Greta had known the doctor for more than six years now, ever since he’d rescued her from the prison in Nuremberg when she was still a little girl, an orphan who didn’t know who her mother and father were. Ever since then, she’d traveled the country with the famous Doctor Faustus. To Greta, the frightening man whom many believed to be in league with the devil had become a sort of father; she called him Uncle Johann. She’d learned much from him during the last few years and had turned into a clever trickster and nimble acrobat. She knew how to play the bagpipe, the lute, and the flute. The audience loved her pert manner, her graceful dancing, and her talent for balancing on even the thinnest rope. But they didn’t know who she truly was—and Greta didn’t really know herself. There was so much she didn’t understand, like her uncanny gift; she still didn’t know whether it was a blessing or a curse.
In the last few weeks it had seemed to her more like a curse.
Those large black wings . . .
Greta shook off the gloomy thoughts and stepped out from behind the canvas. A glance up at the heavy clouds in the autumn sky told her that it would rain soon. They’d be lucky if they finished the show without getting wet. The doctor was reading the palm of a colorfully clad and visibly intimidated patrician.
“Your Fate line shows a turning point in your business this very year,” Faust said in his trademark croaky voice, and the bystanders watched in reverent silence. “And the stars agree. It’s too soon to tell whether this turning point will bring good fortune or ill luck. I see”—he closed his eyes—“a city with golden roofs.”
“Venice,” breathed the patrician. “Dear God, my precious cloth delivery that’s on its way to Venice! I wonder if the prices have dropped?” He rushed off after giving Faust a few silver coins.
Greta held her head high as she mingled with the crowd in front of the stage. She loved this atmosphere—it was where she felt at home. As soon as she stepped outside the curtain, she was no longer the introverted, occasionally melancholy girl but Greta the cheeky juggler, the young companion of the famous Doctor Faustus.
The spectators regarded her with a mix of respect and repulsion. Greta knew the look that upstanding citizens always held in store for people like her—musicians, jugglers, dancers, relic traders, bear tamers, and other traveling folk: shunned and yet admired. They were dishonorable and untouchable; here today, gone tomorrow; neither past nor future—and that was just what Greta loved about this life.
She smiled as she approached a farmer’s boy in the front row and hinted at a bow. “In the mood for a game of dice, young sir?” Greta had noticed the boy before the show, and she’d liked the looks he’d given her. She felt herself strangely drawn to his mischievous, shrewd-looking face, his full brown hair, and the well-proportioned muscles showing under his clothes.
Greta showed him her empty hands before reaching behind her right ear and producing a die carved of cow bone. Then she picked a coin out of her left ear. The young man gave a startled laugh.
“How can I play the dice with you if you can make them vanish at any moment?”
“Don’t worry, my friend, you’re the master of your own fortune.” Greta’s voice had the praising, almost bewitching pitch so typical for jugglers. She winked. “You roll the die, and I guess your number. If I get it right, you pay me a heller—and if I’m wrong, you get a kiss from me. Shall we?” She held out the die.
The boy rocked his head from side to side, his eyes traveling down to her small breasts, which were pushed up by the tightly laced bodice. Greta knew she had most men eating out of the palm of her hand in this outfit, and she used the knowledge to her advantage.
“A fair offer, meseems,” said the young man with a grin. Then he raised one finger and gave Greta a serious look. “But first I want to roll the die a few times to make sure it isn’t rigged.”
Greta nodded. Some jugglers used dice that contained small pieces of iron so they always landed on the same side. The boy rolled the die a few times, and then he covered it with his hand.
“Now guess,” he said to her.
“Hmm, it isn’t one, is it?” began Greta, scratching her head. “Two, perhaps? No. Three?” Suddenly her face brightened. “Well, I believe it’s a six.”
The young man lifted his upper hand. It was indeed a six.
“Just a lucky guess!” He handed her a coin. “I want to try again.”
