The Master's Apprentice, page 38
part #1 of Faust Series
Much brighter.
“Archimedes posits that the upward buoyancy . . . ,” Jodocus Gallus was saying when Johann sprang to his feet and rushed out of the hall. Irritated, the rector broke off. “Let us hope it’s just the call of nature urging our dear Faustus to leave us thus.”
“Or the infallible Herr Faustus already knows everything about Archimedes and is off to invent his own floating object,” jeered Altmayer, but no one laughed.
Johann ran over to the low, snow-covered buildings of the school of arts, where Valentin was attending one of Partschneider’s classes. Out of breath, he sat down next to Valentin in the last row and leaned over to him.
“I know it now,” he whispered.
Valentin turned his head in surprise. “You know what now?”
“I know how we can capture and focus the light inside the laterna magica. We use lenses made of glass! Lenses like they use for eye glasses. Rector Gallus’s glasses just gave me the idea.”
Johann’s voice grew louder, and Magister Partschneider interrupted his lecture irritably. “If the young sirs believe they already know everything, they are welcome to leave the room.”
Johann tugged at Valentin’s sleeve until his friend gave in and followed him outside.
“Are you crazy?” spat Valentin. “Partschneider will never forgive us!”
“Oh, he’ll get over it,” replied Johann, grinning. “Much more importantly, we can now complete the laterna magica.”
He quickly explained to Valentin what he’d found out. His friend seemed skeptical at first, but then he nodded. “Hmm. I think you’re right—it might work with lenses. They bundle the light—I know what you mean about Gallus’s glasses. And if we placed several lenses in front of each other—”
“The light would become stronger and the image clearer,” added Johann.
He then suddenly remembered the strange tube he’d seen up on the tower by the Alps a long time ago, back when he was still with Tonio. He guessed the tube had also contained several lenses, one behind the other, enabling a person to see farther. He wondered where Tonio had gotten the tube. Johann had never seen anything like it again, not even here at the university.
“I admit, it’s a brilliant idea, but unfortunately, we have no lenses nor the money to buy some,” said Valentin, interrupting Johann’s pondering. “Eye glasses are expensive—perhaps more expensive than mirrors.”
“I’ll get the lenses,” said Johann curtly. “You just worry about fitting them.”
Johann had already decided to steal Rector Gallus’s glasses—in the name of science. At some distant point in the future he would tell Gallus, and Johann felt certain the man would understand. Besides, he was the rector of Heidelberg University—surely he could purchase another pair of glasses. And in a few years’ time, when Johann had become a highly esteemed doctor himself, they’d laugh about the old story.
Valentin eyed Johann suspiciously. “I don’t like you much at the moment, Johann. If you go on like this—”
“Do you want the laterna to work or not?” snarled Johann, cutting him off.
Valentin gave a shrug. “All right, fine. I hope we can talk normally again once we’re done with the laterna. Like friends usually talk.”
The opportunity for the theft arose a few days later. During a conversation with Rector Gallus following a lecture, Johann saw that the glasses were once again lying on the lectern. It was almost too easy. Johann placed his books on top of them and picked them up together. The rector didn’t notice anything.
Johann’s heart beat wildly as he walked out of the chapel, but neither Gallus’s cutting voice nor any hurried footsteps rang out behind him. In a shady niche between two buildings, he carefully broke the glass lenses from their frames and buried the frames in a pile of snow. A twinge of conscience overcame him; the rector had done so much for him. But then he told himself again that he was acting solely in the name of science, and that Gallus would thank him one day.
When Johann gave the lenses to Valentin, he turned them thoughtfully in his hands. “I’d be glad if they weren’t what I think they are,” he remarked glumly.
“I have my resources,” said Johann. “Best you don’t ask.”
They formed a tube from a piece of tin and experimented with different distances. Conrad Celtis had also given Johann a metal concave mirror so that the light from the oil lamp was much better bundled. When they felt certain that they were on the right track, they installed the tube into their apparatus, which had grown in size.
It was an evening in February when Valentin finally lit the oil lamp of the laterna magica once more and carefully inserted one of the glass plates into the slot. It was the picture of the cat with the arched back—his favorite. Then he opened the flap at the front.
The result was so overwhelming that they cried out almost simultaneously and took a step back.
From the opposite wall of the shed, a monster stared at them that was as large as a calf and as menacing as a lion on the prowl. The cat’s arched back and hissing mouth seemed as lifelike as if it had just walked into the room. The picture was slightly unfocused at the edges and it flickered a little, which added to the ghostly effect. Johann felt as though he had just entered a strange new world.
“That . . . that’s incredible!” he gasped.
“It’s working!” Valentin grinned from ear to ear. “Do you know what that means? The two of us—two students—have just created an apparatus that not even the great Leonardo da Vinci managed to build. When we show Rector Gallus what—”
“We can’t show Rector Gallus,” objected Johann.
Valentin’s expression darkened. “So it’s true.”
“It’s not just the eye glasses,” explained Johann. “We told Gallus we were building a camera obscura. If we turn up with this apparatus instead, he’ll know we’ve been lying to him the whole time.”
