Wildalone

by Krassi Zourkova

  “Was Elza’s imagination sick too?”

  No answer.

  “And, Dad, does any of this really run in our family?”

  He sat back down on the bed, reaching for my hand as if his touch could convince me even if his words failed. “Nothing runs in our family, no matter what anyone says. Your sister was a perfectly healthy girl. And so are you.”

  “Yet she believed the samodivi legend.”

  “She was fascinated by it, then started to believe it, yes. But not because of family lunacy. The whole thing was a school project.”

  I almost laughed. All students are to dance at full moon in a church cemetery. White garment optional. Extra credit if carried out within vicinity of fig tree.

  “Why would any school assign such a project?”

  “It wasn’t assigned, she volunteered. Your sister had two passions: piano and archaeology. Each summer at the Black Sea, she would drag us out to see the ancient settlements. Town walls, churches, all kinds of ruins. The older and more decrepit, the better.”

  Which explained her frequent escapes to the church in Tsarevo, but not the figure I had seen there.

  “In those first years after Communism, looters began to smuggle our antiques abroad. Elza and her school team signed up with the Ministry of Culture to compile a central database of artifacts. They opened Communist archives, warehouses, entire rooms of artworks labeled ‘highly privileged’ and sealed for decades. There, she found a scroll that eventually consumed her mind.”

  “What kind of scroll?”

  “The written confessions of a monk who was allegedly blinded by samodivi in the forest. Elza loved bizarre stories and wouldn’t stop talking about it, about how this man might have been the master of the Rila Monastery cross.”

  “The famous one?” It was one of Bulgaria’s most treasured relics. A wooden cross carved with hundreds of elaborate, miniature gospel scenes.

  “Yes. She became convinced that this monk had received mysterious powers from the samodivi. That he made the cross only after he was blinded.”

  “What if it was true?”

  “That’s not possible, Thea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because these creatures don’t exist. Some disturbed man wrote a piece of fiction and your sister went too far with it.”

  “Do you happen to have a copy of this fiction, Dad?”

  “This fiction is in the past. And you promised me not to go there.”

  He seemed upset, so I didn’t insist—either that night or in the next few months before I left for America. All my questions about Elza, especially about her life at Princeton, received the same answer: None of this matters anymore. Her letters from school? Destroyed. Her possessions? There had been no point in keeping them. And the three buckled chests? He took me to the locked room and opened them, one by one. All three were empty.

  I didn’t believe for a second that my parents, the two most sentimental people I knew, who kept even ticket stubs from my concerts neatly arranged in albums, would discard what had been left behind by their first child. More likely, Elza’s things had been removed from the house and locked up elsewhere, safely out of my reach. Perhaps with time, after I had spent a few semesters at Princeton, Mom and Dad might finally let go of the fear and allow me access to my sister’s life, including the alleged “fiction” that had consumed her mind with tales of monks and forest witches.

  For now, another piece of fiction had found its way into my hands, and I continued to read about the samodivi while everyone around me on the plane slept. The words had the playful rhythm of a fairy tale. Yet Bulgarian fairy tales often read with the bleak echo of omens:

  Stepping softly from their bath, laughing and aglow with star mist, the maidens would begin to sense the hidden stare of a traveler. They’d tempt him, draw him out, then gift their blameless bodies to him. Until a strange beat would imbue the night. A pulse of suddenly awoken rhythms. The beauties would begin their dance, the moon unleashing madness on them. And breathless, raving, free at last, they’d lock the man inside their deadly circle . . .

  The rest was a terrifying feast. An indulgence of cruelty. The witches dance their prey to the verge of death and, just as his heart collapses in its first convulsions, they descend on him with the hunger of beasts—taking out his eyes, his heart, tearing off his limbs in an outburst of vengeance.

