A boyish shout cleft the silence. I turned, and in the dappled light beheld
my elder brother Stefan, a gleeful six-year-old, his dark, upslanting eyes ashine
with mischief, his flushed, heart-shaped face wearing its wide imp's smile above
a narrow chin. Beside him stood huge grey Shepherd, half-mastiff, half-wolf,
who had grown from a pup alongside us boys.
Stefan motioned for me to follow, then turned and ran, Shepherd bounding joyously
beside him, towards the heart of the forest.
I hesitated, suddenly afraid, but reassured myself we were safe so long as
Shepherd accompanied us, for there was never a more fiercely loyal companion
or protector; and somehow I knew, with a dreamer's certainty, that our father
was nearby, and would let no harm come to us.
So I chased my brother, half-laughing, half-shouting in outrage at the injustice
because his legs were longer and, being a year my senior, he could run faster
than I. He paused to glance over his shoulder with satisfaction to see me outpaced
before disappearing from view into the dark, glistening woods.
I ran, ducking as low branches reached out to scrape my cheeks and shoulders
and sprinkle me with captured raindrops. The further into the forest I ventured,
the darker it became, and the more my face was slapped by low-hanging boughs,
until my eyes filled with tears and my giggles turned to gasps. I ran faster,
faster, flailing at the limbs that now seemed ghouls intent on clutching me,
but I quite lost sight of my brother and the dog. Stefan's ringing laughter
grew ever more distant.
I continued, crashing through the woods in a dark panic for a dreamy eternity.
And then my brother's laughter broke off with a thud and a short, sharp shriek.
There came a heartbeat of silence, then a low, ugly snarl. The snarl became
a roar, and my brother screamed in pain. I ran, shouting Stefan's name, in the
direction of the commotion.
And froze in horror as I reached a clearing and in the sunlit mists that filtered
through the trees beheld a ghastly spectacle: Shepherd, hunched over Stefan's
still body, his muscular jaws clamped on my brother's neck. At my footfall,
the animal lifted his head, rending tender flesh with sharp teeth as he did
so. Blood dripped from his silvered muzzle.
I stared into his eyes. They were pale, colourless; before, they had always
been the gentle eyes of a dog, but now I saw only the white eyes of a wolf,
a predator.
At the sight of me, Shepherd bared his teeth and released a low, deadly growl.
Slowly, slowly, he crouched - then sprang, sailing effortlessly through the air
despite his bulk. Terrified, I stood rooted to the spot and released a wail.
There came an explosion behind me and a shrill yelp before me as the dog fell
dead to the ground. I turned and saw my father. Swiftly he lowered his hunting
rifle and hurried to Stefan's side, but all was lost: my brother's throat had
been ripped out by the heretofore-gentle Shepherd. I walked forward to find
the tree trunk over which Stefan had stumbled, and the rock on which he had
struck his head.
And then, with the exquisite clarity that marks the most vivid, terrifying
nightmares, I saw my dying brother.
The small gash on his forehead had bled profusely, but it was nothing compared
to his throat, which had been so severely mauled that the skin had been torn
away and hung from his neck in a bloody flap, revealing bone, cartilage, and
glistening red muscle.
Worst of all, he was still alive and dying, struggling to expel a final scream,
a final breath; his horrified eyes were open, and they focused on mine in a
silent plea for help. Tiny bright red bubbles roiled up from his exposed larynx,
each prismatically ashimmer with filtered sunlight, a hundred miniature rainbows
dipped in blood. Nearby blades of grass bowed, laden with shining crimson droplets.
I woke from this terrible vision with a start as the driver reined the horses
to a stop. I must have dozed for quite some time, for we had already made it
through the Borgo Pass to the rendezvous point. Mary had apparently been sleeping
as well; she seemed as disoriented as I for an instant, but we came to ourselves
and gathered up our things as we waited for Uncle's caleche to arrive.
