On the Hill of Roses

by Stefan Grabinski

  The next thing I know is that I found myself on a lonely road. The world was swathed in a grey dawn, the withes of the weeping willows growing on both sides of the road swayed in a light breeze...

  I walked fast, raising clouds of dust, a thick layer of which soon covered my shoes and clothes.

  Suddenly, the road turned to the left, becoming a narrow winding path which ran along the bottom of a deep ravine. I followed the path and after a few minutes emerged from the ravine into a meadow with a stream running across it. I looked around. Before me stretched a plain, wide open and flat as a table. The eye, tired from the monotony, lost itself on the horizon.

  I turned towards the stream. There was a small, wooden footbridge with railings which I crossed, and I chose at random a path which led to the right.

  Then the terrain changed rapidly; the grass disappeared, replaced by the glistening, metallic blackness of coal. Everything was covered with thick coal-dust, lumps of slag, dross and tarry soot. This bed of refuse exuded a hot breath, filling the air with sweltering heat. Soon my brow was covered with sweat...

  A group of buildings loomed on the horizon. I walked automatically towards them, even though the path had now disappeared, petering out among the dumps of slag and coal-dust. Before long I reached a cluster of houses.

  It was a kind of suburban village or hamlet of not more than twenty houses. The air almost rang with an eerie silence. There was only one street running down a long, narrow slope and not a soul in sight. The buildings stretched out in a helix-like line; six houses of the lower part of the hamlet spread out in a spiral around a lake glistening like a steel plate, while the upper part unwound north in a double row.

  The houses were a gruesome sight. On their angular carcasses, covered with a dirty, grey lime, sat roofs of black, tar-soaked asphalt. The rectangular sheets with sealed edges overlapped each other like the carapaceous plates of a reptile, patched up here and there with paltry pieces of rugs soaked in birch-tar, old hides and sheets of corrugated iron. The colour of those gloomy houses with tightly shut doors and boarded up windows blended with the blackness of the ground into a peculiarly mournful landscape.

  On entering the village an unbearable stench, like a mixture of sulphur and asphalt, immediately invaded one's nostrils. Its source was probably the lake, which spilt its dirty, unwholesome waters on the southern end. Not a single tree, not one blade of grass cheered the gloomy hamlet. The barren ground, choked with black, dry dust, could bear no fruit. Only by the lake grew a cluster of bushes with rusty fruits like paradise apples, their branches bent over the water and reflected in it like a bloody smile. I stretched out my hand and picked one of those apples. It crumbled in my fingers into dust, empty like a puff-ball, rotten and putrid...

  The water in the lake was peculiar, too. Thick, saturated with sulphur, salts and tar, it lay dead in its deep bed surrounded by slabs of rock. It must have been a bed of asphalt, as here and there one could see floating pieces of curdled tar.

  The steep banks of the lake bristled with sharp rocks glistening in the light with thick layers of glassy salt. On those rocks, grey and barren, sat big, black condor-like birds. The lifeless lake seemed to influence their slow, languid movements. They sat as if chained to their stony plinths, stretching from time to time their hideous, long, naked necks towards the water...

  The lake and the village were bathed in a grey radiance wearying to the eye. Despite the lack of the sun, hidden somewhere behind the clouds, it was hot and stuffy as if in an enclosed space. From the soil covered with the black fleece of coal-dust came invisible waves of heat as if from red-hot sheets of metal.

  I set off walking around the accursed lake. Not a breath of wind rippled its smooth surface. It drowsed motionless in its bed like a huge, black eye in a skull draped in a stony pall. Only here and there drifted lumps of loosened asphalt or long, rainbowed ribbons of oily water.

  I picked up a stone and threw it into the deep. It sank only half way and began rising lazily back to the surface. The water in the lake was a saturated solution.

  I came closer to one of the birds and, carried away by an aversion I could not contain, I tried to shoo it from its rocky perch with my walking stick. The bird turned its glum, evil eye on me and with its beak tore the walking stick out of my hand. Then it moved heavily onto a lower shelf and started sharpening its crooked, steely claws on the rock.

