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  OTHER TITLES BY OLIVER PÖTZSCH

  The Hangman’s Daughter Series

  The Hangman’s Daughter

  The Dark Monk

  The Beggar King

  The Poisoned Pilgrim

  The Werewolf of Bamberg

  The Play of Death

  The Council of Twelve

  The Black Musketeers Series

  Book of the Night

  Sword of Power

  Knight Kyle and the Magic Silver Lance

  Holy Rage

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Oliver Pötzsch and Ullstein Buchverlage GmbH

  Translation copyright © 2020 by Lisa Reinhardt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Der Spielmann: Die Geschichte des Johann Georg Faustus 1 by Ullstein Buchverlage GmbH in Germany in 2018. Translated from German by Lisa Reinhardt. First published in English by Amazon Crossing in 2020.

  Published by Amazon Crossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542009980

  ISBN-10: 1542009987

  Cover design by M. S. Corley

  For Aliahmad Alizade:

  as clever and ambitious as Faust, and as lovable and buoyant as Margarethe.

  On winding roads to the finish line.

  Contents

  Start Reading

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Prologue

  Act I The Man from the West

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Act II Tonio the Sorcerer

  5

  6

  7

  Act III The Train of Jugglers

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Act IV The Student and the Girl

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Act V The Awakening of the Beast

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Epilogue

  Faust and I

  Faust for Beginners

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  These people never smell the old rat, e’en when he has them by the collar.

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

  Faust, Part I (translated by Charles T. Brooks)

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  AROUND THE YEAR 1500, A MAN WE KNOW VERY LITTLE ABOUT traveled the German empire; the few sources and countless myths surrounding this man have led historians to believe that he really existed. He was the greatest magician of his time, and a con artist, astrologer, and charlatan. He was as clever and learned as a dozen scholars and as cunning as the Borgias. Not long after his violent death, a book was written about him, which many consider the first German bestseller. Playwrights including Christopher Marlowe and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote dramas about him, and he became a popular character in puppet shows. To this day he is the symbol of the ambitious, restless individual who is prepared to make a deal with the devil to gain fame and fortune—but ultimately pays with his soul.

  His name was Johann Georg Faustus.

  This is his true story.

  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 feel sad.

  His mother told him not to mind the other children. He was different—smarter, brighter than them. Of noble blood, she’d once told him, though Johann didn’t understand what she meant.

  Johann had quickly grown bored at the German school he attended over at the hostel. While the rest of the students struggled with math, German, and the few scraps of Latin from the catechism, learning came easily to Johann. Sometimes he even corrected the teacher, a bitter old man who doubled as Knittlingen’s sacristan. Johann often wanted to dig deeper, asking about foreign countries, the phases of the moon, the force of water—but no matter what he asked, the old man never had an answer. And when the other boys beat up Johann, the teacher just stood by, trying to suppress a grin.

  “Watch where you’re going, midget! If you step on my toes again, I’ll turn your smart-aleck face to mush.”

  Ludwig, who was two years older and almost two heads taller than Johann, and the son of the Knittlingen prefect, punched him in the stomach. Johann gasped and held his belly but, thinking of his mother’s words, didn’t fight back. If he was truly of noble blood, then why had God made him so darn scrawny? He would gladly give some of his brains for more muscles—the only currency that counted for anything among children.

  “Piss off!” Ludwig snarled and picked a piece of smoked sausage from between his teeth. Fat was running down his chin. “Go wipe your ass with books instead of standing around in people’s way!”

  Johann said nothing and took to his heels before Ludwig could punch him again.

  At last he’d elbowed his way to the small square in front of the church, where the jugglers had set up their stage using wooden planks and four barrels and had begun performing their tricks. One musician started a drumroll while another struck a cymbal to announce the next act. Jugglers threw colorful wooden balls and burning torches through the air, catching them at the very last moment—much to the pleasant horror of the Knittlingers.

  Johann applauded the jugglers eagerly, as well as the following act, a hunchbacked dwarf performing raunchy poems about wine, women, and song until a giant dipped him into a tankard as big as a barrel. The audience hooted with laughter, and Johann didn’t hear the soft voice beside him. Then someone pulled on his ear, and he started with fright. He thought it was Ludwig, ready for another round.

  “Hey, are you deaf? Did one of the jugglers cast a spell on you and turn you to stone?”

  Johann spun around and smiled with relief. Standing in front of him was Margarethe, Ludwig’s younger sister. She wore a gray dress with a white apron, its hem already spattered with dung. Her flaxen hair looked wild and windswept, as usual. Margarethe was one of the few children in Knittlingen who liked Johann and spent time with him. Twice already she’d saved him from the other boys by threatening to tell her father. Even Ludwig listened to her. Johann had to pay for her kindness with double beatings afterward, but it didn’t hurt as much as it normally did. He’d simply close his eyes and think of Margarethe’s hair glowing like wheat in the summer sun. However, there was one problem: whenever Margarethe spoke to him, his mouth appeared to be sealed—it was jinxed! Now, too, he couldn’t get out a single word.

  “You like the jugglers, don’t you?” Margarethe asked and bit into a juicy red apple.

  Johann nodded silently, and Margarethe continued as she chewed: “Did you know that jugglers and musicians are children of the devil?” She gave a shudder. “That’s what the church says. Whoever dances to their music they lead straight to hell.” She lowered her voice and made the sign of the cross. “Perhaps they took the children, too. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” said Johann. “The wolves took them, even the huntsmen say so. And they must know!”

