“We were to the monks as their children; the gold and the silver were our right. We had nothing. No horses, no vardos, not even an iron pot. We were no longer slaves, but we were not to be free.
“We ran for our lives. If we were caught, we were whipped, and hanged. Our women violated, our children sliced and mutilated.
“We could not run forever. Because we were clever, we went to the quietest place, to the safest place, the one place we could air our bleeding feet.
“In the times of so many dead, the graveyards were fallow. Too many to bury, not enough to do the digging.
“This is how we lived. We made our first bargain, to bury the dead. We would live in peace, only if we treated their dead as we treated our monks. They would all be buried like Gipsies.
“Some of my people wished to run, take our chances in the hands of Devla. And if we died, we would return to Him.
“Most of us were too like the forest stag. The mighty stag is wise; he knows when to run and when to be still.
“So we lived among the dead. No one sought to kill us, but no one saw fit to let us be alive.
“The peace was brutal. It was also brief. When the Sickness waned, the gadje looked to us for other ills, naturally caused: stillborn babies, curdled milk, too much rain, too little rain, accidents and tragedies. For all, we were suspect. They’re dark witches, they said. They eat the dead.”
This is where she stopped her story, this night. I passed the day as I had previously, in fitful sleep though to supper. It occurs to me to note that this situation struck as apt: should one seek knowledge of Vampyres, one should live as one.
DEAR SIRS, IT also behooves me to interject some thoughts I had at the time. There should be no doubt that at the beginning of our acquaintance, I undervalued Mera Szgany. She is, obviously, a remarkable woman of any race. Well-spoken, an excellent narrator of history, if not guilty of the natural Gipsy proclivity for exaggeration for the sake of a hearty tale (for the woman’s account to be strictly first-hand, as she presented it, she would be no less than 400 years of age; as I stated, her exact age is difficult to ascertain, but I estimate in her late 40s, perhaps 50s). I admit that I was and am troubled by only one attribute of my capable guide: she is, almost, without emotions. She recounts nearly unspeakable horrors with no grief. Her eyes are lively, but her smile feels insincere, as if it is a mere courtesy, and delivered as an afterthought. It pains me to write this. I feel I am denigrating the humanity of one gracious enough to educate me, and repaying this generosity with judgment. Perhaps she quells her emotions with the red brandy she sips through our evenings (and as noted, occasionally gulps). I have but a glass out of politeness, but she nurses several. This may be the cause—alcohol affects each differently—though I remain uneasy.
After the chej for the evening cleared away my dishes (another traditional stew, this one flavoured well with cinnamon), my guide approached, settled in, poured us brandies, and began.
Night Seventeen-th
“We first met the Székely and his man when it was dark. The two of them strolled inside the graveyard, lost in their deep conversation. We hid, in fright, thinking the villagers finally came to murder us in our sleep. We lay face down, in silent horror, praying to Devla to save and protect us.
“The men passed between us. So closely, I could see their expressions: not of kindness, exactly, but neither unkind.
“They did not acknowledge us, even as they stepped over us, as if we were boulders or cairns, instead of people trembling in submission. Their boots were excellent leather, pantaloons velvet and fine wool. I was inexplicably ashamed and angry at their indifference.
“I sat up, defiant, and stared, bare-faced and bare-headed, at the interlopers, until they left us, and the cemetery.
“My father rightfully rebuked me for my carelessness and indolence. I have always had a well-deserved reputation for brazen curiosity and strong will, not admired in women.
“The men returned the next evening. Though there were but two of them, and they dressed as men unaccustomed to work, they led horses laden with food and supplies, laid a table with their hands, and then invited us through gestures to rise, to rise and to eat.
“It was... unexpected.”
Mera Szgany laughed then. Perhaps it was the hypnotic effects of her storytelling, or the dancing campfire, or perhaps the warming effect of the sweet fruit brandy; but I was captivated at that moment by the mouth of Mera Szgany. I’ve written of her small, white teeth, which shone whiter against the berry-stain on her drunken lips. I laughed too, gentlemen, for a most curious reason: not because the story was funny, but because at that time, I wished nothing more plainly than to see that mouth laugh again.
