The Urn

by G. Wells Taylor

  Sweat soaked my face and neck as I descended the perilous stair, kicking one leg after another out into the shadowed darkness as the steps turned down in the murk.

  The poor light from the swinging lantern unsettled my nerves and seemed to amplify the echoing sounds that suddenly came to me: something like laughter, a woman’s gasp, and then a baby gave a single cry and went silent.

  But on that end note, a faint bluish light flickered to life and threw the steps beneath me into twilight.

  I exited the winding stair and found myself by the old chapel. The grounds around it were lit by this ghostly light that seeped in and out of shadow and brought the half-seen edges of stony shapes and crumbled monuments to life. This bluish glow was uneven and its flicker did nothing to aid my progress or assure my footing.

  I was in the old graveyard again, and in the ill light could recognize where we had dug the earth that had been sent with the master into the west. Some 50 boxes of the precious substance did he take, yet only a single box returned, the very one in which he had traveled home.

  I knelt and opened the urn quickly. The lid swung back as I hastily scraped three clods of dirt from the edge of the closest grave. Each fell with a dusty thud upon the contents before I slammed it shut.

  Murk was settling over the landscape as I regained my feet with my burdens and I cast about a moment, disoriented, before taking several paces and stopping in an unnatural haze of dust and mist that was rising up around my boots.

  I could not see the chapel. Snatching in a breath, I looked to each point of the compass before glancing down at my feet.

  The dirt beneath them was solid enough, the same I had traveled mere moments before. So how could I be lost? Snarling under my breath, I looked for a landmark—something to gauge my progress.

  The grounds about the chapel had been dug up and burrowed in and thoroughly disturbed to the point that it would be a difficult stretch to traverse even in full daylight. In the dark, it was a daunting landscape to travel with my good master’s remains in the unwieldy urn, black pitfalls open all around, and with only the unsteady light from my swinging lantern to guide me.

  Yet, here I stood in the middle of this graveyard peering at the pale-lit shadows ahead—or was that behind? I looked to left and right and marveled that the dim light had taken an almost physical form now—a corporeal mist seemed to be creeping across the malformed landscape toward me.

  Where was the chapel?

  I took four tentative steps and stopped again, suddenly overwhelmed by fear. My mind gibbered for escape. Was that part of this magic? First blind me of direction and then drive me mad with terror?

  Pressing down my urgent need to scream, I leapt forward at a run, and by chance or unrecognized intent, I had chosen the correct way for I soon stumbled past the ruined chapel that loomed out of the fog to my left.

  Another sound echoed from the broken rooftop and bounced over this rolling landscape to disguise its true source, but I was at a loss to understand.

  Had it been a human voice? For so it had first seemed, but as the sound’s reverberation wound down, so did my ability to identify it. What truly started as a human voice, perhaps someone hailing me at a distance, became a donkey’s bray before wafting down to a rushing sound of an errant wind, or skirts catching at a woman’s calf.

  No sooner had I paused panting over my burden to listen than another call came. This time it seemed to rattle down from the tower stairs I’d just traversed.

  By the time it reached me it rang like the peal of children playing.

  I shifted my load and wiped at my eyes with the back of a free hand as I sought its source, only to find that there was nothing but the sundered earth that appeared as cold, gray heaps running in and out of darkness in the eerie light.

  And the light, what of the strange light? No trick of the lantern and fog as I had originally imagined, I saw now that it glimmered from many unseen sources. A beguiling glow played about the ruined landscape and dogged my step to confuse me.

  Then as I eased the urn back to both hands, I caught sight of something in the distance. In the dark black arch that led to the stair it seemed a white face was watching me.

  A white face that hung there in the gloom.

  I turned and ran, unable to believe my eyes, but unable to reject the vision they had shown me. Surely they were playing tricks, but with the master so vulnerable I could take no chance.

  There were but two creatures that ever “lived” within the walls of the castle during my decades there, and I was one of them. The other tenant was gone now, his grisly remains a wadded ball of ash and dust and clotted blood within the ancient urn.

  CHAPTER 3

  FROM THE GYPSY HORVAT’S JOURNAL

  7th November, 1893. Transylvania at Night

  I made my way by lantern light past the main gate and across the courtyard before passing under a rounded arch and traveling a dark, damp tunnel to the master’s stable. I had pulled my fur hat down over my ears to where it butted against the furry upturned collar of my simple coat.

  The air was frigid and ate through the many layers of clothing it was my habit to wear about the drafty castle. So cold had the night grown that my spirit quailed at the notion of the journey before me. Was this truly a mission for a man of my age, whether he be loyal or not?

  But the urn in my arms was all I needed in answer, for my dear master could no longer feel the cold nor choose his fate, so as I passed through the stable doors, a blush of shame came up to heat my face.

  I had sworn an oath.

  The master’s mighty steeds awaited me, sunk into the shadows as black as night, only to have their muscular shapes spring out in otherworldly fashion as the orange light I carried fell from one stall to the next.

  I stood back to admire the enormous beasts. Eager they were to set hoof to road, and I imagined myself flying down to the coast upon one of their great backs.

