THE NEXT morning they found that Merten had disappeared. His bed was stripped, the blankets lay neatly folded at its foot, his working smock and apron hung in the press, his clogs were standing under his stool. No one had seen him go. They did not notice his absence until he failed to come in to breakfast. Baffled, they searched the mill for him, but he was nowhere to be found.
“He’s run away!” said Lyshko. “We must tell the Master.”
Hanzo barred his way. “That’s my job as head journeyman,” he said. “Or is that news to you?”
They all expected the Master to fly into a rage when he heard the news of Merten’s disappearance, and they were waiting for shouts, curses and imprecations, but nothing of the kind happened.
At dinner Hanzo told the others that the Master seemed to take it lightly. All he had said was, “Merten’s crazy!” and when the head journeyman asked what was to be done, he replied, “Let him be. He’ll come back of his own accord!”
“When he said that he winked,” Hanzo told them, “and that wink was worse than a thousand curses. I turned so cold inside me, I thought I’d freeze to solid ice on the spot. Let’s hope Merten’s all right!”
“Huh!” snorted Lyshko. “Anyone who runs away from this mill must know what he’s in for! Well, Merten has a broad back—broad enough to carry a load of trouble!”
“Oh, do you think so?” asked Juro.
“To be sure I do!” said Lyshko, and he brought his fist down on the table to emphasize his words—whereupon the soup in the bowl splashed up into his face. He let out a yell, for the soup was thick and boiling hot. “Who did that?” cried Lyshko, wiping his eyes and cheeks. “Which of you went and did that?”
One of the other journeymen must obviously be responsible. Stupid Juro was the only one who merely seemed bothered by the waste of good soup.
“Better not bang the table another time, Lyshko!” said he. “Not quite so hard, anyway!”
Merten came back that evening, as dusk was falling, just as Krabat had feared. He stood in the doorway silently, his head bowed.
The Master came out to meet him, in front of all the other journeymen. He was not angry with Merten; instead, he mocked him, asking how he liked his little expedition, and why he was back so soon—didn’t he like it in the villages, or what?
“You don’t want to tell me, eh, Merten? You haven’t opened your mouth for weeks, have you? But I’m not forcing you to speak—you can run away again for all I care. Try it! Try it as often as you like! Only don’t set your hopes too high, Merten. You’re not the man to do what no one has ever done yet!”
Merten did not flicker an eyelash.
“Well, make believe if you want!” said the Master. “You didn’t get away, but you don’t mind, eh? We know better, I and the eleven of them”—and he pointed to the journeymen and Lobosch—“we all know better! Now, get out!”
Merten crept up to bed.
The miller’s men were all unhappy that evening, except for Lyshko. “We must persuade him not to try running away again,” said Hanzo.
“You try!” said Stashko. “If you think it will do any good. I don’t.”
“No,” said Krabat. “I doubt if he’ll listen.”
Overnight the weather changed, and when they went out of doors next morning it was bitterly cold, without a breath of wind. There was ice on the window panes and ice on the rim of the trough under the pump. The puddles around it were covered with ice, the molehills were frozen stiff, and the ground was hard as bone.
“It’ll be bad for the winter sowing,” said Petar. “No snow, and now this frost . . . a lot of the seed will be spoiled out there in the fields.”
Krabat was glad to see Merten appear at breakfast with the others and attack his bowl of oatmeal greedily, obviously making up for yesterday. Then they went to work, and no one noticed Merten slip away from the mill again, this time in broad daylight. It was not until they came in for dinner at noon that they realized he had gone once more.
Merten was away for two days and two nights, longer than any runaway had ever managed before, and they were just beginning to hope he had safely made his escape when he came stumbling across the meadows toward the mill, on the morning of the third day. He was exhausted and blue with cold, and there was a dreadful look on his face.
Krabat and Stashko went to meet him at the door and led him inside. Petar took one of his shoes off, Kito the other, and Hanzo told Juro to bring a bowl of ice-cold water. He put Merten’s frozen feet into it and began to rub them.
“We must get him to bed, as quick as we can,” said he. “I hope he’s going to be all right.”
While the men were busy tending Merten, the door opened and the Master came into the room. He stood watching them for a while, but this time he refrained from mocking. He waited until they were about to take Merten upstairs.
“Just a moment!” said he. Going up closer to Merten, he told him, “I think twice should be enough for you, Merten! There is no road for you that leads away from here. You will never escape me!”
That very morning Merten took the third and, as he thought, the final way out.
The miller’s men guessed nothing. They had taken him up to the attic, tipped a hot drink down his throat, wrapped him in blankets and put him to bed. Hanzo stayed with him, sitting on the next bed watching until he was convinced Merten had fallen asleep and did not need him anymore. Then he went down to join the others at work.
Stashko and Krabat had been busy for several days dressing the millstones. They had finished four pairs of stones, and today was the turn of the fifth. They were just about to loosen the cramps so as to get at the stones when the door to the grinding room was flung open and Lobosch burst in, white-faced, his eyes wide with terror.
He was gesticulating and shouting; he seemed to be shouting the same thing again and again. The miller’s men could not make it out until Hanzo stopped the machinery. It was quiet in the mill then, and only Lobosch’s voice could be heard.
“It’s Merten! He’s hanged himself!” he cried. “Merten’s hanged himself. In the barn! Quick—come quick!”
He led them to the place where he had found Merten. Merten was hanging from a beam at the far end of the barn, a halter around his neck, looking as if he were staring at them.
“We must cut him down!” Stashko was the first to realize that Merten was still alive. “Quick! We must cut him down!”
Andrush, Hanzo, Petar and Krabat—everyone who had a knife snapped it open. But none of them could manage to get anywhere near Merten. He seemed to be surrounded by a magic circle. They could take just three steps toward him, but not an inch more; after that their feet seemed to stick to the ground.
Taking the point of his knife between thumb and forefinger, Krabat aimed, threw—and struck the rope.
He hit his mark, but the knife fell to the ground, powerless. Then someone laughed.
The Master had entered the barn. He did not so much as glance at his men, he paid them no more attention than if they were dirt. He bent to pick up the knife and cut the rope. There was a thud. Limp as a sack of grain, the hanged man fell to the ground and lay there at the Master’s feet, a rattle in his throat.
“You bungler!”
There was contempt in the Master’s voice. He dropped the knife, and spat on the ground in front of Merten.
Every one of the men felt as if the Master had spat at him . . . and they were sure that what he said was meant for all of them.
“I decide who dies at this mill!” cried the Master. “No one else decides for me!”
He went out, and then they could attend to Merten. Hanzo took the noose from his neck, and Petar and Stashko carried him up to bed. Krabat picked up Tonda’s knife from the ground. Before putting it back in his pocket, he rubbed the handle carefully with a wisp of straw.