It was an innocent moment, lest I suggest otherwise. It was such a singular, immediate desire that I feel compelled to document it, if only for further study.
Regardless, the moment passed, and Mera Szgany continued.
“My people rose, and ate. First with trepidation, then confidence. It was as one befriends wild beasts. Our hosts stood back and watched; they did not speak, to us or one another, nor did they partake.
“The food was fine! But I hardly remember it. After plates were scraped clean and bowls emptied and licked, the Székely and his man summoned me to approach.
“When I came close, I realised: never before have I seen such men. The Székely was long, though average height. His face was long, his nose, fingers, feet, all long. His brows and beard formed a circlet around his face, and his lips were red like a maid’s.
“His man was less drawn, but still remarkable. Orange curls framed a man’s face, which was pale and pretty as a girl’s, though his nose drew to a beaky point. A tame raven which sat atop his shoulder, ruffling occasionally, but otherwise placid.
“The Székely greeted me in Magyar. I do not know it, but recognised it. I answered in Roomanian, which he refused; then in German, which was acceptable.
“He asked me, in good German, ‘You stood to face us, girl. But it was not courage, but shame that emboldened you. Why?’
“‘That is true, sir. I am tired of our weakness,’ I answered plainly. ‘We are a people much reduced.’ I spoke to both the Székely and his man, but only the Székely answered.
“‘There is no ignominy in survival.’
“‘Perhaps,’ I agreed. ‘But one needs a reason to continue to survive.’
“‘And you have none?’
“I continued with simple truth. ‘None that is clear to me.’
“The Székely considered this in silence. I felt my people’s eyes on me, but did not falter until the Székely gave answer.
“‘I can restore your people, I believe,’ he said. ‘I would like to discuss a covenant to benefit us all.’
“Then I turned to the eyes of my men: my grandfather, father, and husband stood at the front, knees trembling but suspicious now. After all, what would these strange gadje want with a mere woman?
“Yes, I was judged, even by those closest to me, by my sex. Though educated and known for my will, a woman was not a comfortable choice as mouthpiece for my people.
“The Székely read the proceedings. ‘Stand down your men. I admire adherence to traditions, but I shall only strike this agreement with you.’
“We were thus dismissed. My grandfather and husband quickly formed a kris to hear out the strangers, but I explained that while men wished to contract with us a bargain, they would only take me as delegate.
“Their indignation was as expected. Accusations flew of trade in my virtue, at which my husband bristled: ‘The men are rich. They laid us a fine table, and wish to enter into a contract. They are not Romany; their ways are different than ours. That does not stand in the way of gain. My wife is educated, well-spoken, and known for her audaciousness, but her faithfulness is true. Let her deal.’
“He was persuasive, my husband.”
Mera Szgany stopped. Her eyes were tearful, and she dabbed at them with her shawl. It was the mo
st show of emotion I had seen, and I felt keenly her loss. She filled our glasses and we toasted.
“To the memory of your husband,” I offered. “May he rest in eternal peace.”
Mera Szgany drank. “My husband is not dead, Rye.”
“I see.” I was confused.
She set down her glass. “No one here truly dies.”
I followed again. “Of course not,” I said. As we know, gentlemen, much of Gipsy culture is still rooted in its eastern and Hindoo roots, in that ancestors are ever-present, if not re-incarnated. I saw firsthand the comfort they found in that, as Mera Szgany regained composure and continued.
“Thekris granted me authority to deal with the Székely and his man on their behalf. It was an unprecedented call, but when you are starving, every food is sweet as cake.”
At this point, my hostess paused. Dawn was touching her classical rosy fingers, and I admit to feeling queasy and grateful to retire even into poor sleep.
