—
There was a sort of darkness in the air around us.
I felt colder and colder, and I longed to pull that hovering darkness down and wrap it around us like a blanket. I know now that the darkness was Death; but even knowing that, I would have pulled it down, if I could.
I heard a voice, and felt a hand upon my shoulder. Charlotte was shaking me.
“Lucy!” I heard her say. “Lucy! That’s the man I saw in the forest—Lucy, wake up!”
There was a little stream, somehow unfrozen in the ice, that ran and splashed and threw up tiny fountains of spray that sparkled like flying diamonds. And beyond the stream stood a man, calling us. He had an honest face and very bright blue eyes. He waved when he saw that we’d woken, and crossed the stream by jumping carefully from one rock to another. He looked tired. When he stood in front of us, he said, “I don’t need to ask who you are. There’s only one pair of girls on this mountain, I reckon. Here, I’ve got a letter for you.”
I thought I must be dreaming. But the paper he handed me—warm from an inside pocket—was real enough, so real that I recognized it as the note I’d scribbled in the mountain guide’s hut.
“But I wrote this,” I said, and my voice shook.
“Turn it over, miss,” he said.
I did—and leapt up straight away when I recognized the handwriting.
“Charlotte! Look! Miss Davenport!”
She sprang up too and leaned over to look at the note, and together we read it quickly.
It said:
My dear Lucy and Charlotte,
You may trust the bearer of this note with your lives. Please come down with him straight away. We shall discuss what is to be done when we are together. Lucy, your handwriting is atrocious. You must endeavor to correct it.
Your good friend,
Augusta Davenport
“Lucy, it’s her! It really is!” cried Charlotte.
I was nearly as delighted—but not quite. I pride myself upon my handwriting. I think it is distinguished, mature, and interesting.
“Well, shall we go, then?” said the man.
“Oh! Sorry—yes, of course!” I replied.
He was flapping his arms and stamping his feet, trying to look as if it was quite normal to be standing several thousands of feet up a snowy mountain.
“What is your name?” I said. “I’m Lucy, and this is Charlotte.”
“Max Grindoff,” he said, and we shook hands. He pointed to Herr Woodenkopf, beaming up at us from a boulder, his wig askew. “Good thing you set him up there,” he said. “I’d never have seen you else. He caught me eye as I came along—I couldn’t see you two at all, being as how you was lying down, like.”
Charlotte was overjoyed, and hugged Herr Woodenkopf tight. “See!” she said triumphantly. “I knew he was lucky!”
“I been having a rare old traipse about on account of you,” said Max. “Come along down and I’ll tell you what’s been going on. Are you the Princess, then?”
“Yes! But how do you know? Have you seen Doctor Cadaverezzi? Is he out of jail?”
“So that’s where he is! I might have known. I’m his servant, see. Well, if he’s in jail there’s nothing to worry about—he’ll be out in no time. Whenever it suits him, he’ll tell some tale to the sergeant and stroll out of the front door as cool as you please. He’s a wonder, that man.”
And so, as we went down the mountain again, we heard from Max of everything that had happened. I found a strange feeling growing in my heart, one that had been uprooted and trampled down many times already, so that I thought it had died forever: I mean, Hope.
Miss Davenport, with the aid of a pocket lens, had constructed a fire by the time the girls came down with Max; and although not even her gifts could conjure food out of thin air, so that we were all hungry, at least we had some warmth.
But the fire itself was no warmer than her greeting of them, and their joy at seeing her. I suppose if I’d been parted from Ma under conditions of extreme danger, I’d have fallen into her arms with the same kind of joy when I found her again; but I never had, thank God, and I could only imagine it. However, when she began to explain her plan, the chill entered their expressions once more, and I found my own blood freezing at the thought of it.
“The essential thing,” she said, “is to make the vengeance of Zamiel recoil upon Count Karlstein. That will happen only if the demon is cheated of his prey. However, if you are not available, the count will simply substitute someone else—and so not only sacrifice an innocent life, but escape himself.”
