the execution—he’d enjoyed it, even. But worse still was the suspicion Johann harbored deep down—that Tonio was somehow responsible for both the execution and the fire at the Black Eagle Inn. Could it be possible? Johann remembered the three pieces of coal Tonio had placed at the Black Eagle’s threshold, muttering incantations, and also the bloody pentagram at the tower. Were there symbols and formulas that could conjure up lightning and flames, and even kill someone? Or had everything just been a series of unfortunate coincidences? But the coincidences were piling up, and Johann struggled to believe in them any longer.
As if the master had read his thoughts, he paused in his conversation and looked over at Johann. Like an alert wolf or lynx, he seemed to detect something, but then he smiled.
“Look, the boy studies even now,” he said to Poitou in French. “He’s truly insatiable.”
“Then I’m sure he’ll like what we have planned for him,” replied Poitou with a laugh.
Johann gave a grin, even though he hadn’t understood a word, and then returned to his book. He was scared of the big Frenchman—but not as scared as he was of Tonio.
On top of everything else, earlier he’d discovered that someone had rummaged through Johann’s few possessions in their room upstairs while he’d been out. For a brief moment, Johann had suspected the two crows and the raven, who always watched his every movement from their cage. Then he realized how ridiculous the thought was. Nothing was stolen, but nonetheless he decided to wear his little knife on a leather string around his neck from now on, underneath his shirt and jerkin, where Tonio couldn’t see it.
But supposing the master actually was a sorcerer—why should he care? Tonio was his teacher, and he’d find none better in this world. What were Father Antonius’s superficial knowledge and Father Bernhard’s awkward attempts to study the stars compared to the arcane arts, the ancient knowledge about “that which the world contains in its innermost heart and finer veins,” as Tonio had put it not long ago. Johann guessed black magic was a part of it. He felt certain the master would teach him about it someday. Johann’s nightmares and twinges of conscience were simply the price he had to pay. Perhaps that was exactly what that strange Latin phrase Tonio always recited was supposed to mean.
Homo Deus est . . .
Perhaps God didn’t lead man’s way, but everyone was responsible for their own path.
Meanwhile, the innkeeper had brought them platters of roast piglet with slices of deliciously fragrant white bread, and a serving of wild onions and carrots in a steaming herb sauce. The men ate ravenously, pausing the conversation. After eating in silence for a long while, Tonio burped loudly, wiped the juices from his lips with the last bit of bread, and leaned back contentedly.
“I haven’t eaten like this since the Battle of Patay, and that was a long time ago,” he said. “Just what we needed to strengthen us for what comes next.” He turned to Poitou. “Is everything prepared?”
The man nodded. “All is ready, milord. You are expected. Although some of them said we should wait till Krakow.”
“We don’t have time,” snarled Tonio. “The stars are favorable right now. Who knows how long it would take us to get to Krakow. I don’t want to risk it. We’re doing it here—that’s my final word!”
Poitou looked at Johann, who had hardly eaten anything and seemed to be focused on his book again. But he was listening to every word. So were they not going to Krakow at all now? What were those two men going to do with him?
“And you really believe he’s the right one?” asked Poitou. “I have an uneasy feeling about this. We could pay the midwife here a visit. A different child, born around the same—”
“It’s him,” Tonio said so quietly that Johann struggled to understand. “If we go about this the right way, he will change the world. But we must act now! If we miss the moment, it won’t return anytime soon. You know how long we’d have to wait.”
He stood up and signaled to Johann to follow. “Let us go.” The master gave him a cheerful wink. “All this might seem strange to you now, young Faustus. But trust me. You’ll soon know more. I arranged for your ordination to take place here, so we don’t have to wait until Krakow. We have enough friends around here—by now, we have friends everywhere.”
“Ordination?” Johann was confused. “What ordination?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. And now come, before the moon disappears behind the hills again.”
A short while later, they set off. Tonio had sent Johann up to his room to pack his few belongings. The master’s crates and the birdcage had already been taken to the wagon. Night had fallen outside, but a full moon bathed the lanes of Nördlingen in a pale light. Tonio and Poitou sat on the box seat while Johann found a place among the chests and sacks under the canvas. They tied Poitou’s exhausted horse to the back of the wagon, where it plodded along leisurely.
They drove toward the closed city gate. The road beyond led back to Augsburg; it was the road they’d come from the day before. Poitou whistled, and the gate opened with a soft squeak. Johann guessed the man had bribed the guards earlier. Outside the gate, they turned right. When they passed where Freudenreich the minstrel had been burned to death that morning, Tonio whispered something to Poitou in French and the man laughed out loud. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and roast meat.
The moon was high in the sky as the wagon rolled past fields and small patches of forest. No one else was on the road at this time of night. It was as quiet as if the whole world were asleep—except for once, when Johann heard wolves howling in the distance.
They turned onto an unmarked, narrow track. Their surroundings became increasingly rough and overgrown. Moss-covered boulders were scattered among the trees, looking as if they’d fallen from the sky in ancient times. Johann thought about the giant throwing the huge rock into an ancient sea. Were these boulders remnants of that rock? Had God been the giant?
