The Master's Apprentice, page 60
part #1 of Faust Series
The narrow, filthy alleyway went around a bend, crossed a courtyard full of barrels, and finally ended on the main square. The parade was nearing from the east. There was no sight of any dancers yet, but Johann and Karl could hear the music and cheering. Something cracked and hissed, as if fireworks were going off somewhere. Johann blinked a few times; his one eye was blinded by the noon sunshine. A large crowd had already gathered, waiting for the procession to arrive. People stood tightly packed, from the city hall to the Schöner Brunnen fountain, with its gilded towers and manifold statues, all the way over to Frauenkirche Church; even the balconies of the patricians’ houses were full of people. Johann’s eye scanned the crowd, his heart racing.
Where?
There! Right next to the Schöner Brunnen fountain, surrounded by a knot of people, stood the elephant. It was at least three paces high, on wheels, and crowned by a wooden tower that was surrounded by mock battlements. Four tiny cannons were fastened on the corners, and a handful of jesters stood behind the battlements, including a priest with dozens of letters of indulgence sewn onto his robe, fools with playing cards or dice patterns on their costumes, and a hunchbacked witch with a long nose and a pack on her back. The crowd cheered for the dressed-up figures when their little cannon spouted red sparks. There was cracking, smoke, thunder, and hissing.
“Hell on earth,” said Johann. “We found it.”
“And what do you propose we do now?” asked Karl. “Even if Greta is somewhere inside that wagon, you can’t just climb up there and—hey!”
He broke off when Johann stormed toward the elephant.
The train of Schembart runners arrived from a lane next to Frauenkirche Church and was received with much fanfare. The main square was so full that Johann struggled to get through. Several of the jugglers also arrived on the square and showed their tricks and acts. The elephant swayed like a reed in the wind among all the people, and the costumed men atop the tower threw small treats into the crowd. They grabbed the treats out of the pack of the witch, who stared at the people below from nasty little eyes. Again the cannons were lit and spat out red fire.
Johann pushed through the crowd; he was close to the elephant now, but he still hadn’t figured out what to do next. He was certain that Greta must be somewhere inside the structure, probably bound and gagged. He didn’t think the masked men had had an opportunity to get her away yet. But what was he supposed to do? Karl was right. He couldn’t climb the tower on his own, especially since it was guarded by several costumed men—and he couldn’t be sure the men weren’t Tonio’s.
Unsure of what to do next, he paused just a few steps away from the elephant. Then, suddenly, a horde of colorfully clad soldiers in slit trousers approached from the direction where the Schembart runners had entered the square. They yelled and shouted as they carried ladders toward the elephant. Johann startled. Yelling soldiers, like in battle? Was he having another fever dream? But then he remembered what Karl had told him earlier.
At the end they storm the elephant.
Those soldiers were part of the show. They were going to storm hell.
When the men ran past them, accompanied by the cheers and hoots of the crowd, Johann joined them. He saw from the corner of his eye that Karl had caught up to him, his face a grimace of fear and determination. Johann was surprised the soldiers let them run along just like that, but then he caught another glimpse of the preacher atop the tower. The men probably thought he and Karl were also in costume.
Screaming and shouting wildly, the false mercenaries braced their ladders against the elephant and started to scale its sides. The masked men at the top bombarded them with treats and lit their cannons again and again until Johann’s ears were ringing. Panting, he struggled to climb one of the ladders when he noticed that a man at the top had started to push it away from the elephant. The ladder swayed dangerously and almost toppled, but Karl managed to hold it and started to climb up himself.
Johann studied the elephant as he climbed the rungs of the ladder. It was made of wood and linen that had been painted gray, and attached to the feet were wheels on which the giant contraption could be moved through the city. He estimated there was enough room in the elephant’s belly for a person, if not several. If there was an access point to the belly, then it was probably in the tower, which was about two paces taller than the top of the elephant.
