Greta took a few moments before she understood that it was John.
“There is a ledge right next to your left foot. You can easily place both your feet there—you just have to want it. It’s not hard, Greta. Do it!”
Greta’s heart was beating so hard and fast that her chest ached. But somehow she managed to get her feet onto the ledge. It was another pitch spout, but this one held. She was surprised that she hadn’t noticed the stone sooner. In her panic, the wall had seemed as smooth as ice. Her breathing slowed a little.
“It’s not much farther to the top,” said John. “Not as far as to the bottom, at least, and less dangerous. I was almost at the battlements, and I know you can do it. Can you do it, Greta?”
Greta nodded slowly, her lips pressed together tightly.
“Then say it! Say that you’re a juggler and the daughter of a sorcerer. Nothing can happen to you.”
“I . . . I can do it. I am a juggler and the daughter of a sorcerer. Nothing can happen to me.”
Greta took one more deep breath, then she left the safety of the ledge and pulled herself up the wall again, John staying close by. This time it was much easier, because John instructed her as to the best route up. It wasn’t long before her hands reached over the top. She pulled herself over the battlements and dropped into the round walk, where she remained for a long while. John was beside her, holding her hand. The crescent moon shone above them.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he said softly. “Nothing can happen to you.”
“Nothing can happen to us, John,” she replied and held him tight. “Both of us, John. We are immortal. Our love is immortal.”
Greta cautiously got to her feet and looked around. They were standing in the defensive corridor not far from one of the two big towers that guarded the north side. There was no sign of light anywhere—no torches, no watch fires, as if the castle had been deserted. The manor house and the donjon were completely dark, but there seemed to be a faint glow coming from the church.
“Do you hear that?” asked John.
Greta listened. Now she also made out the low sound of an organ, a sonorous buzzing that seemed to come straight from the earth. It sounded like the castle was breathing.
“Something’s not right, damn it,” said Greta. “Not right at all. Quick—let’s go see!” She rushed toward stairs leading down to the courtyard. John followed her. When they passed the empty manor house, John signaled at a building that stood a little off to the side. The shutters were closed, but a faint glow of light came from within. They cautiously approached the house from the rear and sneaked up to the windows. One of the shutters hung crookedly on its hinges, creating a gap for Greta to peer through. She saw a high-ceilinged room with a fireplace in which the remains of a fire glowed dimly. Piled atop a long table lay chewed bones, bread crumbs, cheese rinds, and knocked-over wine cups, as if a feast had taken place. Greta started when she first saw all the men stretched out on the ground, thinking they were dead, but then she heard snoring and saw some of the men toss in their sleep as if they were having nightmares. A trickle ran from a toppled barrel on the ground.
“The guards,” whispered John. “Now we know why there are no fires on the towers. Those fellows are stewed—with wine or something harder.”
“Or something more poisonous,” added Greta.
Somehow the men didn’t seem like regular drunks to her; they appeared to be in comas. She guessed that not even a fire would have awakened them, and their dreams definitely weren’t happy ones. One of them even screamed out loud now, his fingers cramping into the jerkin of his neighbor, who didn’t wake up from it.
“Hmm.” John nodded. “You might be right. They look like they’ve been knocked out. Probably with mandrake or cockle or something.” He pulled her gently by the arm. “Let’s go find out who is so eager to keep secret whatever’s going on here.”
They hurried across the deserted courtyard until they reached the church. The organ music was very loud now, and Greta could also hear a monotonous, rhythmical chanting. Awful memories rose up in her, memories from the time when she’d met Tonio del Moravia in the underground passages of Nuremberg.
I’m lying naked on a stone altar, the masked men are chanting, they are calling upon the devil in many different languages. O Satanas, O Mephistopheles.
The door wasn’t fully closed, and Greta peered through the crack into an empty church that was lit up by many torches. Meanwhile, John had sneaked around the building and now returned excitedly.
“There’s a small side entrance,” he whispered. “I think it leads down below the church. The organ music and singing seem to come from there.”
The entrance was a small but solid wooden door that was ajar, as if some late guests had just arrived. Greta hesitated briefly, then she opened the door a little further.
She froze.
“My God,” she whispered. “Please, John, tell me that I’m only dreaming.”
But it was no dream. Below them in the crypt, about two dozen people stood in a circle, singing in a foreign language that seemed strangely familiar to Greta. Torches burned all around them, and she could make out the old-fashioned garments of the people, who looked like they had stepped out of a fading fresco. But she had no time to puzzle over it. Her eyes caught the scene in the middle of the gathering, where a circular hole in the ground looked like a well, or a huge ancient baptismal font. Two men were standing hip-deep in water inside it. They were naked, their eyes gleaming white in the light of the torches.
“O Satanas, O Mephistopheles, O Sheitan,” rose the chorus of the people surrounding the pool.
