Wildwood Dancing

by Juliet Marillier

  On hearing the name Transylvania, many people think of vampires and werewolves. Bram Stoker has a lot to answer for! His novel Dracula, published in 1897, sparked readers’ imaginations. It gave rise to an elaborate vampire mythology, which became so popular over the years that many people came to believe it represented the authentic folklore of the region. There is a whole “vampire tourism” industry in Romania, which encourages the (incorrect) belief that the fifteenth-century prince Vlad Ţepeă was the original Count Dracula. Vlad inherited the right to use the name Drăculea (son of Dracul) from his father, Vlad III, who was a member of the chivalric Order of the Dragon.

  In Romanian, the word drac means both dragon and devil, and it is not difficult to see how this led to a devilish reputation for Vlad the son. He did carry out some cruel and barbaric acts during his time as prince of Wallachia, but he also led his people in a strong defense against the Turkish invaders. There is, however, no evidence at all that he was a vampire.

  Stoker’s novel is a work of imaginative fiction. But his story does owe something to the original myths, legends, and beliefs of Transylvania. In Wildwood Dancing, I have tried to go back to earlier sources for my inspiration, and it is for this reason that Tadeusz and his followers are not referred to in the book as vampires, but by the more general name of Night People. I have deliberately made their portrayal ambivalent—are they all bad or partly good?—in order to avoid the Dracula stereotype.

  Crucifixes stand all over the rural landscape of Transylvania. They are erected to deflect not only the powers of the devil in this mostly Romanian Orthodox region, but also other entities that may live in the forest—ancient forces that may threaten those who do not respect them.

  This is a land where bears and wolves come close to human settlements, a place where snow can lie heavily for up to six months of the year. To survive in such a harsh environment requires a particular understanding of the balance between humankind and wild nature. Certain rituals in which animal masks are worn take place in the more isolated villages at appropriate times of year. These may go back to the practices of the Transylvanians’ ancient ancestors, the tribe of the Dacians, among whom there were both shaman-healers and a warrior caste dedicated to the wolf.

  As Paula explains in Wildwood Dancing, the forest provided a refuge for the people of the plateau through hundreds of years of unrest. This enabled Transylvania to retain some autonomy, and a strong sense of identity, despite the presence of such invaders as the Tartars, the Magyars, and the Turks.

  Glossary

  Braşov A merchant town in central Transylvania. Pronounced Brah-shove

  Ciorbǎ Traditional Romanian broth. Pronounced chor-buh

  Constanta A trading port on the Black Sea coast. Pronounced Kahn-stahn-tsah

  mǎmǎligǎ A porridge or cake made with cornmeal (polenta), and often cooked with sheep cheese. A staple of the Romanian diet. Pronounced muh-muh-lee-guh

  Piscul Dracului Devil’s Peak. Pronounced Pis-kul Drah -koo-looy

  Pomanǎ A feast for the dead, at which their worldly goods are given away. Attended by friends; relatives; important folk from the village, such as the judge, priest, and teacher; and poor people. A spiritual value is attached to the distribution of the departed one’s possessions. Can be held at several significant times after the death: e.g., seven days, seven months, one year, or seven years afterward. Pronounced poh-mah-nuh

  Sibiu A merchant town in central Transylvania. Pronounced See-beeyoo

  Tara Romǎneascǎ A region south of Transylvania, also known as Wallachia. Pronounced Tsah-rah Roh-muh-neeyes-kuh

  Taul Ielelor Lake of the Iele. Iele are female spirits who lure folk to their doom. Pronounced Tah-ool YeHeh-lor

  Tuicǎ Plum brandy. Pronounced tswee-kuh

  Vǎrful cu Negurǎ Storm Heights. Pronounced Vur-fool koo Neh-goo-ruh

  Voivode The head of a Transylvanian territory; princeling. Pronounced voh-yeah-vode

