Mary says it is of no import, so long as she can remain by my side. For my
part, I cannot imagine what saintly deed I performed in childhood that brought
the reward of such a wife.
The following day, Mary seemed physically drained, and remained in bed until
late in the day. I rested and read an English romance from Father's well-stocked
library and made the decision to go that evening to speak with V. Sadness still
overtook me from time to time, but I knew that boredom was not the way to ease
it. I wished to keep busy, and knew it would gladden my heart to accomplish
that by doing something that would have pleased Father.
And so I set out shortly before sunset for the castle. It is hardly a fifteen-minute
stroll up the gentle greening slope to the north, a mere stretch of the legs
to a city-dweller. Sunlight filtered through the branches of tall pine to the
west; the air was filled with subtle spring warmth and the sweet high song of
birds. Despite the idyllic surroundings, a growing uneasiness crept over me,
and it was not until I heard a dog's frenzied barking in the manor behind me
that I determined its cause: I had altogether forgotten that wolves roamed at
nightfall.
It was not so dangerous as in winter, when they grouped in deadly packs, but
the thought of encountering even a lone wolf caused me to hurry my pace. Nonetheless,
I permitted myself a promised detour to the family burial place to spend a solitary
moment with Father.
Yet, approaching the black iron fence, I could see through the bars a strange
sight: the corpses of two wolves lying just inside the wide-open gate. I knew
at once something was wrong, dreadfully so. I broke into a run and dashed through
the open gate. The wolves lay on their sides next to one another, their eyes
clouded with death; the skull of one had been shattered, and the other's belly
was caked with dried blood. Clearly they had attacked some visitor here, who
had shot them and fled, in his hurry failing to close the gate.
And more: I glanced up from the wolves to see that the door to the tomb had
been unlocked, and stood open. Horrified, I ran inside; the entry to the tomb
was blocked by yet another murdered wolf. I stepped swiftly over the body and
hurried to the alcove where Father lay.
The tomb had been unlocked and entered, and Father's final resting place had
indeed been violated. The beautiful red roses had been swept aside and were
scattered everywhere upon the white marble floor. As for the coffin, the screws
had been undone and allowed to drop where they had fallen, and the wooden lid
pried off and propped against the nearest wall. The lead casing had been sawed
through and peeled back.
Inside the casket, my father's corpse lay mangled. A thick wooden stake pierced
his chest, as though driven in with a mallet. His mouth had been opened, and
something white (I thought at first a handkerchief) stuffed inside; and his
neck -
Oh, God! Stefan! Father!
The perpetrator of this vile deed had succeeded in sawing three-quarters of
the way through his neck, but had stopped before the head was entirely severed.
As Father had been dead two days, there was little blood, and his expression
remained one of peaceful repose. But the weight of his skull, now detached from
the front muscles of the neck, had caused the head to roll back slightly, and
the chin to tilt upward, revealing the gaping crimson grin beneath his jaw.
So deeply had the desecrator cut that I saw, embedded within the red and purplish
mass of muscle and veins, his exposed spine. For an instant, it seemed as though
I had been transported back two decades, to behold once more the flayed throat
of my brother Stefan.
The shock provoked an overwhelming vision that I might have dismissed as a
waking dream had I not been convinced by its vividness that it was real:
Again, my five-year-old self looked up at my father. I saw him clearly as the
man he had been then, younger, black-haired; I saw, in the flickering candlelight,
the love and misery in his eyes as he held my small, thin arm in his large hand.
I realised he no longer stood in the rain-jeweled daylight forest, with the
snarling wolf-dog at his back, but in a vast, dark place shrouded in wavering
shadows. Silver glinted beside his face. I stared up, helpless as Isaac when
Abraham raised the knife.
A sudden vise gripped my temples with such unrelenting force that I clutched
my head; the image vanished at once, replaced by the compelling thought,
Surely this is madness.
I sank to my hands and knees on the cold marble floor and emptied my stomach.
I suppose I fainted, for I was quite mindless for a time. When I managed at
last to rise on trembling, uncertain legs, I noticed on the floor beside me
the implements of desecration, a heavy iron mallet and rusted steel handsaw,
and some scattered heads of garlic; apparently the violator had dropped these
in fright and fled before the task was done.
