The Master's Apprentice, page 57
part #1 of Faust Series
Could that be true? Were all those masks hiding the faces of Nuremberg patricians? That would explain the lack of guards at the prison. Some powerful people had arranged for the cells to be cleared for him to walk into the trap. Who might belong to this creepy order? Patricians, merchants—perhaps even the burgomasters? And who was to say the Teutonic Knights weren’t also part of this plot?
Johann wondered what Tonio was getting out of all of this. Johann had fought for science all his life, for reason and rationality instead of bigotry and dull-witted superstition, just like he had been taught by Conrad Celtis, Jodocus Gallus, and Archibaldus. He had seriously believed that a new age was dawning: independent thought instead of dogma, a society created by men instead of an angry God whose outdated rules were set down for all eternity. And now Tonio was perverting all those ideas that Johann had always championed with fervor. The rebirth of man celebrated as a satanic mass—what a mockery! Tonio was showing him a nasty caricature of man celebrating himself as God.
Homo Deus est.
Did these people truly believe that the age of God was coming to an end? Could anyone be so stupid? A horrible thought struck Johann and slowly became certainty: the lunatics surrounding him must be behind all those horrific child murders in Nuremberg.
Perhaps not only here in Nuremberg, but all over the empire?
But whether or not these madmen believed the world was coming to an end and killed innocent children—they had his daughter. He had walked into their trap like a donkey following a carrot.
Now Tonio addressed Johann from the pulpit. He was leaning down to him over the banister, smiling encouragingly with his pointed teeth. A wolf on the hunt.
“My dear Johann, the hour you’ve long been waiting for has finally arrived. Now you shall learn the truth—the truth that has been written in the stars since the day of your birth. I read it in your palm then. You were born on the day great prophets are born. Your mother also told you about that, remember? And she was right. You are the great prophet!”
The crowd clapped and cheered while Johann gaped at Tonio. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You are the wizard Solomon’s testament speaks of! You are the prophet who arrives with Larua and who we’ve been waiting for. Because you’re the son of a great sorcerer yourself.” Tonio raised his voice as if reciting some ancient text. “And when the day arrives and the great beast awakens, give it a coat. And a wizard will come when the sun and Jupiter are in the same sign, and he will be that coat. And he must give himself willingly and make the three sacrifices. Then the beast will come and no god can stop it.”
Johann sat in the pew as if he’d turned to stone while Tonio gazed down at him with genuine affection. It was the loving gaze of a father upon his long-lost son. “This is your destiny, Johann. You are the wizard we have been waiting for. Many times I thought I’d found him, but every time, I was mistaken. Children who turned out to be false promises. We had almost given up hope—but then you came along! You needed more time, and I let you go. But now the moment has finally arrived—it is written in the stars! Larua, give us the strength for the three sacrifices!”
“You . . . you’re insane!” gasped Johann. “I’ve always had an inkling. You’re nothing but an insane fool!”
“Am I? A fool? Well, why not?” Tonio bared his teeth, climbed down from the pulpit, and walked to the still body on the altar. His spidery fingers brushed over her dress and slowly pushed it up over her knees.
“She is pretty, no doubt. I would love to mount her like a ram, despite her young age. It is the same as with lambs—the younger, the better tasting.” Tonio licked his lips. “Perhaps I will take her with me on Walpurgis Night in a couple of years, and we can share her. We will make a child with her—your grandchild. And he will also bear the sign inside him. Who knows—maybe he would make a better coat than you? The stars will be favorable again in seventeen years’ time. Seventeen years, more or less . . . We’ve been waiting for so long. Centuries. Millennia. Seventeen years don’t matter. Even though I’d really like to choose you. I’ve grown very fond of you, Johann. Whether you believe it or not.” Tonio’s voice suddenly became icy and cutting, like hardened steel. His fingers had arrived at Greta’s small breasts.
“You have the choice, Johann. Your daughter or you.”
