I strained to hear the sounds of a woman groaning in childbirth but the castle
was bereft of light or sound as a tomb, save for the wavering yellow glow cast
by the lamp and the ring of my hurried footsteps. Yet I could not shake the
notion that in the shadows lurked an evil, watchful intelligence, cognizant
of my every move. I dashed from room to room, floor to floor, faster, faster,
calling out softly at first and then, in desperation, shouting Mary's name.
Silence; only silence, and gloomy bedchambers centuries unused and veiled in
dust.
My pace and agitation increased until at last only two rooms remained unsearched:
the guest quarters, and V.s private chambers. The direction of my search caused
me to arrive at the guest quarters, my best hope, first. The door where earlier
a tousled, damp Herr Mueller and I had spoken stood wide open, and the rooms
beyond were as dark as the rest of the building.
My sister's death and my terror for Mary's sake had caused me to totally forget
the poor visitors for three days; I remembered them now with a thrill of dread.
Raising the lantern, I moved through the outer salon into the bedroom, this
time calling both Mary's name and the Muellers.
To my bitter disappointment, this chamber also was deserted, though the signs
of the most recent inhabitants were all too evident: a woman's fine white lace-and-silk
nightgown, of the elaborate sort worn by brides on their wedding night, dangled
from the edge of a nearby chair, where it had been tossed with joyful abandon;
and upon the great canopied bed, in the centre of which I spied a tiny flower
of dried blood, sheets and pillows and coverlet had been flung back and twisted
into careless, rumpled piles.
Only one of the half-dozen pillows remained in its place, at the far left corner
against the headboard. Propped against the solitary pillow, as though she had
been placed there with utmost care to watch the proceedings, sat a child's doll
in a lace christening gown, with hands and face of china and a body of rag.
She had slumped forward from the waist, her face pressed against the sheets,
her limp, lace-ruffled arms flung forward so that her intricately posed little
hands rested beside lacquered brunette curls.
In the far corner of the room was a bath-tub filled with grey water. Near the
bed a trunk sat opened and riffled through, as though the owners had retrieved
items of clothing; but there were so many belongings scattered around the room
that they more than accounted for the entire volume of luggage which might have
been crammed into the trunk. It seemed that for once, at least, the servants
had not made off with whatever booty was to be had.
The lamp revealed no clues as to what had become of the young couple, and so
I left the guest quarters with a sense of foreboding and fatalism. I could think
only of V.s secret chambers; I knew the answer to my wife's fate, and that
of the travelers, waited there.
I made my way through night-shrouded corridors to Uncle's rooms, and the nearer
I drew, the more my dread increased.
I arrived to discover the door to V.s sitting-room open and the hearth and
tapers unlit. I stepped inside and faced away from the fireplace and saw, gilding
the slightly ajar door that led to Uncle's private chambers, a ribbon of light.
That strip of light pulled like a magnet. I set the lamp upon the end-table,
and crossed the sitting-room to stand before that door.
Reality faltered. I knew that I, an adult, married and soon to be a father,
put my hand forth and grasped the doorknob. At the same time I was Arkady the
child of twenty years before, who clung fearfully to his father as Petru reached
for the door.
The adult Arkady's hand turned the knob and pushed; my father's ghostly hand
did the same.
And at the sound of the hinge creaking, the door to memory opened to allow
me my past. The grown Arkady vanished, leaving only my child-self and my father
in the long-repressed reality of twenty years ago, in the grim days after Stefan's
death.
In the second it took for the door to swing inward, groaning, I remembered:
Crossing the threshold with my father, his hand tight upon mine, his voice
soft and soothing as he said, No harm will come to you, Kasha. Only trust me,
and trust Uncle
The light of a hundred candles glittered in his tear-filled eyes.
We walked through the narrow entryway, then emerged into a grand hall.
The side on which I stood, the left, was hidden from view by a ceiling-to-floor
black velvet curtain, large enough to conceal a small stage.
