The great gateway and the high frowning walls sway across my sight. I am terrified; ghosts and dead leaves blow about the courtyard, black passages yawn into crypts. Surely the stone towers will come tumbling down and bury me. My companion shows me a niche in which to hide the bundle. Then I run away down the long, hard path.
Of the journey home I remember little. My feet were sore, and I was delirious from exhaustion and lack of food. The wolf must have led me safely back to the farm; my strongest impression was of the force of his will, which seemed loyal, single-minded, yet wholly pitiless.
It was afternoon when I reached the farm. I looked around for my friend but he was gone. I had not eaten for two days, and I was all in filthy rags. The shock of my father and the farmers when they saw me! They had been searching for me. And I could not explain where I had been, or why, for I don’t know.
Somewhere I stepped out of reality and entered a nightmare.
When I could not and would not explain, my father dragged me to my room, closed the door and beat me with his belt. I deserved it, I know. Now I am locked in the room alone, without food, writing my journal to keep me from crying with pain.
I can hear my father arguing furiously with the farmer and his wife through the door. Oh God, they are telling us to leave! They say that their youngest son saw me feeding a great white wolf by the well, that the shepherd saw me walking through the forest with my pale companion. They say I am a witch, in league with the Devil, I will bring a curse upon them if I stay!
Because of me, my father will lose his good friends and be unable to complete his paintings. He will never forgive me. Tomorrow, they say, we must go. Oh God, help me. Soon it will all be over.
Chapter Three
PROFESSOR KOVACS’S JOURNAL
(Our Search for the Scholomance – a Record.)
10 August
I begin my record by noting that it is intended not only for my eyes, but for those of my good friend Abraham Van Helsing – assuming that I have anything of value to document. (If not, my friend, one of us shall consign it to the fire!) All there is to note so far is that Miklos and I have cheerfully endured a slow journey from Pesth to Hermannstadt, and that we have checked through our equipment; bedrolls, provisions, lamp and candles, and so on – the minimum we need to survive for two weeks.
It is strange to think that my brother and my dear niece are also somewhere within these mountains, albeit many miles to the east and north. I have heard nothing from them, but then did not expect to. They will come home, I dare say, as soon as the weather turns cooler. No doubt Emil’s paintings will be admired for generations to come, while my dry studies are long consigned to a forgotten corner of some museum archive! Tonight we camp on a scrubby slope brightened by patches of dandelion and wood violet. Between the cultivated land and the mountains there is no hilliness – the mountains make a dramatic barrier, beyond which it is easy to believe that a place such as the Scholomance, where Count Dracula learned his dark wisdom, exists – indeed, from which the Four Horsemen might come riding down to herald the Apocalypse.
11 August
All day we have walked through the mountains, and the country grows ever wilder and more magnificent around us. The weather is fine, making hot work of our walk, and we are both suffering blisters despite our stout boots. A minor annoyance. Nature in its raw state lends us vigour! Miklos and I imagine ourselves a pair of intrepid explorers, in search of some fabled land; and the grim nature of our goal seems to add fascination rather than fear to the expedition. When we make camp I must check our provisions. We have such tremendous appetites from walking, I fear I may have underestimated our need. There is no habitation for miles around.
I find our map to be vague, unhelpful and inaccurate. I am adding my own corrections and notes to it as we go. My compass and instinct prove to be better guides.
Evening
Disappointment! Despite my careful researches as to the most likely location of the Scholomance – the region of Lake Hermannstadt – we have found nothing. All day we scoured the area for evidence; a man-made path, remains or foundations, the tell-tale patterning of the ground that might indicate a building once stood there.
I am impatient, of course. I knew this search might take days, weeks, even months! I need only the tiniest seed of evidence to justify a bigger, more organised expedition. I am, of course, very much on a limb. It is generally accepted that the place is a myth, simply a part of the rich folklore of this land. It is more than likely that there is nothing to find. I am prepared for that possibility.
There is also a chance, however, that the school lay near some other, unknown lake, and that the two have become confused in folk memory.
