Stelică couldn’t bear the silence, which was casting him even deeper into black thoughts, and he cleared his throat to whisper:
‘Say, didn’t that guy Piele live around here?’
‘Shut up,’ Nicu’s voice was heard.
He lit the lantern, then put it out.
He couldn’t bear the silence, but what bothered him even more were the old men’s superstitions. They had kept him far away from the Turk’s Mouth for so long, but Stelică had decided to change things. If there was one thing he was good at, it was talking. Stelică could manage to convince anyone of anything, anytime, and any way. He had a gift, his mother said. He was a ‘hustler’, he said. So too he convinced the men to go to the Turk’s Mouth. The riches were said to be significant, and they were fair game; the entire structure had been left in disrepair after the decommission order, untouched by outsiders because of the curse of the bad place, in which the entire region seemed to believe since the story of old Piele.
Their lit cigarettes could be glimpsed in the night as the men entered the forest. The horse snorted, trod on rocks, somewhere a stream flowed. The men smoked and thought about their wives.
Stelică fell asleep and was awakened by Stere.
‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘Time to wake up – we’re there.’
It was growing light. The horse was agitated.
‘Come on, giddyup! What’s wrong with you! This way!’ said Nicu.
The horse took several steps back, the men held on to one another.
‘Hey!’ they all yelled and then they decided to jump off the cart and take the horse by the harness to calm him. The horse kicked and snorted, tried to flee, but the men led it aside and tied it to a tree.
‘Stelică, see what there is for him to eat. If anyone passes by, tell them they sent you from the town hall to do some cleaning up.’
‘Come on Nicu, what the hell! And stand here like an idiot, waiting for you all day? I was the one who told you that we should come here.’
‘What did you tell us?’
‘I came with . . . I said . . .’
‘Stelică, if you think that you led us here, you are mistaken,’ said Nicu sharply.
‘Then who, Nicu?’ asked Stelică.
‘Hunger,’ Nicu responded curtly and turned around.
‘And I can’t come in with the rest of you?’
‘No,’ said Nicu, going toward the mouth of the mine. ‘Next time.’
‘That’s what you said last time, at the other mine,’ Stelică said in a whisper, then louder: ‘At least leave me some cigarettes.’
‘Wait until the others come back, I don’t have any more,’ said Nicu, getting down once more from the cart, after which he performed a short inspection of the mine’s entrance.
The horse, still snorting thick steam, turned its glance towards the village. The men returned from the bushes. Vasile raised his arms towards the others and said:
‘Come on, over here.’
They knew what was coming. Vasile was the oldest, Auntie Valeria’s husband, as wizened as he was intelligent and God-fearing, imbued with the mists of the place as a cellar is imbued with mold. He whispered a prayer for those who dig in the earth’s core. Vasile had gone down into many mines and since he had lost his brother in one of them, many, many years ago, he had never gone down to dig without whispering a prayer first. ‘God defends you from the pixies, but you have to want it. You have to tell him, since otherwise how is God going to know, if you don’t say it to him? Do you think he has nothing better to do than take care of you?’ That’s what he always said and then he would stammer a prayer that nobody understood. Stelică made a ‘tsk’ sound and gestured to them to give him a cigarette. He didn’t believe in God. Nor in pixies, nor in good places and bad places. He had to steal the iron in order to get money. If he could find work, he would work, no question, but there was nothing to be found in the whole region, so all that was left for him to do was get his hands on some ‘business’, as he called it when he talked with the guys at the dance club every Friday. So now he took the cigarette between his teeth, made a sign that they should give him some more – how was he supposed to stand outside in the cold with only one cigarette? – and walked to the cart.
‘Stelică, come here!’ yelled Vasile, calling him to prayer.
‘Leave me alone,’ Stelică responded with irritation.
‘When the whirlwind comes and chases you around here, you’ll be sorry you didn’t listen to me.’
‘All right,’ said Stelică with his back to them. ‘Come on, faster, the sun’s coming up.’
Vasile finished whispering the prayer and the men took their tools and climbed up the hill towards the decommissioned mine, a black cave in the snow, with rusted signs indicating the danger of death awaiting whoever dared to go down into it. Signs, that’s all. The town hall hadn’t set up fences, hadn’t installed locks, and guards were out of the question. A sign. But the stomach is more powerful than the brain and hunger is stronger than a good guard, so the men climbed toward the mine, went up in order to go down.
