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Archive for January, 2026

Chapter 26 Journeyman

“You claim to add your light with ours, but you have only led us further into darkness and danger, making our entire community more vulnerable. How will you defend us in our weakness?”

Once more Tobal had no reply, and his guide remained silent. He was led roughly to the center of the circle and held pinned between two hooded guards.

The High Priest continued. “The Apprentice degree is of spiritual protection and growth. In your progress through that degree, you have been magickally protected from evil influences that might have otherwise entered your life. Then, as a member of our sacred circle, you will always have protection from the evil of the outside world, but we can never shield you from the evil within your own nature and within each one of us. You must learn to master this evil—the weakness and fear that prevents you from acting when needed, and that drives blind, destructive choices. This is the work of the Journeyman. You must combat these inner demons with your own Inner Light, or they will become your masters. Only when you have mastered your own inner demons will you have truly earned the right to this degree—a lifetime work we all face. Symbolically, this inner battle is marked by success in defeating six members of this degree in combat. After defeating six members, you will be considered eligible for the 3rd and final degree of Master that leads to citizenship. Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes.”

“Then let the fight begin!”

Six dark hooded figures stepped forth from the circle and stood in menacing silence as the High Priest, High Priestess, and the two guards moved away. His guide took his torch and left him alone within the circle. Tobal stood silently in confusion, pain exploding in his side as a fist connected, the torchlight blurring his vision.

Gradually, he realized he was expected to fight all six figures. He pulled himself into a fighting stance and began circling defensively. None moved. He circled closer to one, feinting with his right—the figure stayed still. Encouraged, Tobal struck lightly on the shoulder and doubled over as a savage punch to his belly knocked him to the cave floor, fighting nausea. Struggling up, he faced the unmoving six, unsure. He lunged at a second, his thrust parried as a hard blow slammed his head, sparking stars. Rising again, rage built, and he grappled a third, only to find it stone-solid. A crushing bear hug bruised his ribs before he was thrown, wind knocked out, refusing to rise, sobbing in frustration.

“He refuses to fight!” a voice cried from the circle’s edge.

“Yes, he refuses to fight!” murmured the hooded figures, moving silently widdershins. After one circle, drums pounded eerily within the cave as black-cloaked figures drew near, striking light, stinging blows. Tobal couldn’t see their faces or recognize them.

The energy felt wrong, building. Fear and panic gripped him at his tailbone, climbing his spine, his energy slipping counterclockwise. What were they doing? The energy grew, strange and dark, not evil but dangerous.

The High Priest placed his hands on Tobal’s head, his voice echoing. “In the name of the Lord and Lady, I draw the dark energy of the earth up into your physical body and soul that you might become master of yourself and Journeyman.”

Tobal felt a weird tingling and warmth as a glowing yellow-green energy pooled at his feet, rising through his body, exiting his head into spiritual light. His father’s spirit entered, looking out. “You have done well,” said his father. “We will wait for you.”

The High Priestess stepped forward, Tobal recognizing Misty. “In the name of the Lord and Lady, I draw the dark energy of the earth into your physical body and soul that you might become a master of yourself and Journeyman.”

A darker, threatening energy carried frightening images—a feminine Goddess force curling around his legs, tendrils choking his throat, filling his mind like a giant tree of life and death reaching for the spiritual sun. A surge of warmth flooded him, easing the pain.

Then his heart ached as his mother’s spirit held him, her aura protecting. She left with a kiss and a whispered “be strong.” He felt his father holding her hand, their love for each other and him, rejoicing as the energy sank into his bones, changing him forever. Their touch echoed the cave’s astral warmth, a bridge between circle and spirit.

The High Priest continued. “Are you ready to receive wisdom and be nourished by life?”

“Yes,” Tobal mumbled through a split lip. He was helped to his feet.

“The first and most important lesson is that there are times in life when you must fight for what you believe and times not to fight. Learn to choose your battles, and if you fight, fight to win, giving all you have. You will be respected even if defeated, as must sometimes happen. There is no shame in losing a battle. There is shame in not giving all you have.”