“What can we do, Miss Davenport?” asked Lucy.
“You must go back to the castle and let him take you to the hunting lodge.”
“What!” exclaimed Charlotte.
“Oh, yes. It is essential that the count believe that you are there, and that he is therefore safe. That way, you see, he will neglect to take precautions—and Zamiel will find no obstacle when he arrives at the castle.”
“But—” I began.
She held up her hand. “I know what you are going to say, Hildi. Why should Zamiel turn upon Count Karlstein if he has victims ready at hand in the hunting lodge? And how are the girls going to survive? The answer to that is simple: you and your brother will go there and rescue them.”
I was amazed.
“The principle,” she explained, “is quite simple. There are a number of substances which are known to ward off demons and other supernatural beings. Garlic is one of them. Its effectiveness, in the case of the Transylvanian Vampire, is well known. Another such substance is silver.”
I began to understand. Max was scratching his head, and Eliza, whose red-rimmed eyes showed how tired she was, was gazing at Miss Davenport and trying to follow that learned lady’s explanation.
“And we’ve got garlic in our kitchen,” I said.
“Plenty, I hope. And then there is the silver. Has anyone any silver jewelry?”
“I wear no jewelry,” said Lucy. “It is a matter of Principle.”
Charlotte shook her head helplessly, but Eliza took a little chain from around her neck.
“I’ve got this, miss,” she said, “only it’s very precious, because Maxie gave it to me, if you please, miss.” It was the broken half of a small silver coin. Miss Davenport examined it closely.
“How very curious,” she said. “But it is too small for our purpose, I fear. Well—there is nothing for it. We shall have to use this.” So saying, she took a large and very handsome silver bracelet from her wrist. It was a lovely thing: like a solid chain, with a rim on either side set with delicate beads, like dew, and deep and lustrous in color.
“That was a present from…one who was very dear to me,” she said.
“Signor Rolipolio!” said Eliza. “Sorry, miss.”
“That will do, Eliza. But you are quite right. However, its chemical composition is what matters, not its tender associations. Your brother, Hildi,” she went on, turning to me, “will have to cast this into the form of a bullet.”
“Peter, miss? But—”
“I am sure he will be able to manage it. Every huntsman can cast bullets. The melting point of silver, though, is considerably higher than that of lead; it may take some time. It would be as well to start soon.”
There was no standing up to her. I was to go with Peter, it seemed, him with a silver bullet in his gun and me with pocketfuls of garlic, and rescue the girls from the hunting lodge. The silver bullet was a last resort, since the idea was not to destroy Zamiel (some hope, I thought privately) so much as to baffle him and turn him back on the count. We’d need horses, too, to bring the girls back to safety afterward.
“And what’ll you do, miss?” said Eliza.
“This matter will not be finished until certain inquiries have been made. I shall have to make them personally; so I must leave for Geneva at once. You, Eliza, and Grindoff must take the girls to the castle—make sure you deliver them into the hands of the count himself and tell him so
me story about finding them lost in the woods. Girls, you must appear full of remorse, but without any suspicion at all. As for you, Hildi, your part is very dangerous, I do not deny it; but I have every confidence in you. And now we must leave this very comfortable hut and make our separate ways down the mountain….”
As I made my way down (stumbling with weariness and clutching the bracelet tight so as not to lose it), the only thing I could think was: where’s Peter going to forge the bullet?
But as it turned out, that was the easiest part of the whole business. He listened to me in silence, sleepy-eyed and still and unshaven, and took the bracelet without a word and went up to the kitchen.
“Peter! What about Ma? And Sergeant Snitsch, and everything?”
“Keep ’em out of the way,” was all he said, and he began to pile the fire high. It was still early; only Hannerl the serving girl and old Conrad the barman were up and about. And before Ma came down, I was falling asleep. I had a confused impression of someone smelling of soot and smoke laying me down on a bed and covering me with an eiderdown, and then I slept properly.
