The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,162

trying to keep their loves a secret. It always seemed a little warmer beneath the vast green canopy of the chestnut trees—unlike inside the cave, where it was as cold as winter.

Johann suspected the cave stemmed from a time when Christianity was still new to the area. The paintings were simple, as if drawn by plain peasants, but they bore a grace that many large church paintings lacked. Farther back in the cave stood a crude block of stone that might have served as an altar once.

Margarethe tightened around her shoulders the woolen scarf she wore over her nun’s habit. She shivered, and small clouds of steam came from her mouth. “It’s cold in here. We shouldn’t stay too long. The mother cellarer is expecting me back in Heidelberg. If I stay out too long, she’ll grow suspicious—if she isn’t already,” she said with a sigh.

“Just tell her you were delayed by a storm,” said Johann. “Hear for yourself.”

And indeed, there was a thunderclap outside, and they could hear the steady rushing of rain. It was the beginning of May and thunderstorms were common, especially in the hills. Since the snow had melted, Margarethe often traveled back and forth between the convent and the house in Heidelberg. The nunnery’s produce needed to be transported to town, and the mothers superior and cellarer exchanged messages. The nuns used an oxcart to transport their wares and took the road that ran alongside the Neckar and past Heiligenberg Mountain. Whenever Margarethe traveled by herself, she and Johann took the opportunity for a meeting.

Margarethe’s initial shyness had given way to the joy of being together with Johann. They often spoke about their childhood in Knittlingen, their games in the hay loft, playing in the fields, and Johann’s little magic tricks, which he still performed for her occasionally. But they never spoke about their last few days together in their hometown. It was as if a thick fog had descended upon that period of time.

Johann’s desire for Margarethe had grown continuously over the last few months. To see her without really touching her, to speak to her but not be allowed to embrace her, caused him almost physical pain. At nights he dreamed of her soft skin, the dimples in her cheeks, her deep blue eyes that seemed to absorb all his fears. The best moments were those when she laughed, because then she was back to her old self. And Johann hoped that one day she would fully be back to the way she used to be.

That’s what he needed the cave for.

Finding it had been a stroke of luck. It was the one building block he’d been missing. Now everything was ready. He struggled to remain calm and tried not to tremble with excitement. Originally he’d wanted to wait a few more weeks, but when he saw the thunderclouds gathering above Heiligenberg Mountain that morning, he thought the right moment had come.

Like a sign from the heavens, he thought.

But then Johann realized that he hadn’t thought of God in a very long time. He had been pretending to pray to God, the saints, and the angels for Margarethe’s sake, but he’d always been his own master.

If there was a God he revered, its image was standing well hidden in a dark niche of the cave.

“I really think we ought to leave now,” said Margarethe, looking about anxiously. “This place is creepy, despite the beautiful paintings. This whole area is.” She lowered her voice and made the sign of the cross. “Didn’t you say yourself that there were witches dancing around here? I’m sure they would have done so during Walpurgis Night last week.”

“That’s what folks were saying,” replied Johann with a shrug. “Apparently they saw lights burning on the mountain—but that could have been fires from shepherds.”

“Mother Superior says we ought to stay away from Heiligenberg Mountain, even though Saint Michael Monastery is situated on its top. The monastery is dedicated to the archangel and was built on the foundations of a heathen temple—did you know that?” Margarethe shivered as she looked around again. “Allegedly, there is a deep hole somewhere in this forest into which the heathens used to throw people as sacrifices for their gruesome rituals.”

For a moment, Johann saw a large fire in his mind’s eye; heavy, meaty breasts; and wrinkled hands that groped and touched him everywhere. He thought he could smell soil and something faintly fishy.

O Ostara, hear us . . . O Belial, hear us . .