As had become our ritual, my supper was set out for me upon awakening, and Mera Szgany indulged me whilst I ate. She started:
Night Eighteen-th
“The Székely and his man returned the following dusk. It was a night much like tonight, foggy but still. Their horses were burdened. Another table was set, but for us, a rug was unrolled and three plush chairs set upon it.
“He asked many questions about my people: how many, which relations, health and custom, strength and talent. His man took many notes, unperturbed as his raven made a nest in his firey orange curls.
“The Székely tested what I knew of history, which was limited. He launched into grand stories of the Ottoman Empire, wars and revolts, complicated lineages of succession. My people fell to sleep, but I listened politely, and soon it was dawn. As the sky turned orange, the Székely and his man excused themselves, promising to continue negotiations the next evening.”
The comparison between the business described and that between Mera and myself was not lost to me; however, it seemed inappropriate to interrupt.
“I was confused, but unused to business. Perhaps this was the way of men.
“The next evening, as planned, the men returned, set a table and meeting parlour for us. The Székely continued his talk of history and into politics, and I contained myself as the low moon illuminated the fog.
“My reputation is as much for impatience as brazenness. I interrupted the Székely when the moon rose above the fog. ‘Sir, this is all for my betterment, and I thank you. But I will be restless until we settle our business.’
“At this, the Székely smiled, quite horribly, pointed teeth white against his unnatural lips. ‘This is our business, child. I wish to employ you to my house, and you need know the house to which you swear. I am Vlad Drăculești, Voivode of Wallachia. I offer you and yours free rein in my home, use of all holdings, and safe passage anywhere in the lands you travel.’
“‘That is most generous,’ I replied. ‘And for this, we only need only swear allegiance?’
“The Székely smiled again with his terrible mouth, and held up three long fingers. ‘You need only swear allegiance to my house, and bear an oath to attend me when I need, and to perform simple errands without question.’
“I looked at the Székely and his man. Though I was uneasy with them, I attributed that to status and tradition. There was no way to refuse, so I nodded assent.
“‘Excellent,’ the Székely said. ‘Let us go home.’
“I roused my people from their sleep, and by the time we’d gathered the little we had and the bori wrapped their babies, the Székely and his man had their horses packed, lanterns lit to shepherd us through the mist.
“This castle, back then, was a marvel, worthy of royalty. My people had only seen it from a distance, looming down from on high. It was in a glorious state, not the rubble we sit among now.”
Mera Szgany gestured around us.
I nodded, struck again by the grandeur of the ruins. “It must have been truly a spectacle.”
Mera Szgany nodded. “The castle, she was already an old woman, but still capable of rendering men speechless.
“So, we were. Too speechless.
“Before our eyes, the fog parted like a great curtain. The castle stood, imposing, breathtaking, and on this courtyard, then tended and covered in inviting grasses and flowers, stood vardos the likes of which were found in dreams. Exquisitely painted, in colours to shame even nature, and supplied with copper pots and warm quilts. Horses culled from the voivode’s own stables—silver mares, large-footed stallions—grazed calmly on the rich pickings. And then, as we stood agape, beautiful woolly dogs trotted out to greet us, nuzzle our hands, each one sweet-natured, or trained to be so.
“Surely we all understood this bargain was not as it seemed. We are not dilo, fools. We were overwhelmed, hungry, reduced. And the Székely, he is a hunter and know when to strike. ‘My house is your house. Forever.’
“I nodded, unable to find words for the first and last time in my life.
“A small desk was set down, and the Székely’s man unrolled a parchment. I am an educated woman, but the contract was of florid words too ornate to be but illustrations. Symbols. It was dizzying.
“‘Can you write?’ the Székely asked me.
“I nodded again, took the quill and signed my mark. The Székely’s man examined my name carefully, then spoke for the first time. ‘Surname?’ he asked, in a voice deep and musical.
“‘There has never been need,’ I answered.
“The Székely’s man gave the contract over to the Székely. He took the quill from me, and next to my name mark, added Szgany.
