The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,4

word?”

“It means ‘the lucky one,’” Johann replied eagerly. “Or ‘the bearer of luck,’ ‘the blessed one.’ My mother always says I was born under a lucky star. She believes fate has great plans for me.” He shrugged. “Though I don’t really know what she means by that. She says I’m of noble blood.”

“Of noble blood? That’s a good one! You’d have to wash more often to pass as a nobleman.” The man laughed. “In any case, your mother seems to be a wise and ambitious woman. Our names can shape our destinies.”

He suddenly grabbed Johann by his arm and pulled him very close. He opened Johann’s fist and studied his palm. Something about it seemed to irritate him. He brought his face even closer to Johann’s hand. As before onstage, he sniffed it, and for a brief moment Johann thought he felt a rough tongue on his skin, like that of a billy goat.

“Those lines . . . those lines,” he whispered, as if muttering an ancient incantation. “Indeed . . .” He stared at Johann. “Do you know when you were born, boy?”

Johann hesitated. He’d always wondered why his mother remembered the exact day of his birth. Most children knew only their saint’s day. “April twenty-three in the year of our Lord 1478—on Saint George’s Day,” he said eventually. “My mother told me to remember the date well.”

The man tilted his head to the side once more. “The day of the prophet. Hmm . . .” His fingers dug into Johann’s shoulder, stinging like long, sharp talons. “Maybe I should—”

Right then Johann heard a high-pitched wail that frightened him to the core. It sounded like someone was being strangled to death. He spun around in panic. At first he thought it had been the crows or the raven, but then he realized it had come from inside the wagon. Now he heard soft whimpering and whining from the same direction. The stranger heard it, too.

“Cats,” he said with a smile. “My old Selena just had a litter of five. I’ll have to drown them all if they keep up the noise.”

The whining stopped abruptly.

“Forget what you heard! Trust me—it’s better for you.”

The magician let go of Johann. He took the cage off its hook, turned, and climbed onto the box seat. He set down the cage beside him and picked up the reins. The black birds watched Johann from small, evil-looking eyes.

“I must be off,” the magician said impatiently. “I want to be in Bruchsal by sundown. Work to do. So much work, and I’m not getting any younger!” He gave a cackling laugh, then turned serious.

“Those lines,” he muttered again. “Born on the day of the prophet . . .” He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, young Faustus, we might meet again one day. The stars don’t lie!”

He cracked his reins, and the wagon jerked forward.

As the carriage slowly rolled toward the lower gate and into the late autumn fog, Johann heard the high-pitched wailing sound once more. Just before the wagon disappeared behind one of the last houses, the canopy suddenly trembled, then stretched and bulged as if someone was desperately pushing against it from the inside. Then the fog closed in like a white curtain.

Johann remained standing in the middle of the lane, unable to move. He thought he was in a dream. What was magic, what was real? At last he shook himself and walked back around the church with trembling knees, back to the noisy fair, where the masses soon swallowed him up. The musicians played, jugs were handed around, and as the sun slowly disappeared behind the city wall, the Knittlingers celebrated the day of Saints Simon and Jude, on what might have been the last warm day of the season. One thing Johann knew for certain: no matter how many years went by, he’d never forget the magician.

Act I

The Man from the West

1

AD 1494, EIGHT YEARS LATER

THE SUN BLAZED as if it wanted to set fire to the world.

Johann lay on his back with his eyes closed, feeling the warmth bake into his body. The last winter had been long and was replaced by a wet, cold spring. The first sowing had been washed away during a massive thunderstorm, like so often in recent years here in the Kraichgau region, north of the Black Forest. It wasn’t until now, in July, that summer seemed to have fully arrived. The grain on the fields around Knittlingen stood tall and offered the ideal