A piercing scream cut through the tense atmosphere. It came from Valentin, who had surprised his keepers and was heading for Tonio. “You monster!” screamed Valentin. “I should never have agreed to this deal. You . . . you devil!”
Tonio watched the small hunchbacked man with amusement. When Valentin reached him, Tonio made a small turn and kicked Valentin’s feet out from under him. The crippled man fell to the ground with a whimper, but he started to crawl toward the altar on his elbows, trying to reach for Greta. Tonio kicked him again, this time with the heel of his boot and all his might, as if trying to squash a giant bug. There was a loud crack, and the little man lay still.
“Take him away,” ordered Tonio. “I don’t want his blood to soil the ceremony.”
They carried off Valentin like a dirty bundle, and Tonio stepped toward Johann.
“Your daughter or you,” he repeated.
Johann closed his eyes and opened them again in the hope of waking from a nightmare. But this was no nightmare—it was reality. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. What was happening here was beyond grief, beyond pain . . .
It was hell on earth.
What did these lunatics want from him? If he understood correctly, he was supposed to be sacrificed to something unfathomably evil. Something so unimaginable that men had given it a name so they might grasp it better. Just like they had done with God. But the name of this unimaginable creature wasn’t God or Christ; nor was it Jahveh or Jehovah.
It was Satan. Lucifer. Light bringer.
In the old stories, Lucifer was the archangel who rose against God and was banished from heaven. Since then he’d been roasting in the depths of hell, hoping for the day he would rise again. He was the night before the day, chaos before order, the spirit that denies.
Only now did Johann fully comprehend what was going on here: these people, all of them respected citizens of Nuremberg, were awaiting Lucifer’s return. They had murdered those poor children for some terrible ritual whose culmination was himself.
Johann had known for a long time that such people existed. But just as he had always taken God to be a principle of order, the devil, too, had been nothing but an abstract concept to him. His devil had no horns, no goat’s foot, and he didn’t stink of sulfur, even if that was what the church taught to frighten its flock. And that was why Satanists couldn’t be anything other than misled fools who belonged in the madhouse or on a pyre.
That was the one side.
But if Johann was entirely honest, he had seen the devil in his dreams many, many times. Satan had seemed very real.
And now he stood in front of Johann.
“Your daughter or you,” said Tonio for the third time. “You have my word that I won’t touch her if you decide to join me.”
Johann didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to believe. His entire conception of the world had been shaken. All he knew was that he had to save Greta. It was the only clear thought he could form.
The silence was broken by the cawing of a raven who was circling around the columns.
“You can have me,” replied Johann quietly.
“Good choice. For you and for the world.” Tonio smiled and nodded, then he snapped his fingers. “Bring me the black potion!” he commanded. His smile was certain of victory. “And believe me, Johann. This time, I’m going to make sure you drink every last drop of it.”
The drink arrived in a chalice that had been cut from perfectly black obsidian and that sparkled in the light of the torches. Johann guessed it had probably been standing in the darkness between the columns the whole time. Two masked men solemnly carried the vessel to the altar and passed it to Tonio. The master held out the drink to Johann with both hands.
“You came to us of your own free will and decided to accept the black potion,” he declared. “Know that it is for your best. Three painful sacrifices you must give, just like the accursed Son of God gave his sacrifice. The drink will expand your spirit and you will understand.” Once again he raised up the chalice, and the congregation took up a prayer-like murmuring.
“O Satanas, O Mephistopheles, O Phosphoros!” The chanting echoed through the crypt. The master bowed to Johann, then Tonio gave him a nod.
Johann reluctantly accepted the cup, which felt cold and foreign. It was filled with a foul-smelling liquid.
“Drink,” said Tonio.
Johann hesitated for another moment. He knew there would be no going back after the first sip.
For Greta, he thought. For my daughter. May she lead a happier life than her father.
