I Kill Monsters: Fury (Book 1)

by Tony Monchinski

  Our lives coincided with the rise and fall of the sun. Up at dawn, asleep shortly after dusk. Disease and plague were frequent visitors, stealing off the old and young, the hearty and infirm. Death did not discriminate. Winters I remember especially well. They were brutal and cold, as the winds howled off the Carpathians. They were a season of privation and dark. Even the swamp froze over, great icicles hanging from the trees, crystallized stalactites. Summers granted little respite, as they were infernally hot and humid. Not unlike this one.

  There was little time for my brothers and sisters and I to be children, to play. Childhood was not then recognized the way it would come to be in later centuries. There was no sanctuary in our earliest years. Yet the human spirit, despite all evidence to the contrary, so often perseveres and refuses to be tamed. We found time for frolic, my siblings and I. We found a place. A stream ran through the lord’s vast property. My brothers and I amused ourselves with tall tales and flights of the imagination, claiming the stream a tributary of the mighty Danube. In its cooling waters we repaired after many a long, hot summer day, cavorting past the dusk and well into the early evenings. Our walk home from the stream in the dark would see us pressed close to one another, frightened but excited.

  Night, you must understand, was a time of dangers, real and imagined. The howls of wolves drifted down to us from the Carpathians. An offensive stench wafted from the marsh bounding one half of the road out of our village, a noisome odor that all steered clear of. There were creatures in this swamp, especially at night. Creatures none of us wished to encounter. Not all predators, however, walked on four legs. Though the roads were crude and rudimentary, there were travelers and passers-through, and not all were to be trusted, or so we in my village believed and were taught. We were a narrow-minded people set in our ways. Foreign ideas were to be feared as much as the bodily harm a stranger could inflict.

  The old Roma, Maleva, did more than divine the future. She was also the teller of tales, and her stories enthralled the young and old of my village on many an occasion. Her accounts of creatures to be feared and revered evoked trembling and elation. Gathered close about, a somber mien to her haggard face, Maleva would regale us with tales of beautiful Rusalka, underwater princesses known to lure unsuspecting men to their watery deaths in the lakes and rivers of the Plains. She told us of the Domovi, guardian spirits of the house and hearth, creatures with an affinity for horses and capable of conversing with horse and bovine both. She warned us that should the village seek its downfall it should look to the swamp, and we eyed the mists that rolled in off those wetlands with the dawn with apprehension.

  My brothers and I especially enjoyed Maleva’s stories of revenants, of moroi and strigoi, what are called upyr or vampire. She told us of eretiks, those who, in their lives, had turned their back on the Church and were doomed to return from the grave. She warned us of the eretik’s eye and its gaze that could lure one to the crypt. Mysterious deaths—and in the late seventeenth century, most deaths were mysteries to us—could be the return of a upyr to feed. Maleva told us of the existence of Sabbatarians and Dhampir, men and women who could destroy vampires. Because none of my brothers and sisters were born on a Saturday and neither of our parents were Roma, we hearkened as Maleva impressed upon us the importance of aspen wood in the crafting of stakes. Her stories scared us, even Leonid, my oldest brother. Little Sasha was much too young to understand the stories and, as we listened and huddled close, she would pet Maleva’s dog, which basked in the attention.

  The supernatural was a recognized fact among my people. The lord oversaw his land, God His Heaven, and the bishop his see. We the damned toiled away upon the soil. The supernatural was accepted, yes, but not without limitations. I remember well the visit to our village of a leper and how he was chased from our lands into the swamp, cursed as ill-fated. Maleva said the village folk had acted well, that they had pleased God in expelling His afflicted son. She had been at the forefront of the man’s expulsion, a fact that I would have cause to dwell upon sometime later.

  Maleva was respected and feared by most in my village. Only one man openly dared to challenge her powers, Feigl, the Ashkenazi. Unlike my parents and most others, Feigl was somewhat educated. He was literate. Yet with his literacy came an arrogance and conceit. Though Feigl was bullheaded and opinionated, he was tolerated because the lord of the land favored him. His own father came to our village following the Khmelnytskyi uprising, wherein a hundred thousand of his people were destroyed. What Feigl and his father had done to ingratiate themselves to the lord was unknown to us, though the subject of much conjecture.