The master repeatedly looked up at the sky and the pale stars. Each time, he nodded with satisfaction, as if confirming an observation. After about two hours, Poitou asked Tonio to stop. He gave a whistle that imitated the call of a nightingale. Then he waited, and after a short while, an owl hooted three times. “We have arrived,” said Poitou, looking around searchingly. “It’s not far from here. I suggest we leave the wagon hidden among the trees over there. And then we walk.”
The three birds in the cage flapped their wings excitedly and cawed, as if they sensed that someone was nearby. Tonio gave the cage a shove.
“Be quiet, God damn it!” he barked. “I know you’re hungry. Not long now.” He turned back to Poitou. “Did you bring what I asked you for?”
Poitou grinned. “It wasn’t easy at such short notice.” He opened his wide coat and pulled out a clear vial with a cork, containing a liquid the color of swamp. “The black potion. La Meffraye herself brewed it.”
“Well done.” Tonio climbed down from the wagon and led the horses a little deeper into the forest. Then he waved for Johann to follow him. The three of them sat down on a rock that gleamed pale in the moonlight, as if it had been covered with a white sheet. Poitou handed the vial to Tonio, who raised it toward the moon with both hands.
“The black potion,” he announced solemnly. “He who drinks it is close to Pan.”
“So be it,” Poitou murmured as if praying. “Now and forever.”
The master removed the cork from the vial and handed it to Johann. “You must empty it in one go,” he commanded. “It doesn’t taste particularly good, but it acts fast.”
“What . . . what is it?” asked Johann. He still didn’t have the faintest idea what the purpose of their excursion might be. “Why should I drink it?”
“My little Faustus,” Tonio sighed and placed one hand on his shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “I’ve always encouraged you to ask questions. Only those who ask will receive an answer. But for once I’m telling you not to. You must cross the threshold naked and unknowing. It’s the rule.” He smiled and stroked Johann’s cheek. “But you can trust me. Once you swallow that drink, your knowledge is going to be infinite. And that is what you want, isn’t it, my Faustus? Knowledge at any cost, just like me. This world is waiting for people like you and me—people who will finally lift the veil.”
Johann hesitated. He sensed that he was once more standing at a fork in the road, like when he’d set out from Knittlingen. If he took the potion, there was no way back. But did he really have a choice? He’d left everything behind. His mother was dead; he didn’t know who his father was. His only brother had vanished, probably eaten by wild animals. And the only girl he’d ever loved had cursed him with words he’d never forget.
Go away. You are the devil.
Tonio gave him a nod. His black eyes seemed to pierce Johann.
“It’s time,” the master said. “The stars don’t wait. Drink.”
The liquid felt thick on Johann’s tongue; it slowly ran down his throat and into his stomach. It burned like fire and tasted slightly rotten, of sulfur and vomit. Johann coughed and spluttered, and the master grabbed him by the collar.
“It’s crucial that you keep the drink down, my boy,” he said urgently. “It’ll soon be over.”
Johann closed his eyes, and the nausea indeed eased. But the feeling of fire in his stomach remained, as if something was eating into his guts. Poitou laughed.
“The first time is the worst. You’ll get used to it after a few years. The path to hell is lined with fire—but the ripest fruit awaits you on the other side.”
“Shut up, Poitou,” hissed Tonio. “Help me get him to the clearing.”
He dragged Johann to his feet like a puppet, but the young man shook his head.
“Leave . . . me. I . . . I can walk by myself.” With great difficulty, he took a few steps. For some reason he didn’t want the master to lead him. No matter what came next, he wanted to walk this path alone.
“As you wish,” said Tonio, letting go of him.
The two men walked on either side of Johann as they went deeper into the dense forest of fir trees and gnarled, scattered yews. It was much darker now, but Johann thought he could see better than before, as if the potion had sharpened his senses. A wolf howled somewhere very close to them, and Poitou gave a laugh.
“Loup-garou,” he said. “Tout est prêt.”
The men started talking in French again, while Johann staggered along like a drunkard. His throat was still on fire, but his legs felt strangely light. He seemed to walk faster and faster, almost flying. He listened to the sounds of the forest and made out dozens of different creatures: the howl of the wolf Poitou had called loup-garou, the hooves of a deer on a distant game path, the flapping of a small owl’s wings—yes, even the whispering of mice in their little underground caves. The trees seemed to glow with a strange light, their outlines sharp against the black sky. Every branch, every twig seemed unnaturally clear.
“C’est une bonne nuit pour le diable,” Poitou was saying. “La réunion va être une réussite.”
“Tais-toi,” growled Tonio. “Ne parle pas du diable.”
Suddenly, something strange happened to Johann. The men were speaking French, and yet he thought he could understand them! Some words, at least, because they were very similar to Latin. Was this the knowledge the master had promised him? Did the potion allow him to understand any tongue in the world, even the oldest? Words flashed through his brain like lightning bolts. Loup-garou, garache, bête bigourne, Belial, Beelzebub, Satan, Baphomet, béliche, le diable . . . Johann winced.