I awoke in the late afternoon, with a cold gray light sifting in through the window. My head was all stuffy and headachy, and something was making me anxious, but I didn’t know what it was….And then I remembered and ran downstairs.
The kitchen was as hot as the blacksmith’s forge. The windows were streaming, the air was full of smoke, there was a pile of ashes ankle deep in front of the hearth; and there at the table, his face streaked with soot and red-eyed with smoke, sat Peter. In front of him was a little ball of clay, as big as a duck’s egg. He was feeling it carefully with the palm of his hand.
“What’s happening?” I said. “Where’s Ma?”
“In the parlor.”
“What about the bullet? Is it ready?”
“I’m just about to find out.” He took a knife and, holding it by the blade, tapped the clay mold once or twice with the handle. Nothing happened. He paused, and looked at me directly. “You realize what this means, if I come with you tonight?” he said.
I nodded. “The contest,” I said.
“That’s right. I’ve got to win it, Hildi. It’s my last chance. I can’t afford to lose now.”
He was right. I knew what he’d be risking, and I knew as well as he did that the night ahead of us would be the very worst sort of preparation for the contest in the morning. There was nothing I could say. He tapped the mold again, harder, and it cracked and fell apart. The two halves rocked back and forth on the tabletop. Embedded in one of them, like the stone in a peach, lay a perfect silver ball.
“You beauty!” he cried. He picked it up tenderly and tapped the rest of the mold so that the ball came free, on a long stalk of silver where the molten metal had run down the channel he’d left for it in the clay. “Taken me all day, this,” he said. “I lost half of it, and all, when the first mold broke. What a beauty, eh!” He began to file off the stalk, while I filled my pockets with bulbs of garlic.
“What about horses?” I said.
“Hannerl’s seeing to them.”
“I wish we didn’t need them….”
“Well, we do. It’s a long way—we’ll have to bring the girls back as well, don’t forget. And we don’t want to leave it too late.” He looked up at the old wooden clock—half-past four, it said.
If we left now, we’d do it easily. After five o’clock, and we’d be pushing it a bit—any later than that, and we’d probably not make it before midnight; in which case we might as well give up now….But I still wished we didn’t need horses. I don’t like horses, or they don’t like me; and though I could manage old Pansy, that was because she could manage only a walk.
Peter held up the bullet again to admire it and looked up briefly as the door opened and Hannerl came in from the stables. She was a soft, kindly girl of sixteen, much in love with Peter, who was (I supposed) handsome in a scowling sort of way.
“I’ve found a pair,” she said. “I’ve saddled ’em up for you.”
“Whose are they?” said Peter.
It was seldom that we had more than two or three horses in the stable, but now that the inn was full there were a dozen or more.
“I don’t know who they belong to exactly, but they won’t want ’em tonight and that’s a fact. They’re all settled in the parlor with their pipes.”
“Good girl,” he said, and the silly thing blushed.
I went into the parlor to say good-bye to Ma, feeling horribly uneasy about a number of things—of which riding a horse was by no means the least. Ma came to one side with me while old Conrad knocked out the bung of a barrel of beer. I didn’t know what Peter had told her; I’d have to go carefully.
“Well?” she said.
“We’ve got to go out. To the forest. Honestly, Ma, we’ve got to.”
“All right, I won’t ask any more. That boy’s said nothing to me all day—I can’t get any sense out of him. For God’s sake, Hildi—I don’t know what’s going on, but look after him, will you?”
“Me—look after him?”
“Don’t let him shoot at the police, that’s all I ask. It’ll be his life then, not a few weeks in jail. And that’d be the end of me. I couldn’t bear it, Hildi.” And she started to cry, suddenly and very quietly. I tried to comfort her, but she wiped her eyes and pushed me away. “That’s all I ask,” she said thickly. “Go on now, get away.”