  Feigl’s three sons were much like their father. Gerald, Ezra, and Symeon were haughty and scornful. Their mother, my own told me shortly before her death, had passed following the birth of Symeon. Symeon himself had nearly perished. The midwife had had to reach into the birth canal with her two hands and dislodge him. In the process, she crushed his skull somewhat, an injury that never fully healed. Perhaps because of this, Symeon was especially malformed and of sub-average intelligence.

  When my mother died birthing Sasha, it never once crossed my mind that there was a connection between their family and ours. Perhaps, if I had been positively disposed to Feigl and his brood, I would have looked upon this coincidence as portentous, though it was in no way such. But I quickly learned to loathe the boys and their father, and I failed to recognize even the coincidence, a coincidence which was understandable as death for women bearing children in those days was not a rare occurrence.

  Feigl’s children were louts, and worse, they were bullies. Their father enjoyed the protection of the lord of the land more so than any other, and this favor was not lost on the children. Feigl’s boys were thin and scraggy and only badgered those they felt weaker than themselves. Because we numbered five and were often encountered together, Gerald, Ezra and Symeon chose to ignore us. But I always noticed the way they looked at my brothers and sisters as we passed, the contempt in the eyes of the Feigl’s eldest. It was distaste accompanied by patience, as if Gerald were waiting for something, for some later time.

  The boys were a nuisance around the village. Like their father, they appeared to do little work. Their days seemed given to mischief and frolic. As they grew older their antics grew increasingly mean-spirited. What in their youth could be dismissed as childhood indiscretions and immaturity, soon gave way to planned malevolence. By the summer of the new Lord’s arrival, most of the men and women in my village avoided Feigl’s sons. The Sabbath, when Feigl would lock the three with himself in their cottage, was a day of respite for the remainder of the village.

  When Maleva’s dog went missing, my brother, Leonid, told us to watch, that Gerald and his brothers were behind its disappearance. I remember knowing my brother was correct, and I remember the look on the face of little Sasha as she considered the possible fate of the animal she had loved. She was five and I do not think she understood death. A passing farmer discovered the dog’s carcass on the outskirts of the swamp and returned it to Maleva. I am told that Gerald, Ezra and Symeon were passing on the road when the farmer handed the remains to Maleva. Ezra said something to his older brother, who laughed. It was apparent the dog had suffered before its death. It was eviscerated and its forelegs broken. Wolves, Ezra called out to Maleva as she stood with the body in her arms. You yourself have so often warned us of the swamp.

  But Maleva knew. As sure as she knew the sun would rise in the morning, she knew these boys passing by on the road and feigning innocence were responsible for the pre-meditated torture and murder of her dog. When she berated the second eldest, Ezra, the father came immediately to her cottage and called her a witch. Such an accusation had the potential to carry more than mere sting in those days. But Maleva laughed at Feigl, who continued to rant at her and shake his fist. Later I would come to understand that Feigl bore Maleva ill will because she had rebuffed his advances. Though significantly older than Feigl, Maleva was a single woman in a village wher
e women who were not even teenagers were spoken for. What Feigl saw in the old woman, I know not. I was a child. I knew nothing then of carnal knowledge, of the ways of the heart and love.

  The lord was often absent from his land. One day word reached the village that he had passed in a distant clime, victim of plague. To call the lord’s home a castle would be granting it a dignity the structure itself did not warrant. After years of vacancy, even when the lord drew breath, his home had fallen into disrepair. In the spring following the fall in which Maleva’s dog met its end, my brothers and I would pass the dilapidated house and wonder if the rumors we had heard—from our parents, from the elders—that the property and land would be passed along to one or more boyars bore any truth.

