Read Online Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church by Indrek Hargla - Free Book Online

contrary, wounds a person through its very absence, with its cold, filth and muck. That was when it was most painful to live here. Eastertide in Tallinn was filled with inertia, mourning and distress – not like in Milan. Now, in mid-May, it seemed as if even the trees and bushes prompted him to remember that the time of death was past.
    The apple trees in St Nicholas’s churchyard had broken out in bloom today.
    Kilian Rechpergerin sat on his rock, freshly warmed by the spring sun, and played his lute while two girls sat at his feet and listened. Both of the girls, Katrine and Birgitta, were pretty, and proud town maidens at that, the daughters of town citizens. Alas, they were so young, and love was not even a game to them yet. Their hearts were certainly full of good cheer, and the prospect of betrothal was no longer too far off, but love remained a somewhat amusing and foreign land to them, a thing of delight. They were not aware that love must hurt and that true love means pain.
    Kilian sang:
    â€˜Lo, the tavern lies there at the crossroads
    Close to Dorrenstamm
    And Satan himself runs the bar …’
    It was an old song that he had heard a couple of years ago at a roadside inn in autumn while on his way from Nuremburg to Milan. The song spoke of a tavern where Satan led travellers astray, coaxed them into casting dice and forced them to sell their souls to cover their debts. Kilian had once felt that selling one’s soul was an empty and unnecessary act. Bishops sometimes spoke of it, and travelling monks preached about it. Yet a person could not actually sell their soul; it was just fable.
    Now he knew better. Now he understood that song.
    A man can sell his soul. It is possible to tempt a person on to the road to sin. Sin lies in thoughts, in a look … sin lies in coveting. It is a mortal sin. It was not without cause that Kilian had chosen that very churchyard for his noontime idling. It was past this spot that Gerdrud walked every day at midday on her way to visit the mill beyond Harju Gate.
    â€˜Listen, you, Sire Meistersinger of Nuremburg, do you know any happier songs as well?’ Katrine asked, giggling. The freckles on her brow flickered in the rays of sunlight – she was a pretty red-haired girl with mirthful green eyes.
    â€˜Yes, the kind of songs that are also suitable for young, chaste girls and not only those about dice and Satan,’ Birgitta urged.
    â€˜Or do you believe that all songs should speak of men’s merrymaking?’ ‘Sire Meistersinger Kilian Rechpergerin of Nuremberg has likely lost his tongue completely because of his great master-singing?’
    The questions rained down upon Kilian; the girls giggled, but the singer could now see Gerdrud approaching in the distance. The young woman carried a basket under her arm. She noticed Kilian – and she also noticed the two girls listening to his music. If Kilian had been alone then Gerdrud might possibly have walked closer and chided him for wasting the day in this manner – singing along to melodies strummed on his lute – but this time she did not draw near. This time she did not even nod. She averted her gaze as if she had not seen Kilian. As if he were not even there.
    This hurt him – however, it hurt him sweetly, filling his heart with painful joy.
    â€˜Not in the least, lovely maidens,’ he said, raking his fingers across the strings of the instrument. ‘However, I am not yet an actual Meistersinger, I am only a
Schulfreund,
a wandering journeyman. But, in spite that of that, I wish to sing to you. There is a song for everyone, be they young or old, fat or thin, beautiful or ugly, man or woman, robber or cleric.’
    â€˜And who are we, in your opinion? Young or old? Fat or thin?’ Birgitta asked. ‘Beautiful or ugly, robbers or clergy?’
    â€˜Women or men?’ Katrine said through a fit of giggles.
    â€˜Who you are, lovely maidens, is for you to