We sat no more than a few minutes before we heard the rumble of wheels and
the thunder of hooves. Out of the forest mists the caleche appeared, drawn by
four high-strung and magnificent coal-black stallions, who quivered, eyes and
nostrils wide, as Uncle's driver climbed down to greet us. Old Sandu had died
two years ago, and this was a new man, one I had never met, dark blond and bland-faced,
of cold, disagreeable disposition. I did not inquire after Father, nor did the
driver volunteer information; better to learn any bad news from family rather
than this silent, unpleasant stranger. Soon our trunks were situated, and we
were tucked with blankets into the caleche, for the night had quickly grown
chill, and Mary and I rode in sleepy silence towards home. This time I did not
doze, but used the time to reflect on the nightmare.
Would that it had been but a dream.
In fact, it was a somnolent memory, triggered perhaps by the familiar scent
of pine. The terrible event had actually transpired in my fifth year, though
in reality I had not ventured close enough to examine my poor, bleeding brother.
In reality, I had fainted the instant my father sank to his knees beside his
dying son and released an agonised scream.
Years later, when Father had recovered somewhat from the tragedy of Stefan's
death (and from the guilt - oh, how he blamed himself for trusting the animal!),
he spoke to me of what might have caused Shepherd's sudden viciousness. Stefan
had stumbled, Father said, and struck his head, which had bled profusely. Shepherd
had always been a good and loyal dog, but the smell of blood had caused him
to revert to his predatory instincts, those of the wolf. The dog was not to
blame, Father insisted; rather he himself was responsible, for trusting the
animal to overcome its dual nature.
* * *
The recollection of Stefan's death caused my sense of dread to increase until
I became convinced that the very worst news awaited us at the end of our journey.
Alas, my premonition proved correct. After an interminable ride on serpentine
sand roads, we arrived at my father's estate very close to midnight, and together
the coachman and I helped Mary from the caleche. (She seemed rather taken aback
by the size and grandeur of the manor, a far cry from our humble flat in London.
I suppose I have been vague concerning the extent of our family's wealth. What
shall she say tomorrow when the sun rises and she sees the magnificent castle,
dwarfing us?) I must admit that I took fright when a huge Saint Bernard bounded
barking down the stone steps to greet us, but I forgot the dog when my dead
brother appeared in the doorway.
Stefan stood, fringe of tousled jet hair against the translucent alabaster
of his forehead, despite the passage of twenty years a small, solemn six-year-old,
and raised his hand slowly in greeting. I blinked, but his spectre remained;
only then did I notice that the pale upheld palm and white linen of his torn
shirt were stained dark red - in the gleaming moonlight, almost black - and realised
that his hand was lifted not to greet, but to disclose blood.
As I watched, he stretched forth his arm and pointed, small fingers dripping
blood and dew, at some object behind us. I glanced over my shoulder surreptitiously,
knowing that Mary and the coachman did not share in this vision, and saw nothing
but an endless forest of dark evergreen.
I turned back to see Stefan, moving down the stairs towards us, silently but
emphatically gesturing towards the forest.
Abruptly dizzied, I let go a cry and closed my eyes. There are legends in my
country of the
moroi
- the restless dead, doomed by secret sin or concealed
treasure to wander the earth until the truth be revealed. I knew Stefan's brave
young heart had held no sin, nor could I imagine he had possessed much by way
of treasure; I knew this apparition was caused by nothing more than the stress
of travel, and the fear of the news to come. I am a modern man who puts his
hope in science rather than God or the Devil.
I opened my eyes, and saw, not Stefan, but Zsuzsanna in the doorway.
At the sight of her, my heart constricted with pain; beside me, Mary raised
a gloved hand to her lips and emitted a low moan of grief. We both knew at once
that Father was dead. Zsuzsanna was dressed in mourning, her eyes red and swollen;
though she tried to smile, her fleeting joy at seeing us was overshadowed by
an air of sorrow.
Ah, sweet sister, how you have aged in the few short years I have been away
! She is only two years my senior, but appears fifteen. Her hair - like mine and
Stefans, dark as coal - is streaked now with silver at temples and crown, and
her face is lined and gaunt. I knew grief had taken its toll upon her, and was
stricken with guilt that she had had to bear it alone.
I rushed to her at once, crossing the very spot where Stefan's ghost had appeared
not seconds before. She managed to limp down a step before I caught and embraced
her on the stone stairs. Her attempt at cheerfulness crumbled entirely then,
and we sobbed openly in each other's arms.