“The second lesson,” he continued, “is that fighting is hard and thirsty work!”

“Let’s party!”

As the energy settled, the High Priest’s voice softened, shifting the ritual’s tone. A throaty welcome echoed in the cavern as hoods were thrown back, and Tobal was half-dragged, half-carried into another chamber where food and drink awaited. Goodwill filled the air as he was hugged and congratulated by familiar faces he hadn’t seen in ages.

Rafe pounded his back, laughing as Tobal winced. “Thought you would never get here!” he shouted over the crowd.

Ellen gave him a hug and a kiss.

Tobal stayed a few days, exploring caverns and chatting with 2nd-degree peers. He retrieved his parents’ items, feeling better wearing them again, catching up on their news.

After a few days, his trail food dwindled, and restlessness grew. On the third day, he set out alone to process the initiation’s meaning, bidding farewell to his new brothers and sisters, heading to base camp.

His black tunic felt strange after gray, the shift from a year of intense living and training to idleness jarring. Time dragged, and he dreaded his first fight a month away. Worry gnawed at him—his parents might still be wired to a machine on life support. He preferred Crow’s view of them as the Lord and Lady.

The midsummer celebration at circle was a welcome change. Hot, fair weather made him miss newbie training. As a new Journeyman, his first duty was guarding Apprentice initiations, expected and unsurprising. He arrived early, donned black robes, and stayed on duty until the last newbie was initiated late that night—a long day missing Becca and circle.

Though absent, he heard the news: Sarah, Anne, Derdre, Seth, and Crow’s newbies soloed with Elder approval. Tyrone, Zee, Kevin, and Butch initiated newbies, expected after a month’s wait. The surprise was ten initiates—Becca and Fiona not only initiated but soloed theirs, earning fifth chevrons. Nikki earned her fourth but wasn’t there; Tara and Nick likely waited at Sanctuary.

Becca gave him a brief kiss and hug at the guard post, sharing Rafe’s Council of Elders role. Glowing, she promised, “We’ll talk later,” holding him close before seeking Fiona, who’d already dropped her newbie.

Nikki lost out, still waiting at Sanctuary with others. Mike and another Apprentice quit, hitting Butch hard due to their friendship.

After initiations, Tobal entered the circle in black robes. Friends congratulated him but some eyed him differently. “I’m still the same person,” he thought, then realized he wasn’t. Most friends were Apprentices; Masters like Rafe and Ellen were exceptions. Newbies didn’t know him, and black-robed peers kept to themselves. He hoped to stay connected to Apprentices.

Heading for the beer barrel, he met gloomy Wayne and Char, considering quitting. “Why don’t you talk to Crow first?” he suggested. “He’s taking a group to the village. I visited last month—it’s neat.” Char doubted a primitive life but nodded for a vacation. Wayne agreed, hoping the newbie bottleneck eased, frustrated by month-long waits. They hugged, seeing it as a chance to reconnect.

Tobal hoped he hadn’t erred suggesting the village, liking their simplicity. He moved on, finding Becca and Fiona by the drum circle, high-spirited. They partied, planning a month off awaiting official solos and sixth chevrons. Tobal proposed a lake trip for swimming and berries, ready for a break. They agreed, shifting topics. Fiona asked, “What have we missed about the City Council and village? We’ve been busy.”

“Lots to catch up on,” he laughed. “Let’s find out.”

“Where’s Llana?” Becca asked.

“That’s part of it,” he smiled, kissing her. She didn’t press.

They joined Rafe and Ellen. Becca’s presence felt good; he squeezed her hand, she smiled. Crow’s group discussed teleportation—Char and Wayne listened. Tobal stayed with his group, needing their talk.

Ellen started, “We finally met with the City Council. It’s been a rough month; our lives are changed.”

“An understatement,” Rafe nodded. “Our world’s upside down.”

Ellen continued, “The Council cleaned house—new members, none at the last meeting. The mayor apologized again for the assassination attempt, relieved Howling Wolf’s safe. New members knew and respected him, explaining their selection. Once a clansman, always a clansman—all had done Sanctuary, many served the Elders. The mayor assured full support.”