  Pronunciation Guide

  to Character Names

  Anastasia Ah-nah-stah-see-yah

  Anatolie Ah-nah-toh-yeeah

  Bogdana Bohg-dah-nah

  Cezar Cheh-zahr

  Costi, Costin Koh-tee, Kohs-teen

  Dräguta Druh-goo-tsah

  Florica Flo-ree-kah

  Gogu Goh-goo

  Grigori Gree-gohrree

  Ileana Eel-leh-ah-nah

  Iulia Yoolee-ah

  Jena, Jenica Jeh-nah, Jeh-nee-kah (J pronounced like g in mirage)

  Marin Mah-reen

  Nicolae Nee-koh-lie-eh (lie rhymes with sky)

  Paula PowHah

  Petra Peh-troo

  Rǎzvan Rahz-vahn

  Salem bin Afazi Sah-lem bin Ah-fah-zee

  Sandu Sahn-doo

  Stela Stel-ah

  Tadeusz Tah-deh-oosh (deh-oosh almost one syllable)

  Tati, Tatiana Tah-tee, Tah-tee-ahrnah

  Teodor The-oh-dor

  Turn the page for a special preview of the upcoming companion novel to Wildwood Dancing:

  CYBELE’S

  SECRET

  Excerpt copyright © 2008 by Juliet Marillier.

  Published by Alfred A. Knopf.

  The deck tilted to port, and I tilted with it, grabbing at a rope to keep my balance. One day out from Constanţa, the wind had turned contrary and the waters of the Black Sea rose and fell under the Stea de Mare’s belly like a testy horse trying to unseat its rider.

  “You have excellent sea legs, Paula,” my father commented. He stood perfectly balanced, a veteran of more merchant voyages than he could count. This was my first.

  The sail crackled in the wind. The crewmen, grim-jawed and narrow-eyed, were struggling to keep the one-master under control. When they glanced my way, their expressions were hostile.

  “It unsettles them to have a woman on board,” my father said. “Ignore it. It’s superstitious nonsense. They know me, and you’re my daughter. If the captain doesn’t like it, he shouldn’t have accepted my silver.”

  “It doesn’t bother me, Father,” I said through gritted teeth. Having good sea legs didn’t mean I relished the bobbing motion of the boat or the constant drenching in salt spray. Nor did I much care for the sense that if the Stea de Mare sank, these sailors would put the blame on me. “Is this going to delay us, Father?”

  “It may, but Salem bin Afazi will wait for us in Istanbul. He understands what this means for me, Paula—the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “I know, Father.” There was a treasure waiting for us in the great city of the Turks, the kind of piece merchants dream of laying their hands on just once in their lives. Father wouldn’t be the only prospective buyer. Fortunately, he was a skillful negotiator, patient and subtle.

  When he had first agreed to take me with him, it had been to allow me to broaden my horizons now that I was in my eighteenth year, to let me see the world beyond the isolated valley where we lived and the merchant towns of Transylvania that we sometimes visited.

  But things had changed on the journey. Just before we were due to embark, Father’s secretary, Gabriel, had tripped coming down a flight of steps in the Black Sea port of Constanţa. The resultant broken ankle was now being tended to in the physician’s house there while the Stea de Mare bore Father and me on to Istanbul. It was most fortunate that I spoke perfect Greek and several other languages and that I had Father’s full trust. While I could not take Gabriel’s place as his official assistant, I could, at the very least, be his second set of ears. It would be a challenge. I could hardly wait.

  The wind had brought rain, the same drenching spring rain that fell on our mountains back home, flooding streams and soaking fields. It scoured the planks of the deck and wrapped the ship in a curtain of white. From where I stood, I could barely see the sail, let alone the bow cutting its way through choppy seas. The crew must be steering our course blind.

  Father was shouting something above the rising voice of the wind, perhaps suggesting we should go below until things calmed dow
n. I pretended not to hear. The tiny cabins we had been allocated were stuffy and claustrophobic. Being enclosed there only emphasized the ship’s movement, and one could not lie on the narrow bunk without dwelling on how exactly one would get out should the Stea de Mare decide to sink.

  “Get down, Paula!” Father yelled. A moment later a huge, dark form loomed up behind us. A scream died in my throat before I could release it. Another ship—a tall three-master, so close I screwed my eyes shut, waiting for the sickening crunch of a collision. It towered above us. The moment it hit us, we would begin to go down.

