by jiwo
In answer, Tomas kicked out and knocked a chair flying across the room.
Peter jumped back and watched, horrified, as Tomas lifted the bottle of slivovitz to his lips.
When Peter closed the door of the hut behind him, Tomas had still not stopped drinking.
34
The Camp
Peter had not been to the Gypsy camp before, but he knew it was somewhere away to the west of Chust. He’d heard that the Gypsies had settled in a clearing in the trees. Sultan moved easily through the great forest, still willing to do his master’s bidding despite their fruitless logging trip.
Peter’s mood was grim, and though rage boiled inside him, his face was nothing but a mask of determination. As he rode he kept one hand on the reins, the other on the shaft of his axe. The world had gone crazy, turned itself upside down. His father had killed someone, and he was riding to confront the victim’s family. He might just need his horse and axe to make it out alive.
And if he didn’t make it out again? At that moment, he didn’t much care. Wasn’t that what the Miorita was telling him? To accept your fate, meekly, with no resistance, no struggle. If that was the case, then he would go to the Gypsy camp without fear, and get them to leave Tomas alone, to fight their own battles.
And as for Sofia…
He kicked Sultan in the ribs unnecessarily hard. The old horse broke into a canter, but shook his head to show he wasn’t happy.
The clearing was ahead, and even at this distance, through the trees, Peter could see the yellows and reds of the caravans, and wood smoke twisting up into the sky.
He pulled Sultan to a halt and tethered him to a tree.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”
Peter wished he were as confident of that as he sounded, but sliding the axe from Sultan’s saddle, he knew he had no choice but to go through with it. The Gypsies would regroup, and be back for the sword.
At first he walked boldy, upright, making no attempt to hide himself as he neared the clearing. He could see the camp clearly now. There were five caravans and two open carts. The caravans were arranged in a circle with their doorways facing a large campfire, over which hung a cooking pot. Horses, tethered to stakes and tree stumps, chomped on the contents of hay bags. Peter saw a series of stakes planted in the ground, in a circle just outside the camp itself, about halfway to where the trees began. From the top of each stake hung a cluster of something white and bulbous. It took a moment for him to realize they were strings of garlic bulbs. Protection.
Now Peter saw someone jump from the low step of one of the caravans, and as he watched the Gypsy crossing the circle, something caught his eye. He dropped to a crouch, and crept a little closer.
Sitting against a large birch trunk on the far side of the clearing was Sofia. She was alone, in the snow, with her legs out straight in front of her, and her arms by her sides.
Seeing her there, and puzzled by it, Peter forgot all about what he had come for, and his anger with her. He crept forward nearly to the edge of the trees, then began to circle round toward her.
He was used to moving through the winter forest, and he made no sound as he deepened his arc slightly to approach Sofia from behind. For a while he thought he had lost sight of the tree where she was sitting, but there it was again, ahead of him.
Now he understood.
Ropes were tied tightly around the trunk and around Sofia. The others had bound her to a tree, and outside the circle of garlic.
“Sofia!” he whispered.
There was no reply, but then, she was on the far side of a thick trunk, unable to move.
As he crept closer, his dexterity deserted him. The head of the axe caught against the trunk of a dead sapling, which cracked loudly. He glanced ahead and saw Sofia’s hair flick out—she had turned her head.
Fearing she might call for help, he rushed the last few paces until he was right against her tree trunk.
“Sofia! It’s me! Peter.”
Nothing for a second, but then he heard: “Peter!” It was no more than a whisper. “Thank God! Set me free!”
“Why did they do this to you?” he asked.
“Not now! Set me free.”
Peter nodded. He pulled his knife from his pocket and began to saw through the thick hemp binding her. As he did so it crossed his mind that maybe she had been tied to the tree for a good reason, maybe she had even been—
No. It was daylight. She couldn’t be one of them and out in the daylight, he reminded himself, and kept on sawing.
“Quick!” Sofia said. “They might come out at any time.”
“There!” Peter said, and loosened the rope.
Sofia stayed motionless, waiting to be sure that she was unobserved, then flung the rope away and spun around the tree into Peter’s arms.
“Thank you!” she cried. “Let’s go away from here.”
“I can’t,” said Peter. “I’ve come to stop them from attacking my father. They’ll have to listen to me.”
“No!” Sofia cried. “They’ll kill you. Nothing is going to stop them. They tied me to the tree because I tried to stop them from stealing the sword from your father. I told them to leave him alone, and they did this to me! One of their kind!”
“They would have left you out in the night?”
“They threatened to. I think it was just meant to scare me. I think. But you can’t stop them.”
“I have to try, Sofia.”
“Peter! Listen to me! My own uncle tied me up. Imagine what they will do to you and your father! Come. Come away.”
She pulled Peter’s hands, dragging him deeper into the wood, and he knew she was right.
He shook himself.
“This way,” he said. “I’ve got Sultan with me.”
They ran.
35
The Approach
It didn’t take long to reach Sultan, but Sofia was shattered by the time they found him. She had been sitting on the frozen ground all morning and her legs would barely move at first, but Peter urged her on. He had to lift her onto Sultan’s back. Then he swung up behind her. Very soon, with the warmth from horse and boy, Sofia began to feel better.
