The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,13
outside the inn and got booted by the innkeeper; a group of pilgrims in dusty traveling frocks searched for their quarters. A broad-shouldered, bearded monk in the smithy slammed a piece of iron with his hammer. Pacing through the lanes in silent prayer were choir monks, who, in contrast to the lay brothers, were shaved and wore white robes with black scapulars. Many of them were noblemen who were in search of a simple life—or who, as second- or third-born sons, were excluded as heirs.
Johann loved the monastery’s aura of scholarship and eternity. Time seemed to stand still here. The sandstone walls were hundreds of years old, and the knowledge hoarded behind them was legendary. Johann visited the abbey as often as he could and occasionally ran small errands for the brothers. Sometimes he was even allowed to visit the library—always a very special occasion. So many books, so many answers to his questions! Normally, outsiders weren’t allowed to set foot in the famous library—let alone a sixteen-year-old boy. But Johann enjoyed the friendship of a powerful benefactor at Maulbronn, someone who even permitted him to take home a book every now and then. And Johann wanted to see this man today.
He approached a lay brother who was driving a squeaking pig toward the butchery. “God be with you, Brother,” he said in greeting. “Do you know where I might find Father Antonius?”
“Where do you think, boy?” The monk grinned and pointed at the tall monastery church. “At the infirmary, of course. Both the cellarer and the prior have been struck down by a nasty summer fever, and so have a number of brothers. He’s got his hands full.”
Johann nodded gratefully and went on his way to the church behind the next wall. This was where the spiritual, quiet part of the monastery began. The porter knew the boy and merely grunted as Johann passed. The Maulbronn librarian was a good friend of Father Bernhard, Johann’s teacher at Latin School. But Father Antonius wasn’t just the librarian. His medical skills were known far beyond the walls of Maulbronn. Johann felt certain the man would have a remedy that would help his mother.
Johann reverently entered the church, whose sandstone blocks were painted in blue and red. The tall windows allowed slanted sunlight to illuminate the altar and the adjoining choir, with its elaborately carved stalls. In a side chapel, a monk was quietly reading a mass. Johann had heard that the Cistercians used to work their fields themselves once upon a time, but now they were too busy managing a fortune that grew with each generation. The monastery called more than a dozen villages in the surrounding area its own. The farmers paid their duties more or less willingly. That was how it had been since time immemorial: knights fought, monks prayed, and farmers toiled.
And what am I going to do? Johann asked himself as he walked past the tall cross above the altar. What plans does God have for me?
He left the church through the silent cloister and followed the corridor that led to the infirmary. Rows of beds stood to his left and right, most of them holding coughing monks under thin blankets. A younger monk was scattering fresh rushes while an old, gray-haired brother poured steaming water into a bowl with herbs. A pleasant fragrance spread through the long, high-ceilinged room. When the old man heard Johann’s hurried footsteps, he looked up. A tired smile spread on his face.
“Johann!” he exclaimed. “I should have known you’d come today. It’s your day off.” His expression turned serious. “But I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I’m too busy to visit the library with you.” He gestured toward the full beds. More coughing and sniffling could be heard. “We’ve got our hands full with a nasty fever. Dear Father Jeremias died of it just yesterday, though he was very old, too. God rest his soul.” He sighed deeply and made the sign of the cross. “How is my dear friend Father Bernhard? I hope he’s doing well?”
“Father Bernhard is well and sends his greetings,” Johann replied. “But my mother is very ill.”
The other monk, a clean-shaven young man in a white robe, looked up and frowned at them. The Cistercians followed the rule of silence closely, and often they communicated merely with hand signals. The rule wasn’t always enforced in the infirmary, but one was still expected to keep a low voice.
Father Antonius waved Johann to an alcove off to the