“This time, General Grant was absent. The Council requested a Federation internal affairs probe but heard nothing. Grant denied Howling Wolf’s claims; the Council believed Wolf, deeming Grant a liar, so he wasn’t invited.”

Ellen smiled at Tobal. “Howling Wolf appeared, offering teleport and time travel skills if the city split from the military project. He rejected the machine’s dangers and inhuman wiring, demanding Ron and Rachel Kane’s release for peace after years of torment.”

“Things got interesting,” Ellen said. “Wolf vanished; Adam Gardner appeared with a pack, introducing items—mostly past, some future—confirming his work with Wolf on Kane’s research and ongoing time explorations.”

“We were impressed,” Ellen chuckled. “The Council sought proof of training. Llana appeared, revealing plans for a secret time traveler group.”

“My COM buzzed—medics were evicted from the mountain, losing the ER and supplies. Grant barred us, even from belongings. The Council, shocked, with Wolf’s approval, made the village a temporary base until a new site by the lake.”

“We chose the old gathering spot for a permanent base, requesting supplies and comms. The City Council voted and agreed to provide immediate provisions for uninterrupted medic work, directing serious cases to the city. They’ll build modern facilities for winter use.”

“Most of us hauled supplies that first week,” Rafe grumbled. “No rogue attacks noted. We’re settled, trained now at Heliopolis hospital.”

“I leave for months, and it falls apart,” Becca quipped. “Danger from Grant’s rogues?”

“No way to know,” Ellen said. “We hope the investigation curbs worse.”

The meeting sparked thoughts. Becca’s questions persisted post-bed; kissing silenced her, leading to delays before sleep in each other’s arms.

Being with Becca, free of duties, felt good. With two weeks before Journeyman circle, they maximized it. Mid-June’s perfect weather brought Fiona, and they headed to the lake, first meeting Llana at Tobal’s winter base en route.

Evening, Llana greeted the campfire. Becca and Fiona, updated, joined Tobal’s group—Rafe, Ellen, Tobal, Becca, Fiona, possibly Nikki (unasked). Tobal eyed Tyrone; Fiona suggested Butch. Newbie training clashed with Llana’s lessons, delaying theirs until Journeyman.

“Tobal’s done two months with Crow, one with me,” Llana told them. “He’s ahead, can help you catch up. I’ll teach him, he’ll teach you. Practice daily, support each other.”

“What about Ellen and Rafe?” Tobal asked.

“I’ll teach them individually,” she said.

Tobal nodded, “Rafe wants you to scout forbidden areas on his air sled map. Drop you off, you teleport out. No med-alert, no monitor.”

Llana thought. “Good. Tell him to meet me at my old base, two days post-new moon, noon. See if Ellen joins. I’ll train them, plan further.”

“Have you time traveled?” Becca asked.

“Once,” Llana smiled. “Awesome, frightening, like teleporting once mastered. Grandfather and Adam check areas for safety, gauging Grant’s time meddling.”

“How soon?” Becca pressed.

“A year to two, depending on training intensity and aptitude. We want both groups ready together to collaborate.”

“What’s Crow’s group doing?” Fiona asked.

“They’ll exit Sanctuary, ditch bracelets, train off-grid like us, likely faster since we juggle Journeyman duties. No contact until all teleport.”

