The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,62

as he headed down the valley, breathing in the fresh air that smelled faintly of the first buds of spring. He felt as though he’d escaped from a prison.

Indeed, spring didn’t seem far off. Johann guessed they’d continue their travels soon. Until then, he hadn’t thought about where they might be heading. The master had never mentioned anything. Did they even have a destination? Distant Venice, perhaps—the city he’d heard so much about? Or Paris? Rome? During the first few weeks of their travels, Johann had simply been grateful for the roof over his head. Tonio had given him a home, shelter from the hardships of winter. He had promised to stay with the master for one year, and sometimes, when Tonio had worked him too hard, he’d thought about running away sooner. But now he was happy to be the student of a man like him. Tonio could teach him far more than Father Antonius and Father Bernhard together—the whole world stood open to Johann!

But today, he simply wanted to enjoy life. After weeks of loneliness and studying in the tower, Johann looked forward to seeing other people, even if they were just the slow-witted inhabitants of some mountain village.

After about an hour’s walk, he reached the road at the bottom of the valley, which ran along a fir-covered foothill of the Alps. In the distance, Johann could make out the snowcapped peaks surrounded by haze. The village lay about half a mile to the east. It was a small backwater with a tiny, decrepit church surrounded by a handful of houses. Next door to the church was the tavern, a low building made from black tree trunks, with dense gray smoke rising from the chimney. A larger trading route led past it.

It was late Sunday morning, and many farmers from the surrounding area had gone to the tavern for a drink or two following mass. Several oxcarts stood by the side of the road, and a group of young maids sat on the edge of a well outside the church. When they caught sight of Johann, they huddled together and whispered. He straightened up and took a playful bow as he walked past them. The girls giggled and squealed and scattered like a flock of hens. Only now did Johann realize how tattered and dirty he looked—with his torn trousers, too-small coat, and matted black hair that had grown long in the last few weeks. He walked over to the well to wash himself. He was surprised when he saw his reflection in the water. His face had become leaner and more angular since fall. Black fuzz had grown around his lips, and his eyes were almost as black and gleaming as those of the master. The weeks in the tower had turned Johann into a serious-looking young man—and, if he interpreted the girls’ giggles correctly, a not entirely unattractive young man.

Once he’d removed the worst of the dirt from his clothes and combed his hair with his fingers, he entered the tavern. It was busy, and the air was heavy with stale sweat and spilled beer. Instantly, several pairs of eyes turned to him, and he thought he heard some snide comments. With his head held high, he walked to one of the few empty tables in the corner and sat down while the villagers eyed him suspiciously. Soon the tavern keeper came over.

“What do you want?” asked the man, briskly wiping the dirty, scratched table with a cloth. “If you’re here to beg, sit in front of the church.”

“A mug of beer, if you please,” Johann replied with a smile. “And some provisions for the road. A keg of wine, a handful of sausages, and some bread, please. I’m an itinerant tinker on my way to Innsbruck.” He held up one of the coins the master had given him. “And I can pay—in case you’re worried.”

The tavern keeper tilted his head and stared greedily at the coin, which was made of pure silver. “You’ll get your supplies,” he said eventually, reaching for the coin. “But you can’t sit here. We don’t want strangers in the village.”

Johann’s smile froze. “But why . . . ,” he began.

The tavern keeper had already turned away without offering him as much as a beer. Frowning, Johann stayed put. What sort of a place was this? The Knittlingers weren’t particularly fond of strangers, either, but they didn’t chase them out of town. His good mood vanished.

“Dirty traveling scum,” muttered someone nearby.