“And so, we were bound together with the house of Drăculești, Vlad Țepeș, Voivode of Wallachia and the Raven King, for eternity.”
Mera Szgany stopped then, and closed her eyes. I saw the wear our nights had taken on her. Though she expressed little emotions, besides a tear here and there or a brittle laugh, the story had emptied her.
I had more questions, and vowed this night would be the last I imposed on her. “How long, madam, before you knew what he was?” I asked.
Mera Szgany opened her eyes again. In her exhaustion, they’d taken on a certain redness. I wondered, colleagues, if I had misjudged placing her at fifty years of age.
“Quickly,” she said. “He did not hide his butchery.” Mera Szgany began to straighten her shawl, and snapped for a chej to collect our empty glasses. “I bid you goodnight, Rye. You have your story.” She stood up and gave a tight curtsey of finality.
I could not let that be all I delivered forth to mankind. There were now more questions than answers.
“Madam, you have been a most accomplished and generous storyteller. But I must insist you grant me but another hour. There are things not yet clear.” But she would not heed my appeals.
Mera Szgany spoke again, clearly, into the night. “Rye, we are done. I promised our truth, and I delivered it. That was half our agreement. Now, you are obliged to fulfill the other half.”
My next action I nearly omit, for it is so out of character for myself. But I must relate this, in all its truth, not just to meet our higher purpose, but to, indeed, honour my oath here. (Perhaps I also suffered under poor sleep and the weight of sweet brandies clouding my judgments.) I pushed myself up, and though I felt, again, queasy, I easily overtook and grabbed Mera Szgany’s arm.
I meant to entreat her one last time. I thought only to eke the last bits from her—salient points she may not value as a scholar would—but instead, gentlemen, I had a horrible shock!
Sirs, it may seem fantastic, but it was as if I had been burned, only by ice itself; and the ice the good lady’s flesh.
I cried out in pain and confusion, stumbling backwards through the dying embers of the fire before collapsing into my rightful seat. And though I now understood her to be no lady, I summoned her thusly, “Dear lady Mera, please.”
Mera Szgany took pity on me, I believe, in that moment—if she was capable of s
uch a thing. Perhaps she understood I would take this so far as I could, regardless of circumstances. Or she had developed a feeling for me during our time. Whatever it was, she humored me, and set herself down again. She sat prettily, albeit in a different form, haunches up, a beast, waiting patiently for me to collect myself.
“Ma’am,” I said. “Pray tell me, what are you?”
“I’m damned to live out my name,” she said. “Mera-pen Szgany.”
“Mera-pen?” I asked, though rhetorically. Sirs, you and I and anyone with elementary Romany know the word, which means ‘to die.’
“I am so punished until my people are free from the oath I swore.” Though she had no eyes in her sockets, I could swear I saw angst there. And that I did not understand.
“Mera-pen, your people are free of your oath. Your man was murdered. Your men tried to defend him, but goodness prevailed. Dracula was laid to rest, and so you, his enthralled, should be discharged.”
Death laughed her coarse laugh. “The Inglezítska and the Ivropáno thought they knew all. But they never once asked the Szgany.”
A cold sweat started on me. I was growing cold, quickly. “Tell me.”
“The Szgany belong to the house, and the house belongs to the one that raised Drăculești to power. Drăculești is at rest, but the Raven King lives still.”
“Drăculești’s man,” I said. “The Raven King.”
Death stood up again; I would not stop her this time. “His man,” she agreed. “Goodbye, Rye.” And she was gone.
Gentlemen, I have more commentary, but I am feeling quite weak, and fever is stupefying. The Szgany have brought me some broth and some extra coverlets to make me comfortable, and a nice chej lays a cold cloth to my temple.
SIRS: THIS IS where my father’s article cuts off, barring a final note scrawled at the bottom: Hungary Bohemia king, house Hunyadi. Matthias Corvinus, corvus genus raven, library black army war for Austria. I have only these papers, none other of his possessions or artifacts, nor the notebooks to which he refers.
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