“She promised that we would be set free even if Xantho paid no ransom.”
“Then why did you help to organise our escape?”
“I did not trust her.”
“But if you did not trust her...”
“The fact that I did not trust her does not mean that she was in fact untrustworthy.”
“This is sheer sophistry. What you mean is that she promised to save you but not Verney or myself.” Razendoringer hung his head. “Do not be ashamed. It was all the more noble of you to assist in our escape.”
The dwarf looked at me. “But the death she will suffer tomorrow is too terrible to contemplate.”
“Yes. I have been thinking about it. But what can one do?”
“You must ask to see the prisoner and, when I give the signal, engage the gaoler in earnest conversation.”
It proved easier to get to see Armida than I feared. I was King Xantho’s man now, and I wished to gloat over my former captor. This was perfectly understood.
We found Armida languishing in the narrowest and most verminous cell of the whole keep. The air was musty and damp and the captive was shivering as much from cold as from fear. Pity had now overridden every other kind of emotion in me, but, as instructed by Razendoringer, I assailed her with a storm of taunts and insults. I then gave a long and vivid account of my captivity to the gaoler, somewhat exaggerating the bestiality of the circumstances under which we lived. As I talked, Razendoringer, with the deftness of a skilled sneak-thief, took impressions in wax of all the keys at the gaoler’s belt. I also saw him pour something into the stone jar of ale that stood on the gaoler’s table. After heaping a final tirade of abuse on an astonished Armida we left.
How Razendoringer had metal copies of the keys made, how he found the windows of Armida’s cell at whose bars he had indicated she should tie a handkerchief, how he shot the keys through that window attached to a crossbow bolt, all these are worthy of a tale; but suffice it to say he did all these things, whereupon the brigand chieftainess made good her escape.
I was very fearful the next day in case suspicion should fall upon us for what had happened. Indeed neither of us knew whether she had got away, so Razendoringer and I were in despair when we heard that the execution was to take place as arranged.
Crowds gathered in the main square as, at noon, the prisoner was led forth, head bandaged and bloody so that the features were obscured.
Razendoringer tugged at my sleeve. The prisoner was not a woman but a man. We could see hair on the wrists. He seemed too dazed and weak to cry out until the dreadful work of execution was under way, and then his terrible screams were mercifully drowned in the roar of the crowd.
Razendoringer and I turned away from the scene, pale and cold. The man who had gone to the stake was the gaoler. Ragul, as we later discovered, had suspected him of taking bribes to release Armida and, not wishing to lose face with the king or the people of Boltenia, he had sacrificed the gaoler in her stead. Thus we had released Barabbas and crucified an innocent man. Which shows the maxim of Appollonius to be true: that in a savage world no good deed goes unpunished.
VIII
After a few hours the crowd at last tired of the shrieks of their supposed oppressor and the scaffold with its dreadful trophies was put to the torch. The gaoler, unlamented and unrecognized by any but ourselves, finally perished in the flames. I still pray for his soul.
It might be well at this point to say something of the people and customs of the strange country we had entered. The land is called Transylvania, though it consists of a number of tribes: Saxons, Vallachs, Dacians, Magyars, and Szekelys who claim descent from the Huns. These last, from whom Xantho’s royal house derives, are traditionally opposed to the Magyars who predominate in Hungary to the North. At the time there was an uneasy alliance between Hungary and Transylvania owing to the Ottoman threat. But when the latter were weak Hungary was disposed to invade and engulf the land in the name of its Magyar occupants.
The people are ruled over by the King and his royal house, but more immediately by the boyars, great feudal landowners whose allegiance to the King fluctuates according to the strength of the monarchy and outside influences. They are not above allying themselves with the Turks or the Hungarians when it suits them. They are an unruly, hard-drinking, hard riding lot but, at the time of which I speak, relatively passive in the face of a strong king with effective military support.
The common people present a paradox which I have often observed among semi-barbarous nations. They are hardy, practical, fearless in battle, stoic and silent in normal intercourse, yet relentlessly savage when roused. They are submissive and yet proud. But with all this they are, I believe, the most superstitious folk in the world. Every house — and this applies to the boyars too — is littered with ikons, charms, amulets and all kinds of trumpery. And they believe in every conceivable sort of evil spirit: hobgoblins, boggarts, forest-demons, lamias, witches, elves, ghosts and ghouls, but more than all of these they fear the evil spirit they call the “oupire” or “wampyr”, more commonly called the vampire.
Many and curious are their superstitions. The rubbing of butter on the elbows is thought to be proof against infertility. Any garment of theirs which has a spot of blood upon it they will keep from washing for many months, for they believe the blood will give them strength. Most curious perhaps is their terror of sheep whose ghosts they fear almost as much as the vampire. The peasants will go to inordinate lengths when they come to slaughter a sheep to prevent its knowing by whom it has been killed. So you will often find two peasants with a sheep, one capering before it to distract its attention, while the other approaches from behind to dispatch it with a cleaver. Indeed, there are persons who are professionally engaged to divert sheep from the slaughterers they might otherwise haunt. These “mukrovni” or “sheep-jesters” are often highly accomplished musicians, dancers and conjurers and, in my humble opinion, are wasted on mere sheep.