  I left the bird alone and moved on. For some time now the lake had been exuding foetid fumes of tar and sulphur. Soon, their thick, yellow-grey mist covered half the lake and spread out in smoky coils among the houses. I put a handkerchief to my face and walked away quickly towards the street. I was just about to venture between the buildings when a dry, wooden noise reached me from around the corner. In the absolute silence of the village this sudden and unusual sound jarred in my ears with a malicious grinding. I quickened my step. After a moment I heard a second outburst of the same noise, this time much closer. Now I was quite certain - it was the sound of wooden rattles.

  And I was right. Having passed the second house on the right I saw a group of people in long brown habits with hoods over their heads disappearing around the corner. It was they who were shaking the wooden rattles in their hands.

  I wanted to run after them but I thought better of it. It crossed my mind that perhaps the inhabitants of this strange hamlet did not wish for the company of strangers and intruders, and therefore, when they noticed my presence, they deliberately locked themselves up in their houses. Besides, the unbearable stuffiness and sweltering heat of the place made it so odious that I wanted to get out of there as soon as I possibly could.

  And so I moved on, walking past the black buildings. Then, in the door of the last house on the left, I saw a young woman, about thirty years of age. Tall and slender like a fir, she wore a long, snow-white robe gathered in at the waist with a few rounds of plaited rope. A fantastic, black turban sat on her lovely, classical head. The face, beautiful beyond words, was striking in its terrible paleness. From under the arches of her eyebrows, resting on the bridge of her Roman nose, looked out a pair of most unusual eyes - pale-green, with gold-tinted rings around the pupils, shining at the slightest movement with an opalescent radiance like two beryl crystals. Her eyes corresponded strangely with the steely, ashen colour of the hair escaping in curls from under her black turban. On the red coral lips played a nonchalant, flirting smile.

  She fastened her seductive eyes on me and withstood my gaze without embarrassment. Mesmerised, I took off my hat. The admiration which she undoubtedly saw in my face favourably disposed her towards me, for she was the first to speak:

  "Welcome, dear guest, to the house of my grandfathers."

  Her melodious voice was sweet and caressing like a flute and she spoke in an odd, old-fashioned style.

  "Lovely lady," I responded, "where am I? What is this strange village? Who lives here and why are your houses locked?"

  She smiled mysteriously.

  "Put a rein on your tongue which races ahead like a wild horse. Restrain your curiosity. Do not reach too hastily for the flower of charm and mystery or it shall wilt in your hand before its time, bereft of its beauty."

  "Let it be as you wish," I answered resignedly. "But tell me at least the name of your village."

  "You are in Black Hamlet."

  What an apt name, I thought, and added aloud: "And you are its wonderful pearl."

  She stretched towards me her small, alabaster hand with a ruby ring on the middle finger.

  "Come under my roof, dear traveller, and rest, for the road must have made you weary. I am alone."

  I accepted the sweet invitation and holding hands we entered her home.

  The room she led me into must have taken up almost the entire wing of the house. It was very spacious and its windows faced in three different directions. I was immediately struck by the contrast between the simple, wooden walls made of rough timber like a mountain hut and the luxury of the furnishing. The walls
were covered by heavy, Persian rugs adorned by a fine collection of Saracen cold steel with fantastic scimitars, damask swords and bucklers. Two ottomans covered with kilims met at a sharp angle in the middle of the room, while in the corners stood silver tripods with bronze censers burning with ambergris. From the beam hung three oil lamps filling the room with a soft, dim light.

  I had an impression of being transported miraculously into one of those exotic interiors where the hot, oriental imagination spun the yarn of One Thousand and One Nights. One could easily forget that this house was one of those black, hideous buildings I had been looking at with such abhorrence, and about the stinking lake on whose rocky banks sat those repulsive vultures. The shutters, bolted fast, and the windows covered with green tapestries, cut off this Levantine oasis from its gloomy surroundings...

  We sat down by a small bamboo table laid for two, facing each other. My lovely hostess lifted a teapot with her fingers, poured the tea into two cups and handed one to me.