  Truly, there were no other horses in the land that could challenge these steeds—and yet, such hopes were fantasy, for these animals had been trained to pull a grand calèche, not to bear a saddle. A lord with my master’s unique capabilities had no need to ride.

  It was imperative that the first leg of my journey be taken in secrecy, and so close to the castle there was no way I could travel in one of his splendid carriages upon the open road and not be observed.

  No one could know where I was going.

  The horses fretted at the sight of me, anxiously stamping and snorting as I continued along the dusty aisle between their stalls. I kept the master’s urn tight against my chest, my fingers growing numb where they gripped its handles. I was otherwise burdened by pack, musket and sword.

  Normally, I went about my duties carrying only the small cutting knife or churi that was traditional to my people. While its sheepsfoot blade performed well at any task from cutting pegs or apples to slicing throats, I understood that the challenges of the journey ahead might require more than the practical knife could deliver in the way of personal protection.

  My grandfather’s father’s sword was no longer up to the task, so I had chosen an old Cossack blade from the master’s armory, selected because of its usefulness as a cavalry weapon. I was still determined to be mounted when I traveled to the coast.

  Its two-and-a-half-foot long curved blade was designed for hacking opponents from horseback, while its tarnished appearance would not tempt any bandits upon the road, as other gilded swords kept in the armory might. It hung by my left hip; its sheathed length suspended by a sturdy shoulder strap.

  To this armament I had added a foot-long stabbing dagger of the same approximate age though of indeterminate origin. Its steel blade slid easily in and out of a wood and leather sheath, perfect for close and deadly combat, or for whatever functions my simple churi could not perform around a campsite.

  I also selected from the master’s collection a single-shot percussion cap musket, a pistol of the same muzzle-loading variety, and a good sup
ply of ball and black powder. My heart quavered at the sight of the old firearms and I bemoaned the fact that the master had never thought to upgrade his arsenal—something that I thought would be obvious to a man with his military history, but of course, I never spoke of it to him.

  Memory of how his murderers’ Winchester repeating rifles had decimated my brother Gypsies seemed to prove my foresight correct—and the master’s current state reiterated the wisdom of my unvoiced reservation.

  But the old weapons would have to do. They were sturdy and durable, deadly if used properly, and I was an accurate shot with both. Likewise, they were flexible regarding shot, and could use smaller caliber lead, or could be coaxed into firing acceptable substitutes.

  I had heard stories of soldiers firing stones, nails and other missiles when short of ammunition. My main concern would be replenishing my store of black powder and percussion caps, without which the weapons would be useless.

  Luckily, the armory had a ready supply of each. I divided some 500 percussion caps between two small leather pouches, and added a sheet of linen to use as patches for the lead shot. I chose a rather simple hunter’s powder flask made from oxen horn, stopped both top and bottom with oak. It was a plain thing that I could carry from a string slung around my neck. Like the swords, there were finer pieces in the collection, but they would draw the eye, and such a thing I could not risk on the mission ahead.

  The flask held a pound of black powder at most, and I felt this should be enough for my trip to the Black Sea coast so far as hunting and protection were concerned. I would carry most of my food jarred, canned or smoked and going under cover of secrecy, I had no reason to expect any but natural threats. From the coast, my future was unknown, and so I would be sure to purchase more of the powder to stand against the vagaries of fate.

  The weapons were heavy, something I had grumbled about when I first thrust the pistol and dagger through the wide embroidered belt that closed my thick fur coat, and slung the musket over my shoulder with my pack, waterskin and sword.

  I wore thick, quilted pants and woolen underclothes, fur hat, mittens and sturdy horsehide boots. I had other warm clothing in the pack along with loaves of hard bread, a large wheel of cheese, preserved meat and fruit and three smoked sausages as long as my arm. I included a bag of dried apples and various nuts.

  On a whim, I had packed two flasks of slivovitz, a delicious plum brandy that could steady my nerves as it quenched my thirst. I had also considered its warming, soporific qualities as I imagined laying my 51-year-old body upon the frozen ground to sleep.

  For my master’s needs, the book said there was but one. That blood be admitted to the urn daily, or enough to keep the contents “wet.” The initial dowsing I’d given the urn with my brother Gypsy’s blood would have to do for the moment. Added to that, the most current soak I’d provided while picking up my own rations.

  I had poured freely into the urn from a bucket of pig’s blood that one of my brother Gypsy guards had set aside in preparation for making pudding.

  The urn sloshed as I walked.

  With a five- or six-day journey to the coast ahead of me, I hoped that an opportunity would arise to use my gun and provide fresh blood to the urn, and I knew that if the situation became extreme that both I and my mount could spare a little to cover any drought.

  It was lamentable that the master kept no steeds for mounts, but I had my own small horse of a sturdy breed favored by my people for its strength and endurance. This one had carried me on many a journey and had done so for the seven years since its sire had died after a long life of faithful service.

  This one I had named “Baba.” I’d known the beast since her mother threw her and I myself did cut away her bloody caul. She seemed to remember the early association and was always pleased to see me and quick to please. Never once had she resisted one of my commands, and I prayed now that this record would go unchallenged, for I could not help but think the road ahead would demand much from both of us.