It was said that there was still old iron to be removed from the Turk’s Mouth mine. It was not a large mine, it did not belong to a complex, it had perhaps been an unsuccessful exploitation attempt, or, rather, nobody really knew what had been wrong with it or why it had fallen into disrepair. And yet, despite the riches it was suspected to contain, there were not many who penetrated into its depths. The reason was one that made Stelică laugh. He too had heard the story: that the fairies of the earth roamed in those parts, and when it was decided to construct a mine, many people died before it was even opened. And then many more met their end after the exploitation began, until it was decided to call an end to the activities on the grounds of ‘high risk of accidents’. And then there was the other story, the one about Piele, who led seven children from the community into the mine and undressed them and laid down beside them. Stelică had been told when he was a child: ‘Don’t play with old Piele, he comes from a wicked family!’ He had a wife and two children, but his mind was shot from drinking, and he led youths and girls from the neighboring villages into the mine and kept them there. It went on more than a year until they found them, but they were all dead, only Piele was living, he slept covered in rags, with a hand on one of the unfortunate children. The first ones taken were already decomposed, but Piele paid no heed, he slept and ate with them there, then went down from time to time to the village to his family. He told no one where he spent his days and nights. Stelică shook off a shiver when he remembered the words of his brother, now a professor in the city, how he told him when they were younger: ‘There was this guy Piele – well, you don’t know him, ’cos they’ve taken him away now – and this Piele stunk of death like one of the undead.’
Stelică lit a cigarette and looked around: the white of the snow was streaked with the gray of the trees. Then he looked at the mine’s entrance and imagined Piele sleeping alongside the children’s corpses, Piele who escaped the people’s fury only to be killed in Jilava prison by his cellmate. Apparently even in prison there’s justice for child rapists.
He spat in the snow and took a drag from the cigarette.
The three men lit the lanterns and went into the mine. The snow had remained behind them, it was warmer in the narrow tunnel. They walked on the rails, their steps slid on the stones. The smell was no longer at all like that of fresh snow, of sleeping forest. Other things had slept an eternal sleep in the mine. The men knew what carcasses smelled like and here, at the entrance to the mine, somewhere in the darkness, there were surely some rotting cadavers of small animals.
‘This way,’ Nicu’s voice was heard.
They followed him to where the rails turned to the right, and they entered a room dug in the walls of the tunnel. A table, two chairs. Nothing else. Something moved in a corner and the men directed their lante
rns that way. Nothing.
‘Rats?’ asked Stere, but no one responded.
‘Follow the rails, they’ll lead us to a gallery,’ said Nicu and the men started off.
There was still plenty of oxygen around, so they didn’t have to worry, and they breathed easily when they reached the main gallery and saw the metallic structures.
‘All right, we stop here,’ said Vasile. ‘Let’s take as much as we can and leave. Further on there’s no air, we’re not going
there.’
The men did not respond and were reconciled to what Vasile had said. Vasile was a wise man. Everyone knew that. They wedged their pliers and crowbars in hinges, cut through pipes, lifted iron bars, put them in the wheelbarrow. Then once more: bend over, stand up, sit down. And so on.
Stere suddenly felt a warm breeze at the nape of his neck. He turned around and pointed his lantern toward the darkness opposite him, but he didn’t find anything there. He had just turned back once more to his work when he again felt something – this time like a soft touch on his elbow.
‘Hey!’ he said.
His heart was pounding. Even there, where it was possible to breathe, he had to catch his breath every few minutes and wipe away the sweat that was dripping in his eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Nicu.
‘Nothing,’ said Stere and illuminated the walls alongside him from one end to the other. He saw an entrance into a side gallery and headed towards it. In the darkness within he thought he saw a movement – short, like a thought (or a blink). He stopped, turned towards the men, but they hadn’t noticed anything, neither the movement nor that Stere had gone off away from them. They were lifting up chunks of rail and putting them in the three wheelbarrows they had brought with them.
Stere went in through the entrance and lit up the darkness of the gallery. It was a room similar to the others they had been in, only perhaps with a lower ceiling, in which there were stacks of beams and several very large metallic containers. Stere was going to see what was in them when he heard movement to his left, and, when he directed his lantern that way, he could have sworn he saw a leg disappearing around a corner – perhaps another gallery, perhaps a tunnel. Stere hurried towards that spot, but made it only three steps before he felt as if he were submerged in darkness – not the darkness in front of him, but rather that behind him, beneath him. His feet had pierced the rotted wood covering a well, and Stere plunged several meters into the darkness. His lantern struck against the walls of the well and went out.
The men heard the wood cracking and, a second later, the dry sound of Stere’s body hitting the ground.
‘Hey!’ yelled Nicu. ‘Where are you? What’d you do, eh?’
They both ran towards the spot from which the sound had come and cast their light over the pit.
Stere was curled up at the bottom of the well with his eyes closed and his legs in an unnatural position, like branches broken after a storm.
‘Hey!’ yelled Nicu. ‘Hey, do you hear me?’
‘Oh no!’ Vasile wrung his hands. ‘Oh no!’
‘Stere! Hey, Stere!’ Nicu continued to yell, but Stere didn’t say anything.
‘Is he still breathing?’ asked Vasile.
‘I don’t know. Keep quiet now!’
And there was silence. Nicu directed his lantern towards Stere’s face and tried to listen carefully. From the darkness behind them came the weak echo of dripping water rhythmically hitting a plank. The wind whistled distantly through the galleries, and, below, from the well, Stere gasped softly.
‘Yes, he’s alive,’ said Nicu. ‘He’s breathing.’
‘Oh, God help him!’ said Vasile and made the sign of the cross in the air in front of him.
‘Vasile, we have no way of getting him out. Go to Stelică and tell him to run to the village and bring a long rope.’