He brought the vessel to his lips and drank. Like the last time, seventeen years ago, he retched immediately. The potion tasted like fire, burning his throat and spreading through his insides like scorching lava. Johann stood still for a while with his eyes closed, and then something seemed to explode inside him. An intense numbness spread through his body and he swayed; every sound suddenly seemed enormously amplified.
“Follow me, Johann,” boomed Tonio’s voice through the hall. “I am going to show you the truth. Only very few are granted this privilege.”
The sorcerer led him to the baptismal font beside the altar, and Johann struggled to stay on his feet. He stumbled and caught himself by putting his hand straight into one of the braziers, but he hardly felt the pain. A very big masked man came up behind him and picked him up. Effortlessly, as if Johann were a bundle of kindling, the giant carried him toward his fate. The man conversed quietly with Tonio, and Johann thought the two were speaking French. But the words sounded strangely distorted, as if he were underwater.
The basin in front of him was a roughly hewn rock with notches and runes chiseled into the sides. Within, a dark liquid gleamed at him like a monstrous eye.
“Look into it,” said Tonio.
Johann leaned over the baptismal font with great difficulty. He blinked and squinted, struggling to focus his eyes. After a while he realized that the liquid was red.
As red as blood.
Then he understood.
He was gazing into the blood of all those children who’d disappeared over the last few months.
“Quite a peculiar juice is blood,” said Tonio. He dipped his finger into it and licked it off. “The tricky part is stopping it from curdling—it must remain fresh.” He licked his lips with relish. “We need a lot of blood for the big day. The beast hasn’t drunk in a long time. But I think we have enough now.”
Tonio’s lips suddenly looked a little bit fresher than before, his pale skin rosier and with less wrinkles. The red surface in the basin rippled, and Johann saw his own reflection. Then the image disappeared, and blurred forests appeared instead, partially hidden by wafts of mist. Muscular warriors wrapped in furs, their faces painted with blue streaks, stormed out of the woods, raising their swords and lances against an army on horseback. Horses neighed in panic; knights with helmets came crashing to the ground. Burning in the trees of a forest of oaks were wooden cages holding people who screamed as they hurled themselves against the bars like human torches. More warriors appeared, followed by burning pyres, blood, mouths opened in screams of agony, crying children, blood, houses on fire, ravaged fields, blood . . .
Blood everywhere.
Johann blinked. He knew it was the potion creating the illusions in his mind, but still—the images seemed as real as if everything were happening right before his eyes. He reached out with both hands and dipped his fingers into the surprisingly warm liquid. The images vanished and were replaced by a familiar face. It was Tonio and yet it wasn’t—he looked younger, more handsome, almost seductive.
“Welcome, Johann Georg Faustus,” said the younger Tonio with a smile. “Are you ready for the first sacrifice?”
Now Johann saw the whole figure in the basin. He was a knight in full armor on a magnificent horse, and he had the most beautiful eyes and fullest lips Faust had ever seen on a person. His mouth and cheeks looked red and healthy, as if he’d just returned from a fast ride; his body was brimming with strength and vitality. In the same instant Johann knew that this was the man he’d been looking for all these years.
Gilles de Rais.
“The little finger of the right hand,” said the knight. The image shuddered, and the beautiful face was contorted into a grimace.
“Faites vite. The end and the beginning are close.”
29
WITH A POUNDING heart and a metallic taste in his mouth, Karl ran through the underground passages. He needed to get out of here as fast as possible! He’d left the laterna magica behind—he wouldn’t have any more use for it. What he had seen and heard inside that mockery of a church was so horrific that he thought he might go insane.
After Faust had walked into the underground crypt, Karl had hidden behind the entrance. From the darkness of the cellar he had watched as the leader of the Satanists had kicked Valentin to the ground and handed Johann a chalice. He hadn’t been able to understand much of what was being spoken, but the few words he’d heard made Karl’s blood curdle. Then Faust had collapsed over the baptismal font.
