The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,82
who appeared to be the leader of the troupe, raised his hands and asked for silence. “We’ve arrived at our next highlight!” he shouted. “From the hot plains of Jerusalem, we’ve been joined by a man whose reputation precedes him like the roar of a lion. He once lived as a hermit in the desert and is so wise that sultans and emperors sought his advice. Bow your heads to the widely traveled Magister Archibaldus!”
The cloth covering the door to one of the wagons was pushed aside, and out came a skinny old man with wild gray hair. His almost-white beard reached to his navel. He was wearing a slightly threadbare red frock and held a plain wooden staff, which he used to help him climb down the few steps from the wagon. He tried his best to appear dignified, but he clearly struggled to stay on his feet, swaying from side to side. Countless tiny veins crisscrossed his beefy nose.
“Magister Archibaldus has been fasting for nearly fifty years and consumes nothing but water,” the fiddler explained.
“And wine!” shouted one of the spectators, and the people around him laughed.
The red-haired man put on a stern look. “Don’t mock him. The venerable master is privy to the secret of the philosopher’s stone—do you want to see it or continue to crack jokes?”
The crowd cheered and clapped. Meanwhile, Archibaldus had walked to the middle of the arena, where the strong Mustafa had prepared a copper bowl that looked like a large mortar. The beautiful Salome and Emilio the juggler appeared with flasks and jars.
“Hear, worthy people of Augsburg! I succeeded where Albertus Magnus and Avicenna failed,” said Archibaldus with a rasping voice, raising his staff into the air like a monstrance. “I studied the forbidden art of alchemy for many years, and now finally I have found the philosopher’s stone. A tincture that has the power to turn any kind of material into gold. Even”—he paused for effect—“even this plain wooden staff from a yew tree.”
The audience murmured appreciatively, and Archibaldus turned to Salome.
“Well, then, my beautiful assistant, prepare the magical tincture.” He struggled to suppress a hiccup. Then he pointed at the various flasks, one after another, as Salome poured a few drops of each into the bowl.
“The blood of a unicorn,” Archibaldus counted. “The tears of a person in love, three ounces of liquid lead, the juice of a whole orange picked in the garden of Eden—”
“No wine—because he drank it all up!” shouted the same joker as before, but the audience ignored him this time. Spellbound, they stared at the bowl while Archibaldus continued with a heavy tongue.
“Dragon saliva from distant India, as well as ground pepper, nutmeg, and cloves—but only a pinch of each!”
With the tips of her fingers, Salome sprinkled a little powder into the bowl before stepping aside with a bow. Then Archibaldus dipped his staff into the bowl, and blue smoke began rising out of it, enshrouding the alchemist like a saint. For a few moments, he was barely visible.
“By the seven times seven magical formulas of Hermes,” the old man muttered while moving his stick around in the smoke. “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and . . . wood to gold!”
He stepped out of the smoke and held up his staff. A murmur of amazement went through the crowd.
The tip of the staff gleamed golden.
“It is done!” declared Archibaldus, bowing low and staggering a little. The crowd cheered, and a few people tried to grab the stick, but Mustafa the Strong took one step forward and they stopped.
“Magister Archibaldus must rest now,” the redhead said loudly, casting a stern look at the old man. “Following the show, you are invited to his wagon to gaze upon some relics the wise man has brought with him from the East. Among others, hay from the crib at Bethlehem and a feather from the wings of Gabriel the archangel. Only one kreuzer per visit.” He gave a wide grin. “And for those of you who think they can’t afford it, come and win yourself some money. It’s child’s play!” He snapped his fingers and Mustafa brought a table, which looked like a wooden toy in his big hands. When the fiddler produced three nutshells from his pocket and placed them on the table, Johann knew immediately what was happening.
“Believe me, it has never been easier to make a quick buck,” the red-haired man said. “All you need is a fast pair of eyes and your wits.”