The last vestiges of guilt at having deserted a lost battle and a defeated cause were torn from me in that flight. Even fear left me in my furious effort to avoid capture as we galloped over that field strewn with weapons and corpses. Our horses were light footed and experienced but twice mine stumbled, nearly pitching me headlong into the bloodstained wreckage; on the second occasion Vlad took hold of my bridle and steadied me.
Then we were clear of the corpses and riding up a slope towards the trees that fringed the valley. A quick glance behind me told me that the cavalry squadron was gaining on us. There was no clear path on the rise and our horses began to struggle and slip. The Spahis came closer. Some who were mounted archers tried a few shots which flew wide but struck terror into us for all that.
We reached the top of the ridge and looked back. Some of the Spahis were coming directly after us, another group had split off and were riding northwards up river intending to cut off our flight in that direction. Vlad hesitated a moment, then indicated a small track leading westward into the trees. We followed.
But we had not thrown off our pursuers. As we careered down the woodland path in single file we heard their shrieks behind us. Vlad and Razendoringer were in front of me; Mircea who was in the rear was sobbing.
He urged his horse on and tried to pass me on the narrow path. I shouted at him that if he did it might unseat us both, but he paid no heed, so, seeing no remedy, I pulled my mount aside, to let him go by. This temporary halt was nearly my undoing for the first Spahi was on me. I felt a sweep of his scimitar graze the rump of my horse which was maddened by the wound. It flew down the track after Mircea, but this sudden effort had also confused the beast. It had lost its stride and the Spahi was onto me again. I felt his blade slash at my back, cleaving my gown and drawing blood. The man was almost alongside me when something happened.
I cannot say exactly what it was as I was intent on escape. It looked like a shadow, the grey shape of a man on foot which fell across the Spahi’s path and caused his horse to rear. The Turk was thrown from his horse and into the path of the next Spahi on the track who also stumbled. The confusion caused by this and, for all I know, consequent accidents, enabled us to escape clear from the Turk’s sight. We galloped to the bottom of a shallow ravine, crossed a stream and rode up the other side into a dense wood where we felt sufficiently safe to dismount, rest our horses and take bearings.
We were no longer pursued but we were still being hunted; moreover, we none of us knew exactly where we were. The whole country would soon be overrun with Turkish troops many of whom would be searching for us. Our plight was desperate: we had no food with us and none of us had quite recovered from the strains and exertions of the previous day. Mircea simply wanted to bury himself in leaves and fall asleep. He also resented the way that Vlad was beginning to assume command, though he himself lacked the resource to oppose this assumption of leadership.
Razendoringer said that we must, whatever the danger, try to move North to bring the news of defeat and victory to Castle Dracula, and if we did not, all might be lost. He noticed from the sun’s position that the stream we had crossed flowed roughly from the North and was perhaps a tributary of the river An. If we could join the An a little further up we would be led almost directly back to Castle Dracula, for its source was in the Carpathians some miles East of the castle.
Vlad nodded his agreement with Razendoringer’s suggestion and added that we should begin to move at once. Mircea said that he would stay and sleep, but when we began to move off purposefully he caught up with us. We moved as quietly as we could, for the most part leading our horses through the dense woodland, on the alert for any sound of the Turks. Once we heard a trumpet call and, crouching low in the undergrowth, saw a small troop of Spahis cross our path. They were riding fast but looking intently to left and right, so we were lucky that they did not catch sight of our horses.
The day wore on, foodless. Once we ventured down to the stream which had become a mere trickle and we could have spent a century drinking. The air was close and humid in the wood and we were plagued by insects of all kinds which bit us and crawled into our clothes.
As the sun began to sink our plight became more desperate. We had to stop, but where? We also needed food, but though Razendoringer had his crossbow with him, there seemed to be no game to shoot at, not even a rabbit. Consumed with exhaustion, we found ourselves in the dying light moving up a treacherous sandy slope, looking now simply for a place to rest with no hope for the next day. Suddenly the woodland silence was broken by faint cries. At first they were so distant that I could not make them out; then they came nearer. I was sure of it now: the Turks were using hounds.