The trotted through the trees, aiming nowhere until they were convinced that there was no pursuit from the camp. Peter slowed Sultan to a walk, mindful of the double cargo the horse was carrying. As he rode with his arms around Sofia, he felt her leaning back against his chest. But Sofia had other things on her mind.
“It’s up to us,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“This is all going to end badly, Peter.”
Peter grunted.
“My uncle went to talk to the Elders. The woman called Anna?”
“Yes,” Peter said.
“He tried to warn them of the danger, but they ignored him. She is a difficult woman, and thinks she knows best how to run her village. We know better than she about hostages, but she refused to listen. After hours of talking, they did nothing.”
“But there are other ways of killing the…hostages?”
“The hostages, yes. They did not want to become what they are. It is like a disease, it makes them become that way. It is not a question of killing them, but of returning them to the ground. Forever. And it can be done without the sword. But the sword is easier. A single cut from it is enough. And they fear it. It is as if the power of the Winter King is inside it. Inside the blade.”
“But what can we do?” Peter cried. “You and me. A boy and a girl.”
“Peter. There is nothing else now. The villagers are too frightened to know what to do. Your father refuses to help, or even give the sword. My people may kill him for it now, as he has killed one of us.”
“Sofia, I’m sorry. I wasn’t there. I might have stopped it.”
“And you might be dead too,” Sofia said. “Don’t worry. I am not surprised it is Georg who is dead. He was always first to anger. I heard he rushed at your father with his knife. Your father defe
nded himself, and the others fled back to my uncle. But listen, Peter, it won’t be long. Once they’ve licked their wounds they’ll be back. If you go to stop them you’ll be hurt too. And the epidemic is growing worse. Very soon there will be more hostages in the village. If it spreads, it will become impossible to control.”
Peter thought about what she’d said, about Tomas, and her uncle, and the hostages. But one thing she had said stood out: “You might be dead too.”
She cared about him. And that small spark was enough to kindle something in Peter. He couldn’t lie down and die, like the meek shepherd. He was going to fight.
“Sofia, I will help you. What can we do?”
“We are not powerless. We can act. We need to show the villagers that they must act, despite their fear. And we need to do this before my people hurt your father.”
“How?”
Sofia hesitated. Sultan hesitated too, and came to a standstill. Peter barely noticed. Sofia twisted around so that she could see Peter’s face. Around them the snow-laden branches of the bare trees hung heavily, pointing their twig fingers toward the couple on horseback. There was total silence across the face of the earth, and the silence centered on this small universe in the trees.
“We have Sultan,” Sofia said slowly. “There is an old way of finding hostages in their own ground.”
“You mean, in their graves?” Peter’s mouth twisted with fear as he spoke.
“Yes. We must start there. If a virgin tries to ride a horse over a grave where a hostage lies, the horse will know, and will refuse to cross. We must find the graves of the hostages, all of them, and prevent them from leaving the ground.”
“How?”
“There are ways. We could stake them in. That holds them to the ground. Or we could put nets into the graves. That works like the millet; they have to unpick every knot before they can leave again. But we have no nets.”
“I’ve heard things like that too,” Peter said. “My father said they were fireside tales, but now…”
“You know it’s true. We could put charcoal in the graves. They must write with the charcoal, and that keeps them from returning until the charcoal runs out.”
“Or we can use buckthorn,” Peter said. “That’s what they did at Radu’s funeral.”
“Yes. The thorns are like little stakes,” Sofia said, nodding. “They pierce the skin. The hostages cannot move through the thorns. But if that’s what they put into Radu’s grave, and he still came out…”
“What does it mean?”
“My uncle knew about this. It is why we are so afraid. It’s never been like this before; it is as if there is something more powerful happening. Something giving them greater power.”
Peter shook his head.
“I don’t know. Is there nothing else we can do?”
“Yes. You could sever the head with your axe, and place it at the hostage’s feet. Only two things work better than that. Fire. And your father’s sword.”
Peter stared straight through Sofia.
He knew there was no way he could sever a head, even the head of a corpse.
“If you’re too afraid, then give me your horse at least. I’ll try on my own.”
“No!” Peter cried. “I’m not afraid. I’ll help you.”
He kicked Sultan into a walk again.
“We’ll need a spade,” he said. “We can steal one from the sexton’s shed. I know where that is.”
Sofia laughed.
“Excellent! And we can cut some buckthorn on the way.”
“But…”
“What?” asked Sofia.
“You said we need a virgin to ride the horse.”
Sofia twisted in the saddle and slapped Peter’s cheek.
“That’s me, you pig!”
Peter burst out laughing.
“I’m joking,” he cried, rubbing his face in mock pain, and now Sofia laughed too.
“Be careful, Peter,” she said, but with a warm smile on her face.
“Let’s go, Sultan!” he said, grinning.
Holding not only the reins but Sofia too, he spurred the horse into life and they thundered toward the village.