  Then the unthinkable unfolds: the youngest of the three, Vylla, falls in love. He happens to be a young shepherd, a gifted pipe player, a drifter without a care in the world. Like everyone before him, he stumbles upon the samodivi. Hidden in the darkness of the forest, he watches the moon infuse its wild rhythms into their dance. But before Vylla’s eyes fall on him, before she detects, somewhere down in her savage heart, the first beats of a strange new longing, the night has already revealed to him (or the wind has already whispered, or his own heart has already guessed) a secret never before known to a mortal man: the secret of where Vylla’s power lies, and how to steal it—

  The secret of how to capture a samodiva.

  CHAPTER 4

  Captive

  MY GREEK ART professor didn’t believe me when I told him how little I knew about Elza. In a way, he was right: I had spared him the crazy part, the one about the samodivi. But as for the real details of her life, including those last few months at Princeton, I truly had no clue at all.

  He didn’t either, or maybe he preferred not to talk about it. When I tried to get more out of him, he mumbled that speculation never did anyone any good, especially speculation about the past. “Bygones aside, Miss Slavin, I would like to continue our banter on the Orphic myth.” And with a vague remark that he had something else to show me, he asked me to stop by his office around five on Friday afternoon.

  Unlike him, though, I couldn’t brush bygones aside. All summer, I had fantasized about how, once at school, I would trace Elza’s steps. Where she had lived on campus. What she had studied. Favorite professors. Roommate. Best friend. Maybe even a boyfriend, after her bad luck with that boy back home.

  My list of action items was stapled to a campus map showing the administrative building most likely to have information on each. The Registrar’s Office was the starting point. A self-proclaimed “steward of academic records,” it kept not only enrollment data but also each student’s course selections and grades. Next, the Financial Aid Office would know whether Elza had worked on campus, and if so, where. Undergraduate Student Housing could give me her dorm and, with any luck, her room number. From there, I would look to the residential college for specifics on her life at school.

  The trick with all this, of course, was to ask questions without drawing attention to myself or the fact that I was trying to solve a crime. Because if word spread that the crazy missing girl’s sister was now at Princeton stirring up trouble, the school would probably put me under special surveillance, to monitor my safety and state of mind the way Wylie was supposed to monitor my music career, Donnelly—my curriculum, and Rita—my social life. Not to mention that they would also inform my parents. And this, more than anything else, I had to avoid.

  So far, Giles was the only one to have figured out my link to Elza—if it were up to me, I preferred to keep it that way. But getting strangers to talk required skill. And only a week ago, my first detective attempt had already backfired.

  “Miss, I apologize, I must have misunderstood. Are you Elza Slavin or not?” The plump woman at the Registrar’s Office had stared at me over her tortoise-rim glasses. “Because if not, there isn’t much I can do to process your request.”

  “I am Elza’s sister. Hopefully that counts?” My student ID barely elicited a glance. “She was class of ’96, whereas I just started here and was curious about . . . about her life at Princeton.”

  “Curious?” A perfectly tweezed eyebrow curved up, to signal that she wasn’t hired yesterday. “I’m afraid curiosity is insufficient grounds for access to someone else’s files, even by a sibling. All student records,
with very few exceptions, are confidential. It is school policy and, as such, is strictly enforced.”

  “What are the exceptions?”

  “Directory information: name, dates of attendance, degree and major, place of birth. For members of athletic teams, we also list weight and height.”

  In other words, either statistics that didn’t apply to Elza or basics I already knew.

  “You wouldn’t be able to tell me anything else? Not even what classes she took?”

  “Only if she gave written permission. And ‘written’ means signed by Ms. Slavin personally.”

  By now, an ill-concealed impatience had sneaked into her voice. I decided to take a chance.

  “What if the student never graduated?”

  Judging by her unflinching expression, this didn’t make a difference.

  “Or if the person is no longer”—the word alive lingered at the tip of my tongue—“. . . no longer in the U.S. and won’t be coming back?”