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

Our entrance attracted noisy attention. Immediately they
dragged Görg to the table and quickly brewed a mixture in a
mug of beer, wine, spit and pipe juice, which he had to empty
immediately as a toast to the well-being of the four senses. But
me they mockingly addressed as “Your Honor” and asked if I
did not know that one has to make three bows and a scrape of
the foot when entering, such an illustrious group or if the fine
gentleman felt like a few passes with the rapier. This I could
have in a moment.
“Are you still acting so wild, Bavarian Haymon?” I asked
and had to smile wistfully, when I recognized my old Order
brother.
He sat there with his mouth open, as if he had been
struck by a blow.
“I know you well,” I said, stepping close to him. “Even if
time has run away!”
“Pinch me, Hoibusch, pinch me!” he sputtered and
nudged the student next to him. “A ghost stands before me-“
“Ei, what, a ghost!” said I. “its Mahomet and no other!”
Something like a pathetic joy was in me, that I saw him
again, although degenerated and aged before his time. And on
the lapels of his skimpy coat he still wore the letters of our
secret slogan, artfully entwined from silver wire:
“Vivat circulus fratrum amicitiae!”
Long live the brotherly circle of the Order of Friendship.
I pointed with my finger and said smilingly:
“Vivat, crescat, floreat!”
Then he jumped up on both feet and shouted:
“Murderous hail of bombs! Stinking foxes, kneel down!
An old Amiciste stands before you, Mahomet, who has wiped
more blood from his thrusting blade than runs in your sour
veins. O brother of heart! What a race has taken our place!
Drinking from little cups, crying for their mothers when they
run out of veal…and run into the lecture hall with their pens
and notebooks. -O the old times! O Amicitial!”
He threw his long arms around me, kissed me
resoundingly on both cheeks, and the tears trickled from his
inflamed eyes.
“And now here, by my green side, Herr Brother, and that
none open their mouth till Mahomet has told us about the best
of his famous life experiences – Hey, Ball Mill Innkeeper, hey,
Bärbel, jump and swing and bring as much wine as the table
can bear. And the farmer shall join in the drinking!”
But he had gone out and was no longer to be seen.
The innkeeper now approached the table very politely
and asked what we wanted. I looked at him with a certain
horror. In his one eye was a false squint, the other lay as a
white, blind glass ball between slitted eyelids. A fiery red cut
scar, shaped like an ‘S’, ran across the bald skull, eye and the
cheek, to the fat double chin. I knew that murderers marked
traitors with such a cruel mark.
Soon there were large bowls of venison on the table
along with flagons of wine on the table, and a wild carousing
began, in which I participated with caution. My heart was
loaded with feelings that had nothing to do with those of the
people at the table, and I had enough to answer Haymon’s
questions. The three others were listening quite modestly and
the girl looked at us like a cow at a new gate.
When the candles had burned down and Haymon’s
tongue grew heavier and heavier, I first learned how his life
had turned out, how, when all his parents’ property was gone,
he had to be glad to be able to crawl under somewhere as a
town clerk. And that was also the end since his hand was so
shaky from the continued drunkenness that his squiggles were
no longer legible. Now he had set out to find one of his former
tenants who had become rich, from whom he thought he could
still claim something, however little it was, and while
wandering he had met the three students today and continued
together on the path with them. After a long wandering back
and forth in the wild forest they had found the lonely Ball Mill
about two hours before I arrived with Görg, and were glad to
find a roof for the night, even more so, as a whizzing west
wind brought up ever wilder clouds and the earth smelled of
rain.
Now, however, the many wines had won Bavarian
Haymon’s heart completely and utterly, and with many gulps,
belches and weeping he could not do enough to remember
those wild times full of youthful foolishness and exuberance in
the magical false light of memory, keeping the good and the
pleasant, but completely forgetting the excess of adversity and
bitter worries. And after each sentence he spoke, he let a new
cup trickle down his skinny, knitted neck, while the three
young students only dared to talk quietly in a whisper so as not
to interrupt the dialogue of their mossy superior. I was hurting
enough. Friendship and youth were gone.
“Strike and heavy death, Herr Brother!” He cried out one
more time, “What kind of guys we were! Do you still
remember the same night, how tall Heilsbronner gave up the
ghost in the road dirt? How the brave Montanus emptied the