A new sort of insanity seized me, an unhappy combination of fury and hysteria.
Had I confronted the perpetrator at that moment, I would easily have killed
him with no more weapon than my hands. I knew I could not return to the manor - Gods,
no! I have not spoken to Mary of this, nor shall I, for such a dreadful shock
would surely harm her and the child. Instead, I ran like a madman up the southern
slope, and arrived some time later, panting, at the castle's massive wooden
door beneath the great stone arch. I was convinced only V. could help me; only
V. would understand.
I threw myself against it and pounded wildly, ignoring the metal studs that
cut my fists. When no immediate response came, I began shouting Uncle's name.
After the space of an eternity, the door swung slowly open a foot; there it
remained. In the shadows of the gloomy entryway stood a plump, white-haired
serving-woman dressed in traditional peasant garb: the long white double apron,
front and back, over a brightly coloured dress; on the breast of the front apron
rested a large gold crucifix. She regarded me with undisguised confusion and
dismay.
"Vlad!" I cried. "I must see Vlad at once!"
She stuck her head out to reply, and I could see in the fading sunlight that
her hair was not white, but blond streaked with silver at the temples; and that
she was not as elderly as I had first thought, but suffered from the same peculiar
accelerated aging that afflicted my father and sister. Her face seemed vaguely
familiar, but between my past grief and my present frenzy, I had entirely forgotten
until now, as I write these words, that she had attended my father's burial,
and that I had seen her face amid those of other servants from time to time
in my childhood. "The
voievod
sees no one."
"He will see me!" I replied indignantly. "My, father - " I broke off, on the
verge of weeping, unable even to speak of what had transpired.
She leaned forward to peer at me myopically, and drew in a sharp breath as
she raised a hand to her lips. "Why, it is Petru's son! Good sir, forgive me.
My sight is poor, else I would have recognised you at once. You so resemble
him. Please, come in
" And she motioned me inside.
"I must see my uncle at once!" I managed in a trembling voice, to which she
responded:
"Alas, young sir, that is not possible. He has not yet arisen."
"Then rouse him!" I demanded, and her pale grey eyes widened.
"Nor is that possible, sir," said she, in a tone that conveyed amazement at
my ignorance. "No one may disturb his slumber now, and none but Laszlo is permitted
to see or speak to him. But he shall be rising shortly, and I know he will see
you. Let me take you to his drawing-room, where you can await him in comfort."
I was in such a nervous state that I did not protest, but let her escort me,
with her gentle hand betimes prompting my elbow, through narrow corridors and
up a winding stone staircase. For all the years I had played within the castle's
shadow, I had rarely been inside it, and the novelty of it added to my agitation,
leaving me quite overwhelmed.
By the time we arrived within the drawing-room, which, though windowless, was
comfortably appointed and cheerfully warmed by a blazing hearth, I was so distracted
that I failed to hear her invitation, and the poor woman literally had to push
me down into a waiting chair near the fire.
"Arkady Tsepesh," she said, leaning over me, and I started at the sound of
a strange voice repeating my name. At my look of surprise, she smiled faintly
and explained, "I knew your father, young sir. He was very kind to me, and spoke
of you often." Her expression grew somber. "It grieves me to see you so distraught
on his behalf. I cannot remain here long - the master will be coming soon - but
let me fetch you something to calm you. Tea, or perhaps something stronger
?"
"Brandy."
"We have only slivovitz, sir."
"Then bring me slivovitz," I said, but as she straightened and moved to go,
I reached out and touched her, she turned. "You knew my father well?"
She gave a single sad, solemn nod. The mixture of sorrow and genuine affection
in her grey eyes reached through the layer of shock to touch my heart, and I
asked:
"What is your name?"
"Masika, young sir."
"You speak with a Russian accent, Masika, but your name is Hungarian."
"My father was Russian, sir."
"And his name
?" I said, prompting for her patronymic. As distressed as I
was, I wished to be polite to her, as she was so kindly towards me.