Greta started in on her game once more, and again she guessed correctly. When she guessed right the third time, the boy eyed her suspiciously.
“That’s witchcraft,” he grumbled. “You dishonorable jugglers are all the same—spawn of the devil. Give me back my money, you cheat!”
Greta’s smile vanished. She had been looking forward to this harmless encounter, but now things were developing in a way she didn’t like at all.
“No, I think I’d better donate it at church tomorrow and say thirty Lord’s Prayers for the salvation of your soul. God bless you.” She slipped the coins into a pocket, gave him a nod, and walked off.
There were many people who believed jugglers to be the spawn of the devil. Some church scholars claimed they were descendants of fallen angels who now wreaked havoc on earth. How could Greta explain to a dumb farmer’s boy that what she was doing had to do not with witchcraft but with intuition and practice. Greta observed her victims carefully, studying every small change in their facial expressions and gestures. That was how she guessed the numbers right almost every time. She and Karl often used this technique during their shows. Greta would guess what people carried in their pockets while Karl would give her secret clues.
Sometimes, however, there was also something else. Something she hadn’t wanted to admit to herself for a long time: sometimes she actually saw the numbers before her.
Greta walked behind the stage, where they’d set up a small tent next to their wagon. The tent contained crates and chests and served as a changing room. Colorfully striped clothing with bells and tassels lay strewn across the floor. Even though it was mid-October, it was hot and muggy inside the tent; a thunderstorm had been brewing for hours. Greta could hear the people of Bretten clapping—the show must have come to an end.
She struggled to breathe in the tight bodice and loosened it. She was still pulling out the strings when she heard a noise behind her. She turned around and cursed her carelessness. The boy who’d lost in their game of dice stood in front of her with his arms folded. He was smiling, but his eyes looked hungry, greedy, and his handsome face now seemed crude and shifty.
“If you won’t give me back my money, I’ll take something else from you,” he growled. “You won’t get away this easily, you hussy.”
Greta took a step back. It was always the same. Men encountered her role as a cocky, playful juggler and confused her act with reality. They believed she truly was a loose woman.
The fellow came closer, reached for her breasts, and tried to drag her onto one of the chests. But Greta was prepared. She jerked up her knee and hit him hard right between the legs. It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to defend herself against a pushy man, and often a knee where it hurt the most was enough to put those men back in their place. Greta was a small woman, but she was athletic and strong from years of practice with the rope, skittles, and balls.
The young man groaned loudly but stayed put. Evidently, he was tougher than she’d thought.
“Just you wait, whore—I’ll take you even harder for that!” He wiped the sweat off his forehead and spread his strong, hairy arms.
He threw himself on her like a bear and managed to pull her to the ground. Greta wanted to scream, but he pressed his hand to her mouth. She smelled stables and muck. As he pushed up her skirts, she desperately felt for the small knife she always carried under her bodice. There it was! But the boy forced her hand to the side, and the blade slipped from her grasp. Meanwhile he had pulled down his trousers to his knees, and she could feel his erection between her legs like a cudgel. Greta turned and twisted until
she managed to free one of her hands. Immediately she grabbed the knife.
“I promised you a kiss,” she hissed. “Here it is!”
With one quick movement she swiped the blade across her attacker’s cheek and nose. The boy howled with pain.
“You . . . you goddamn witch!”
He let go of her and held his nose with both hands, blood spurting from his face. The blood was everywhere—in his face, on his hands, on his jerkin. The tent looked like they’d just butchered a pig.
Greta watched with gratification.
“Looks like it isn’t your lucky day,” she said as she got to her feet. “Now get out of here and find yourself some peasant wench before—”
She paused as she heard a low, menacing growl. She looked to the entrance of the tent and saw the black dog that was almost the size of a calf. It was the doctor’s dog, a monster of an animal, with mighty wolf fangs and glowing red eyes. Some people really believed the dog was the devil, which was why the doctor called him Little Satan.