The following day the three of us set off under escort to meet Xantho. Ragul did not mention Armida’s escape and we chose to remain silent. Verney, who had taken no part in the affair, kept his own counsel. Indeed, I wondered why Razendoringer had not confided his plan for releasing Armida to him. I discovered that between them was a growing sense of mutual distrust which was to have far-reaching consequences.
The castle where Xantho and his sons lived was many miles distant and on the first night of our journey we stopped at the island monastery of Snagov which is not far distant from Bistritsa, the principal city of Transylvania.
This monastery is one of the great sights of that country. It stands on an island in the middle of Lake Ordog, which means the Devil’s lake. It is so called because Saint Vidzo, the illustrious local saint, is said to have thrown the Devil into the lake. Now whether this is true, or another of the country’s foolish superstitions, I cannot say, but it is certain that no bird or fish frequents that stretch of water, nor can anyone drink of it. Moreover, the monastery on the island (which has wells of its own sweet water) is regarded by all as a place of exceptional holiness. Its monks — the famous Black Monks of Snagov, so called because every item of their clothing is black — are held in equal measures of reverence and fear.
That evening we were rowed across the lake by two Black Monks to the monastery. Looming over the still water with the sun falling red behind it, the place looked more of a fortress than a sanctuary. At the landing stage we were greeted most cordially by the Abbot, Cornelius. He was a grave man in his fifties. The lines on his face were drawn into a penitential frown and something about his restless glance suggested a vigilant oppressiveness. We passed through the outer wall of the monastery into an enclosed garden which was exquisitely kept with neat flagged paths and well-weeded beds, growing every kind of vegetable and aromatic herb. Some of the Black Monks were gardening; some were standing in groups and talking in low voices.
“It is the evening hour of recreation,” explained the Abbot. “A great deal of chatter and mischi
ef-making goes on.” His face showed more sadness than anger. Then he did an unexpected thing. As he was passing one of the herbal beds he bent and picked some sprigs of a strange plant I did not know. Its leaves were round and furry, its scent deep and pungent. As he gave us the plants he smelt the leaves and smiled. His face was transformed and became for a moment most charming, full of lightness and laughter.
“Oupirskrok we call it,” he said. “A rare plant, blessed by the holy St Vidzo and proof against all evil spirits.” He paused. “Even the Wampyr. Hence it is called Oupirskrok, or Vampire’s Bane in our tongue.”
I was beginning to feel I had heard more than enough of vampires and suchlike.
The Black Monks of Snagov are most solemn and still creatures. They rarely leave the island, for their humble needs are supplied mostly by the gardens and workshops within the community. Their chanting in the chapel, which they attend at least four times a day, is lugubrious, but imparts a certain peace. We attended a service that evening and then took something to eat by ourselves in the guests’ refectory. The food was plentiful, plain and excellent.
Razendoringer responded to the atmosphere with his usual sympathy and barely spoke a word. Verney, however, was less at ease. He made remarks on everything: the food, the architecture, the disposition of the monks, as if he felt obliged to comment. His unease communicated itself to me and I grew impatient with this quiet place.
When we had finished our meal Abbot Cornelius called me aside. He told me that the former Abbot, Kyril, wanted to see me. I followed him.
It is the custom among the Black Monks of Snagov for an elected Abbot to retire at seventy. Thereafter he lives in more or less complete seclusion in one of the towers of which there are many in the monastery. His food is brought to him by a novice and he comes to the refectory only on feast days. He is allowed to say the offices in his cell and attends the chapel when he wishes. In this way he is highly honoured among the Black Monks, and many say that in their isolation these elderly anchorites develop strange powers of vision and prophesy.
The climb to the tower room up a spiral stone staircase was long and arduous. I wondered at the old man’s isolation. We came to a landing and a great oak door. A clear old voice invited us in.
It seemed a most comfortable room with windows of leaded glass that looked out on all sides into the night. In one corner a novice tended a wood fire while before it, covered in rugs and skins, sat the old Abbot. White hair stood out from his ancient face like a halo, a silver nimbus touched with gold from the firelight. Abbot Cornelius began to introduce me, but Kyril simply waved me to a seat. Somehow no introduction was required. A series of eloquent but kindly gestures dismissed Cornelius and the novice, then we were alone.
The eyes that fixed themselves on me were blue and bright; there was no intensity about his glance, yet he did not smile. For some minutes we looked at one another motionless. The silence was easy and accommodating.
“You are the Doctor Bellorius who is going to teach the King’s sons,” he said. I said I was.
“Do you know anything about this land?”
“Very little.“
“It is a haunted land. A land of extremes. There is no neutral territory here. Sooner or later you will have to take one side or the other. The man who tries to remain with a foot in both camps will be torn apart.”
“What sides are these you talk of?”
“You bring learning and enlightenment from the West. There are many in Xantho’s court who will not welcome it.”
“But the King wants it.”
“He imagines that he wants it, yes. For his sons. Just as he imagines he wants the continued prayers of the Black Monks.”
“Will I have enemies at court already?”