  Running steps, shouts, the clank of metal. I opened my eyes to see our crew diving across the deck, snatching implements to fend off the approaching wall of timber. Everyone was yelling. The helmsman and his assistant heaved on the wheel. I clutched on to Father, and the two of us ducked down behind the flimsy protection of a cargo crate, but I couldn’t bear not knowing what was happening. I peered over the crate, my heart racing. Aboard the three-master, a motley collection of sailors was busy hauling on ropes and scrambling up rigging while an equally mixed group had assembled by the rail, long poles extended across and downward in our direction. There were about two arm’s lengths in it.

  “Poxy pirate!” I heard our captain snarl as he strode past. A shudder went through the bigger ship, as if it were drawing a difficult breath, and then the two vessels slid by one another, a pair of dancers performing a graceful aquatic pavane.

  The wind gusted, snatching my red headscarf and tossing it high. As the scrap of scarlet crossed the divide between the boats, I saw a man set a booted foot on the rail of the three-master and swing up with graceful ease to stand balanced on the narrow rim. He took hold of a rope with one casual hand, then leaned out over the churning waters to pluck the scarf from midair while the ship moved on under full sail. The sailor was tall, his skin darker than was usual in my homeland, his features striking in their sculpted strength. As I stared, the fellow tilted himself back with the ship’s natural movement and leaped down to the deck, tucking the red scarf into his belt. He did not glance in my direction. The big ship moved away, and I saw its name in gold paint on the side: Esperança.

  “Close,” muttered Father. “Altogether too close.”

  Despite my pounding heart, I felt more intrigued than frightened. “Did the captain say pirate?” I asked, unrealistic images of weathered seafarers with exotic birds or monkeys on their shoulders flashing through my mind.

  “If he did,” Father said, “we must be glad the fellow didn’t seize the opportunity to board us. I want to get my goods to Istanbul in one piece. Perhaps he knew all I had was hides and wheat. We’ll be more of a prize on the way back.”

  I looked at him.

  “Don’t worry,” Father said. “This crew has transported me dozens of times, and we’ve never yet lost a cargo. Come, we’d best go below. It’s obvious we’re in the way, and you should cover up your hair again.”

  I raised no objections. In my tiny cabin, I wielded a hairbrush as best I could, then tied on another from my collection of scarves. There were rules for this trip, rules designed not only for my safety, but for the success of our business venture. To win the trust of those we traded with, we must abide by certain codes of behavior, including standards of dress. I would be wearing a headscarf, along with my most decorous clothing, whenever I went out in public.

  In fact, the greater part of our business would be conducted with other Christian traders, men from Genoa or Venice or farther west, in whose company these rules could be relaxed. Father would need me to record transactions and check figures, at the very least. When he consulted with Muslim merchants, I would be banned, for Father had told me women of that faith did not mix with men other than those who were their close kin, and then only within the safe walls of the family home. Fortunately, Father and his colleague Salem bin Afazi, who would be meeting us in Istanbul, had a very good understanding. I hoped Salem might arrange for me to be admitted to libraries or to gatherings of female scholars. I had dreamed of that for a long time.

  “Father,” I said a little later when the two of us were squeezed into his cabin space as the Stea de Mare pitched and rolled, “if you meant what you said about our being a bigger prize once we have the artifact, perhaps we’ll need to take further precautions on the way back. I didn’t think it was the kind of thing pirates would want, but I suppose if they knew its value, they could try to seize it.”

  Father looked unperturbed. In the dim light that filtered down the steep ladder from the deck, he was writing notes in the little leather-bound book he carried with him everywhere. “When we reach Istanbul, I’ll hire a guard for you,” he said. “Salem should be able to recommend a trustworthy man. You may receive some invitations from the wives of my fellow merchants, and I won’t always be able to accompany you. A guard can ensure your safety. Without one, you’ll find yourself confined indoors most of the time. Women don’t go about on their own in such places. I do plan to look at other goods while we’re in Istanbul, if only to distract attention from our principal business there, and I’ll take you with me when I can. Nobody’s going to offer me the item I want openly. I’ll need to pursue it through Salem’s contacts.” Father’s voice was held low. The transaction we sought to carry out was delicate in the extreme, and we could not be too cautious.