Le diable . . .
The beast had many names.
His heart skipped a beat when the realization sank in. The men were speaking of the devil. They were talking about a meeting with the devil, here in the forest. In an instant he saw everything very clearly. The potion allowed him to think faster, and now various memories came together like the pieces of a mosaic. The handshake with Tonio outside the Lion Inn, followed by the death of Margarethe’s brother, Ludwig; the missing children in Knittlingen as well as near the old tower; the drawing of the horned creature on the rock; Martin, and Margarethe’s screams in Schillingswald Forest that day. It must have been Tonio she’d seen! And it had also been the master she had spoken about in her fever. She hadn’t cursed Johann, but Tonio.
Tonio del Moravia. Keeper of the seven times seven seals.
Go away. You are the devil.
Johann’s legs, so nimble just a moment ago, suddenly gave way. He tripped on a root and fell, but Tonio caught him as easily as if he were nothing but a leaf in the wind.
“The potion is working,” said Tonio. “That’s good, very good. Soon the pact will be sealed.”
Johann tried to speak, but it felt as if a fat frog were sitting in his mouth. His eyes seemed sticky with a gooey black mass, and his whole body suddenly went numb. His soul tried to flee, but there was no escape, no way out. A wolf howled once more, someone screamed, and a low, dull groan like from a large animal came from somewhere nearby.
“We’re nearly there,” whispered Tonio.
As Johann’s soul frantically searched for a way out—for some kind of escape—Johann heard a familiar sound in the distance, like from another world. He heard beautiful, sparkling laughter ringing out as clear as a bell. For a brief moment, it drowned out all the howling, screaming, and groaning.
It was Margarethe’s laughter.
Johann’s mouth twitched and saliva ran down his chin while Tonio held him by the collar. Her laughter had always been what he loved most about her. He used to think it wonderfully naive and simple—completely innocent. But in retrospect he felt Margarethe had always laughed at his longing for knowledge, his serious determination, and his need to be someone, to mean something. She had laughed at him like a child who doesn’t care about yesterday or tomorrow but only lives in the here and now.
Margarethe was laughing at the devil.
Johann straightened up and shook off Tonio’s hand. His tongue still felt heavy.
“Can . . . walk . . . myself . . . ,” he managed eventually.
“Chapeau!” Poitou gave a cackling laugh. “The boy is tougher than I thought.”
Johann walked straight ahead for a few steps, then he veered sharply to the right and ran into the forest. His legs were as soft as molten wax, and he staggered and stumbled, but he didn’t fall.
“Stop, little Faustus!” shouted Tonio. “Where are you going? There’s only the one road now. The pact is almost sealed.”
Johann knew he’d never get away from the master and Poitou. They’d catch him and finish whatever it was they were doing with him. Still he ran on, until he saw the outline of a large boulder in front of him. Johann’s eyesight was still blurred, and the rock seemed to grow and shrink at the same time. He staggered around the boulder and dropped to his knees.
Then he stuck a finger down his throat and vomited.
Stinking black bile dripped onto the ground and disappeared among the pebbles and rotting leaves. He scrambled to his feet and stepped out from behind the boulder, where Poitou spotted him immediately.
“I’ve got him, milord!” he called out, breathing heavily. “He’s here. He didn’t get far.”
“Then bring him to me, God damn it!” shouted Tonio. “Let’s get it over and done with.”
Now that the potion was no longer in his body, Johann felt a little better. But the drug had already begun to take effect. Everything seemed like a dream. Poitou lifted him up like a bundle of kindling and carried him through the forest. The screaming and moaning grew louder, and Johann made out a faint glow beneath the trees ahead. Soon they reached a clearing with a large bonfire in its center. Ancient, dead oak trees stood in a ring around the opening, their naked branches reaching for him like the fingers of a witch. Johann squinted. There was something hanging in the branches, something that squirmed and whimpered. A thick black liquid dripped to the ground like blood. But every time Johann tried to take a closer look, his eyes watered.
Someone leaned over Johann, and he could smell soil and sweat.
“He is yours, Meffraye,” Tonio said, his voice sounding far away.
Hands pulled and tugged at Johann, undressing him. He didn’t resist. He felt a mighty erection grow, and then everything felt moist and warm. A chorale of female voices began to sing around him as a voluminous creature he couldn’t make out properly with his watery eyes lowered herself upon him.
“O Ostara, hear us,” chanted the chorale. “O Belial, hear us!”
There was a smacking sound. The odor of soil was overwhelming now; Johann could smell fresh humus, grown and perished in the everlasting circle of life. Large, heavy breasts appeared in front of his face, and he reached for them, still feeling like he was in a dream. Someone groaned with pleasure, and he gave himself up to the rhythm, to the up and down, like waves in a sea of blood. The groans grew louder, eventually turning into cries, and Johann realized it was his own voice. He was crying out with pleasure and lust. He thought he could also hear Poitou and Tonio cry out and laugh in the distance. The cawing of the raven and the two crows sounded like the laughter of the insane.