Johann and Karl reached the top of the ladder and climbed over the balustrade surrounding the tower. Several soldiers had also reached the top, and they waved to the crowd, who celebrated them as conquerors. The priest with the letters of indulgence squirmed in the arms of a mercenary, squealing like a pig and rolling his eyes, and the crowd hooted with laughter. The hunchbacked witch still stood motionless, staring into the crowd.
The tower swayed under the weight of all the people; it wouldn’t be long before it toppled. Johann unsteadily crept toward an artificial arch made of thin, painted wood that led inside the tower. The archway wasn’t quite three feet high. Johann peered inside but couldn’t see any way into the belly of the elephant. He slammed his fist against the wall with disappointment and ripped the linen.
Damn!
Suddenly his idea seemed absurd to him, the spawn of a fever dream. How could he have thought Greta would be in here? The masked men had probably taken her away long ago—perhaps she wasn’t even in the city anymore.
Perhaps she’s already dead.
Johann’s good hand clutched the linen, and it ripped further. He had been forcing the thought aside with all his might, fighting the unavoidable, but now it rushed back at him with a vengeance.
He had lost his daughter only a few days after meeting her.
Below him, the crowd heaved, people clapping and cheering. The first spectators were starting to tear at the gray fabric of the elephant. It wouldn’t be long before the Nurembergers would shred the beast to pieces until the hell was conquered and the Schembartlauf over.
Everything would be over.
Johann looked around desperately for Karl but couldn’t find him anywhere. Maybe it was just as well that his assistant didn’t see him in this dark hour. Johann decided to throw himself off the elephant in the hope of putting an end to his life—just like the time he leaped off the Heidelberg bridge into the Neckar. Was the height sufficient to break his neck? As he went to look over the balustrade, his gaze was caught by the witch, who was still standing rigidly in the same spot. She wore a dress, an apron, and a headscarf like all old women, and her body was hunched over, making her seem short. For the first time Johann noticed the eyes behind the mask.
He winced as if he’d been slapped.
Eyes as black as pools in the woods.
They were his eyes.
The witch’s hunchback was artificial, and Johann realized that she wasn’t crippled but in fact a small person. Her hands were crossed on the balustrade and tied with thin ropes. Gray, almost invisible strings also ran up her dress and to the tower, holding her upright like a life-sized puppet; only the head beneath the mask rocked gently from side to side. Her eyes gleamed with pain and despair.
“Greta!” screamed Johann. His voice was drowned out by the noise of the crowd. “Greta!”
He tried to rush toward his daughter when someone yanked him back abruptly. A rope was thrown around his neck and pulled tight, and then someone dragged him up as if he were a rabid dog. A huge hand lifted him over the edge of the tower, and Johann treaded thin air. Panting and gasping for breath, he tried to catch a glimpse of the figure behind him.
It was the wild man.
Underneath his fake beard, the giant gave an evil grin. His black hair hung into his pockmarked face like rotting reeds. And finally Johann recognized him.
It was Poitou, Tonio’s French friend he’d met in Nördlingen all those years ago.
Johann had heard his voice down in the crypt, too. Like his master, Poitou didn’t seem to have aged much, although it was hard to tell with the fake beard and the wig. His strength, at least, was just as incredible as seventeen years ago.
The giant was still holding his victim over the balustrade. Johann made out a handful of masked men with their pikes below him, but unlike the ones from the parade, their lances weren’t blunt. The sharp points glinted in the noontide sun, and they were aimed directly at Johann. He gagged and wheezed. If Poitou let go of him now, he’d be skewered like a rabbit. But if the giant hung on to him, he’d choke.
The crowd roared with laughter. Evidently, they thought the squirming monk was another funny stunt. Johann gasped for air and clutched the rope around his neck with his good hand, but he was far too weak to put up a fight. The voices of the spectators began to sound farther away, and his eyesight became blotchy and blurred. The world was narrowing into a tunnel, and at its end stood the loveliest apparition, glowing, surrounded by a halo . . .
Margarethe, I’m coming . . . I’m almost there . . . I . . .