She pushed me again, and I left her, my heart full of all kinds of unhappiness. She’d caused a picture of Peter to come into my mind: bare-headed, shirt-sleeved, in chains, with a guard on either side and a black-robed chaplain, and the chilly gray light of dawn illuminating the brutal timbers and the hateful blade of a guillotine. I thrust the picture away as quickly as I could and hurried back into the kitchen.
“Come on,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“You’re not to shoot any policemen.”
“Oh, is that it? Come on, let’s get out—”
But we got no further than the kitchen door. All of a sudden Hannerl ran in, her face white, and pushed the door shut behind her.
“What is it?” said Peter.
“He’s out there—the sergeant—in the stable—” said Hannerl, in a desperate whisper. “He came in just now with someone to look at a horse—I had to take the saddles off them other two and pretend I was putting ’em away. You’ll have to hide! He might come in here!”
Peter’s face darkened. He glanced at the clock again: a quarter to five. How long would the sergeant be?
“Get in the cellar,” I whispered. “Go on. I’ll get rid of him somehow. But get out of sight, for goodness’ sake.”
He went unwillingly and I turned to go through to the stable—only to find the sergeant himself entering the kitchen, and taking off his helmet, and mopping his brow, and sitting down at the table….“Phew!” he said. “What’s been going on in here? Trying to burn the place down?”
“What do you want?” I said.
“I want to sit down and have a glass of beer, that’s what I want. I’d like a word with your ma. Where is she?”
“What do you want to talk to her about?”
For answer he tapped his great red nose and said nothing. Hannerl was hovering uncertainly in the doorway to the stable; and Peter, I knew, would be crouched at the top of the cellar steps, listening to every word.
And then Ma came in and saw the sergeant and stamped in vexation.
“Oh! It’s too bad!” she said. “I’ve got an inn full of guests, people coming and going all day long, no help to speak of—and you come and park yourself right in the middle of it. What do you want?”
“Now, now, Frau Kelmar,” he said soothingly. “The fact is, I thought I’d pop round for a chat.”
“I haven’t got time,” she snapped. “Out—go on! Be off with you! You’re only in the way here.”
She slammed down some saucepans on the table beside his elbow and shook some flour into a bowl, taking care t
hat some of it fell on his uniform. I went through to the stables with Hannerl, shutting the door behind me, and said:
“Come on—let’s get those horses saddled again. As soon as she gets rid of him, we can leave.”
“No!” she said. “He’s talking about buying a horse—they’ll be in and out, I shouldn’t wonder!”
“Oh, no! How long’s it going to take, for goodness’ sake?”
She shook her head as the clock in the church tower struck five. I sat down on the step. The sergeant’s voice droned on behind the door, interrupted by the clatter of saucepans and the occasional tart remark from Ma. Time passed.
I said to Hannerl, “It’s no good—we’ll have to saddle them up and take the risk. Maybe we can take them outside and wait in the alley.”
“But supposing—”
“We’ll just have to hope they don’t. Where are the horses you picked out?”
She showed me a great black brute and a skittish-looking bay. I didn’t like the look of either of them, but I helped her get them ready, and then went back to the door. The sergeant was still there, and another man’s voice joined in as well now: old Conrad was saying something.
The clock struck half-past five.
“Oh, won’t he ever go?” I whispered. “Hannerl, go and tell him there’s been a burglary somewhere and they want him quick—”
But then came the sound of a chair being pushed back, and the sergeant laughing.
“He’s going,” whispered Hannerl. “He might come back out this way….”
We waited; more time passed. I was near to despair. Finally I could stand it no longer and opened the door and entered the kitchen. Ma was busy at the fire, her expression tight and furious. The sergeant was standing in the doorway to the parlor, talking to someone.
“Ma! Go through and shut the door and I’ll get Peter out quickly!” I whispered.
She nodded, and pushed past the sergeant, shutting the door. I opened the cellar door, and Peter, sitting on the top step, leapt up in a moment. “Where is he?” he said.
Count Karlstein Page 11
