The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,108

in the world, known as La Serenissima, or “the most serene,” one last time. But he’d spent the last two weeks lying in the back of the wagon, staring at the ceiling. His daily doses of poppy juice had steadily increased. Peter’s fiddle hung from a hook on the wall, gently swaying from side to side when they were on the road; he hadn’t played it for a while now.

Their last performance on the mainland was in a town called Treviso, only twenty miles from Venice. That night, Johann was woken by groans coming from the wagon. Someone was calling his name.

It was Peter.

Carefully, Johann peeled himself out of the blanket, trying not to wake Salome, and climbed into the wagon. Peter had managed to light a tallow candle, and Johann could see his haggard face. The formerly proud, strong-minded fiddle player looked like death himself. When his mouth twisted into a sad smile, Johann thought he was looking at a skull. The red hair stuck to his forehead like wet straw.

“The . . . the end has come,” Peter said with wheezing breath. “I can feel it.”

“Shall I fetch the others?” Johann squeezed Peter’s hand, which seemed to consist of nothing but skin and bones.

Peter shook his head tiredly. “I don’t want them to see me like this. I . . . only wanted to speak with you.”

“With me? But why—”

Peter raised a hand, cutting Johann off. “Please, Johann, tell me . . . ,” said the sick man, pausing with exhaustion. “Back when we crossed the pass and you read my palm . . . something frightened you. It . . . it was because you foresaw my death, didn’t you? Am I right?”

Johann hesitated briefly, but then he nodded. Why should he lie to a dying man?

Peter nodded. “I . . . I thought so. Accursed magicians and chiromancers!” He made a sound that Johann didn’t immediately recognize as a laugh. “I never trusted you, lad. You’ve got something about you, something dark, restless. As if . . . as if the devil himself touched you.”

Johann said nothing and Peter continued, his voice taking on a dreamy tone. He stared up at the ceiling as if he could see his life replay before his eyes.

“I knew a girl once. She was as beautiful as the sun, but she came from a lowly home, while my family was of noble blood, and so I wasn’t permitted to marry her. We ran away together. We made a living as jugglers. It was the best time of my life.” Peter smiled. “People liked it when I played the fiddle, even though I wasn’t very good yet. But then . . .” He wheezed and gasped for breath. “Then she fell ill. Very ill. I had to watch her fade away before my eyes. I swore I’d do anything to save her. And . . . and someone asked me, ‘Anything? Would you even give me three fingers of your right hand?’ I . . . I said I would, but then I didn’t give him the fingers—even though I’d promised. A fiddler needs his fingers like a fish needs gills to breathe! Do you understand, Johann? Do you understand me? And so she died, and I . . .” He paused. “I played better and better. The devil knows why.” He gave another laugh. “By God, I know he knows! And now he’s coming to take his part of the bargain.”

Johann was still holding Peter’s hand—the hand of the red-haired fiddler who played heavenly melodies so beautifully that they had the power to break hearts. Peter’s story was confused—the last stammered words of a dying man, not making a lot of sense. But they filled Johann with a sense of dread. Suddenly Peter grasped Johann’s hand so hard that Johann winced.

“Pray for me, Johann Faustus,” the fiddler begged. “Pray for me, for a poor sinner who loved playing the fiddle more than he loved his girl. Pray for me! And burn . . . my . . . fiddle.”

Peter’s hand squeezed Johann’s one last time, then life left his body with one final wheezing breath. His eyes turned glassy, and he fell back onto the bed. A nameless terror filled his gaze, as if he’d seen something horrible in the last moment of his life. Johann couldn’t bear the sight and closed Peter’s eyes. Then he lifted the violin from its hook and climbed outside, where the moon cast its