NOW AND THEN traveling journeymen would come to the mill in the fen and ask the miller for food and lodging; that was the custom, and it was their right to ask it—not that they had much luck with the Master. Though he was in duty bound to give the travelers food for a day and shelter for the night, he did not observe the customs of his guild. Instead he showed them the door, with harsh words.
“I want nothing to do with a pack of waifs and strays,” he snapped at them. “I have neither bread nor gruel for the likes of you, and you’d better get out at once, or I’ll set the dogs on you and hunt you all the way to Schwarzkollm!”
This was generally enough to get rid of the unwanted guests, but if one of them turned awkward, the miller knew how to make the poor fellow believe he was being chased by dogs, whereupon he would strike out frantically with his staff and make off, yelling.
“We don’t need snoopers here,” the Master used to say. “We can do without useless mouths to feed too!”
It was a heavy, sultry day in high summer. A haze hung over the fen, and the air was so close that it was difficult to breathe. A strong smell of weeds and stagnant water rose from the millrace; soon a storm would break.
Krabat had settled down after dinner in the shade of the willows on the bank of the millpond. He was lying on his back in the grass chewing a stalk, with his hands clasped behind his neck. He felt tired and sleepy, and his eyes closed.
Just as he was dozing off, he heard someone come up the path whistling loudly. When he opened his eyes he saw a traveling journeyman before him.
The stranger was a tall, thin man, rather middle-aged, with skin as dark as a gypsy’s. He was wearing an odd sort of tall, pointed hat, and a narrow gold ring in his left ear, but otherwise he looked like any other journeyman miller on his travels, with wide linen trousers, a hatchet in his belt, and his bundle on a strap over his left shoulder.
“Good day, brother!” said he.
“Good day,” said Krabat, yawning. “Where are you from, and where are you going?”
“I’ve come from there, and I’m going thither!” said the stranger. “Take me to your master!”
“You’ll find him in his room,” replied Krabat lazily. “First door on the left when you get into the hall. You can’t miss it.”
The stranger regarded Krabat with a mocking smile.
“Just do as I ask, brother! Take me to him.”
Krabat felt an irresistible power issuing from the stranger; it forced him to get up and show the man the way, as he was asked.
The miller was sitting in his room, at the head of the table, and he looked up in annoyance when Krabat brought the stranger in, but the man did not seem at all disturbed.
“By your leave!” said he, raising his hat. “Good day to you, Master, and according to the custom of the guild I ask for lodging for the night, and food for my journey.”
The Master showed him the door in his usual way, but the stranger took no notice.
“Never mind all that about the dogs!” said he. “I know you don’t have any! May I sit down?”
And without more ado he sat down on the chair at the foot of the table. Krabat simply could not understand it. Why was the Master putting up with such treatment? Normally he’d be up on his feet, chasing the stranger away from the mill with a stick if need be—why not this time?
The two men sat there in silence, staring at one another across the table. They looked dangerous, as if they would be at each other’s throats any moment, knives drawn.
Outside there was the first growl of thunder, still far away; a muffled growl, only just audible.
Then Hanzo came through the door, followed by Michal and Merten. One by one the miller’s men came into the room, until they were all present. Later they told each other that they suddenly wanted to see the Master—quite by chance the same idea had occurred to every one of them, and brought them in.
The storm was coming closer; a gust of wind rattled the window frames, and there was a flash of lightning. Pursing his lips, the stranger spat on the table—and where he spat, there was a red mouse sitting.
“Now, miller, beat that if you can!”
The Master spat, and there was a black mouse on the table, one-eyed like the miller himself. The mice circled one another on nimble paws, trying to bite each other’s tails. Just as the black mouse was about to sink its teeth in, the stranger snapped his fingers.
Where the red mouse had been, there was now a red tomcat, crouched ready to spring. In an instant the black mouse turned into a tom cat too, black and one-eyed. Spitting, with their claws out, the two went for each other, clawing, biting and clawing again.
The red cat was aiming for the black cat’s eye. Yowling, he pounced upon his enemy, and almost scratched it out.
This time it was the master who snapped his fingers, and instead of the black cat there was a black rooster on the table. Beating its wings, slashing with beak and claws, it attacked the red cat, making it flinch back—but not far, for now the stranger snapped his fingers again.
There were two roosters facing one another on the table, a black one and a red one, combs swollen, feathers ruffled.
Outside the storm broke, but the miller’s men took no notice of it. A furious fight broke out between the two roosters. Fluttering wildly, they flung themselves into the fray. There was a flurry of thrusts with beak and spurs, they flapped their wings, making the feathers fly, and screeched and crowed.
Finally the red rooster managed to get on the black one’s back. He dug his spurs into his enemy’s feathers, tearing at him unmercifully, striking out furiously with his beak, until the black rooster turned to escape. The red rooster chased him through half the mill and out into the fen.
There was one last tremendous flash of lightning, and a roll of thunder like a thousand drums; then there came a sudden lull, with no sound but the rain beating down outside the windows.