All of us stood quite still. In the fading light I saw an expression of despair, almost of resignation on the faces of all three of my companions. Fear, as the poet says, is the handmaid of uncertainty; our doom was now sealed, but Razendoringer roused us.
“Perhaps if we could make our way up the bed of the stream we might confuse the scent. Running water will baffle the hounds.” But not the huntsmen, was my unspoken thought. However, we followed his advice even though stumbling up the bed of that stream slowed our progress considerably. Every time we heard the hounds now, they were nearer.
We came to a halt in front of a small precipice of moss-covered rock about twenty feet high over which a cascade of water poured into a shallow shingled basin beneath. The overflow from the basin formed the stream whose course we had followed up till now. To one side of the basin stood a bowl of fruit together with a small pottery jar containing purple willow herb.
Evidently the place was the object of some pagan veneration.
Along with the yelping of the hounds we could now hear voices in Turkish. We were only a slope or a belt of trees away from discovery and on a level tract of ground we might have ridden for it, but the way was too steep and treacherous. We made our way up the side of the precipice, hoping to find some place of hiding. Just then hounds and Turks burst into sight. As yet they had failed to see us in the shadow of the rock, but it would not be long before they did. Suddenly a voice said, “In here! Quickly!”
A screen of moss and ivy parted and from a recess behind it in the precipice a dark figure beckoned us to enter. We did so without a moment’s hesitation, knowing that anything else was captivity or death. It was not a wide enough opening for the horses, so we let them go. The figure who had beckoned us in made a low whistling sound. The horses whinnied and began to move past us back into the wood.
At that moment the Turks caught sight of the horses and gave chase with their hounds. I could not see what happened next, but we later found all four horses lower down in the ravine, broken and dead.
I could see very little of my surroundings which were dark and, despite the distant sound of trickling water, dry. Our rescuer was simply a black shadow at the mouth of the cave, though from his outline I could tell that he was a tall man and dressed in what seemed to be a monk’s habit, for his head was hooded.
All four of us remained quite silent while he stood at the entrance, erect and more still than I have seen any living man. We heard the hounds come closer. The Turks were shouting, sounding excited and yet baffled. Now the hounds were snuffling at the very entrance of our hiding place. We saw the leaves which screened us from the outside world quiver. A snout poked through and snorted. We thought our end had come after all. Then the man crouched down so that his face was level with the hound’s nose. I heard him blow gently in the animal’s direction, upon which the hound whimpered a little and backed off. More whining could be heard from other hounds out of sight and we heard them being cursed at by the Turks. Presently the noise of both men and hounds died away.
Our rescuer turned towards us. In the fading light which filtered through the leaf screen we could just see his outline. When he spoke his voice was deep and level, without the normal inflections of everyday speech, as if he were addressing us from a prepared text.
“You are wel
come to my home. I am known as Father Sylvius. Please follow me. Bend your heads; the ceiling is low.” By the expedient of my holding onto his gown, Razendoringer onto mine and so on, we were able to follow him down a black passageway. It was pitch dark, but we could hear the splash of water becoming more distinct.
Turning a corner we found ourselves in an almost circular cavern about forty feet in diameter. The roof was conical and culminated in a black hole which served as a chimney for the fire which burned brightly in the cave’s centre. The walls were rough hewn, but I guessed that the cave was not an entirely natural formation. My suspicions were confirmed when I observed that to the right, from where the sound of water came, there was a basin which had been carved out of the rock. It served as a pool into which the water fell before proceeding on its way towards the outside world.