12 August, morning
The mountainscape in the dawn is breathtaking. Great peaks surge up through the mist, the lower slopes painted dark violet by shadow. Long tongues of forest run down into the valleys but the naked peaks are drenched by the sun’s first rays to the most wondrous hues of rose and silver. I wish I could have captured the moment before sunrise, when sky and mountains turned as ruby-red as blood.
We are very high up now, and seem to be beyond civilisation, on the roof of the world. All along the way I have been looking for the smallest sign – and have asked Miklos to do the same – that human beings once passed this way. A horseshoe nail, a button! So far, nothing. Time now for a meagre breakfast, and onwards.
13 August
Another fruitless day. We have climbed steep, rugged slopes, wound our way through thick forests until we are both exhausted and disorientated. My usually infallible sense of direction seems constantly to disagree with the compass! Sleep will restore me. We are camped in the lee of a cliff and it seems very dark tonight. The fire burns low and Miklos is in a deep sleep. The weather has turned cold and the howling of wolves sounds unutterably eerie. These mountains are so vast and wild, it would indeed be possible to wander in circles and never find our way home. It is all too easy, in a state of extreme tiredness, to allow all kinds of imaginings to intrude on the mind. No wonder superstitions take such a hold on the peasant brain. Away with these thoughts!
14 August
We have cast the search wider and are making for a westerly chain of peaks that looks promising: great limestone obelisks towering from the forested steeps like a voivode’s castle. But the way is proving difficult. Our path has taken us down into a deep, narrow gorge and it is hard to find a route up the precipitous ridge of rock that rims the far side – especially with the weight of our knapsacks on our shoulders. We have attempted several deer-tracks that look easy enough from below but are impassible, forcing us back to the gorge floor. The map is of no help. Miklos is tiring, but I cannot give up. I have a strong feeling that we must cross the ridge, that on the far side we will find nestling some extraordinary ancient edifice on which human eyes have not alighted for centuries! The more it defies us, the stronger the feeling grows.
I am worried about Miklos. His usual stoical good temper is failing him. He is very quiet. If I catch him unawares, I see an expression of distress on his face, as if he were in pain or terror. When challenged he insists there is nothing wrong, but I fear the journey is proving too much for him. He may well have strained a muscle that is giving him pain, but it’s the Devil’s own job to make him admit it! I hear him muttering behind me as we walk. I cannot make out the words, except for, “The dragon, the dragon.” I must confess it becomes quite trying. But if I turn round and challenge him, he denies that he ever spoke.
15 August
We crossed the ridge today. Dear God, my hands are shaking so that I can barely hold the pen. I hope you are able to read this, my friend Abraham. No matter, I must set it all down.
At dawn we moved higher up the gorge and at last found a tortuous way over the great, frowning brow of rock. On the crest there was no more to see than a circle of fanged rocks cupping a sea of forest. Not the gleaming spires of the Scholomance, after all. Not that I actually expected to see
a spectacle that I suspect exists only in legend, but I was disappointed, all the same. Still, there was such an air of mystery on the place that I was eager to descend. I turned to Miklos, only to see an expression of intense dread on his face. “Must we go down there?” he said.
“But of course,” I replied. “Miklos, whatever is wrong?”
“Nothing, sir.” His stoic look returned.
“You’re exhausted. If you would prefer to camp here on the ridge and wait for me while I explore the valley, I will understand.”
“No, sir,” he said quickly. “I cannot let you go in alone!” And there was such fear in his voice it quite affected me for several minutes. Angered at myself as well as at him, I led the way down the ridge in silence.
The dense spruce forest enveloped us. All was deathly quiet. Presently I saw a gleam between the tree-trunks, a glint of dark, glassy water. I hurried forward until we came out onto the bank of a small lake. I can hardly describe my emotions as we stood there. The water was darkest blue-green and although the lake was only a hundred feet in diameter it gave an impression of immeasurable depth. All around the trees stood dense and silent, and beyond them the circle of jagged limestone. The air was thick with the scents of pine resin and stagnant water, motionless and brooding. The only sluggish movement was in the mist that drifted in layers over the obsidian surface; it seemed almost to writhe, as if sentient. I felt on the brink of revelation and terror.
