But then there was the small matter of the women. And of the windows.
Namely, I didn’t see any of the former. A few pigtailed little girls mixed in among the little boys playing in the square, but none older than that, despite there being loads of men in sight from teenaged to elderly. And though the day was just as pretty as could be, all the windows that faced the square save for the storefronts were shuttered.
I suppose it could have been a fluke. Two flukes, I mean. The women were perhaps all off together having tea. The windows shuttered because no one occupied those upper floors. But two flukes seemed a little hard to swallow. Particularly in light of the twist of anxiety I felt the second I set foot here.
Well, I thought, guess it’s time to poke the hive and see what comes buzzing out.
I strolled across the small town square in a diagonal, skirting the octagonal gazebo, map and guidebook in my hands, a smile on my face. All for show, of course. “Excuse me,” I called to a young man headed past me in the opposite direction. He slowed a moment, eyes meeting mine, and I saw a flicker of understanding cross his face, as if he spoke enough English to’ve understood my interruption of his walk, at least. “I was wondering if you could help me,” I continued, emboldened by his reaction. “I’d like to know about the castle.” I pointed toward the ruins on the hill to underline my meaning. “It isn’t on my map.”
When I gestured toward the ruins, his eyes widened, and his pace quickened. “Eu nu vorbesc limba engleza,” he told me as he passed. I don’t speak English. I’d heard the phrase plenty since landing in-country, often said apologetically, as if it was some failing of the speaker’s and not my own ignorance of foreign tongues that was to blame for our linguistic impasse. But this guy was far from apologetic.
He was brusque.
Hostile.
Frightened.
I tried again with my inquiry, this time targeting a couple older gentlemen ensconced in genial conversation at park’s edge. “Excuse me, sirs?” I called, trotting toward them. They looked up at me and frowned – language barrier or sun’s glare, I wasn’t sure. “Pardon,” I amended (pronouncing it par-DOHN), making a show of consulting my guidebook as I did, as if I hadn’t learned that word or asked the question that followed ten dozen times since landing in this country weeks ago. “Vorbi?i engleza?” Do you speak English?
One of the old men shook his head, a little more emphatically than perhaps was called for. The other scowled and pointed at the church, metal scaffolding gleaming in the brilliant sunlight. I nodded, and massacred my way through “Multumesc.” Thank you.
I headed toward the church. Up close, it was truly something to behold. Nestled in a copse of trees – that hid a small cemetery behind the church, which was framed in a low, decorative wrought iron fence scarcely two feet high, before giving way to the steep slope of the mountain – the church sat within the shadow of the ruins, and yet its quiet majesty seemed to hold the ruins’ dark presence at bay. Romania is renowned the world over for its collection of ornate wooden churches – Romanian Orthodox, all – erected in the Middle Ages by master carpenters who’d dedicated their lives to the narrow specialty of constructing such places of worship. They carved these rural houses of God from the verdant forests that surrounded them, and their appearance – from the long curved taper of the bell tower’s shingled roof, which terminated in a simple wooden cross, to the planed-smooth logs that joined in cross-hatches at the building’s corners and into which narrow windows paned with leaded glass were cut – made them look as though they sprouted from the very ground itself, and suggested what lay beneath was not basement but fibrous roots. Many were lost to war or fire over the years, and most fell into disrepair during the brutal Communist rule of the last century. This one appeared to be among the latter.
As moss-laden and dry-rotted as portions of it appeared to be beneath the metal gridlines of the scaffolding, it looked to be a stunning specimen. A tower four stories high, a single, glossy slab of wood comprised its oversized front door – not new, but newly refinished. Framing it were broad planks of wood gone gray with age, into which was carved an elaborate bas relief depicting at its upper reaches a sky filled with cold, beatific angels each emitting radiant light, which gave way to an image of a village that was recognizably this one in the middle, and beneath that a fiery hell full of writhing, naked demons in various states of torment, or perhaps ecstasy.