This extraordinary convenience combined with the warmth of the cave caused by the fire gave the place an air of austere comfort. Other contents of the cave were ranged around its edges. There were piles of fresh straw in one corner, firewood in another; a small store of food and crockery was in another. Opposite the water basin was a little alcove, carved out of the rock more carefully than the rest of the cave, with smooth walls. In it were a plain wooden prie-dieu and an altar on which lay a number of books, a crucifix and a painting. This was on panel, somewhat in the Greek style, and it depicted the temptation of Our Lord. Christ stood on a mountain facing his adversary, a totally naked man, recognisable as Satan only from the long scaly tail that sprang from his fundament. The curious feature about this painting, which I remember clearly to this day, was that the features of Christ and those of Satan were identical. They might have been twin brothers.
While we were looking at the wonders of this cave, our host prepared a meal. He did not encourage conversation but indicated, mostly by signs, that we were to make ourselves comfortable and that he needed no help with the preparations for supper: all this while he kept his hood on so that the features of his face were obscured. Nevertheless there was something strangely familiar about the way he looked so that I longed for him to reveal his face.
His habit was a simple gown of grey. It belonged to no religious order of which I knew. His feet were bare and hardened, and he wore a stout leather belt with a sheathed knife on it.
When he had finished he summoned us to the fire. After a muttered blessing he gave us food: good bread and cheese and a thick soup which tasted of nuts and fruit, curious but far from unpalatable. During the meal we started to talk, to ask questions, but he indicated in the friendliest way possible that we should wait until the meal was over. So we devoted our energies to the simple business of satisfying hunger which took some time.
To conclude the meal he handed us each a cup of water from the spring and, when we had drunk, he indicated by gesture that he was ready for conversation. There was a small silence which Mircea broke by asking, rather testily, if he knew who we were. He named each one of us, so I asked him how he knew.
“I know what is happening,” he replied, “I have been of some service to our master Ragul.”
“Do you live alone here?” I asked.
“I am alone. There are those who bring me offerings from time to time.”
“May we see your face?” asked Vlad.
“I have vowed not to show it.”
“Why?” asked Mircea.
“You would not care to see my face,” said Sylvius.
“I would,” said Mircea, darting forward and trying to snatch the cowl from Sylvius’s head. Sylvius was too quick for him and rose up to his full height quite suddenly. I saw his body convulse with rage for a moment, then relax. In that moment it seemed as if the flames of the fire leapt up in sympathy and I thought him capable of anything. Mircea cowered back with a cry of fear. Perhaps he had seen a little more of that face than we had.
Then Sylvius commanded us to sleep and we, having been shown to clean piles of straw, obeyed without demur.
I woke earlier than the others. The fire in the centre of the cave had been rekindled, but I could see no sign of Sylvius, so I made my way along the rock passage to the mouth of the cave. There I found bright sunlight streaming in, for the leaf screen had been drawn aside. Sitting cross-legged in the doorway was Sylvius, his cowl drawn even more about his face so that most of it was still in shadow. From beyond the shadows we could feel a fresh breeze and hear the first birds stirring.
I sat for some moments in silence with him and then asked if I could talk. He indicated by gesture that I could.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“For the same reason that you are here. I was brought by circumstances.”
“Do you pray? Do you meditate?”
“I do both. I was reflecting today on the philosopher Plato’s tale of the cave. How men begin by living in the cave of illusion watching shadows on the wall, then they move to the world outside until finally they are able to look at the Sun, the source of light. Having done that, they must return to the cave to lead others to the light. I have journeyed from the light into the cave in order to see reality for the first time. So in reversing the analogy of Plato, I have attempted to fulfil its meaning.”
“Why did you leave in the first place?”
“Because I had no power. Our motives are never pure, you see. I had wealth, reputation and influence, but the solid substance eluded my grasp. I was merely one among many, competing. Then I saw that we have no power at all until we have power over ourselves. So I began to read books of the new science, Paracelsus, Cornelius Agrippa, Picus de Mirandula, Abbot Trithemius... All these taught me a way of disciplining the imagination and bending thoughts to the service of making or destruction. I began to be feared above all other men. But still I was not satisfied. The workings of the paths of the Qabalah, journeys through the theatre of my memory, the simple operation of mental magnetic force, all these gave me what I desired, enlightenment, knowledge, power; but still I lacked something. And what I lacked was the one thing needful.