glass boot into his gullet for the last time? O brother, Finch has
also perished, drowned in the Murg, and the Portugieser has
rotted alive in the Spittel in Erlangen, so badly did the Dancing
Lily, with whom he had lived, make such a mess of him. And
Wechler, I don’t know if you would still know him, has become
a cathedral lord and no longer acknowledges me. O vanitas,
vanitatum vanitas! Gone are all the oaths and brotherly love!
Hey, Bärbel! Where is that bitch in heat? Give me some light!
Are we to remain in this hellish darkness? The three vixens
have enough money to pay for several candles!”
Then the innkeeper came out from behind the tiled stove,
where he had been lurking without our knowledge and said
rudely and hoarsely that it was bedtime, and new candles had
to be fetched from afar. Only a stump remained, and that was
just enough to find the sleeping room.
One of the young boys wanted to say something but
another one next to him, a quiet, nice boy who, as I had
observed the whole time, had drunk almost nothing and was
quite sober quickly nudged him and said softly, but in such a
way that I could hear it:
“Quiet, Hans! We may yet need your candles!”
The lout of a landlord without further ado took the last
candle, which was barely enough for a quarter of an hour, from
the table and mumbled, “Now whoever wants to sleep, let him
follow me. Who does not like it can squat in the dark room.
Nothing more will be poured out!”
Haymon wanted to stay, but I quickly took him under the
arm, and so we went behind the innkeeper and his big dog to
find our resting place.
We walked through a long corridor with several thick,
dusty or boarded-up windows. Haymon’s intoxication came out
as we walked, and I heard him say something about a
goddamned town piper, who he wanted to wipe out.
Meanwhile I remembered that the farmer was not with us.
“Where is my driver?” I asked the innkeeper, whose giant
shadow slid along the wall.
“Rehwang?” he grumbled, half looking around. “He’s
long since gone home with his harness.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I was annoyed. “What
shall I do tomorrow?”
The hulking fellow stopped in front of a door and
shrugged his shoulders.
“If the gentleman had drunk less and had paid attention
to Rehwang, he could easily have kept him here. It’s not my job
to care about such things.”
He threw a sidelong glance with his one-eye at me.
“And who knows if tomorrow will be so urgent.”
I kept silent, and he pushed open a wooden door with his
foot, holding his hand in front of the stump in the tin
candelabra.
We entered and found ourselves in a large, completely
empty hall, which had probably once been the pouring floor. In
the middle of the room stood, oddly enough, a thick, round
column, which supported the main beam of the ceiling on a
wide annulus. Star-shaped around this column were five berths,
better than we had thought. On clean, fresh straw were coarse,
but white sheets laid down, hard against the pillar there was a
head cushion for everyone, and five thick red-woolen blankets
were spread out for covering.
“We don’t have any better than this in the Ball Mill,” said
the innkeeper, as if embarrassed.
“The gentlemen must make do.”
We testified that we were satisfied, and so he, smiling
and bending down, put the burning light on a stool, showed us
the little luggage that was ours, and under the evil growl of his
mutt, wished us a good night. We heard him shuffle away
through the hallway and then throw the heavy front door shut,
sliding the bar and locking it with the turning of a key.
The two who had led Haymon so far now let him slide
gently onto one of the beds, and it was not two minutes before
he began to snore and mumble meaningless words, which the
wine had given him. A frightening restlessness was in me, and
some dark foreboding lay warningly and heavy in the pit of my
stomach. I took the light and looked around. Sooty cobwebs
hung like banners of mourning from the old beams of the
ceiling; the three small windows with their blinded, lead-lined
bull’s-eye panes could not be opened. A choking musty cellar
odor brooded in the wide room with the column. The wide ring
it wore at the top had recently been whitewashed, so that it
stood out glaringly against the lurid ceiling.
When I turned around, I saw that my feelings were
shared by the three students. None of them made any
preparations to visit the tempting beds or to put their swords
away.
“It smells like old blood in here,” said the bright-eyed
Hoibusch, who had already impressed me with his sobriety and
calmness at the table.
Also Hans Garnitter, who was lighting the candles said,
“This is where the devil is supposed to spend the night!” and
the third, a young gentleman of Sollengau, who gradually
became free of the wine spirits, nodded apprehensively.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