“Do not seek them out. Wait for them. They will come.” I began to be impatient with this conversation. “Wait,” said Kyril. “Have you heard of the Scholemance and the Black Cathedral?”
“I have not.”
“This is my warning. They exist. Many things exist here that are only imagined in other lands. That is how life runs. A thing is first imagined — it may be of great terror or beauty — then it comes into being. Here you stand on the very borders of being, and that means you must not remain neutral.”
I asked him to explain but he stayed silent. Then our conversation ranged over other topics. Mostly he listened to me. He nodded when I mentioned Issachar the Jew.
“He came here once when I was a very young monk,” he said. “He wanted peace and a refuge. But he brought his own war with him and nearly left this place desolate as a result. Some people search for the answer, you see, others wait for it. Here we wait.” It was the last thing he said to me, and I still remember the peace it imparted. It saddens me too. I often wonder whether I have not spent my life searching when I should have been waiting. But then searching is a form of waiting, and waiting a form of searching, as Dionysius of Smyrna has said.
And so in the morning we left the island monastery of Snagov and went on our way, I with an indistinct sense of regret. As we rode along on the final stage of our journey I asked Verney what was the Scholemance.
“What do you know of the Scholemance?” he asked abruptly, turning his whole attention on me.
“Nothing. I merely heard the name.” Verney nodded, as if to imply that my ignorance was unsurprising.
“There is said to be a school,” he said, “a kind of seminary for those arts they call Black Arts. No-one I have met will tell of its exact whereabouts, but rumours say that it lies somewhere in the Carpathians.”
“And the Black Cathedral?” Again Verney looked at me sharply.
“Of that I know even less. It is said that there are those who go on a pilgrimage to the Black Cathedral. Few return, but those who do have great powers. When did you hear of these things?”
“I was warned of them.”
“So they are here!” said Verney with a rapt expression. Razendoringer looked at him sharply, and then at me.
We had, on the previous day’s journey, come down into the valley of Bistritsa, a place of astonishing plentifulness and fertility, but on this next day we began to wind upwards into the foothills again. Xantho had many residences but for a number of reasons he chose to hold court in his mountain fastness which is called the Dragon’s Castle, or, in their own language, Castle Dracula. Some translate it as the Devil’s Castle (for the Devil is the Dragon in the Book of Revelation) and tell some legend of the Devil building it in five days for a wager, but I cannot credit this. If one believed all the tales about the Devil that exist in this land one would think he spent half eternity here being swindled by peasants and suffering indignities at the hands of saints. My own belief is that the name derives from the arms of the Royal House of Transylvania, which bear the device of the two dragons. Nevertheless the readiness of folk to translate dragon into devil was ominous enough.
Towards late afternoon our small escort was augmented by a larger troop of horsemen. Evidently they were not here for our honour since I gathered that they were returning from active service. I asked the captain of our escort what men they were and why they joined us. He replied that the Ottoman Turks were on our borders again and occasionally conducted raids into the heartland. I asked if these were preliminary skirmishes before a full scale invasion, but he was silent.
IX
Evening came, and the sinking sun began to gild the spear points of our escort. We climbed higher, and though the road here was good it grew steeper and the mountains began to close in on us. We were now riding through the Borgo Pass. It had been a fine, clear day but now we seemed to be entering a different atmosphere, one that was oppressive and thunderous. The thick clouds almost reached down and touched us.
We came to a point where the road divided. One way was a neat and sandy track, almost a path, which went up gently through a great forest of oak; the other wound downwards towards a village from which I could see the blue smoke curling. A few heavy splashes of rain fla
ttened themselves in the dust of the road.
“This is where we must take our leave of you,” said the captain of the escort. He intimated that we must make our way through the woods to the castle while they were to be billeted in the village. The men smiled and nodded at us. They took leave of us most warmly with many expressions of concern and sympathy. This, I confess, troubled me. One of the troopers, younger than the rest, put something cold and metallic into my hand very secretively. When they were all riding down through the dusk to the village I looked at it. It was a rosary. I put it under my gown, careful not to show it to the others, and we set off up the path.
The track was well kept and we had no difficulty in following it with our horses and pack mules. Light faded quickly and the arms of the forest closed in upon us. The road at one point joined the line of an exhausted river bed. It formed a small ravine with steep, sandy banks on either side through which erupted great roots of trees. A sky of violet could be seen in patches through the canopy of cloud. The sun had fallen behind the mountains. If we did not find the castle soon we were likely to lose our way.
We hurried our horses on as best we could, though the path was now steep and narrow. Verney began to curse the cowardice and discourtesy of our escort. A breeze ran suddenly and fiercely through the wood and, looking up in the silence that ensued, we saw the waning moon for the first time.
The thunder had moved further down the valley. It became noticeably colder and the stars seemed very near. Our path emerged from the ravine and began to wind upwards more gently. Then we reached the level ground of a sort of plateau.
There was a slight clearing in the trees here. Ahead of us we could see a further range of mountains and in the middle, perched on the summit of one rock, a great black fortress, crowded with towers and the jagged teeth of battlements. The moon seemed to sway behind it, but this was only a trick of the light. It was our first sight of Castle Dracula.
The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale Page 10