  “The safeguards apply regardless. Naturally, our students’ expectation of privacy doesn’t end at the country’s border.”

  “I see. Thanks anyway.” I took back the transcript request form she had asked me to fill out earlier. It was only now that, all of a sudden, and probably for no other reason than to make sure I wouldn’t bother her again, she decided to be helpful.

  “For future reference, here is a copy of our policy on access to archived student files. You will see, in clause (b), that confidentiality terminates only upon death or seventy-five years after the file was created. If you still think your inquiry merits further review, you can write to the Dean of the College. Instructions are on the back.”

  I thanked her again, and this time I meant it. But my excitement was short-lived, as I sat down on a bench outside to read the handout.

  A request for confidential information regarding a student who died within six years of matriculation must also be accompanied by a release signed by the next of kin.

  Next of . . . what? I looked up the phrase on my phone—a legal term for who would have power over your affairs after you died. The order was: children—parents—grandchildren—siblings. Which meant that my parents’ signature, not mine, would be required for access to Elza’s files.

  As if this weren’t enough, within the hour my phone rang. The Office of the Dean of the College had been notified of my attempt to obtain records, and instead of me writing to them, they were now contacting me.

  “Thea, it has come to our attention that you are the sister of . . .” The man needed a label for the precarious Elza situation, and I thought, Just say it: the sister of that poor girl whose dead body was abducted from our campus fifteen years ago. “. . . of Ms. Elza Slavin. My God, what a tragedy! And under such perplexing circumstances . . . or so I am told, as these events predate my affiliation with Princeton. Must be difficult for your family, no doubt?”

  “Yes, my parents are scarred for life. But as for me, I don’t remember Elza at all.”

  “Makes sense, given the age difference. It’s still admirable, though, that you decided to attend the same university. I imagine this wasn’t your only offer from a top-ranked school, and many in your place might have held a grudge against Princeton.”

  “I was actually glad that Princeton didn’t hold a grudge against me.”

  “Quite the opposite. Our school will always be in your family’s debt. Which is not to say that what happened was Princeton’s fault, of course, but welcoming you as a student here was the least we could do.”

  I didn’t like the sound of this. “Are you saying that I was accepted to Princeton because of what happened to my sister? Legacy . . . of sorts?”

  Under the controversial practice of “legacy admissions” in America, applicants related to alumni, especially alumni who had given money or done other favors to a school, were twice as likely to get in.

  “Look, Thea . . .” This time he took extra care with his answer. “I’ve seen your file—you have more than enough credentials to be admitted on the merits. All I was saying is that there happens to be prior history, and we need to be sensitive to it. Which brings me to the reason I called. I want to make sure that if you ever need anything, or run into roadblocks of any kind, you’d let me know personally. No point in following protocol, or talking to administrators who are unaware of the situation and can’t be of much help. Like that lady at the Registrar’s Office today.”

  “But she must have been aware, if she informed you of my visit.”

  “Not until you left and she ran a routine check for the name you had given her. Next time just call me, all right? It would simplify things.” I was sure it would—by helping him keep tabs on me. “As for your sister’s transcript, that’s not a problem at all. I’ll have a copy e-mailed to you.”

  “How about all the other files? Can I have access to them?”

  “I don’t believe there are any. Everything was handed over to Princeton Borough Police, as part of the investigation. But may I give you a piece of advice?”

  “Sure, please do.” Advice was always on offer when I was denied information.

  “You’ve started a new chapter of your life. Coming to America. To Princeton. Don’t spoil it with pursuits that will only upset you and lead nowhere. Try to bury the past and . . .” This sounded so close to “bury the dead”—the one thing my parents would never have a chance to do—that I could almost hear him blush. “Anyway, I think you know what I mean. Oh, and one more thing. I’ve asked Counseling Services to give you a call.”

  “Counseling?”

  “Yes. From our health center, over at McCosh. You certainly aren’t obligated to speak to them, but I suggest you do. Very informal, just a handshake, to make sure we cover all bases. It would be confidential, of course.”