It had taken everything Karl had to prevent himself from crying out loud during the next part of the ceremony. He had almost thrown up with fear and disgust.
With a large, curved knife, the leader had cut off Faust’s little finger and tossed it into the basin.
That had been the moment Karl started to run.
He looked around in panic. The lantern in his hand barely gave off any light; the oil was almost used up. Once it went out, the darkness would swallow him up like the whale had swallowed Jonah. Which way should he turn? He wasn’t sure how many forks and chambers he had crossed by now. Those damned tunnels all looked the same—it was like a labyrinth! Sometimes he thought he could hear the chanting again in the distance, and he ran even faster. He needed to get away from this hellish place of madness! At least he still had Valentin’s key ring, so he could open doors if he needed to. But what good was that if he didn’t know which doors led to the top?
Karl finally collapsed at the next corner. Panting heavily, he cowered down and closed his eyes. This was the end. Well, at least he wouldn’t die of thirst down here—only starve to death slowly. In front of his feet flowed another one of the small streams that crisscrossed the underground like veins of the city.
When Karl looked up, he saw a sign in the flickering light of the lantern.
He cried out with surprise. It was one of the coal marks Faust had drawn on the walls to help them find their way back. Karl had completely forgotten about them in his blind panic. He jumped up and felt his strength return. If he followed the marks from here he would find the exit to the cemetery. From there he could turn west on the highway and leave this cursed place behind for good.
This cursed place and the doctor.
The doctor he loved.
Karl bit his lip. He pictured how he’d left Faust in the crypt. Like a calf at slaughter.
Like a sacrificial lamb.
He’d known the doctor for nearly two years. It hadn’t always been easy with him—Faust was arrogant, cynical, and hot tempered—and yet Karl had learned much from him. The doctor had been almost like a father to him, and much more understanding than his own forbidding father, who had called him soft and never treated him with respect.
But there was more to it. Karl had had several relationships with men in his life. The first one had been at Latin School, but the other boy’s parents sent him to a monastery before the affair came to light. None of his relationships had ever lasted very long—mainly because it was just too dangerous. But it was different with the doctor. The longer Karl was with him, the stronger the bond between them became. Karl thought Faust was somewhat frightening, but he was also fascinating. There seemed to be a deep, inscrutable secret in the doctor’s black eyes. Karl’s love for him consumed and nourished him at the same time. He knew the doctor would be his downfall, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave him. And that was why Karl couldn’t abandon him down here.
Karl leaned his head back and groaned. It was enough to drive a man insane! If he turned left, freedom and a fresh start awaited him. Together with Faust, the letters that threatened his safety would vanish. And the fire that was burning so hot inside him now would go out sooner or later. But if he turned right . . .
The coal marks could lead him back to the cemetery, but they also showed the way to the prison. Karl felt certain he’d be able to find the way back to the underground hall from there. It hadn’t been far.
Left or right.
Swearing under his breath, Karl stood up. He cursed God, the world, and the doctor in particular, and turned right.
The marks on the walls led him back to the well below the prison. There still were no sounds coming from above. Karl turned around and tried to remember which way they’d gone earlier. The humming and chanting led him in the right direction. A few minutes later he was back in the cellar in front of the double doors. The crate with the laterna still sat where he’d left it in his panic.
Cautiously he sneaked back to the open door and peered into the crypt. The masked men were humming and murmuring strange-sounding spells, while their leader in the apse had pulled his hood back over his head.
On the altar, Greta had been replaced by the doctor.
Karl clenched his fists. Was his master already dead? Blood was dripping from Faust’s right hand, which someone had bandaged after that madman had cut off his finger. His head had flopped to one side, and his eyes and forehead were also bandaged with rags. What in God’s name had those men done to the doctor?
Now the leader was raising the curved dagger he had used to cut off Faust’s little finger. The chanting stopped.