Little Satan’s effect wasn’t lost on the profusely bleeding lad.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped. “What in God’s name?”
Trembling hard, the young man took his hands from his face and hastily tied up his trousers. He tried to run but tripped and fell.
“What are you doing here?” said a voice as deep and dangerous as if it came straight from hell. “Speak up before my dog tears you apart like a hare.”
The doctor had entered the tent behind Little Satan, followed closely by Karl, who was carrying corked bottles of theriac.
“I . . . I . . . ,” stammered the fellow. Blood still dripped from the long cut on his nose and cheek.
Greta hoped he’d carry a scar as a memento.
“You are soiling my tent.” Faust pointed at the floor. “And blood drives the dog mad. Mad and hungry, as you can see.” On cue, Little Satan pulled up his jowls and bared his sharp yellow teeth, each one the size of a small knife.
One look at Greta told the doctor what had been going on. He turned as white as a sheet, and blind rage took over his cool composure.
“By the dark forces and the pale light of the moon,” whispered Faust, his eyes flashing like small, hot stars, his voice trembling with anger. “If you touched as much as a hair on her body, I—”
“It never came to that, Uncle,” Greta said, almost feeling sorry for the young fellow. “He’s been punished enough. Let him go.”
The doctor took a deep breath. For a brief moment it seemed he would set the dog on the boy, but then he gave a soft whistle, and Little Satan lay down.
“I give you precisely three blinks of an eye to leave this tent,” said Faust quietly, his voice as cold as the north wind. “And another three blinks to go hide in a very deep hole. Believe me—if I ever see you out there again, Little Satan is going to swallow you whole. But not before I’ve turned you into a rat. Because that is all you are: a rat on two legs. Now get out of here!”
The last words echoed like thunder. It never ceased to amaze Greta how the doctor could rock the entire world with his voice.
Whimpering and bleeding, the boy staggered past Faust, Karl, and the growling dog. They heard his hasty footsteps rushing off.
Then Faust turned to Greta, still trembling with fury.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop making eyes at the boys! Now you see where it gets you. One minute later and that fellow would have mounted you like a billy goat.”
“I was handling it,” replied Greta, sounding surer than she felt. She laced up her bloodstained bodice. “I am quite capable of defending myself, you know. The two of you have taught me a fair bit in the last few years.”
Karl grinned. “Indeed we have. That fellow looked as if he’d been in a brawl against three men at once. He won’t be back anytime soon.” Unlike the doctor, Karl wore a plain black coat that made his slim stature seem even skinnier. The intelligent eyes in his feminine, clean-shaven face told of a keen mind. During the last few years, Karl had become Greta’s closest and only friend and confidant. He was like a big brother to her. And with Karl she could be sure that he wasn’t interested in her as a woman—because he wasn’t attracted to women at all, at least not sexually.
Karl’s expression soon turned serious again. “But I fear the scoundrel could cause trouble for us. He’s bound to have a few friends in town. Or he might report us as sorcerers.” He looked at the doctor. “Perhaps threatening to turn him into a rat wasn’t the best idea.”
“It would be a wasted effort, because he already is one.” Faust gave a shrug. “Besides, we won’t stay in Bretten for much longer.”
“How come?” asked Karl, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, I received an invitation that I shouldn’t turn down. The letter came by messenger a few days ago, but I didn’t tell you about it because I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.” Faust gave a laugh. “But it’s more of an order than an invitation.”
“Who are you talking about?” asked Greta.
The doctor sighed. “It’s an invitation from the venerable prince-bishop of Bamberg, asking me to cast him a horoscope. He writes of a royal salary, but I detest the idea. Something like that will raise far too much dust, and that’s the last thing we need at the moment.” He gestured to the outside. “Did you hear the people whisper? My reputation in these climes isn’t the best, and even here in Bretten there are some who call me a necromancer and my dog the devil himself. And now Greta starts a fight with an idiot!”