Her round cheeks flushed rosy pink. "Ah, sir, just Masika. I dare not put on
such airs with you. I am just an old serving-woman."
"You were my father's friend. Please. I would like to know."
Her cheeks deepened to a ruddy colour, but she replied dutifully, "Ivan, sir."
"Ah, Masika Ivanovna, you cannot imagine the horror I have just witnessed!"
At the memory, I put a hand to my face and struggled against tears. She knelt
beside me and took my hand as a mother might, while I chokingly relayed, without
detail, the fact of the desecration of Father's grave.
Her expression hardened and became unreadable as her eyes grew moist. For a
time, she patted my hand in silence; at last, she spoke with passionate conviction.
"I know such a spectacle must tear at your heart, as it does mine. But you must
never forget, young sir: your father sleeps now among the blessed dead, and
no one, nothing, can disturb his slumber. He is with God."
I would have objected to the latter statement, but the former gave me a modicum
of comfort, as did her sincere and maternal concern. She parted her lips as
if to speak, then hesitated, as if there were something more she wished to say,
but could not bring herself to voice.
"What is it?" I asked softly.
She glanced up at me with a start, and in her eyes I saw regret, mingled with
unmistakable fear.
"Nothing," said she, lowering her eyelids to hide her fright, "nothing at all.
Now, let me go quickly, young sir, and fetch the slivovitz before the prince
comes." She rose heavily, with a groan, then hurried out.
I wiped my eyes with my kerchief and struggled to compose myself and organise
my thoughts as I stared into the fire. I do not know exactly why I fled to Uncle's
to beg his help - though technically we Tsepesh still are royalty who possess
some legal rights over the peasantry, the extent of those rights has become
blurred in modern times. While Domnul Bibescu of Valahia might recognise V."s
authority as prince, Transylvania is under Austrian rule now, and prosecution
of criminals is usually left to the authorities in Bistritz; but then, there
has never been any crime to speak of in our domain, and we have never before
been so personally attacked.
For Father's sake, I could not let this act go unpunished, not if I had to
track down the criminal myself. It seemed to me poor Father's corpse had become
a symbol of how the peasantry have reviled our family name for the past four
centuries - and I swore vehemently to myself that I would put an end to their
slurs forever, that I would force them to respect the name Tsepesh.
Masika Ivanovna soon returned with the slivovitz, in a fine goblet of cut crystal.
She delivered it with a small curtsy, and after a swiftly muttered, "God comfort
you, young sir," she turned to go.
I reached for her hand. "Please, stay a moment." Her very presence soothed
me, and I wanted to question her about Father's final days at the manor, and
her unspoken words.
She stiffened with panic, her eyes involuntarily going to the door opposite
the one we had entered. Gently, but firmly, she pulled free of my grip. "Oh,
sir! I cannot. The sun has nearly set, and I must hurry home!"
I dropped my hand. Had I not seen her anxious glance at the door, I would have
suspected that she had to walk home through the forest and quite rationally
feared wolves. But at the sound of footfalls approaching the far door, she crossed
herself, lifted her skirts, and ran through the open door that led to the corridor.
It closed behind her with an unceremonious slam.
The echoing sound reignited my anguished fury. Because Uncle is given to odd
habits, and because of a misunderstanding over the family name, the peasants
fear him as a monster, and have woven many myths about him, incorporating their
ridiculous superstitions. These same superstitions have caused them to commit
the hideous crime against my poor dead father; and for an instant, my natural
affection for Masika Ivanovna was replaced by hate. Despite her kindness, she
feared Uncle, and probably believed that what had occurred in the family tomb
was necessary for Petru's soul to rest unmolested.
The door opened with a creak, and Uncle came forth, straight and tall, with
an easy grace, but with an air of weakness and the same disturbing pallour as
the past two evenings. At the sight of me - and my agitated expression - his bushy
white eyebrows lifted in astonishment. (Above those eyes that so resembled Fathers;
and again, he spoke in Father's melodious voice, making the news I had to deliver
all the more difficult.) "Arkady! Dear Nephew! I had not expected to see you
this soon. But what is this? You are upset
"