In front of us, on the back wall, was yet another closed door leading to
yet another secret chamber.
To our right, across from that mysterious theatre, sat a platform of dark,
polished wood, with three steps leading up to a throne. The platform's base
was inlaid with gold, which spelled out the phrase JUSTUS ET PIUS.
Just and faithful.
On either side of the throne were tall candelabra, laden with blazing tapers,
and upon it was seated Uncle, who gripped the armrests in his customary regal
posture.
He emanated such confident power, such virile strength
that I looked on him with the same fear and admiration I would have a beautiful
lion: terrified of his wrath, breathless at his magnificence. His robes were
scarlet, and atop his head rested an ancient gold diadem studded with rubies.
Behind him, hung upon the wall was a crumbling warrior's shield of incalculable
age; I could just make out the fading winged dragon thereon, and realised that
this was the shield represented in the portrait of the Impaler.
At V.s right hand was a golden goblet, set with a large single ruby, and
resting in a special hollow carved into the throne's arm so the contents should
not spill.
But the jewels that outshone all others were his eyes, which, standing
out against the white of his skin and the silver of the hair that flowed onto
his shoulders, pierced me with their pitiless emerald brilliance, their frightening
intelligence. His beauty was as Zsuzsanna's had been when she had risen from
the tomb: like the sun, too radiant to bear.
Stunned into reverent silence, we approached the prince upon the throne.
At last my father genuflected, then crouched down to put his arms around me
and say, in a tone of unutterably sorrowful resignation: Here is the boy.
You are sad, Petru, the prince said thoughtfully, in a deep, handsome
voice; I emitted a gasp of surprise, for he had seemed too unreal, too lovely,
too much a work of art to speak. But there is no cause. I love the boy, and
will treat him well.
As you have treated me?
A rebuke; but the prince remained distant, unmoved. No harm need come
to his loved ones unless he betrays me. He would have been spared this; his
brother Stefan would have served as eldest, and Arkady would have lived a life
free from this charge, but your actions have brought him here. You alone are
responsible for the grief that has visited your family, Petru. I am harsh, but
just. Remain faithful to me, and I shall remain faithful to you. It is all I
ask.
He lifted an object; silver flashed as he drew the knife across his own
wrist, and held it over the golden chalice over the arm of the throne. He bled
little, but a few drops which came only when encouraged; and then he held the
dagger towards my father. It is time.
My father hesitated, then stepped up to the throne and reluctantly took
the knife from the prince. He held it aloft for a moment, and I saw again the
glint of candlelight on sharpened metal. I cant, my father cried, anguished;
his voice shook.
You must, the prince replied, in a voice stern and unyielding, but I
heard the odd undercurrent of tenderness there. You must. I dare not trust
myself. He is your son; you will be gentle.
My fathers fingers tightened on the dagger. He lowered it slowly, then
with his other hand took the chalice proffered by the prince.
I watched him return to my side, feeling nothing but a child's curiosity.
I trusted my father, even when he lifted the chalice to my lips and forced me
to take a tiny sip. Gagging, I tasted salt and metal and decay; but the effect
of that small taste of blood was overwhelmingly intoxicating. I grew unsteady
on my feet, for the effect was warming as wine and altogether pleasurable. I
felt a sudden wild, inexplicable burst of love and gratitude toward Uncle as
I sank down to a sitting position; my father knelt beside me. When he set down
the chalice to take hold of my arm and turn the inside toward him as he raised
the dagger, I felt no alarm, only mild apprehension as to whether the cut might
briefly hurt.
Certainly I felt no fear for my life as he brought the keen edge of the
daggers blade down against the tender inside of my wrist, and nicked a vein
there, whispering: Im sorry. Someday you will understand
it is all for everyones
good
For the good of the family, the village, the country
The pain drew me from my cosy stupor. I cried out in indignance, and continued
to do so as he held my small but copiously bleeding wound over the chalice and
milked it.