Johann tried to sound reasonable, but he really was afraid the rector would become angry and accuse him of theft. First and foremost on his mind, however, was a different motivation: the laterna magica was their invention, and he didn’t want to share it with other scholars. It was their treasure.
And there was another hazy idea taking shape in his head about how he could put the laterna to good use.
“They’ll charge us with sorcery,” he said, gesturing at the cat staring at them from the wall. “Don’t you see how uncanny it looks? Partschneider and some of the other magisters aren’t ready for it yet.”
“So you’re saying we aren’t going to show the laterna to anyone at all?” asked Valentin, puzzled.
“Not yet,” replied Johann. “One day, perhaps. But it should remain our secret for now.”
He gazed at the cat with the arched back, and the vague idea was slowly coming together.
An idea about how he might win over Margarethe after all.
During the cold months, Johann’s meetings with Margarethe had been infrequent. There was no more work in the fields, and the nuns mostly stayed indoors. Johann often had to content himself with a long, cold wait beneath one of the convent’s windows until Margarethe finally appeared for a few brief moments. To arrange their meetings, they used their secret code in letters that Johann—bowing and scraping—delivered to the mother superior. Each time, he claimed it was from Margarethe’s husband, who in reality never had contacted his wife again. One time Johann even included a short love poem, hoping ardently the mother superior wouldn’t notice. The fact that he sometimes felt he was being watched he put down to his fear of getting caught. He couldn’t bear to imagine the consequences for him and—more so—for Margarethe if they were discovered.
One night, as he once again waited below a window in the freezing cold, Margarethe had some happy news for him.
“I’m relocating to Heidelberg,” she said quietly, trying not to wake the sleeping sisters. “The mother cellarer needs an aide for our outpost there, and I have proven that I’m not only good at writing but also counting. I’ll be moving in just a few months.”
“But . . . but that’s fantastic!” exclaimed Johann. For a brief moment he forgot to keep his voice down. “We’ll be able to see much more of each other. You’ll have to sell your wares at the market, after all, and—”
“We must be all the more careful, Johann,” urged Margarethe. “Sometimes I feel like Mother Superior knows something. She gives me strange looks and didn’t want me to go to Heidelberg at first. And then I feel eyes in my back like daggers—”
“Don’t start that again,” said Johann. “I prayed that the boogeyman won’t appear to you again, and so he won’t.”
“But he will return—I know it. If not now, then later.” Margarethe closed her eyes as if she could see an image in her mind’s eye. “The devil may have retreated for now, but only because he is preparing for his final, great day. And we must prepare, too!”
“Listen, Margarethe!” Johann came as close to the wall covered in frozen ivy as he could. “You can’t say things like that anymore! I’ve heard at the university that several women have been arrested as witches in the area. Apparently they were dancing on Heiligenberg Mountain, and the bishop himself wrote to the authorities, urging them to be vigilant. Two old women were burned at the stake on Dilsberg Mountain not long ago because they allegedly concocted a pestilence powder from the innards of children. It is dangerous to speak of the devil in times like these.”
“And what if these women really were witches?” asked Margarethe. “What if they really murder children, grind up their innards, and celebrate the return of Satan? Have you ever considered that?” She lowered her voice. “The Odenwald Forest is ancient. They say it is named for an evil god who used to rule here.”
Johann groaned inwardly. As long as Margarethe was locked up in this nunnery, she’d never get rid of her delusions. He needed to take her out of there—as soon as possible.
“Sometimes I hear voices,” whispered Margarethe. “They are the voices of demons who howl and scream and wait for the day of the beast. The day of the beast is coming closer. His followers are waiting for the stars to be favorable. That’s what the man said in the forest . . .”
“And what if you heard the voice of an angel?” asked Johann brusquely. “Would you believe him? Would you believe that the devil is just toying with you and that he’s not coming back to earth at all? That the boogeyman only exists in your nightmares—that none of it is real?”
Margarethe smiled. “That would be nice, but I’m afraid that’ll never happen.” She hesitated. “Sometimes I’m not even sure anymore whether I’m not imagining it all. But what I saw back then, and what the boogeyman said to me, it . . . it seemed so real! And then those dreams—those horrible dreams . . .” She sobbed.
Johann winced. When Margarethe cried, his own fear and insecurity returned. What was real and what was imagination? What was true and what was false? He needed Margarethe’s laughter like medicine.
The black potion . . .
Back in the forest near Nördlingen it had been the memory of her laughter alone that saved him.
Johann needed her the way she used to be, when her laughter was still like a bulwark against all evil and against his gloomy thoughts and musings.
What he required for Margarethe was no less than a guardian angel.
A guardian angel . . .
Johann said nothing as thoughts raced through his mind. His vague idea was taking shape and turning into a plan, still a little rough around the edges and possibly crazy, but tangible now.
“I’m going to help you,” he said eventually. “And soon.”
Spring arrived so slowly that people almost missed its arrival. Water from icicles began dripping into the lanes, forming puddles at first and then deep mud patches. The magisters lifted their long gowns with disgust and stalked across the worst of the filth. The snow melted, but the cold inside the churches and lecture halls didn’t go away.