I jumped up from the table. As if in a bright light, for a
small moment I saw the connections of all the mysteries of my
life. But quickly enveloping veils descended on an image that
was not accessible to my ordinary senses.
“May I make a great request?” I asked.
“If it is in my power to grant it.”
“Lead me to the dying man,” I asked.
“So come,” said the priest.
We went quickly to the little cottage at the end of the
village. A reddish light pressed through the tiny, dim windows.
We heard many people murmuring, and when we entered the
low room, we saw several men and women kneeling in prayer.
In a meager bed lay an old man. His small, shriveled face
stood out from a blue pillow and was surrounded by the glow
of the dying candle burning at his head.
We approached his bed. The heavy eyes were glazed, his
mouth was open.
I saw at once that this man, in his distress would no
longer be able to answer the questions that were burning on my
lips.
Then something incomprehensible happened.
Slowly, the staring eyes turned and looked toward me. In
the face already marked by the paralyzing finger of death, there
was a faint movement, a joyful smile played around the thin,
sunken lips, and before we knew what was going on in the
dying man, his upper body rose, his haggard arms stretched out
toward me, and almost sobbing, the thin old man’s voice came
from out of his mouth:
“So you have come after all — at last!”
Radiant joy flamed in his eyes, then his head fell back
into the pillows, a gray shadow ran over his mouth and nose,
his body stretched so that the bedstead creaked.
The clergyman stepped in and closed the eyelids with his
hand.
“Rest now, thou faithful servant,” he said softly. “Let us
pray!”
We said the Lord’s Prayer, and as we left the parlor, I felt
everyone’s eyes on me.
The deceased believed he had seen his friend, Ewli, in
me.
The clergyman did not speak a word. When we were
back in his comfortable room, he looked at me with uneasy
eyes.
“It must have been the scar,” he said to himself.
“What scar?” I asked in amazement.
“The red scar that is between your eyebrows, Baron
Dronte. – No, no!” he cried suddenly. “Further brooding over
these things would be called trying God! – If it is convenient
for you I will show you your bedroom!”
I bowed my thanks and went with him.
When we were standing in the room I had been given, he
took me by the shoulders with both hands and looked me in the
face for a long time.
“Forgive me for my rude confusion!” he then said. “But I,
an old man, have experienced too many incomprehensible and
disturbing things. I myself am not able to solve the terrible
riddles of providence. I want to be alone. Please don’t be angry
with me. I need to flee from the confusion of these mysterious
incidents to a safe haven! In the faith in Him, who directs
everything according to His high will, and in the peace of
prayer.”
“Pray for me, too, Reverend Herr”, I asked with emotion.
Then I was alone. And restlessly I groped with the
feeling that the mind was not able to bring me any help, to find
the little portal within the dark wall that would lead to the truth.
But here and there, in the sleepless night, appeared a faint
glimmer of foreboding – I could not grasp anything of that,
which in the deepest and darkest depths of my soul approached.
A farmer, whom I had taken into my service with his
team and asked for the most stately building in the entire area,
assured me that it was Krottenriede Castle. But the road that
led there was a two day journey through a thick forest and a
horrible moor and was by no means safe. Not too long ago the
Spillermaxe gang had lain in wait in the Damned Quarry and in
Klosterholz near the road, and the poachers were not doing too
well either, and seldom gathered together, for example, to hunt
a more spirited game than a deer or roebuck.
Also the priest, whom I clearly saw had kept watch
through the night, warned me of the vast forest, where it was
not safe. When I had made up my mind to leave, he took his
leave visibly moved and commended me to the blessing of God,
who would protect me from the false arts and deceitfulness of
Satan. For after careful reflection he could not believe that God
would want to use a Mohammedan monk or dervish to help a
believing Christian, whom he recognized me to be.
I thanked him for the night’s lodging and the food and
urged the farmer, whose name was Görg Rehwang, to hurry,
since I had every reason to fear that the little courage the man
had would evaporate before the journey began. After I made
sure that the mail coach driver would be able to travel home in
the course of the day and was quite well, we drove into the
middle of the forest.
By the crouched neck and the shy side glances, which