“You’ve lost, miller!” said the stranger. “Now then, I’m hungry—bring me something to eat, and don’t forget the wine!”
White as a sheet, the Master rose from his chair. With his own hands he brought the stranger bread and ham, smoked meat and cheese, pickled cucumber and onions. Then he fetched a pitcher of red wine from the cellar.
“Too sharp,” said the stranger, tasting it. “Bring me some wine from the little cask in the right-hand corner at the back, the one you’ve been keeping for special occasions! This is a special occasion!”
Grinding his teeth, the miller obeyed orders; he had lost the contest, and must submit.
The stranger enjoyed his meal while the Master and his men watched. They were rooted to the spot, unable to take their eyes off him. At last he pushed his plate away, wiped his lips with his sleeve and sighed, “Ah, that was good! And there was plenty of it too! Your very good health, brothers!” He raised his tankard and drank to the journeymen. “As for you,” he advised the Master, “you’d better look more closely before showing strangers the door another time—you can take Big Hat’s word for that!”
So saying, he rose, picked up his hatchet and his bundle, and went out of the mill. Krabat and the other men followed him, leaving the Master alone.
Outside, the storm had passed over, the sun shone over the fen, and steam was rising from the ground. The air was fresh as spring water.
Big Hat went on his way without looking back. He crossed the wet meadow, going toward the wood and whistling to himself. Once or twice his gold earring caught the sun.
“Didn’t I tell you?” said Andrush. “Those who have dealings with Big Hat don’t notice till later what they’d have done better to notice before . . .”
The miller shut himself up in the Black Room for three days and three nights, and his men crept about the house on tiptoe. They had been present when Big Hat defeated the Master in a contest of magic, and they could guess there were bad times ahead.
Their troubles began on the evening of the fourth day. The Master appeared in the servants’ hall at supper time and dragged the twelve of them away from their plates. “To work!” He must have been drinking; they could smell it on his breath. He stood there hollow-cheeked, pale as death, his face unshaven.
“What, not in the grinding room yet? Must I help you? Off with you, get the mill grinding, tip in the grain! We’ll set all the millstones going, and if there’s any dawdling it’ll be the worse for you!”
The men had to toil away at their work all night, unmercifully driven by the Master. Shouting and cursing, he chased them back and forth, uttering oaths, threatening punishment, until they were almost fainting. There was not a break all night long, not a moment to draw breath.
When at last day dawned, the men were dropping with exhaustion. They felt as if every bone in their bodies had been broken, and they were all gasping for breath. The Master sent them up to their beds to rest.
He left them in peace all day, but it was the same story that evening, and so it went on, night after night. As dark fell, the Master would drive them into the grinding room, and they had to slave away to the sound of his jeers and curses until the next day dawned.
Friday night was their only respite, because their Friday evening lessons still went on, though the men were so tired that they could hardly keep awake as they sat on their perch in the shape of ravens, and many of them did fall asleep from weariness.
That did not trouble the Master; what they learned, and how much they learned, was their own affair. It was only once, when Vitko fell off the perch in his sleep, that the Master reproved him.
Vitko, who was still growing, was suffering more than the others, and their nightly drudgery affected him most. Michal and Merten did try to help the boy, and when they could Hanzo, Krabat and Stashko also lent him a hand, but the Master was everywhere, and not much escaped his one eye.
They never spoke of Big Hat, but the men knew the Master was punishing them for witnessing his defeat.
Things went on like this for six weeks, until the first night of the new moon in September. The Goodman with the feather in his hat came driving up as usual, the men set to work, the Master climbed up on the box, picked up the whip and cracked it. In silence, the men ran from the cart to the mill with their sacks, tipped the contents into the hopper above the Dead Stones, and hurried back to the cart. Everything happened as it usually did at the new moon—though it was all rather worse for them—and about two in the morning Vitko could not go on. Carrying one of the last sacks, he began to stagger, and collapsed halfway between the cart and the mill, where he lay face downward in the grass, gasping for breath. Michal turned him over and tore his shirt open.
“You there!” The Master jumped up. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“How can you ask?” Straightening up, Michal broke the silence they always observed on nights of the new moon. “You’ve made us work like slaves night after night, for six whole weeks—how could the boy stand it?”
“Quiet!” shouted the Master. He struck out with his whip; the lash curled around Michal’s throat.
“Let be!”
It was the first time Krabat had heard the stranger speak. His voice was like red-hot coals and bitter frost in one; Krabat felt it run down his back like an icy shudder, and at the same time he felt he was standing in the flames of a blazing fire.
The figure with the plumed hat made a gesture to Michal to take Vitko away. Then he took the whip from the Master’s hand and pushed him down from the cart.
Michal put the boy to bed, and the miller had to work along with his men instead of Vitko for the rest of the night, which he usually had to do only between New Year and Easter—and as for his men, they thought it served him right.