I found the sculpture oddly captivating, and disturbing as well. Looking at its depiction of a carnal hell, I couldn’t help but think I’d been privy to similar scenes a time or two before. In the basement of a Staten Island squat occupied by the demon Merihem and his human playthings. In an abandoned-sanitarium-turned-skim-joint in the wilds of New Mexico. I wondered if the artist had a similar first-hand inspiration for this piece.
“Quite something, isn’t it?”
When I heard the voice beside me, I damn near jumped out of my shoes. My meat-suit was clearly not accustomed to being snuck up on. He was also pretty damn well-trained, I discovered in the fraction of a second it took me to gather my wits, muscle-memory had already kicked in, and my right hand was wrapped around the grip of my SIG Sauer beneath my jacket. Through force of will, I relaxed my grip, and let the hand fall to my side.
“I’m very sorry,” said the man beside me. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I looked him up and down. Forty, maybe forty-five. Thick-stubbled, handsome, with dark brown hair lightened here and there by the sun and deep-set brown eyes flecked with amber. Good-humored, based on the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the lines around his easy smile, but a forehead that showed the ghost of worry-creases suggested him a serious man as well. He wore the faded, dirt-ground jeans of a workman, and a tool belt stocked with tools. His shirt was a black button-down with a Roman collar, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms.
A priest.
I flushed at having been called out in my startlement. Covered with a change of subject. “You speak English,” I said.
He looked mock-startled for a moment, and then quipped, “By God, you’re right!”
“How’d you know I did?”
The man gestured at the guidebook in my hands. “You’re carrying The Know-Nothing’s Guide to Historic Romania,” he replied, his words scarcely accented, and his use of contractions rare among even the best Romanian English-speakers. “So I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence, but it seemed like a fair bet.”
“No forgiveness required,” I replied, forcing myself to soften my stance and smile. “I confess, I’m happy to hear my mother tongue; it’s been a while. And if you don’t mind me saying, Father…”
“Yefi,” he supplied, extending one calloused, workingman’s hand.
“Father Yefi,” I continued, taking his hand and shaking it, “your English is quite good. I’m Frank.”
“An admirable quality,” he joked. “And as for my English, I should hope it passes muster; otherwise, I’d think my years at Harvard Divinity ill-spent. And please, just Yefi – no Father required. I’m here to meditate and reflect, not minister, which is just as well. These people have little interest in whatever spiritual guidance I might offer them. Their faith lies… elsewhere.” The priest’s countenance darkened.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
The darkness lifted, replaced with false good cheer. “Meaning they’re kind enough to leave me to my woodworking, is all. For which – most days, at least – I’m grateful.”
I gestured toward his tool belt. “I always thought meditation was more sitting on a straw mat and less… whacking things with hammers.”
“Yes, well, I prefer a more active approach. It’s good for a man to have a project. There are very few burdens in life that can’t be eased by a good sweat, by honest work. And idle hands are the devil’s playthings, after all.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I’m here on a bit of a project myself.”
He squinted appraisingly at me. “
And what, pray tell, is that?”
I gestured up the hill toward the ruins – hard and sharp against the sky, like the spires of a wrought-iron fence viewed at an angle, so they crowd together in silhouette. “Exploration,” I told him. “I’m trying to see as many of Europe’s castles as I can.”
“And your quest brought you here? I’m surprised. I would not have thought so humble and remote a town had made the guidebooks. Particularly since you’re the first such tourist to happen by in my memory, and,” he said, nodding toward the square, where the townspeople watched our conversation with naked, gawking interest, only to avert their gazes when we glanced their way, “a good deal longer, if their reaction’s any indication.”
His question came off all light and conversational, but I couldn’t help thinking it was a test. Yefi knew damn well these ruins weren’t in any guidebook, and further, that this town was hard to find. What’s more, I couldn’t help but feel there was a secret-handshake component to our entire conversation. He was feeling me out, but why? What did he know that he wasn’t telling me?