"Kasha," she repeated. "Oh, Kasha
" The sound of her pet name for me tugged
at my heart. (It was our private joke;
kasha
is a type of gruel I keenly
despised and was routinely served for breakfast by our old Russian cook. As
a boy, I had devised all manner of ingenious methods for disposing of it and
fooling Cook into thinking I had eaten it.) Zsuzsanna seemed so light in my
arms, so frail, so bloodless, that in the midst of my grief for Father, I felt
concern for her. Ever since she came into the world with twisted spine and leg
and frail constitution, she has never been strong.
"When, Zsuzsa?" I asked, in our native tongue, without even realising that
I was no longer speaking English - as if I had never left for London, had never
forgotten for the past four years that I was Tsepesh.
"This evening. Just after sunset," she replied, and I remembered the dream
I had had in the coach. "At noon he lapsed into unconsciousness and never woke.
But before he did, he dictated this for you
" Dabbing at her tears with her
handkerchief, she handed me a folded letter, which I slipped inside my waistcoat.
At that moment, the Saint Bernard trotted up the stairs to stand beside his
mistress, and I involuntarily recoiled.
Zsuzsanna understood, of course; she had been seven when the incident with
Shepherd occurred. "Do not be afraid," she reassured me, leaning down to stroke
the beast. "Brutus is purebred and very gentle." (Brutus! Has she any inkling
of the implications of that name?) She straightened and moved haltingly down
the steps towards Mary, who had been waiting at a short distance to allow us
our privacy, and said in English, "But I am being rude. Here is my beloved sister-in-law,
whom I have never seen. Welcome." Her accent seems quite thick to me now, after
years in London; I could see it took Mary slightly aback,, for she was accustomed
to reading Zsuzsanna's precise, poetic prose, and clearly assumed her spoken
English would be as perfect as her written.
Despite my wife's awkward condition, she moved with far more ease and grace
on the stairs, and hurried towards my sister so that she would not have to struggle
far. Mary kissed her and said, "Your beautiful letters have already endeared
you to me; I feel we have been close friends for years. How glad I am to meet
you at last, and how sad of the circumstance!"
Zsuzsanna took her hand and led us into the house, out of the chill night air.
In the main drawing room, weeping and sighing, she told us of the course of
Father's illness and his final days. We conversed for at least an hour, and
then Zsuzsanna insisted on showing us to our room - my old room - as Mary was clearly
exhausted. I saw to it that she was situated, then left with Zsuzsanna to go
see Father.
She led me out the east end of the manor across the grassy knoll to the family
chapel - or rather, to what had been the chapel, for Father had been an outspoken
agnostic who raised his children to be skeptical of the claims of the Church.
Even before we opened the heavy wooden door, I could hear wafting out into the
cool night air the sweet, wavering voices of women singing the
Bocete,
the traditional songs of mourning:
Father, dear, arise, arise Dry your weeping family's eyes! Waken, waken,
from your trance, Say a word, cast a glance
Inside, the trappings of Christianity - the icons, statuary, and crosses - had
long ago been removed from the altar, but could not be expunged from the walls,
for every spare surface glittered with Byzantine mosaics of the saints; on the
ceiling of the high domed cupola, from whence hung the huge candelabra, Christ
Himself gazed dispassionately down. As I entered, I caught sight of my childhood
favourites: Stephen, the martyr (whom I always identified with my brother),
the calamitous fall of Lucifer from Heaven, the stalwart Saint George slaying
the ever-hungry dragon.
The building no longer functions as mausoleum or church, but as a place where
family members can seek solitude and reflection, and indeed, it still possesses
an almost spiritual aura that invokes a sense of reverence and calm. Father
had spent hours there in the grim years after his son's death.
We moved towards the front from the back, where engraved gold plaques marked
where our ancestors rest in crypts built into the wall. So many generations
of Tsepesh lie entombed there that the chapel can contain no more; a century
and a half ago, a new burial site had to be constructed between the manor and
the castle. I walked past the dead feeling their eyes upon me, hearing in the
rustle of Zsuzsanna's and my clothing their whispered approval, and feeling
the same curious hyper-awareness of time that I had experienced traveling - except
that I no longer moved backward through the centuries but forward, emerging
at that moment from my ancestors loins, out of history, moving swift as Stefan
and Shepherd towards my present. Towards my destiny.