The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch

Prologue

KNITTLINGEN, IN THE KRAICHGAU 27 OCTOBER, AD 1486

IN THE FALL that the children disappeared, the jugglers came to town.

From an alcove in the upper city gate, little Johann stood with his mouth open, watching the boisterous, dancing, singing train of colorful people. Like a small army, they crossed the drawbridge spanning the boggy moat, marched through the wide-open gate, and filled Knittlingen with life. At the front of the train, two dark-skinned men were doing cartwheels, followed by a handful of musicians with tabor pipes, bagpipes, and tambourines. Next came masked acrobats, a hunchbacked dwarf in a fool’s costume, sword-wielding show fighters, and a real-life shaggy bear, which a giant was leading by a chain. Johann had never seen such splendor! Almost as if the emperor himself had traveled to the small town in the Palatinate. The huddled stone houses suddenly seemed to glow in a strange light, and Johann smelled something new and tantalizing—the scent of the wide world.

One after another the jugglers moved past him, followed by a crowd of laughing children who had been longing for this day as much as Johann had. One of the acrobats winked at him; someone laughed and gave him a nudge that almost tripped him. Johann realized he’d been so busy gaping at the jugglers that he hadn’t noticed he was stepping out onto the road. Wagon wheels rolled past him within a hair’s breadth, leaving deep furrows in the ground, which was still wet from the last rain. Cold autumn fog crept down from the wooded hills surrounding the town, but Johann didn’t feel it. He couldn’t take his eyes off the noisy, never-ending caravan of people, carts, horses, and oxen pouring into town.

Where do they all come from? he wondered. From faraway Nuremberg? From foreign lands beyond the Alps—or even beyond the ocean? Where sea serpents, lions, and dragons live . . .

Johann’s world didn’t extend beyond the hills of the Kraichgau. Behind those hills began the world of myths, fairy tales, and legends. Whenever his mother found the strength, she told him stories: stories of the sleeping emperor Barbarossa; of knights, gnomes, and fairy queens; of the boogeyman in the woods; of imperial diets in Augsburg and Regensburg; and of grand feasts. Johann would sit in her lap and listen, entranced by her soft voice.

After the jugglers came the itinerant merchants, some pulling carts while others carried their goods bundled on their backs. Every year, on the day of Saints Simon and Jude, the merchants set up their stalls along Market Street, which led from the upper city gate to Saint Leonhard’s Church. The autumn market was Knittlingen’s biggest fair—even bigger than the Cantate market in spring. Peddlers came from Bretten, Pforzheim, and even Heidelberg to sell their wares.

Johann had been looking forward to this day for weeks. He was eight years old, and last year’s autumn market was nothing but a faint memory. He’d taken up position at the city gate early this morning so he wouldn’t miss the arrival of any artists or merchants, but only now, as lunchtime neared, was the town truly starting to get busy. When the last peddler had passed through the gate, Johann followed the caravan into town. Hawkers fought over the best spots near the church; a bearded, already-drunken itinerant preacher announced the imminent end of the world from atop a wine barrel; musicians played dancing tunes; the first cask was tapped with loud hammering outside the Lion Inn. The air smelled of beer mash, cider, horse dung, smoke, and delicious cooking smells from the many street kitchens. And under all that lay the first hint of snow. Peasants said that on Saints Simon and Jude Day, winter knocked at the door.

The whole of Knittlingen had spruced up for this day. The wealthier residents wore their best Sunday frock coats and fustian shirts; the women covered their hair with skillfully tied scarves. Johann struggled to make his way through the crowd of bickering, laughing, and bartering grown-ups. Every now and then he passed other children he knew: the baker’s red-haired twins, Josef and Max; the blacksmith’s broad-shouldered son, who was as strong as an ox at twelve years of age; and short, skinny Hans from the Lion Inn. But as usual, they avoided Johann or whispered behind his back as soon as he’d walked past them. Johann was so used to it that he hardly noticed. Only sometimes, when he roamed the woods around Knittlingen alone with his dreams, would he