I struggled feebly, but Father held my arm steady until the bottom of the
golden cup was covered with my young, dark blood. And then he produced from
his pocket a clean handkerchief and secured it firmly about the cut, holding
it a time to stanch the flow.
Finally, he rose, and gave the cup to Uncle, and returned to me. I lay,
faintly dizzy, with my head in his lap as he stroked my hair, making soft sounds
of apology and comfort while Uncle cradled the chalice in cupped hands and lowered
his face to it, eyes closed in pure bliss, breathing in its scent like a connoisseur
inhaling the fragrance of the finest century-old cognac.
Then he opened his eyes, bright with anticipation, and said: Arkady. Thus
I tie you to me. Leave home you may
-
for a while, but this shall ensure
your return to me, at the proper time; and, at the proper time, your will shall
be returned to you, and all be made known. This I swear: you and yours I shall
never harm, and shall generously support, so long as you support and obey me.
Your blood for mine. These are the terms of the covenant.
Smitten with love, I watched from Fathers lap the flash of candlelight
upon gold as V. upended the goblet and drank.
I cried out and clutched my head as iron claws sank deep into my brain.
Of a sudden, I came to myself, to the adult Arkady of the present. The entire
memory had returned, fullblown and complete, in the split second it had taken
to unlock the door and push it open.
Now I crossed that threshold alone.
I passed through the small entryway into the great room. There, to the right,
sat the prince's throne - empty now, though one of the flanking candelabra, tall
as I, had been lit. There, too, was the aged shield, though missing was the
chalice which once held my blood. In the centre of the far wall stood the door
which lead to even deeper mysteries, and to the left
To the left, the black velvet veil had been pulled aside to reveal what had
once been hidden:
Bolted to the wall, a set of black iron manacles; propped nearby, four oiled,
glistening wooden stakes, twice a man's height and worn at one end to blunt
points; a rack; and, dangling from the ceiling, the thick metal chains of a
strappado, used to hoist victims by their arms into the air. Beneath manacles
and strappado were strategically placed wooden tubs, the interiors clean but
stained by countless years of use a permanent reddish-brown.
To one side of this chamber of horrors stood a carving-block which contained
an assortment of cleavers and knives, and beside it a sturdy waist-high table,
the length and shape of a coffin.
Upon this table Herr Mueller lay naked and prone, the bare flesh of his back
the shocking white of an alabaster statue. Only his upper body rested upon the
table; his legs dangled to the floor, bent slightly at the knees because of
their length, so that his body formed an equal-armed if not altogether straight
L. Above his tangled mane of curling, sand-coloured hair, his arms were extended
like a divers, and at first, I thought he gripped the table's edge -
But no, his hands were utterly relaxed. I thought immediately of the little
cloth and porcelain doll, slumped forward upon his wedding bed.
He was as limp and lifeless as she; dead. Quite dead.
And
moving
.
Moving, dead torso jiggling back-and-forth, stray golden-brown curls bouncing,
head lolling ever so slightly, dead arms sliding up-and-down against the table,
unfeeling fingers polishing the dull-gleaming wood limply, horribly, to the
rhythmic slap of another's flesh against his.
I lifted my gaze and saw Laszlo, eyes closed, lips parted in dreamlike ecstasy,
gripping the corpse at its hipbones as he stood directly behind it at the table's
edge. His trousers were unfastened, pulled down to his thighs, and the hem of
his long peasant's shirt swept over the small of the dead man's back as he thrusted.
I looked again at the body, and knew that the face hidden from me was frozen
in the same rictus of horrified anguish Jeffries had worn.
I did not think, reflect, recoil. I raised my father's gun, aimed point-blank
at the centre of the living man's skull, and opened my mouth to shout:
Stop!
In the name of God, stop, or I will fire!
Quickly, so quickly that I had no time to utter the words, Laszlo disengaged
himself from the corpse, pulled a cleaver from the block, and hurled it at me.
The handle of the cleaver knocked the revolver from my hand; it went skittering
into the shadows as Laszlo propelled himself over the table.