  She gave her happy whinny and snort as I passed by the master’s horses and made my way over to her. I set my burdens upon the straw-covered stone by her stall, and then patted the light mane that fell forward between her ears as I fed her a dried apple. She munched contentedly as I gathered her tack, and soon had her saddled and set for travel.

  After that I found a long leather harness that I cut into lengths from which I fashioned a thick strap that I fixed to the handles on either side of my master’s urn. I could then put this loop up behind my head and over my shoulders to support its weight as I carried it before me. I had decided this was the best configuration for moving the precious cargo; I could keep a careful eye upon its contents, and my arms were freed for other actions.

  I dug about and found a couple of thick horse blankets that I could use for my own warmth, and to wrap the urn. I’d already felt the coppery breath of warm moist air issuing from the shuttered vent, and did not want to take it unprotected into the night. Also, I thought it wise to disguise it beneath a blanket, should I meet anyone upon the road.

  After packing my gear on Baba, I took out the master’s map, and held it under the lantern light. He had been insistent in his instruction that I let no one see me on the road, or have knowledge of what I was doing and any who came to know it was to die.

  And so tucked within the covers of his book was a special map drawn by the master’s own hand. This had the main roads intersected by winding paths that led through the forested hills from one roadway to the next, and while they looked challenging to travel, keeping to their routes would keep my journey secret.

  The handwritten legend told of signs should I ever lose my way, and detailed specific landmarks: trees, bridges, buildings, and stones where he had hidden clues, where by the light of my lamp I could get my bearings.

  I could not help but wonder at his foresight, and marvel at the situation that might have forced him to make such a maze for travel. Indeed, he was feared by his people, and he undoubtedly liked to go about his business unmolested.

  Looking the map over, I saw that these secret ways edged along the outskirts of the villages they passed, where at various intervals his winding paths snaked in amongst the homes and buildings like tendrils—offering sheltered footpaths that followed streams and river valleys before ending up in the village square.

  It was plain to me that following the master’s path would take me safely where I needed to go, depositing me finally at the very edge of the port town of Varna.

  I was feeling anxious as I extinguished the lantern. The cold night air closed in with the darkness. I shuddered, and then suddenly felt for the small travel lamp I had packed in my bag. Its contours were easily defined near the top, but this caused me to check the pockets of my coat again for my store of matches and tinderbox.

  I breathed a sigh that gave little relief, for I had not been so far from the castle in many years, and then, it was only to journey to the lands that held my own people’s camps.

  I’d never been to Varna or to the villages closest to it. But my master’s instructions were clear, so I mounted Baba and nudged her into a slow walk as we exited the stable and passed through the tunnel to cross the courtyard.

  Just at the crumbled gate, I paused to look back, and peer up at the dark battlements looming against the sky. Wrapped in shadow, the castle’s jagged silhouette was a black monolith menacing the darkness. His spirit was still there, it seemed, and yet, that was impossible.

  Again my heart trembled where my chest pressed against the master’s urn, and I feared the journey ahead, but this dread was dispelled as my mind played over the white face I’d seen by the graveyard, and for a moment I saw it again, passing briefly by a window high above me.

  Impossible... I was still overwrought and my mind was playing tricks. Or were there only ghosts left to populate this place? I knew it would never be my home again until my master had returned.

  I gently kicked Baba’s sides and we started along the road
. Ahead, we’d find an old oak that would mark the beginning of the master’s secret path.

  I needn’t have worried, or strained my eyes to find it, for as we neared the tree and the narrow, stony path that left the road and angled sharply down the mountain, a terrifying howl rose up—one wild voice, then another and another. Beneath the heavy spruce boughs on the hillside a thicket of thorn bushes broke to either side of our trail, and from the shadows came a chorus of howling wolves.

  From the tension in Baba’s thick shoulders, I knew she would have bucked had not her rider and burdens been so heavy.

  Still more howling cut into the night sky as I caught the muscular shapes of the beasts flitting behind the intaglio of thorny branches ahead.

  We would have an escort.

  The night was cold but the weather cooperated well enough. The cloud cover helped to keep the chill in check, and only sent a mild dusting of snow down at odd intervals, little of which made it to the covered path I traveled.

  I considered myself lucky again that the cold weather had not yet truly taken hold upon the landscape. The path was protected by overarching trees, and the early winter snow had not made much of an impact upon the root-tangled ground underfoot. I wondered if there were some parts of the secret way that would ever see snow, so dense were the branches clustering above.

  I had hoped to travel for most of the night, but began to doubt this when I found the way so dark with the overcast, and without any moon or stars to light the way. My lamp would have helped, but I dared not use it as the dim light would be a beacon for many miles against the somber landscape.

  So I picked my way for many hours, until long after midnight, slowly making the descent from the treacherous mount upon which the castle loomed. The site had been chosen for its defensible position, and the rocky slopes were dangerously steep and intended to keep invaders at bay.

  In time my eyes adjusted to the dark, and were aided by the reflection from the snow where it had piled up in places.