Whatever it was, I thought it best to play along. I shook my head and feigned a sheepish smile. “To tell the truth,” I said, “my trip so far’s been pretty touristy. I only wound up here because I suck at reading road signs in Romanian. Pretty sure I took a dozen or so wrong turns since I left my hotel in Petrosani this morning. And in the interest of making a full confession, Father, I’m still not sure where the heck I’ve ended up, there was no sign I could see at the entrance to the town, and I can’t make heads or tails of where I am on my map. But I figured hey, I’m hunting castles, and here’s a castle, so maybe somebody upstairs is trying to tell me something.”
“Well, I can help you in one capacity, at least. The town you’re standing in is called Nevazut. In Romanian, it means ‘unseen’ – a reference, no doubt, to its isolated nature, and the fact that it attracts so few visitors. I confess, I had some trouble finding the place myself when first I came, as if the roads themselves resisted bringing me. So perhaps there’s something to your theory you’ve been brought here for a reason.”
There was some steel behind that last sentence, as though he wished me to intuit some intent behind his words, but whatever it was, it was too subtle for me to understand. A threat? A warning? Some kind of coded cry for help?
I filed the thought away and soldiered on. “And does the castle have a name as well? Any chance you know somebody who could take me up there? A local guide, perhaps?”
At that, Yefi shook his head. “You’re not likely to find anyone in this town who’ll take you up there, nor even speak of it. I’ve lived in Nevazut for years now, having leapt at so satisfying an assignment as restoring this church to its former glory, even if I’d not heard of the town in which it sat. But despite my own repeated inquiries on the subject, I’ve not so much as heard a local refer to the ruins at all, except obliquely. Even then, they speak in the hushed tones of the frightened, or the reverent. They refer to it variously as the Great Death, the Stone Protector, the Shadow Cast Upon the Valley. I confess, I don’t even know the castle’s true name, and after a few months here, I learned it best to cease inquiring on the subject. It was only once I abandoned my curiosity these people began to accept my presence here.”
“You’re telling me I should do the same? Abandon my curiosity, that is.”
Yefi looked around once more, moving only his eyes, so the townspeople at their distance could not see.
“I’m telling you,” he said, sotto voce, his face a mask of amiability despite the sudden weight his quiet words carried, “that this conversation is perhaps best continued inside.” And then, loud enough for any person dropping eaves to hear: “I know you’re just passing through, my friend, and eager to get back on the road, but my day’s work has left me parched. Perhaps you’d indulge a lonely man of the cloth and come inside for a drink before you go?”
With that, he opened the front door to the church and stood aside to let me in. For a moment, I just stared at him, puzzled. Then, after casting another glance around the village’s central green to see three dozen locals doing their damndest to pretend as if they weren’t watching, I stepped into the hallowed darkness.
12.
“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” I asked the priest once we were both inside the church, and the heavy wooden door had clapped shut behind us. “The folks I’ve met since I arrived don’t speak a lick of English. Can’t imagine they’d have picked up much of our conversation. And anyways, I’m just a tourist passing through.”
“Like hell you are,” Yefi replied. “You, like they, understand a great deal more than you’re letting on.”
My hand crept once more to the gun in its concealment holster beneath my jacket. “I’m not sure I take your meaning, Padre.”
“You take my meaning fine,” he told me, “and I assure you, I intend you no harm. This is a place of worship, after all. Too long ignored, alas, both structurally and in intent, but a place of worship nonetheless.”
I eyed him for a second, and saw no malice in his features, no threat implicit in his posture, so I relaxed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? All the sudden, I get the feeling like you’re here for something other than quiet meditation, or fixing up a dilapidated old church.”