36
Ordeal
“Remember. It is day. We have an hour or so before there is any danger to us. No matter what you see, remember there is no danger.”
Peter nodded.
It was a bitter afternoon. It had begun to snow heavily as they rode around the outskirts of the village, and more than this, the snow was being driven by a nasty wind from the east, straight off the mountains. It had come from nowhere, quite suddenly, and now the storm was at its most furious. On any other day, Peter might have cursed it all, but today was different. He and Sofia were glad of the appalling weather because it meant no one else was about. They seemed to have the village to themselves, which was just as well, given what they were about to do. Tomas and Caspar had both been locked up for doing the same.
They had cut buckthorn from a large bush, and Peter had broken the lock on the sexton’s shed with one swing of his axe.
Now they stood at the edge of the graveyard.
The snow hurled itself out of the sky, tearing around their heads, making it hard to see more than a few feet, never mind to the far side, where the wooden church hunkered into the slight hillside, as if trying to escape the storm.
“Ready?” Sofia called.
Peter smiled.
“Go on.”
He made a stirrup with his hands to help Sofia into the saddle. She smiled and, allowing him this indulgence, settled herself. She guided Sultan to the gateway, and Peter followed, axe in one hand, spade in the other.
With the back of his wrist he brushed at the snow clogging his eyebrows, and then opened the gate for Sultan and Sofia.
“Where?” he asked.
By way of answer Sofia steered Sultan over to the path that ran down the middle of the graveyard, to the first grave in the first row. That made sense. To start at the beginning.
Peter and Sofia exchanged one last look, and Sultan walked forward.
It was slow progress. At first Sultan seemed unsure of what he was supposed to do, but then he understood. He stepped over the first grave, passing the wooden cross, and to the other side.
Nothing.
He had moved as calmly as if he had been walking in a summer’s hay meadow.
Peter looked at Sofia, but she didn’t look back, urging Sultan to the next grave.
Nothing.
Again Sultan moved happily across the ground.
The third grave approached.
Nothing.
Sofia urged him on.
“Sofia,” Peter called. “It’s not—”
He didn’t finish what he was saying.
Sultan reared so suddenly and violently that he threw Sofia before she could do anything about it.
Peter ran to her side as Sultan shied into the snow, becoming a gray ghost in the gloom.
“We’ve found one,” Sofia said.
“Are you—?”
“I’m all right,” Sofia said. “Hurry. We have to try.” She got to her feet. “Come on!”
It was so hard. What they were doing was so hard, and the ferocity of the snowstorm only made it harder.
Peter picked the spade up, his hands numb already, and began to dig. His first efforts cleared the snow, and then he hit the ground. The winter had frozen the soil solid but he didn’t give up, driving the spade down with his boot. He prized up a huge sod and flung it to one side, and with that achieved, his work became much easier.
In a short time he had dug a hole halfway along the grave, going deeper with each blow.
Suddenly the spade tip struck something, something other than soil.
“Wood!” he called to Sofia. “I’ve found it.”
She nodded.
“Now what?” he asked.
She grabbed the axe and seemed to be about to swing it, when Peter stopped her.
“That’s my job,�
� he said, taking the axe from her, “and anyway, I’ve got an idea. Go and fetch Sultan back.”
Sofia stalked away into the swirling snow, to Sultan, who had been too scared to come any closer and too scared to leave altogether. She coaxed him back toward the graveside, in time to see Peter swing the axe at the surface of the coffin. He had made two blows already and shattered the lid. He left the axe sticking out of the wood, and came over to Sultan. From the horse’s saddle he took a rope and tied it first to the axe, and then to Sultan’s saddle.
Immediately Sofia understood his intentions and they both began to walk Sultan away from the grave. He was only too happy to oblige, and pulled.
There was an earsplitting crack and half the lid of the coffin flew up into the air to land on the snow beside them.
Now that they had done it, they realized that the worst bit was still to come.
They stood motionless, not even daring to look at each other, but staring at the lip of the hole they had made. Peter couldn’t move. Then Sultan whinnied and seemed to goad Sofia into life. She sprang forward, giving herself as little time to think about what she was doing as possible.
Shamed, Peter rushed to her side and saw what she had already seen.
“It’s empty!” he cried. “Sultan was wrong.”
Sofia was silent, as she peered deeper into the coffin.
“Sultan was wrong,” Peter repeated, “this isn’t going to work.”
“No,” she said. “Sultan wasn’t wrong. Look!”
She pulled Peter down beside her.
As they leant into the hole, they were for a moment oblivious to everything else around them. They no longer noticed the snow, and they didn’t hear Sultan snorting. They didn’t see the snow shifting strangely on top of the graves that lay behind them.
“Look,” Sofia said again.
Peter didn’t need telling. He remembered what Sofia had told him about the things you could bury with a hostage to stop them from walking. Charcoal. That was the one. Charcoal.
Peter stared at the inside of the coffin they had uncovered. Every inch of wood was covered in writing, in charcoal. It was scrawled, as if written in a fury, or a great hurry, but nevertheless it was legible. And with every word that Peter read his heart grew colder and his hair became a little whiter.