“Hey!” exclaimed Greta in protest. “You make it sound like I asked the guy to rape me.”
“I’m only saying you need to take better care. I can’t always bail you out.”
“And I don’t want you to,” replied Greta coolly.
Faust waved dismissively. “Perhaps Bamberg isn’t the worst place to go. We need winter quarters, after all. And there are worse places to spend a winter than Altenburg Castle, where the prince-bishop resides.”
Greta bit her lip. Her limbs still ached from the struggle, and red streaks showed on her skin. But hurting the most was the shame she’d so nearly suffered. Men were like animals—maybe that was why she had never let any of them go all the way, even if Uncle Johann thought otherwise.
“When are you thinking of leaving for Bamberg?” she asked. “I thought we wanted to stay until the next market day.” She didn’t want to admit it—especially since she thought the prince-bishop’s invitation a little strange—but after what had just happened, she was glad to be leaving Bretten sooner rather than later.
“First thing tomorrow morning,” replied Faust. “There is just one more thing I need to do here.” His expression darkened. “Something I should have done a long time ago.” He left the tent without another word.
Greta gave Karl a puzzled look, but he only rolled his eyes.
“I’ve known the doctor for so long,” he said with a sigh. “But at the end of the day I don’t know him at all.”
Once more Greta realized that she felt the same way. After all those years, she still couldn’t say what kind of a person Faust really was. The doctor could appear gentle and considerate one moment and cold and forbidding the next. His sharp wit overshadowed everything else, and his arrogance was the stuff of legend. Whenever Greta tried to ask him about himself or about her own past, he changed the topic. No one knew what really went on behind Faust’s dark eyes.
Greta reached for Karl’s hand and squeezed it tightly. He could probably tell that she was still shaken. But that was all right—Karl was the only person she trusted completely.
“Johann Georg Faustus will probably remain a closed book to us forever,” she muttered, gazing into the overcast night sky through the opening in the tent.
Deep down inside, Greta felt she’d just described herself, too.
Thunder rumbled in the distance; to the west the clouds piled up in dark clumps. They didn’t seem to agree on when they would release their heavy burden. Not even the slightest b
reeze stirred in the trees, as if Mother Nature were holding her breath.
His head bent low over the horse’s neck, Johann galloped toward the small town of Knittlingen, which stood just a few miles from Bretten. He had set off with Little Satan right after his conversation with Greta and Karl, out through the Weisshofer Gate and along the Weissach River. He closed his eyes and tried to blank out the memories from long ago, but he failed.
Swimming in the river, low-hanging willow branches . . . I pull myself up and jump back into the water. Look, Margarethe, watch—I’m an evil water sprite.
Soon he could make out the Knittlingen town wall in the muggy haze, and the gentle slopes full of vines beyond, as if time had stood still for all those years. The western gate was still open, and the sole watchman let the strange rider pass without asking questions, glad to stay inside his shelter in view of the impending rain. Or perhaps he didn’t want to approach the large black dog trotting alongside its master.
Johann kept his head down until he realized that he was the only person in the street. He guessed most Knittlingers were still at work in the fields, trying to get as many grapes to safety as they could before the storm broke. Johann darted a glance into the courtyard of the prefecture with the wine presses, then at the market square and the small Saint Leonhard’s Church. He could also see the Gerlachs’ house beside the church—the house he was born in, an eternity ago. The two-story building was freshly whitewashed and the shutters had been painted a different color, but other than that, nothing had changed.
So many memories.
Johann felt a stab in his chest. He hadn’t been back in Knittlingen for almost a quarter century. He had avoided the place because it reminded him of how everything had begun. Neither Karl nor Greta knew that this was where he came from; really, they knew nothing about him. No one did. He had grown up just a stone’s throw away, with three brothers—of which the elder two had been blockheaded peasants—and a stepfather who had always hated him. Johann still didn’t know who his real father was. Just like Greta had no idea who her father was.
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