  "Before I am able fully to enjoy your hospitality, beautiful lady," I said, "I would like to know your name. It must be as melodious as your voice."

  "Those who live by the lake call me Mafrosia. My family and neighbours call me Mafra, for short."

  "A strange name," I said looking into her eyes.

  At this moment another roll of rattles reached us from outside. I shuddered and looked at her enquiringly:

  "What is the meaning of this noise, Mafra? It is the third time I've heard it in Black Hamlet."

  She seemed to be perturbed and irritated.

  "Fools!" she muttered through her teeth, as if to herself. "Fools, they have started those stupid rites again."

  But since we heard no more of the noise I forgot about it completely and gave myself entirely to the pleasures of Mafra's company.

  She was charming like an odalisque and her caresses were equally rich. Her manner of speech, flowery like a Persian carpet, full of metaphors and poetic hyperboles, intoxicated with a fragrance of rare, unique and oddly chosen words. Her young, firm body, barely protected against my eyes by the light, transparent gauze of her peplos, exuded a scent of exotic oils and confused the senses with a promise of unknown raptures...

  I completely lost my sense of time and cannot remember how long that wonderful moment lasted - an hour, two, or more?

  At last she allowed me to unwrap her black turban and I buried my hands in her hair. Our hungry lips fastened in a painfully sweet, tragic kiss and remained so for a long, long while...

  Suddenly I felt a pain on my right cheek and the taste of blood in my mouth - in a loving frenzy Mafra had bitten me... I took her in my arms.

  She did not resist, returning each of my caresses with one of her own. But when, drunk with excess of delight, I moved away for a moment, devouring her inscrutable face with my eyes, she gave a terrible laugh, which turned the blood in my veins to ice...

  "Mafra! What happened to you?" I cried out. "What does all this mean?"

  "Ha, ha, ha!... Ha, ha, ha!... It means that in the heat of love you have possessed the King of Lepers' daughter. Look! You recognise this-mark?"-

  She bared her chest and I saw a terrible wound which had already eaten deeply into her beautiful breast.

  "See? I am marked too! But now you are ours," she added with a vindictive smile. "You, too, belong to us. Mafra's kiss has sealed your fate for ever! Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!"

  Terrible fear grasped me by the throat and at the same time a blinding rage made me reach out for a dagger hanging on the wall. I sank it in the breast of my treacherous lover. The blood gushed in a scarlet fountain and the silence of Black Hamlet was torn by the lone scream of the leper princess .

  With the dagger still in my hand and my face contorted in a grimace of horror I burst from the accursed house. People in brown burnouses barred my way, surrounding me with a circle of cadaverous, rotting faces. I hurled myself at one of them and, having broken out of the loathsome ring, I ran. I tore along the black, narrow street towards the lake, followed by the dry patter of bare feet and muffled, throaty cries in a strange language. My legs, driven by fear, were growing weak and I stumbled, feeling the blood pounding madly in my temples with a thousand hammers. With the last of my draining strength I dashed in a different direction in an attempt to get out of the village when suddenly I saw those terrible vultures approaching from the lake - they were drawing in on me in a huge half-moon, cutting off my last route of escape. They were already so close that I could see the metallic gleam of their claws and could feel on my face their heavy, poisonous breath. The world whirled around me and I fell as if struck by lightning, senseless, into the dust of the road...

  When I came round I found myself sitting in a chair at my own desk in my flat. In my right hand I was holding a dagger steeped in fresh blood. Disgusted, I threw it into the waste-paper basket and passed my hand over my forehead. The horrible adventure ran through my head like a film, as I remembered vividly each minute detail.

  Leaning my face on my hands I felt a burning pain. I looked into the mirror: my right cheek was bleeding and displayed distinct bite-marks.

  A souvenir from Mafra, I thought, and a cold shiver ran through my body. I glanced at my shoes; they were covered by a thick layer of grey dust. I took one of them off and examined the sole - it bore traces of coal and slag.

  The question was, how had I arrived back at my home? Was I transported here after I fainted? Then the servants should know about it. Hm... What is the date?