  “Is there any chance I might visit a library, Father? I’ve heard there are many rare books and manuscripts in Istanbul.”

  “The best of those are in the libraries of the religious schools or the personal collections of high-ranking officials,” Father said. “As a woman and as a non-Muslim, you could not have access to those. There are some female scholars in the city, of course. Irene of Volos, for example.”

  “Who is she, Father?”

  “I haven’t met the lady, but she’s a long-term resident of Istanbul and has an excellent reputation as a patron of worthy causes. She’s wealthy; her husband is a personal adviser to the Sultan. I understand Irene’s hospitality extends to women of various backgrounds, including the wives of foreign merchants. I think you’ll find her invitations are much prized. Perhaps we could make an approach to her.”

  “That would be wonderful, Father. Of course, I know a lot of the material in any Turkish library would be in Arabic script, but there must be works in Greek and Latin as well, the kind of thing that one day I may be wealthy enough to buy for myself.”

  “Is that what you’d do if you made your fortune, Paula? Establish a grand personal library?” Father laid down his quill, which promptly rolled off the fold-down table. I caught it, splashing ink on my skirt.

  “Not exactly,” I said, feeling a little defensive. “I was thinking more of a book-trading enterprise. Braşov would be an excellent base for that kind of business. I could provide a service for scholars, teachers, and priests. Once the business became well established, I’d have a partner in Istanbul, another in Venice or Genoa, a third in London. I could expand it in time to include my own printing press.”

  Father gazed at me, his dark eyes thoughtful in his narrow, gray-bearded face. “An ambitious plan,” he said. “You realize, Paula, that this voyage may well make our fortunes—mine, yours, those of all your sisters and Costi as well?” Costi was Father’s business partner and was married to my sister Jena. He was also our second cousin. Our family had expanded quite a bit over the last few years. Two of my four sisters were married with children, and only Stela and I were still at home with Father. As for my eldest sister, Tati, it was very possible we would never see her again. The forest that surrounded our home housed a portal to another world. Six years ago, true love had carried her through that doorway, never to return.

  “If we acquire this artifact and get it safely back to Transylvania for the buyer,” Father went on, “there’s a substantial profit to be made. And it could lead to more commissions.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t saying.

  “But the risks almost outweigh the opportunities?” I ventu
red.

  “That is unfortunately true, Paula. With the Esperança plying Black Sea waters, we’ll need to be especially watchful.”

  “So you did recognize the ship,” I said.

  “I recognized the name. I thought the fellow was confining his activities to southern regions these days.”

  “Fellow?”

  “The ship’s out of Lisbon. Her master’s called Duarte da Costa Aguiar.”

  “That’s a grand sort of name for a villain. He’s a long way from home.”

  “Indeed. For a man who’s prepared to engage in theft and violence, there must be rich pickings nearer the English coast. But Aguiar’s not the kind of man folk mean when they say pirate. He’s a trader, a dealer, and he has an eye for antiquities. It’s not very hard to guess what’s brought him to these parts.”

  “Aguiar,” I mused. “That means eagle, doesn’t it?” I recalled the proud features of the man who had caught my scarf and the nonchalant way he’d tucked it in his belt. I’d bet a silver piece to a lump of coal that he was this Duarte. “Theft, you said. How does a person like that dispose of the things he steals?”

  Father smiled. “There’s always a black market for these items, purchasers who are not scrupulous about the goods’ provenance. Almost anything can be disposed of covertly, though the profit may not be quite as high. This Portuguese is astute. He knows what he’s after and chooses his targets accordingly. Some of it’s quite legitimate buying and selling. When it isn’t, he’s expert at avoiding being caught. Nobody’s ever been able to pin anything on him.”

  “He must be doing well,” I commented, recalling the size of the vessel that had almost rammed us.

  “Indeed. A man doesn’t maintain a ship like that without resources and good planning. Of course, there are actual pirate operations hereabouts, but they’re mostly small, spur-of-the-moment ventures.”