‘Fine, Nicu, but keep him talking and let him know we’ll be getting him out, because if he dies here, we’re in for it.’
He sighed and left quickly through the tunnel towards the light.
Auntie Valeria was standing in the middle of the courtyard with her hands on her hips, looking towards the mountains. Ana was sweeping around her as though she were a statue, gathering up the rocks that had collected under the snow, which she had just pushed up along the fence.
‘Watch out, you’re in my way!’
But Valeria was looking into the void and said nothing.
‘My gosh, only the – I won’t even mention his name – can get through to you, God forgive me!’ Ana got angry and made the sign of the cross.
‘Ana,’ said Valeria.
‘What is it, auntie?’
‘Ana, this is not good.’
‘What’s not good, auntie? Are you starting up with that again?’
‘Ana, this is not good, I can feel it.’
Ana let the broom fall and asked:
‘What do you feel?’
‘Where are our husbands, Ana?’
‘In town.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘They’re in town. Selling iron to somebody.’
‘I don’t believe it, Ana.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t believe it? Didn’t they tell you so last night?’
‘Ana, the iron is still in the barn, in its usual place.’
‘What are you saying?’
But a shiver had already gone down Ana’s spine. She remembered how he had whispered to her last night that she was his ‘sweetheart’. It had been a long time since he had said anything like that. A shudder passed through her whole body and she turned her back on Valeria and headed towards the barn. She entered and went to the back, where the stolen iron from the Dominiţa mine was piled up.
She turned and looked into Valeria’s eyes, still lost among the mountains.
‘Where are our husbands, Valeria?’
‘I fear they’ve gone to the Turk’s Mouth, Ana.’
‘But they’re not crazy!’
‘Yes . . . Crazy from hunger, Ana. Crazy from hunger.’
Vasile was still several steps away from the mine’s exit when he heard a muffled giggle echoing from behind him. He turned and saw a woman – a girl, rather – with long hair that was red like fire, dressed in long, white robes. She was barefoot and her grin was covered by the palms of her hands. Vasile looked straight into her large eyes and made the sign of the cross. He couldn’t move, he was fixed to the spot, looking at the girl and whispering the Lord’s Prayer endlessly, until the first tear flowed unexpectedly down his left cheek. Then the girl turned and started towards the central gallery. Vasile wiped his tears and took flight away from the mine as fast as his aged bones could carry him.
Stelică was in the cart, smoking. When he heard the footsteps, he raised himself up to his full height and saw Vasile, pale and weak, coming down from the mine, saying something, gesturing.
‘What is it? What happened to you?’
‘It’s Stere.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Stere fell in a well. Go and fetch a strong rope. A long one.’
‘But how did he fall? What did you do in there?’
‘Shut up and run, didn’t you hear me?’
‘I’m going now.’
‘And be sure not to come back alone, but don’t bring the whole village with you either.’
‘OK, who then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ion?’
‘Ion’s good. But tell him to keep quiet.’
‘OK, I’ll keep him quiet.’
‘Hurry.’
‘I’ll hurry.’
The two of them untied the horse and Stelică mounted it and, without looking back, he urged the horse on and set off towards the village.
‘Stere! Hey, Stere, do you hear me?’ yelled
Nicu.
Stere murmured something from the bottom of the well.
‘Stay just like that, okay, they’re coming right away with the rope to get you out of there. Don’t be scared, you’re all right.’
But he knew that wasn’t the case, however much he might try to reassure him: fear had crept in under Nicu’s skin. His brother was dying at the bottom of a well in a decommissioned mine, he was alone, pouring his lantern’s light into the well and all around, old Vasile had left and was never coming back. It was silent and only Stere’s voice could be heard from the depths of the earth, groaning slowly and melodically as he came back to his senses and felt the pain coursing through the veins in every corner of his broken body.
It was a repulsive sight, but he had to keep his light trained on Stere, had to talk to him, to try to keep him awake, not to let him slip into the soft sleep of . . . He knew it was his only chance of escape. He and Vasile and Stelică and, if Vasile had thought of it, maybe even Ion. A good man. Only them. He couldn’t trust anyone else, and the police . . . well, they couldn’t call the police. They would all be arrested and even more misfortune would fall on their houses than . . . But he must stop thinking like that. It was neither the time nor the place for dark thoughts.
‘Stere, hey, look up here, Stere! You hear me?’
He would have liked to cry. Why not? To run to his wife now and throw himself at her knees, to tell her he had lied to her, that his work wasn’t in the city but at that damned Turk’s Mouth, the scourge of the earth, the hole to hell. To be a young man once more, to love each other, to hold hands and roll in the hay, to take her palms in his, listening to her with blushing cheeks: ‘Listen to what Mama says, Nicu, she knows what she’s talking about. She’s lived three times longer than you and her eyes have seen many things, and her ears have heard many things. The Turk’s Mouth is cursed.’ But how to tell her the truth . . . They were flat broke, there was no money to send the child to school in the fall, the furnace was growing colder. Yes, he would have really liked to let it all out and cry.
The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories Page 11