  That spring, the spring of my ninth year, when the temperature invited it, we would steal away from home for an hour at evening to the stream, frolicking in its chilled shallows. Many a night we encountered Ezra or Symeon or, on occasion, all three of Feigel’s sons, who, emboldened for whatever reasons, began taunting us with insults in their own tongue. Leonid, all of fifteen years, shepherded us closer and urged us on, ignoring the heckling and invective hurled our way.

  One such night, having passed Feigl’s cottage and withstood the indignities cast upon us from its inhabitants, we noted that construction had commenced on the manor house. It looked like a full day’s work had been completed. None of us would have known, as we were in the fields with our father the entire day. Yet it looked like a refurbishing of the manor had begun. My brothers and sisters and I were proud and apprehensive. Proud because we identified with the land and anyone that oversaw it, and we felt that the renovation of the property would somehow make us all better. But we were also somewhat frightened: did this reconstruction augur the arrival of a Muscovy boyar, and if such were the case, how might he treat us?

  That evening we cavorted in the stream and spun fantasies of the new owner. He had served none other than the Patriarch of Constantinople, my brother, Viktor, said. No, wagered Leonid, he had cut his teeth admirably during the Bohemian Revolt following the Defenestration of Prague. Leonid had meant the Second Defenestration of Prague of course, and his quip about cutting ones teeth would recur to me. Posh, my older sister, Mina, dismissed, offering that this was obviously a man of some cultivation who would find our village sorely lacking and, like the lord before him, spend little to no time among us.

  My little Sashichka, not a trace of fear in her voice, called our attention to the stranger observing us on the bank. Though the day had given to night, the moon illuminated our surroundings. The man squatted there, watching us, unconcerned. How long he had perched there, observing, we had no clue. His garb was clean and well cut, unlike our peasant rags. His footwear appeared fine leather, and his cloak, though not ostentatious, looked to be of the finest threads. We had never seen his like before.

  Dobri den, he greeted us in our language, though his accent was decidedly foreign. Viktor took his cue from Leonid, who had frozen still, and I mimicked Viktor. Mina stepped in front of Sasha, but my little sister, bless her heart, returned the greeting. The man on the opposite bank stood, and as he stood he smiled and spoke to us. As I listened to his voice I registered what I could of his physicality. He was of ordinary height, and there was a fluidity to his movement, a grace and effortlessness of motion.

  Do you children live near here? He asked us. Despite a look from Leonid, Mina answered, telling him yes good sir, we are the children of Andriy Tischenko, a farmer of this land. My name is Mina Tischenko. And what beautiful offspring he has sired, Mina Andriyivna, the man complimented. At twelve, Mina was old enough to understand the man’s charms and smiled back, though a wary look had taken hold of Leonid. Young man, I assure you, the stranger’s tone was sincere, I mean neither you nor your siblings any harm. I am a stranger to this village. I am new to this land. I was merely passing by and was drawn by the sounds of your pleasantries.

  Mustering his courage, Leonid spoke up. It is not safe to walk about at night, there are wolves. Ohhh, the man appeared concerned, wolves. He looked around himself in the night and, seemingly convinced there were none of the four legged creatures about, turned to us again. But do not wolves come to drink from the stream? The man wondered aloud. Ah, of course they do! But I am speaking to those who know of wolves and their ways, who undoubtedly know how to defend against them. Of course, in retrospect, it is clear he was feigning unease. But he did it without condescension, without belittling Leonid or any of us.

  Though Leonid looked somewhat less wary it was Viktor who spoke next, telling the stranger it was true that we did not fear wolf nor man, as the lord of the manor protected all within his realm. You speak admiringly of the proprietor of this land, noted the man. Tell me of him, what is he like? Viktor was brought up short. What was there to say of someone we had never met, of one to whom none of us had ever spoken? He is very wealthy, Mina interjected. He is rebuilding the great house. It will be the envy of all surrounding villages.

  Will it indeed! mused the man. I believe I passed this great house of which you speak, and it has all the trappings of a latent magnificence. The man spoke eloquently, though we did not understand all of his words. His diction, paired with his presence, mesmerized us as surely as one of Maleva’s supposed spells. Tell me, the stranger invited, of the man himself. What does the lord look like?