“This must be the place!” I whispered, gripping Miklos’s arm. I felt it necessary to keep my voice low, not to disturb anything. “This is the lake we sought, the Cauldron of the Dragon, and this is Yadu Drakuluj, the Devil’s Abyss. We’ve found it. If the Scholomance exists at all, it is nearby!” Miklos’s eyes swung from side to side, as if he were terrified. I grew annoyed with him, I am ashamed to confess – especially in the light of what transpired later. “The peasants say that the lake goes to the earth’s core, and a dragon sleeps at the bottom. If you throw in a stone you wake the dragon and cause a storm to shake the very world to its roots.”
I picked up a stone and made to throw it in. Miklos grabbed my wrist to stop me, crying, “No!”
His voice echoed off the walls. His nervous state was so acute that I felt ashamed of my childish behaviour. “Miklos,” I said, “our expedition is almost over. I fear I’ve driven you too hard, for which I ask your forgiveness. Today we explore this valley, and whatever we discover, which may well be nothing, tomorrow we start for home.”
He nodded in relief. “Forgive me, sir. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I feel such a dread of this place...” He shook himself, and was again the brave, good-natured man I know.
All day we searched the valley and slopes around it, finding not one scrap of evidence that a building of any kind had ever existed here. In the evening, as the dusk gathered and the first stars came out, we sat disconsolately on the bank of the lake. Miklos toyed with a large pebble he’d picked up. We were both tired and dispirited. “Of course, the idea that there ever was a school run by the Devil is a fable,” I said, “but there surely must have been something that gave rise to the fable. Behind all these myths and superstitions is a seed of truth.”
Miklos exclaimed with a savagery that startled me, “But it is all so much nonsense! There’s no Devil, no dragon! I won’t let these phantoms terrify me!” And he flung the pebble into the lake.
The surface swallowed the missile with a plop so unnaturally deep and sonorous that it startled us both. Ripples spread out in perfect circles. It seemed to me that I heard a dull rumbling from a great distance. We looked at each other and laughed, both uneasy. “Come, let us make our camp for the night,” I said.
As we were building a fire on the lake-shore, the world turned pitch-dark and a chill wind sprang up. Then a great blaze of lightning split the sky. I looked up and saw thick greenish clouds rolling overhead, the lightning against it forking into scores of branches until the whole sky ran with white fire. A thunderbolt cracked, deafening us. We flung ourselves to the ground, our hands over our ears. Thus commenced the most violent storm I have ever witnessed.
Rain flowed upon us in sheets. Thunder and lightning were continuous, confounding sight and hearing. The lake surface roiled. The ground shook and shuddered with such violence that I believe we were experiencing an earth tremor in addition to the storm.
The fire hissed out. I began swiftly to gather up our equipment before it became utterly soaked. But as I was engaged in this task, Miklos leapt up and ran into the trees. Shouting at him to stop, I seized my knapsack – which contained food, candles, and this precious journal – dropped everything else, and ran after him.
Barely keeping him in sight, I pursued him to the valley’s edge. As we came to the foot of the high ridge, lightning illuminated the black mouth of a cave. This was a feature we had missed in our search! “The cave!” I shouted, although Miklos, evidently, was already heading for its shelter. Just before he gained the entrance, a flying branch, ripped free by the wind, caught him on the head and he fell.
Reaching him, I found him semi-conscious and groaning. With the rain blowing wildly around us, I dragged him as best I could into the cave mouth to shelter. Here we remain for now.
Inside the cave is dry, but very musty and full of bats. The floor is thick with their droppings. We sit as close to the entrance as we can. I have made Miklos as comfortable as possible but he drifts in and out of consciousness and I fear for him. We are so far from anywhere that there is no chance of finding help. He murmurs in his delirium of the Devil riding through the storm on a dragon to take us down to Hell, and although I am not a superstitious man, his mutterings fill me with the blackest dread.