  Despite the cheering and laughter, a chill suddenly ran down his spine as though he were standing alone in the forest. Four children had gone missing in recent weeks: seven-year-old Fritz from Knittlingen, his five-year-old brother, and two girls from neighboring Bretten. The two Bretten girls had been playing in the woods; Fritz, the butcher’s boy, had disappeared from Marktgasse Lane, and his brother, little Peter, had been herding a pig in nearby Eichenloh Forest. The sow had arrived home alone. Some folks said wild beasts had killed the children. Others said there were hungry and ruthless outlaws living in the woods who preferred the tender flesh of children to that of poached deer. Someone had seen smoke rise up from the edge of the distant forest on the hills; apparently, a whiff of burning meat had been in the air.

  Johann clenched his teeth and silently stared at the jugglers on stage. Suddenly the smell from the street kitchens made him feel sick.

  Burning meat . . .

  A murmur went through the crowd, rousing him from his thoughts. Margarethe squeezed his hand, and he gave another start. He shuddered and couldn’t tell whether it was because of Margarethe’s touch or because of the missing children.

  Or because of him.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” whispered Margarethe. “Just look at him! He must be straight from hell.”

  The man stepping onto the stage indeed looked like a demon incarnate. He was tall and haggard and wore a black-and-red-striped coat billowing behind him like the wings of a bat. His face was as pale as though there was no blood in him, his nose sharp like the beak of a bird of prey. He wore a wide black felt hat with a red feather, like those of traveling scholars.

  Most frightening of all were his eyes, gleaming black and deep like pools in a swamp. To Johann they seemed like the eyes of a man much older than their owner seemed to be. When those eyes moved across the crowd, everyone fell silent. For a brief moment, Johann thought he could feel the man’s gaze like fingers reaching out to touch him. Then the strange man slowly and ceremoniously raised his head and looked up at the cloudy sky. A light drizzle set in.

  “The stars,” he began in a voice that was at once quiet and penetrating, audible across the whole church square. His accent was slightly foreign, soft, like that of travelers from beyond the Rhine.

  “The stars don’t lie! They’re invisible during the day, and yet they are there. They shine above us, guide our path—a path that has been predestined for each one of us.” He paused dramatically, his eyes moving across the crowd again. “Ah oui, c’est vrai! I can read those paths for you. I am a master of the seven arts and keeper of the seven times seven seals! I’m a doctor of the university of black magic in Krakow.”

  “A sorcerer,” Margarethe whispered. “I knew it!”

  Johann said nothing and waited for the mysterious stranger to continue. The man now addressed his audience with his arms outstretched, like a priest.

  “Is there anyone who would like to know their future?” he asked loudly. “One kreuzer per question.” He gave a thin smile. “If I foretell your imminent death, the answer is free.”

  A few people laughed, but it sounded hollow and nervous. A tense silence had descended upon the square. Finally a young, sturdy farmer’s son raised his arm, and the foreigner asked him up on stage.

  “What would you like to know?” asked the magician as the trembling young man handed over a coin.

  “I, well . . . ,” the peasant said awkwardly. “My Elsbeth and me, we’ve been together for over a year. But the dear Lord still hasn’t granted us a child. I’d like to know if fate will smile upon us.”

  The foreigner took the man’s hand, which was calloused from laboring in the fields, and bent over it. Johann thought it looked as though he sniffed the hand, even licked and tasted it like an animal would a salty rock. A considerable amount of time passed as the magician ran his f
ingers across the young man’s palm, murmuring almost inaudibly. Finally he straightened back up.

  “Your wife is going to carry your child before next spring. And it will be a boy! He’ll be healthy and strong, born under the constellation of Pisces. The stars have spoken!”

  The strange man raised his hands and—seemingly out of nowhere—a black raven flew up into the sky. The crowd gasped with surprise, and somewhere at the back, an elderly maidservant fainted.

  Bowing and scraping, the farmer’s son left the stage, and another nervous client took his place. Johann watched with excitement as the creepy stranger foretold a good harvest, a successful house build, the best day for sowing, and three more healthy sons and daughters for Knittlingen. Two crows flew up from his previously empty hand, playing cards with mysterious blood-red symbols tumbled to the ground out of nowhere, and he pulled a real black cat out of his hat. Johann was so captivated that he almost forgot to breathe. He’d never seen anything like it. This man was a real magician! He’d cast a spell on all of them.

  At last the show was over. The foreigner took a bow and strode gracefully off the stage. The acrobats took his place and started to perform their tricks. But no matter how high they leaped, no matter how many somersaults they tumbled, Johann now found their show dull. He had seen true magic, had caught a glimpse of another world beyond the earthly world he knew! And now it was already over? Johann trembled with disappointment. Not even Margarethe’s presence cheered him up. She was still beside him, holding his hand. The funny harlequins and jugglers seemed to appeal to her much more than the scary magician had.

  “How did he do it?” muttered Johann again and again, mostly to himself. “How did he do it? How did he make the raven and crows fly up, and where did the cat come from? What’s his secret?”

  “Ravens, crows, black cats—I told you he’s in league with the devil,” groused Margarethe without taking her eyes off the jugglers. “And now hush or I’ll have nightmares about that man. Brr! I only hope he leaves town today.”

  Johann was shocked by the thought. If the mysterious stranger left town today, Johann would never find out what lay behind his tricks! He looked around. Where had the man gone? Johann couldn’t see him next to the stage, where the other jugglers waited for their turn. Had he already left?