  Which at Princeton was strictly enforced, as I already knew. What I didn’t know was what “bases” exactly he thought he had to cover.

  “Does the school view my interest in Elza as . . . problematic?”

  “Your interest—no, not in and of itself. What could pose problems is interest from others. Despite the significant time gap, some repercussions are to be expected.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, the case appears to have been major news at the time. And people don’t forget major news, especially at a quiet place like Princeton. Sooner or later, it’s bound to come up in conversation.”

  “So what if it does? I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Of course not. But I suppose your sister’s death is, nonetheless, a very sensitive subject. We want you to be fully equipped to handle it, that’s all. Our job is to provide each student with a smooth college transition, and we try not to let anything stand in the way.”

  I was certain that, for the moment, his job required him to mute my suspicions and steer me over to a counselor. But I had my agenda too. And, like him, I wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way.

  SCHOOL SWALLOWED ME LIKE QUICKSAND. I tried to decode the mysterious urgency, class assignments crammed into deadlines that could be met only with lack of sleep and a racing heartbeat. Yet I had no point of reference. Back home, I had seen such life-or-death resolve on people’s faces only when an ambulance or a fire truck was involved.

  To top things off, I had to start my campus job—those cafeteria shifts Donnelly had warned me about. The Financial Aid Office had assigned me to the Graduate College dining hall, probably because of its proximity to Forbes. I had heard rumors about the place, about its indulgent beauty conceived almost a century ago when a famous feud exploded between Dean Andrew West and Princeton’s then president, Woodrow Wilson. A graduate college was to be built. Wilson wanted it on the main campus, where everyone would blend in and the graduate students could serve as example for the rowdy undergraduates. West, however, had a different plan. He envisioned an opulent academic cloister, a minireplica of Oxford and Cambridge, where he would preside over his scholars-in-training and bring back old European tradition
s, far from the undergraduate hordes and from Wilson’s reach. Soon, money followed. And West was able to realize his dream, erecting a Gothic campus gem that would be widely envied and emulated by rivals such as Duke and Yale.

  Wednesday was my first day at work and, eager to see West’s creation, I cut through the golf course. It meant breaking the rules, of course, as the golf club was private and its members didn’t appreciate having to play around trespassing students. But the route up College Road would have taken much longer, and I had no time for idle walks.

  After a few impeccably mowed hills, the campus map led me through a carved stone arch, a courtyard, and down a hallway that ended at a massive wooden door, wide open. For a moment, I thought I had mistakenly walked into a church. Then I saw long tables. Chairs. Salt and pepper shakers, positioned at perfect intervals among the seats. There was no one else in the giant dining hall and I tried to take it all in, to imagine how I was going to work—and others were going to eat—in a place that looked and felt like a Gothic cathedral.

  Everything about Procter Hall was enormous, medieval, and beautiful. The heavy doors opened into a vestibule separated from the rest by thin wooden bars. The hall itself was absolutely overwhelming. Its walls began with rich oak paneling that held portraits of dead academics. Above them, arched windows rose uninterrupted in the white stone, letting the light pour down on the tables in abstract, whimsical shapes. Higher still, domed like the inside of an inverted ship, a carved beam ceiling closed its rib cage over twelve low-hanging chandeliers, suspended from buttresses with a gargoyle grinning on each. On the opposite end, a lavish stained-glass window dominated the entire hall, flaunting its intricate lace of sharp, bursting colors. And reigning over all this, high above the entrance, was an organ—the most magnificent one I had ever seen.

  The job itself had nothing to do with beauty. Outfitted with rubber gloves by the exit, I took the tray from everyone who was done eating. Silverware went on the right. Dirty dishes—on the left. Food was tossed into one garbage can, napkins and trash into another. At first, my stomach cringed from the sight of what people left on their plates. Then I stopped noticing.