I have a theory, for what it is worth, Abraham. Could it be the nature of the storm itself – the thick, crackling heaviness of the clouds, static electricity or electro-magnetic forces – that wreaks havoc with our brains and creates the effect, quite terrifying, that waves of pure evil are sweeping over us?
The shock of everything has quite undone my nerves. We have been here, trapped by the storm, for two hours now. It shows no sign of abating. Outside all is crashing thunder, fire and deluge. I watch the rain sheeting down against a flickering, greenish glow. I have lit a candle – the lamp was left outside, so the naked flame gutters madly – in order to fill in my journal; at least the writing of it has steadied me somewhat. Miklos is stirring.
16 August
Morning, and calmness, thank the Almighty! The storm died out only at dawn. Such a night. No sleep. Miklos is sitting up and eating breakfast, though he seems confused and winces at every movement as if suffering a severe headache. He denies his pain, naturally, but I fear that he has a concussion. He needs a doctor. I can only pray he will be fit enough to make the journey home. I brought him into this and I feel responsible; if any harm befalls him I shall never forgive myself!
The storm has abated, but rain is pouring down again. I fear we are trapped here until it eases off.
Later
Now do I mark this as a day of revelation or horror?
The rain went on and the trees shook in a wild wind off the mountains as we sheltered. (I still cannot understand how we did not find this cave yesterday!) I dozed for a time, then awoke to find Miklos wandering into the back of the cave. I followed, intending to make him come back and rest, but he shook me off, saying, “No, no, he’s here,” or something of that sort. Daylight revealed the cave as being much deeper than I’d realized. Curiosity got the better of me, despite my concern for Miklos’s state of mind. I lit a fresh candle, slung the knapsack on my shoulder – lest some wild animal come scavenging in the cave and eat both food and journal! – and went after him.
Much of the cave was thick, musty and disgusting with bat droppings. The creatures stirred over our heads, rustling, squeaking. Deeper in, the bat colony ceased and the rock floor was clear. Here the cave narrowed to a fissure, a mere corridor, but it wound on inside the massive ridge. Miklos felt his way
along swiftly – at walking pace, but too fast for unknown terrain – seeming afraid. I, too, was deeply uneasy, but if I tried to make him slow down he became agitated.
We followed this passage for at least fifteen minutes. After that, however, I discovered that my pocket watch had stopped. Although I guessed that we were moving in the direction of the greatest peak – that of the “voivode’s fortress” – my compass needle began to veer as irrationally as my own imaginings.
The candle guttered in a draught. The fissure ended at last in a small cavern of great beauty, forested with columns of stone. I admit, I was oppressed and wished for the open air – but Miklos, his face frozen with some inner compulsion, pulled me onwards. The cavern narrowed, then opened out – even now I can hardly overcome my disbelief – into a symmetrical, ten-sided chamber.
Lifting the candle, I saw mosaics on the walls and floor. They could be Roman, but so thick with black mould and cobwebs that they were hard to make out. The air was so stale I choked on it.
The chamber is approximately thirty feet wide and twenty high, with a domed ceiling – the ten sides converging to a central point above. In the centre of the floor is a ten-sided marble block, perhaps an altar or dais. Cobwebs lie as thick as fleece round its base, but carving can be seen on the sides; esoteric sigils that are echoed in the mosaics. Each of the walls has a plain marble bench; there is no other furniture.
“Ten benches, ten scholars,” I said. “Never did it occur to me that the Scholomance might not be a separate edifice, but part of the mountains themselves! Yes, of course, how better to conceal it?”
Almost wild with excitement, it took me a minute to notice that poor Miklos was panting for breath. I made him sit down and gave him some water from the flask. A look of quiet dismay came over his face and he sighed. “Forgive my erratic behaviour, sir,” he said, sounding more his normal self. “I’ve been prey to wild imaginings ever since we set out. Perhaps you should have brought Elena instead, she would have made a more level headed companion.”
Dracula the Undead: A Chilling Sequel to Dracula Page 5