  Why would you to know, sir? Leonid asked it as if he were protecting the lord, a man we had never actually seen. I ask that I should know him in passing, explained the man, so as not to disrespect his personage. Disrespect his personage, hah! Leonid laughed. I assure you, you will not confuse him for some base commoner, sir. He is quite prominent, I promise you. Viktor blurted out, He is striking, a man among men, sir! Elegant, fashionable, added Mina, and oh—so handsome. Handsome is he? The stranger put his palm on his chin and considered this information. Oh, terribly so, sir, it is rumored that the Czarina herself wooed him, but he is dedicated to his land and the people of it.

  Wooed by a czarina, wondered the man, still standing there, still holding his chin. By more than one, sir! Mina added. You don’t say? The man looked impressed.

  I remember, as my brothers and sister outdid themselves in their lies about a man they had never known, that even through the haze this man’s presence cast upon us, my gaze was drawn to his hand. He removed it from his chin and put it down at his side, opposite the other one. Those hands. They did not look like they belonged to this man. They were gnarled and vascular in the moonlight. They looked misshapen and crippled, as if palsied. I imagined they must be the cause of great discomfort for him.

  And what says you of this noble man? He was addressing me. Little Sasha and myself were the only ones who had not spoken. He must have known I was looking at his hands. Is he as your brothers and sister say? The stranger’s gaze was inviting, amused. And then it dawned on me, as I stood there in the stream in the first dark of the evening with my family. H-he is, s-sir, I stammered. But I knew he knew I was aware, and that continuing this artifice served no useful purpose. He is in fact, sir, I hastened to add, very similar to yourself in appearance and person.

  Is he indeed? The man looked immensely pleased and he laughed, a deep, rich, aged laugh that belied his size and apparent age. Well, then…but it is late, children. And I imagine you must be returning to your father, the good Andriy Tischenko, yes? Leonid and Mina were old enough to understand that some recognition had passed between myself and this man, though they did not grasp its nature. Yes, we must, kind sir, answered Leonid. And what of you, sir? asked Mina. It is late, where will you lodge?

  Oh, I have arranged accommodations, the man looked unconcerned. I bid you all a fond farewell if and until our paths cross again. And good night to you, sir, Leonid spoke on our behalf. Good sir, Mina called after him, but what should we call you? He stopped and faced us one last time, My surname is Vinci. When this man, Vinci, turned and walked off towards the road and our village, we watched him go until the
night had enveloped his form and he was unheard. We quickly got out of the stream and dried off and made preparations to go home to father. Do you know that man? My eldest brother asked me. I shook my head. It is he, I said, the new lord of this land.

  Leonid, Mina and Viktor doubted me. Sasha was not overly concerned because she but five. Yet, I knew. There was something about that man, something I did not understand then. Vinci was no surname common to our land. In fact, we had never heard such a queer name. We walked home that night trading speculations. It was later than we had ever stayed out. Our conversation with the stranger did not seem to consume much time, yet the position of the moon in the sky told us we were well into the night. Would father be angry? We passed Feigl’s house. It was too late for his boys to come out and molest us. We passed Maleva’s cottage. A candle glowed from somewhere within. We arrived at our own cottage and crept inside, but there was no need. Father was passed out face-down on the table, a half emptied jug of vodka next to him.

  As it turned out, the stranger was the new lord of the manor, though he went unseen by any of us for a month’s time following that first encounter. Much occurred in that interval. The moon went from full to waning gibbous to a half moon. The days grew slowly longer and steadily warmer. Our daily hectoring by Gerald and his brothers increased from teasing and pestering to harassment. We worked besides our father in the fields in the day and at night he drank until his words were slurred. The renovation of the manor house continued and each day it looked more splendid. The men who labored upon it were strangers to our land and only their foreman could communicate in our language. But they spent their wages in our village and paid for their rented rooms, stimulating what small economy our small village could boast.