This must be the end. What else can there be? How could dignity ever be restored? And even if it were, the next autumn, the next crane migration would bring about misery once again.
The wife lies with the children in the arms of the horseman, who is embracing them all. He has weathered the hardships. Grey and old, he keeps an eye on the door. But no one has troubled them for a long time. No one has the energy to misbehave.
‘It has never gone on for so long before,’ says the wife, who tirelessly breastfeeds the baby and the other children to soothe their hungry cries.
Of course it has never gone on for so long, Martin wants to say. Until now, the clever horseman was with the other men. The man who is now protecting his family with the last ounce of his strength and who is wrestling with his conscience. What monstrous thoughts haunt him during his sleepless nights?
Even the rooster has grown thin and seldom speaks any more. But at night, when Martin is consumed by hopelessness and can’t sleep, it repeats comforting words: ‘You will succeed, Martin. You will succeed.’
And then, one morning, the big bell tolls, and gaunt figures stumble out of their houses. Their cheeks are hollow, their chests sunken. Their nerves are shattered by the nightly howls of ghosts. And their eyes are dull, deprived of all things beautiful for so long. There has been nothing beautiful to see, what with the fog enveloping the castle courtyard all day long, obscuring any light or view, leading them to believe that all that will remain until the end of time is this muddy courtyard. Their zest for life has faded. Yet now the bell rings, and they gather.
The princess also appears on her balcony, casting her gaze upon the miserable limbo she has created. Oh, how she suffers. The smell from down below. She holds a handkerchief to her mouth.
Thomann is there, now just a shadow of his former self. He has shaved his head and can be recognised only by his two-tone trousers. Martin is the first to reach him. Thomann has built something, pieced it together, bit by bit, though at first it’s impossible to understand its purpose. He stands tall. He receives his weary and sickly audience in a shirt with ruffled sleeves. With a gesture, he acknowledges the balcony and bows.
‘The time has come,’ he proclaims proudly. And his voice carries quite far. Where does he find the strength? He probably only needs it one last time.
The horseman remains in the doorway, as do the wife and children.
But the others make their way towards him.
‘Yes, come closer. You are the ones I like best. I’ve spent nights worrying, pondering, goodness knows how, I didn’t have much left.’
He grins. Martin wonders where his teeth have gone.
‘Yes, our dearest princess.’ He waves up to the balcony. She doesn’t move. ‘She charged me with a tricky task. I was to execute but not kill myself.’
Not everyone understands the difference right away, but that doesn’t matter.
Marie joins him. The weeks have not affected her. She is as dishevelled and amiable as ever.
‘How nice that you have all come,’ she says, and walks among them as if she were holding court.
‘Enjoy this,’ Thomann calls out, and kisses Marie’s hand as he passes. ‘I gave it my best shot. Tell your children about it. And your children’s children. And your children’s children’s children, for today Thomann is learning to fly.’
Marie giggles and applauds.
Thomann positions himself in front of a shovel-like board and snaps his fingers, at which the three-eyed goat limps over. It begins to chew on a rope that has been soaked in a liquid. Sugar water. He must have gone without himself to obtain it. Everyone watches. The jester smiles. He no longer looks at Martin. He only sees a comforting emptiness ahead and waits.
No sooner has the goat chewed through the rope than the torn cord triggers a reaction on the scaffolding and among the objects, and this in turn another, and this in turn another. A wealth of lively events begins. A bucket lowers; water spills, driving a wheel; a stone plops into a bowl of red paint, splattering the audience; colourful cloths dance up and down, pink powder tints the fog. Marie claps her hands enthusiastically. And on it goes. Embers ignite and ropes burn, creating the illusion of light purposefully hurrying along them. Balls are set in motion and roll down a pathway; a small grinder, perhaps made from the jester’s teeth, grinds a piece of string and while everyone is still astonished and gradually recovering their smiles, an increasingly serene expression spreads across the jester’s face. He’s almost there, Martin thinks.
The next instant, a stone, large and heavy as a cannonball, crashes down onto a wedge that has been set up, and with a single sweeping movement, the shovel-like board hurls Thomann over the castle wall out into the fog.
Everyone is completely shocked; even time would like to stand still. He learned to fly, Martin thinks, he is dying without us.
For a long time, everyone stares into the empty space where the jester disappeared. They can’t believe what has happened. They wait a long time to see if it might have been a jest and Thomann will come crawling back over the wall at any moment, thumbing his nose at them. But he doesn’t.
Eventually the princess shrugs her shoulders and makes a move to leave the balcony.
Martin is still staring into the fog, while the others gradually give up waiting for Thomann, longing to return to their desolation. But behold – Martin is the first to see it.
‘Look,’ he says quietly. ‘Don’t you see it?’
Don’t you see how the fog is clearing? Did the jester play a good trick? Did he tear a hole in the wall with his flight? Perhaps a hole in time. Don’t you see how the sun sparkles behind the mist? A brilliant, glistening day is emerging. Brighter than all the light of the past weeks. And it clears, faster and faster. How splendid the light is. And beautiful. Everyone exclaims with delight. It’s probably spring by now. Are the mountains still there? The familiar rocks and gorges and meadows in the surrounding valley? Forests in the distance, blue sky, a world they believed lost. Everyone scrambles for a spot, a view, everyone holds their faces to the wind, smiles at one another, and indeed, they see five horsemen down on the path making their way up the slope.
‘The horsemen are coming!’ they shout, and they cheer and fall into each other’s arms so that the lice get all mixed up.
Only Martin remains motionless. He knows that they have found the children. They are bringing the children to the castle.
The inhabitants are so weakened that they can barely open the gate. The horsemen approach slowly. Everyone waits.
Only Marie remains standing at the wall, looking into the clear sky, wondering where her brother is, and she laughs at how amusing he looked when flying.
The horsemen reach the courtyard. They nod graciously, somewhat taken aback by the haggard faces. Yes, it took them a long time. A few of their attempts failed. One or two abductions did not go smoothly. There were quarrels among the horsemen. Rifts. But eventually, they succeeded. Which cloak conceals the girl? Which one the boy?
However, the horsemen have brought someone else with them. He is seated on the last horse. He is carrying a dirty bundle and when Martin spots him, he recognises him instantly. The painter.
Martin wants to shout out, but a sensation overwhelms him, as if he were drowning in it. No sound at first, but then Martin shouts: ‘Painter!’ And he longs to run over to him, but his legs refuse to comply. Have they melded with the wretched ground? Has Martin been here for so long that he has become part of the castle, part of this doomed community?
‘Painter!’ Martin calls once more.
And the man hears him. He sees the boy among all the other figures. He swiftly dismounts and rushes towards the child. He calls his name, hugs him and picks him up. This familiar lightness. This fragile human child. Eyes radiating goodness.
‘To find you here!’ the painter says, not realising that tears are streaming down his face. Martin smiles. He had never dared to hope that he would see the painter again.
The horsemen observe these events for a bit, then they grow impatient and demand that the painter hurries up.
‘The princess is waiting!’ they say.
The painter waves them off. ‘You know, Martin,’ he says, ‘I always get the most bizarre commissions.’
‘You don’t know how right you are,’ the child says.
The horsemen call the painter again. Martin is not allowed to accompany them. They push him aside a little. They don’t want to share their loot.
But the painter and the boy know that only a castle wall separates them. They are in the same place now.
‘I will join you!’ Martin shouts to the painter.
‘Was that your father?’ the wife asks later.
Martin looks at the bread that the princess has had distributed. Bread and apples and a piece of bacon for everyone.
He shakes his head. He had a father. And now it is time.
‘Explain the sleep game to me,’ Martin says.