Rehwang did to the right and left, I soon realized that his heart
was in his pants, and it was not long before he half turned
around and asked with a cheese-white face:
“”Didn’t you hear something, Herr?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“To the right hand someone has made a whistle or I shall
not be blessed!” he whispered, scratching his furry hair.
But nothing happened. It might have been a wild bird.
Then, however, when we reached a marshy area of heath
he began to talk about the inn, in which we were to find
accommodation for one night and which was called “The Ball
Mill”.
“Supposedly there were many a man there with heavy
stones on their feet, without clothes and possessions, in the
depths of the black moor waters, to the delight of crayfish,
water beetles and eels.” he babbled, his teeth chattering.
“Lord, how about we turn the foreheads of our nags to
where we came from?”
I gave him no answer, and so he drove on with a deep
sigh. The area was gloomy and sad. Between shimmering pools
stood ancient and gnarled trees, covered with warts and goiters.
Dead trunks and those peeled by lightning desperately spread
their twisted serpentine arms. On water covered with a skin of
thick green slime, lurked crippled willows, on which hungry
crows squatted. Trunks and branches were whitewashed with
the droppings of the resting birds. Sometimes a duck would
rise out of the reeds with a whistle and beating wings. Very
distant, mournful notes from a flute purred in the wind, and
gray misty women dragged their dripping gowns through the
treetops.
“Here it’s called the Damned Quarry”, the farmer began
again. “And the path there, between the young birches, leads to
the Ball Mill, where we can spend the night.”
But it went on for a long time, until we arrived in front of
the dark gray and unfriendly building. Large, stone balls, green
with moss, eaten by rain and snow lay next to the door, and a
moldy soft spot still showed where the dammed waters of the
moor brook had driven the mill, which had long since become
an inn.
The farmer got off the wagon with a crooked back and
shouted a few times:
“Hey there, the inn!”
But nothing moved, yet we thought we heard wild
singing coming through the greenish windows behind the
strong square bars. After long shouting the host finally
appeared with a huge black and white spotted dog, whose dull,
raw face was not unlike that of a man. The broad-shouldered
man, who had an excessively long knife sticking out of his fat
leather pants, looked at us unkindly enough and grunted:
“Hoho, Rehwang, what do you bring us there for a
distinguished gentlemen?”
“The gentleman has a long way to go,” the farmer
apologized. “And so goes inquiry on account of the night’s
lodging.”
“Still don’t know the household custom, you living cow
patty?” the rude host dug at poor Görg Rehwang. “And if the
emperor and the pope and all the electors and as far as I’m
concerned, also the empress and the archbishop’s bed warmer
come riding and driven, there is nothing else in the Ball Mill
but a bundle of straw in the large room. – The Herr can do with
it as he pleases!” he said with a treacherous look at me.
Behind him, pointy-nosed, shabby and rattle-thin like the
forest crows on the garbage heap by the building, suddenly
stood, as if grown from the earth, the landlady who smiled
wryly and said:
“If it is convenient for the Herr he is welcome! While
there is nothing but a poor man’s bed, we have good wine and a
company in the house, where there is a great deal of fun.”
“There is no lack of wine,” the innkeeper in the woollen
doublet interjected much more friendly. “I just wanted to warn
the gentleman that he does not expect anything fine from us
and does not beat the wheel in disgust at the burping and
farting of the sleeping companions around him.”
I did not reply to the coarse lout’s rude speeches and
entered the house. Roaring laughter and shouting rang out to
me from the tavern when I opened the door, and stinging pipe
smoke billowed out in clouds.
At the long table, above which was an elaborately carved
in wood, six-horse carriage with all the accessories hung in toy
size, also burned six or seven candles in tin lanterns. Three
students sat at it, their long swords strapped around them, their
sleeves pinned up, drinking Runda. With them was a tree-tall,
gaunt fellow with a bald skull and a fiery red vulture nose,
dressed in a scuffed black robe, who held a cheeky brown-
skinned woman on his lap, with his hand waving a yellow neck
cloth in the air. The black-eyed woman laughed in such a way
that her exposed breasts trembled, and she pinched the old beau
in his drunkard’s nose, so that he cried out loudly and let her go.

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