Something grunted, and it took Johann a few moments to understand that it was Poitou. Then there was a crash as the hulk of a man fell backward against the tower, pulling Johann with him. The rope loosened a fraction, and Johann coughed and spluttered. From the corner of his eye he saw Karl wrestling with Poitou and guessed that his assistant must have attacked the giant from behind. One of the masked men that had followed the soldiers up the tower was just about to point one of the little cannons at Karl. And among all the chaos, Greta was still standing at the railing, stiff and quiet.
Johann tugged at the rope around his neck but it wouldn’t loosen any further. It was fastened around his throat like an iron ring, and he was running out of breath. If only he had—
The knife!
Frantically he fingered for the knife under his robe—the same knife that Tonio had given him long ago. He found it, ripped it off, and cut the rope.
Fresh, life-giving air streamed down his throat.
Johann looked around, trying to grasp the situation. Karl was still grappling with Poitou, but the young man’s strength seemed to fade. The giant’s eyes sparkled devilishly.
“C’est la fin et le début,” he snarled. “Bienvenue en enfer!”
At that moment, as the crowd howled and raved and the cannon next to Karl exploded into a blazing shower of red sparks, a profound calmness spread inside Johann. And even though he knew that only a few seconds passed by, he felt as though time were stretching out forever.
Greta’s fearful eyes behind the mask . . . The knife cutting through her ties . . . Poitou’s angry outcry . . . The blade in Johann’s hand, as cold as ice . . . One last calculating look, then the throw—the one throw he had been waiting for all his life.
The knife cut through the air like an arrow.
Then the blade entered Poitou’s left eye without a sound.
“An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,” breathed Johann.
With a gasp of surprise, Poitou collapsed against the wall of the tower, felled by the knife of his master. His remaining eye stared lifelessly at the raven and the two crows circling in the blue sky above them. The birds cawed loudly; it sounded like laughter. Then they flew off.
The spectators hadn’t yet realized what had just happened. Johann grabbed Greta under her arms and dragged her toward a ladder. The witch’s mask slid to one side, and her pale face appeared beneath it. She was no longer unconscious, but she wasn’t fully in her right senses, either.
“What . . . ?” she muttered. “Who . . . ?”
“Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll get you out of here,” said Johann softly.
Meanwhile, Karl had thrown one of the masked men by the cannon over the balustrade, but part of the tower had caught on fire from the shower of sparks. The dry timber crackled and smoked—so it would all go up in flames. Costumed men stood leaning over the dead Poitou; someone was shouting for help.
“Quick—take Greta on your back and let’s get out of here!” shouted Johann.
Karl looked confused for a moment, but then he recognized the girl.
“The hell,” he whispered. “You were right, Doctor.”
He heaved the girl onto his back, and she clung on as he scrambled down the ladder. Johann followed. The soldiers and other masked men were too busy with the fire to notice them.
As chaos erupted all around them, they pushed their way through the crowd, away from the elephant, which by now burned like a giant torch.
The farther away they got from the main square, the quieter the streets became. It seemed as if the whole of Nuremberg was watching the grand finale, and they hardly saw a soul as they rushed through the lanes. Karl still carried Greta on his back. She sighed from time to time and cried out, barely aware of what was going on around her. Johann suspected that Tonio had also given her a potion, but unlike him, she hadn’t eaten ash. What sort of nightmares were torturing the girl right now?
As Johann looked at his daughter, he felt a fire burn in his heart unlike anything he’d ever felt before. And he felt relief. It was as if he’d paid an ancient debt. But then the pain and the fever returned. His whole body started to tremble; the fight with Poitou had drained the last of his strength. His bandage and the robe were torn. He dragged himself over the cobbled streets like a walking corpse, knowing it wouldn’t be long before he’d collapse. And this time he wouldn’t get back up.
“We . . . we . . . must leave town,” he gasped. “Tonio . . . He’ll be looking for us . . . His . . . his followers will tell him what happened.”