“It came to me one day in the most unexpected place. I had renounced the church; indeed I still despise its folly and its petty tyranny. But one evening while I walked I was drawn to a church whose doors were open to let in the last of the sun. There I heard the words of the priest reading the gospel passage concerning the certain rich man, telling that man to renounce everything, arise and follow him. Then I saw what I lacked. I had property and power; I could control my mind to perform astonishing feats, but I was still at the mercy of my own whims. I must abandon myself. To what? Well, to God if you care for that word. I prefer to use the word Reality.
“Having disposed of my property I entered a monastery, but I soon found the atmosphere at once pompous and frivolous. There was an insistence on repetition and ritual which, for the most part, deadened the mind. There was very little recognition of the value of the individual spirit. This was largely because the hierarchies at the head of these establishments were still interested in the maintenance of personal power.
“But personal power has no value; the only true power is impersonal. Until you are one with the power of reality itself, you are still bound by the cords of your own petty instincts.
“I wandered from one monastery to another, but found them all much the same. Finally I came to this wood and the cave which I discovered by what some call luck, but which I call the way of truth. My first years here were characterized by visions and revelations of an extraordinary character. One night I saw, in the space of an hour or so, the entire destiny of the human race, as it came time and again to the abyss of self-destruction and then withdrew at the last moment. I thought I had attained to the last summit of truth. But then, gradually, these moments of ecstasy which had so gratified the last vestiges of my vanity began to disappear. They were replaced by emptiness, lassitude, a sense of futility which encompassed not simply my life, which I saw as of no more value than that of a flea, but the world, indeed the entire universe. I longed for death and an absolute
extinction. The beauty even of these woods seemed barren and tawdry.
“However, while my desire for death was so great that unchecked it might have obliterated the globe, my clinging to life and the truth was a match for it. Such was the discipline of my mind acquired from Cornelius and others that I was able to hold back the tide of despair.
“What first effected the final change was a sudden realization, arrived at by instinct rather than reason, that I was holding back this sea of desolation not simply for myself, but for the entire world. If this sounds vain it cannot be helped. I then understood that a chaotic sense of futility is itself part of a pattern made up of two opposing forces which the philosopher Empedocles called Nikos and Philia, Strife and Love, Chaos and Order. The chaos must come to destroy the old order so as to create the new. If in myself I could hold both chaos and order in tension, then I could contain the universe. I might become not simply a creature on a planet, but a cosmic being.
“This balance comes to very few of us. Most are agents principally of either Love or Strife without realizing it. Their inherent lack of balance is the source of their distress, because the agents of Love suffer for others, and the agents of Strife suffer for themselves.
“This was the baptism of my mind. The baptism of my spirit came when I was sitting like this at the mouth of the cave, watching a bird on that oak which crowns the ridge. It was a thrush and singing as if it wanted to burst its lungs. Quietly my mind stole up to the bird and entered it, and then I knew what the thrush knew. It was pure being. It was a part of the life of the world, without conscious separation. Its song belonged to its body, but just as much to the tree, the ground beneath and the wheeling cycle of infinite stars. I too was part of that indivisible movement and my will could operate every part of it. The paradox was that immediately I began to use that will for my own purposes, I became a separate entity again and so lost the power.
“Our journey into reality is a journey from entity to nonentity, from presence to absence and from seeing to being. First we sense the presence; then we are in the presence; then we begin to be the presence. It is at that moment that we suffer the desolation which is called the night of the soul. Chaos threatens to rule because we have nothing to turn to. When Jesus on the cross cried out that his God had forsaken him this was the moment when father and son ceased to be divisible and became one. He knew, for the first time, the loneliness of God, of the Absolute Unity, as I have.”
The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale Page 25