The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,26

memory had been real or if it had been the imaginative mind of an eight-year-old.

“What is it?” asked Margarethe, concerned. “Is it because of your mother?”

Johann shook himself. “It’s nothing.” He attempted a smile. “Nothing to do with us, anyhow.”

“Well, in any case, Father doesn’t want me to go beyond the city walls until they know why the children have disappeared.” Margarethe rolled her eyes. “As if I was a little child who couldn’t look after herself. I’m sixteen! It’s ridiculous. He’s probably just using the excuse to prevent us from meeting in the fields again.”

“Then we just meet here,” Johann replied.

“And why should I do that again?” Margarethe winked at him. “You were rather naughty last time, throwing an innocent girl to the ground and—”

She broke off when they heard the whining once more. But this time it was louder, much louder, and it turned into wailing and crying. Then someone screamed as though they were terrified. The screams came from somewhere across the courtyard. Doors and shutters were thrown open; hurried footsteps crossed the yard.

“Something must have happened!” said Johann, unwilling to let go of Margarethe. “Fire, maybe?”

“Let’s go see.” Margarethe climbed to the top of the tub. Johann followed her and, in his haste, splattered red grape mash on his pants. They jumped off the edge of the tub and ran out into the courtyard. Several workers and maids were running toward the open gate of the Grosse Kelter, the building housing the biggest presses, where the screams were coming from.

And also a piercing wail that sounded like a large dying bird.

“That’s Mother!” shouted Margarethe. “Oh God, something terrible must have happened!”

Together they ran to the Grosse Kelter. Inside stood four presses far larger than those in the Trottenkelter. Heavy beams made of entire trees provided the necessary weight to squash the grapes. A crowd of people had gathered around the second press, staring at something in horror.

Underneath the press lay Ludwig.

Johann almost didn’t recognize him. The pressing plate must have come down on him while he was cleaning the basket underneath. Blood and mash were mixed in a red mass and covered Ludwig’s face and hands. His rib cage was pushed in like a large rotten apple, and his arms were dangling lifelessly over the rim of the basket. When one of the workers poured a bucket of water over the dead body, they could see Ludwig’s face. Bulging, empty eyes stared up at the ceiling. His lips were twisted into a grimace of pain and terror, and a thin stream of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and into the vat.

“Oh God, my son, my son!” Ludwig’s mother cried over and over, like a madwoman. “My poor son!”

She knelt beside Ludwig and held his limp, lifeless hand. Her cries gradually grew quieter and eventually turned into a mournful lament. Johann watched her dress become soaked with blood and grape mash. The prefect stood stone still among his workers, seeming unable to grasp what had happened.

“The beam must’ve come loose when he was cleaning the basket,” whispered a broad-shouldered day laborer next to Johann. “I bet the mounting was rotten. I told the old man a long time ago he needs to replace the press—but he didn’t want to hear! And now he’s lost his only son.”

Margarethe stared at the horrific scene in silence. Johann knew she’d never liked her older brother very much—but he still was her brother. He thought of the sounds they’d heard from their hiding place earlier. Had it been Ludwig’s soft whimpering as he lay dying under the wine press, drowning in his own blood? Johann thought he wouldn’t wish this kind of death upon his worst enemy.

Then he flinched.

My worst enemy . . .

Hadn’t he wished Ludwig dead the night before? Tonio the magician had encouraged him to say it out loud. And now Ludwig was dead! How was this possible? It must have been a terrible coincidence, because anything else would be too awful to even think about. He looked at Ludwig’s twisted face, contorted in horror. What was it Tonio had said?

Hatred can be very healing . . . But it needs a direction . . . and closure . . .

This here was the closure.

Johann suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He started to gag and turned away so he wouldn’t have to see Ludwig anymore. When he looked down, he saw his own slimy red trouser legs. He hadn’t eaten anything yet, and his