Karl didn’t reply as he carried Greta through the lanes. Sweat was pouring down his face, and he was bleeding from a wound on his forehead. His strength, too, was coming to an end; he stumbled more than he walked. He stubbornly stared straight ahead to where the lane was ending in a small market square near the Hospital of the Holy Ghost. The stalls that usually sold expensive spices, loaves of bread, cheese, and salted meat stood empty. Everyone, even the market wives, had rushed over to the main square, where a column of black smoke rose to the sky. The news of the burning elephant had probably lured even the last Nuremberger out of the house.
Utterly exhausted, Karl stopped by the bridge east of the hospital. “We should go back to the command,” he said. “I can’t carry Greta much further. The Teutonic Knights will give us shelter and tend to her—and you.”
“Out of the question.” Johann shook his head and started trudging across the bridge. “Who is to say that the command isn’t full of traitors? Many of Tonio’s followers are patricians. Why would the command be an exception? It’s too dangerous.”
“But we need shelter!” said Karl urgently. “Some kind of hiding place. Just look at you!” He gave a desperate laugh. “A feverish one-eyed man who can barely walk in a straight line.”
Johann looked down at himself. Karl was right. He was a shivering bundle wrapped in filthy bandages. There was nothing left of the proud, famous doctor.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us . . . rest for a while. We’ll find somewhere.”
He knew he probably wouldn’t be able to get back up once he sat down. But they couldn’t keep going, either, and so he looked around for a hiding place. In the center of the bridge, stairs led down to a long, narrow island in the Pegnitz. Its sandy shores were lined with brown foam and trash washing down the river from the mills. There was a grove in the middle of the island, which probably served as a secret meeting place for lovers during the warmer months. Low trees and shrubs would offer some shelter. They walked onto the island from the west and pushed their way into the undergrowth, where they finally collapsed with exhaustion. Greta was no longer making any sound.
“I wonder if she’ll recover.” Karl carefully opened Greta’s torn dress and leaned over her. “Her breathing is very weak.”
Johann felt a stab in his chest. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until then. Maybe the potion Tonio had given his daughter was too strong. Maybe she’d never return to him, forever caught in the twilight? But then Greta suddenly opened her eyes—his black eyes.
“Where . . . where are we?” she asked with a feeble voice.
“Somewhere safe,” replied Johann and held her cold hand.
“Johann.” Greta gave a tired smile. She seemed to recognize him only now, underneath his bandage. “I . . . I feel so heavy. Everything is so heavy. Can you do magic for me? I . . . I like it when you do magic.”
Johann brushed her cheek with his fingers, and then he pulled a small pebble from her ear like he used to do with coins. “Your head is full of stones,” he said, trying his utmost to sound calm and cheerful. “No wonder you feel heavy.” He continued to pull pebble after pebble from her ear. She smiled once more.
“Are you . . . are you a real wizard?”
I am your father, my child, he thought. I am the man who drove your mother to her death. And I am the man who loved her more than anything. Will you ever be able to forgive me?
“Where . . . where is Uncle Valentin?”
Johann swallowed. He couldn’t tell her—not yet. What should he say? But then Greta closed her eyes, and her breathing became stronger and more regular. And as Johann watched her, he felt himself grow calm, also. It was strange. He had studied so many subjects, attended so many lectures, become a master of all seven liberal arts, but there was one art no scholar in the world had taught him—not the magisters and doctors at Heidelberg, not Archibaldus, and least of all Tonio. It was a discipline that was usually hidden behind dry words in the Latin and Greek writings, as difficult to chew as stale bread. To experience it firsthand was an entirely different story. Ovid had once called it Ars amatoria, even if he’d meant something slightly different.
The art of loving.
The eighth liberal art.
Yes, he had loved Margarethe, and he always would. But that love rested on experiences from their childhood, from a long, common history, and also on expectations that probably would never have been fulfilled. His love for this child, however, for his daughter, had no goal. It simply existed. It filled him and gave him an inner peace he’d never experienced before. Johann wondered how his life would have evolved if he’d met Greta sooner, if he’d been her father from the start. Would it have put an end to his endless searching, his unquenchable thirst for knowledge? Probably not. But it would have steered his life down calmer roads.
