“Johann,” whispered the old man, and the small eyes flashed between the wrinkles. “Little Johann, it’s you, isn’t it? Of course it’s you!”
Johann flinched. Could this old man really have recognized him? He studied the eyes—and then he recognized the man. His eyes hadn’t changed; they held an unspeakable sadness, a pain originating from over twenty years ago. A wrong that couldn’t be righted. Johann thought of a dark forest, a devil’s face on a rock, and whispering unseen voices.
Who’s afraid of the boogeyman?
He suddenly felt as cold as if he were in an ice cellar.
My God.
“What did you do to my Margarethe back then?” asked the old man softly. “My daughter . . . the apple of my eye.”
“I . . . You’re confusing me with someone else.” Johann rose abruptly. Coming here had been a mistake. He dropped a coin on the table and turned to leave. “I don’t know you.”
The old man’s trembling hand grasped him by the shoulder. “What did you do to my daughter?” he repeated, louder this time. A few patrons turned their heads. “What devil did you see in the woods back then?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Johann. “Now let go of me. My horse needs to be fed.”
He rushed to the door, the old man’s voice echoing through his head.
What did you do to my daughter? What devil did you see in the woods back then?
Outside, he looked behind him once more and thought he could see the lined face through the crown-glass window. It was the face of the old Knittlingen prefect, the man whose heart he’d broken all those years ago. The last twenty years had not been kind to him, Margarethe’s father.
What did you do to my daughter?
The face behind the window vanished, and in the same instant a mighty thunderclap crashed.
One moment later, the rain set in.
Johann didn’t look up again until he arrived at the cemetery. In a daze he had untied his horse and galloped off. The rain was so heavy that he could hardly see the houses anymore.
He never should have entered the inn. Of all Knittlingers still living, the old prefect had been the one he’d been most afraid to see. Terrible things had happened back then. In the Schillingswald Forest, not far from Knittlingen, Johann had lost his innocence—but moreover, he’d also lost his little brother, Martin, and the girl that he loved more than anything. That he still loved today.
Margarethe.
He had tried to forget what happened that day, but it wasn’t possible. The past always came back to haunt him in his dreams.
What devil did you see in the woods?
It was a question that tortured him to this day, too—although he suspected he knew the answer. The devil had entered his life back then, had brought him money and fame, had turned him into what he was today. But at what cost?
Johann held his face into the rain, letting the drops wash away the memories, including those of the old prefect. The cold wetness felt good, extinguishing the flames inside him. The cemetery had been the reason for his visit to Knittlingen; he’d been wanting to return here for many years.
He tied his horse to the gate and walked into the graveyard, where several crooked tombstones stood in the darkness. There wasn’t another soul here at this hour. The rain beat down relentlessly, sounding like pebbles on a drum.
Johann impatiently spun around to the large black wolfhound following him at a distance.
“Come on now, Little Satan! I must say farewell to someone. I promise it won’t take long.”
The dog hesitated, as if he could smell that death was at home here. Then he trotted after his master. Johann’s coat was drenched by now, and water ran in streams from the brim of his hat. His fine leather boots were covered in muck. But Johann didn’t notice any of it. He strode across the graveyard with his head down and stopped eventually in front of a small, unremarkable tombstone right beside the cemetery wall. The stone was crooked and overgrown with moss and ivy. No one had cared for the grave in a long time. Johann bent down and scraped away dirt and branches until the inscription was legible: Elisabeth Gerlach, died on 12 July in the year of the Lord 1494.
Twenty-four years.
Johann could hardly believe how much had come to pass since then. He had been a boy of sixteen back then, his head full of nonsense, full of hopes and dreams, the pride of his mother. He had come to say goodbye to her one last time. He used to love a girl from Knittlingen and play with his brother in the vineyards west of town. And now? The girl and the brother were just as dead as his mother, and his hopes and dreams blown away like leaves in the fall. His beloved mother, lying here in front of him, had foretold him a great future—a future someone once read in the stars for her. She had also been the first to call him Faustus.
Faustus, the lucky one.
Johann gave a sad laugh as he gazed upon his mother’s grave. He had paid a heavy price for his luck.
And for a few months now he thought the price might become much heavier yet.
“For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever, amen.”
Johann struggled to his feet. Praying had never come easily to him—he didn’t really believe in it. And the accursed shaking was returning. But he felt better nonetheless; the visit had done him good.
The dog’s growling roused Johann from his thoughts.
“Hush, Little Satan!” He looked around suspiciously and noticed movement behind one of the gravestones a little farther away. He could discern the outline of a figure and thought he could hear a scraping noise over the sound of the rain. After a few moments he recognized the noise as a shovel