Johann focused on his studies again. In April, the month of his nineteenth birthday, he passed his baccalaureus, an exam that other students tackled only after two or more years at the university. He graduated as valedictorian, and even old Partschneider nodded approvingly.
“But don’t let it go to your head,” he said warningly. “Pride comes before a fall.”
Johann remembered that Hans Altmayer had once said something similar to him. These days there was a kind of truce between them, but Johann still couldn’t shake the feeling that Altmayer was planning something.
He saw much less of Valentin during those weeks. Johann had been very busy with his preparations for the baccalaureus, and he also avoided his friend intentionally. He didn’t want Valentin to pester him with questions about Margarethe. Deep down he was hoping that Valentin assumed the liaison was finished for good. Besides, Johann was far too preoccupied with his own plans to have time for friends—plans he didn’t want Valentin to know about.
While his friend was attending lectures, Johann often sneaked into the shed and worked on some secret additions to the laterna magica. The changes he made were so minute that he hoped Valentin wouldn’t notice. And the additional parts he needed could be inserted and removed as required.
During their few remaining hours together, the two friends locked themselves inside the shed, sat down on stools like two little boys at a puppet show, and admired the fantastic apparitions on the wall: the leaping stag, the cat with the arched back, the wolf with its bared teeth, and all the other animals Valentin had painted onto glass plates. Dust particles danced in the beam of the oil lamp, which was strong and focused now, thanks to the concave mirror and the lenses. The air smelled of whale oil, burned paint, and hot tin. In those moments, Johann and Valentin were as close as brothers. They had created this miracle together, and they couldn’t get enough of it.
“It is such a shame we can’t show anyone,” Valentin said with a sigh and inserted a new plate into the slot. “I mean, it’s really just the common people who would consider the laterna to be witchcraft. Why can’t we at least show Rector Gallus and perhaps Conrad Celtis? They’d be amazed.”
“Let’s wait a little longer,” replied Johann. “Once I’m a magister I’ll be able to present the apparatus as my own invention. That would spare us a lot of awkward questions.”
“Your invention?” Valentin gave him a confused look. “But we built the laterna together.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Johann. “But I think the degree of magister would elevate the laterna.”
Valentin said nothing and stared straight ahead, where the wolf continued to bare his teeth.
Sometimes now, when Johann considered himself to be alone, he hummed high-pitched melodies—not just in his own chamber, but also in the long corridors of the library of arts. When Valentin caught him humming along thus, he laughed out loud.
“Are you wailing about Gretchen the bride again?” he said mockingly. “Just make sure Altmayer doesn’t hear you. That would give him something new to bitch about.”
Johann cleared his throat. “Spangel asked if I’d join the choir for Easter. Apparently they still need a tenor.” He winked at Valentin. “Although I fear I’ve greased my voice too much with beer and wine.”
His humming became like an obsession. Sometimes when they sat together over a game of chess, Valentin would suddenly hear the high-pitched voice from an entirely different corner of the room. He’d spin around with fright each time, but it was only Johann, sitting in front of him with a grin. On one of those occasions he pointed to the ceiling by way of explanation. “I’m merely testing the thesis of Vitruvius about the movement of sound. Conrad Celtis lent me a script by this astonishing Roman architect. Evidently, sounds travel on strange paths. That would be worth a treatise on its own.”
Valentin rolled his eyes. “When do you ever not think of our studies?”
“Well, art is long, and life is short and fleeting,” Johann replied with a shrug and continued to hum.
“Cut it out!” groused Valentin. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. My nerves are raw since I’m studying for that accursed baccalaureus.” He sighed and pulled a face. “My Greek is a disaster, and I’m no good at dialectic. What am I going to do after the baccalaureus, when they add arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy? I’ve always wondered why you knew so much about all those things from the start. All those star signs and the calculations of the constellations.”
“I had a good teacher,” said Johann, lost in thought. “He used to show me the stars at night.”
“Where was that?” asked Valentin.
“At . . . at a tower. A tower in the woods near the Alps.”
Valentin frowned. “I thought you were from Knittlingen in the Kraichgau.”
“I traveled for a while,” replied Johann vaguely, inwardly cursing himself. He really needed to be more careful about what came out of his mouth. “I journeyed to the Alps once and spent a winter there.”
Dark memories rose to the surface of Johann’s consciousness—memories he’d been suppressing for a long time.
A blood-red circle . . . A pile of dirty, torn children’s clothes . . .
“Are you all right?” asked Valentin with a concerned look. “You’re very pale all of a sudden.”
Johann shook himself. “It’s nothing. I think I just need a little fresh air.” He stood up. “Please excuse me. I need to get a few more books to prepare for the next lecture.”
Valentin smirked. “Ah, there is the Faustus I know! Never at peace, always searching for something.”
You have no idea how right you are, thought Johann.
He forced himself to give his friend a smile, squeezed his hand, and hurried outside, where the fresh breeze swept through his hair.