“To your first point, you’re quite right. As for your second, though, you’ve missed the mark. I am, in fact, here to fix up this dilapidated old church, as you so callously called her; however, my reasons for doing so are far from contemplative. For you see, while Nevazut – quite by design, though whose or what’s exactly I could not say – does not appear on any maps, it’s long been at the fore of my Church Patriarch’s mind. The locals are not wrong to refer to the ruins that lord over them as a shadow, for a great darkness resides in Nevazut, and taints every aspect of its inhabitants’ lives. Yet for whatever reason, they welcome this darkness, into their homes, into their hearts. It fuels them. Guides them. Provides them strength and solace, when instead they should be seeking both in the love of one another, and in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. That is why I was sent here. To drive the wickedness from these Godless people, and turn them once more toward the light of God’s grace. That is why I’ve dedicated myself to restoring His house; I consider it the first step toward restoring His flock. Or, at least, I did. Now I fear they’re too far gone for my humble ministrations to save.”
“Save the sermon, Padre, and skip ahead to the specifics.”
“Certainly,” he said, “although for that, I think perhaps we’ll need a drink.”
He retreated into the church’s gloomy interior, sparking a camp lantern as he did. The interior of the building was suddenly awash in amber light, which reflected off the lacquered surfaces within and suffused the church with warmth and numinous beauty. What little watery light trickled through the tiny panes of leaded glass that graced the church’s only windows had not done any justice to the stunning craftsmanship contained therein. Even in its work-in-progress state, it was really something to see. The steep pitch of the roof was two planes of honey-colored tongue-and-groove fading upward into darkness. Rough-hewn beams, each carved from a single tree trunk and affixed to one another with iron brackets and nails the size of railroad ties, propped the structure up. A few of these beams were splintered and met in a shallow V where they had weakened; replacements still golden-fresh were stacked along one wall, together with replicas of the original brackets and hardware to match. A roped-off spiral staircase missing half its steps led upward to the organist’s balcony, and then up further to the bell tower. Pews of oak, some unfinished, others stained matte brown, still others stained and varnished both, rested above floorboards so old and age-desiccated their dishwater-gray surfaces bowed upward at the edges, showing black beneath, basement or earth I wasn’t sure.
At the front of the room was an unfinished wooden altar scattered with tools. Larger items – a radial saw, a couple sawhorses, a stack of two-by-fours
, another of plywood, and a couple dozen paint cans full of stain and polyurethane – were scattered haphazardly beside it. Above the mess hung a utility light, a bare bulb in a hook-hatted metal cage whose cord connected to an orange extension below, which in turn snaked away into the darkness to the rear of the church, beyond the altar. A faint engine thrum from outside suggested it was plugged into a generator.
I watched as Father Yefi set the lantern down atop the altar and clicked on the hanging light. Under its harsh glare, the magic in the room receded. Now it was just an old and dusty church once more.
It was then I realized this was more than just a church to Yefi, because behind the altar I saw a military cot upon which rested a tousle of blankets and a well-worn Bible; a mini-fridge; and a hot plate, beside which sat a stack of canned goods, a single saucepan, and a wooden spoon. “You live here?” I asked him.
“I do,” he said. “It may sound foolish, but there are times I do not feel safe out there, among the villagers. Here, I am safe, if perhaps less comfortable.”
“I didn’t see a lock on the church door.”
“The safety of which I speak is not merely corporeal,” he replied, “although that which I fear is barred entry from this place just as surely as if it were locked.”
“And what is it that you fear?” I asked him.
“Before I tell you that,” he said, fetching two chipped, age-clouded juice glasses and a bottle of ?uica from beneath the altar and pouring us each a belt, “let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you come to Nevazut?”
I thought long and hard before I answered. Then I figured fuck it, thinking long and hard ain’t what I do, so instead I dove right in. “You mentioned a great darkness resides here,” I said. “If that’s true, then I aim to kill it.”
The priest laughed, full-throated and full of delight. It echoed through the dusty church, growing hollow as it rose, like a chorus of sycophants trying desperately to let the boss know they were in on the joke. Then he pressed a glass into my hand and clinked his to mine so hard both sloshed. “Well then, fair stranger, you and I are well-met, even if I fear you’re as batty as this old girl’s belfry.”
The Collector 03 - The Big Reap Page 16