  I looked at the calendar and to my surprise I saw the date was the 31st of May. Had my servant forgotten to tear off a page?

  Judging by the position of the sun it was late afternoon; my watch was showing ten past five.

  Hm ... It must be the afternoon of the 1st of June.

  I rang for my servant, covering my wounded cheek with my hand.

  "What's today's date?" I asked him.

  "Thirty first of May, sir," he answered somewhat surprised.

  "You must be joking, Casimir," I said irritated. "I am not in a -mood for jokes. Well?"

  "I swear to God, it's the thirty first of May, quarter to six," he repeated, giving an exact answer. "You returned later than usual, sir, very tired, and you must have dozed off while drinking your tea."

  "Are you mad, Casimir, or do you think I am?" I shouted, getting up from the desk.

  "Honest to God, it's the truth. Half an hour ago you ordered tea. I served it and left. Here, sir, there is the proof - you haven't finished your tea, the glass is still standing where I put it. It's half empty -" he added pointing triumphantly to the desk.

  To my amazement I had to agree that he was right.

  "Hm ..." I slumped resigned on the chair. "So you really saw me here, at the desk, only half an hour ago?"

  "But of course, most certainly."

  "Hm ... And you didn't look into the room between five and ten past five?"

  "Not once. Why? You don't like me to come into your room without being called."

  "Thank you. You may leave."

  When the servant disappeared behind the door I opened my first aid box, took out a flask of disinfectant and carefully cleaned the wound on my face. Calmed by this operation I retrieved the dagger from the basket and examined it. The blood on the blade had already coagulated and dried into a dark cherry smudge. The handle, inlaid with sandalwood, bore an inscription in Arabic, probably a verse from the Koran.

  I was struck by the thought that I had seen this dagger before and then my wondering gaze fell on the encyclopaedia, lying open on the desk since yesterday. My eyes stopped on the word "dagger".

  "Hm ..." I thought, "what a strange coincidence."

  Then I remembered that on the previous day, looking through the illustrations in my encyclopaedia, I had come across one with a gloss on the word "dagger". I immediately went back to it to compare it with my bloody souvenir and to my amazement I found what seemed to be its original. The daggers were identical in all their detail; even th
e inscription on the handle was the same. This useful book gave the exact translation.

  "O, Allah, Akbar Allah," read the inscription, "Protect my flesh from the cruel disease. "

  "A peculiar motto," I thought, closing the book.

  Yet, having in my possession such undeniable proof that what I had been through in Black Hamlet was real, the calm indifference of my surroundings seemed to me nothing short of mockery. I decided therefore to find a solution to this mystery as soon as possible. Mafra's infernal laughter was still ringing in my ears and her cruel, vengeful words sent cold shivers of fear through me - pure, unadulterated fear that those words might come true. A horrible curiosity made me want to leave my house and talk to other people, to hear from them a confirmation of the gruesome truth. Curiosity? Or maybe a faint hope that had they denied it I could have taken it all for a dream?

  Perhaps I should even turn myself in to the police to find out what had happened to me, just to gain some information... I looked at my watch. Alas, it was too late to take the appropriate steps, it had to be put off till the next day. I had before me a very long, dark, sleepless night...

  Today I have visited the police and told them I was the murderer of a leper girl from Black Hamlet. The sergeant who took my statement looked me in the eye and asked for further details. When I finished my story he approached me and taking me by the arm said softly:

  "Dear doctor, please forgive me for being so forthright, but, speaking as a police officer, I think this is a matter for a psychiatrist. I cannot help you." The man obviously took me for a lunatic.

  "But sergeant," I insisted, "I have evidence! This dagger, the wound on my face!"

  "This evidence does not change my opinion of the matter. You must be suffering from a nervous disorder, doctor."

  He shook my hand. I left, relieved and grateful to the man.

  Then I went to the municipal offices to get some more information. I asked for the maps of all the villages, estates and settlements within a five mile radius of the town. I found that there were only two places in the town's vicinity which might be of any interest to me, one in the south, called Wankow Hamlet, the other in the east, Zolyn Hamlet.