It was a good plan.
I crept into the hut. That’s when my plan hit the first snag. The dark was so thick I couldn’t even see the others, let alone tell them apart. Although the moon was bright, I couldn’t see a thing inside. I thought the blond one might be lying by the door. I raised my hand to hit him, but not before putting my other hand over his mouth. He woke up struggling, but I kept him quiet by hissing into his ear, ‘The vampires are just outside.’
I felt a shiver pass through him, and then he jumped to his feet. Together we went outside.
Only then did I understand the mistake I’d made. It was Vuk Isakovič.
For a moment I was at a loss, but then I thought of something. Isakovič had unsheathed his sabre as soon as he’d spotted the red count on the ground. And I went back inside to wake the blond count. As I was leading him outside, I whispered, ‘Isakovič has turned into a vampire and killed your companion. There he is, crouching over him and drinking his blood.’
The blond one didn’t stop to think. He drew his sword and lunged at the Serb. Fortunately, Isakovič didn’t make a sound. Quite the valiant death.
I said to the blond one, ‘Don’t worry, you got him straight through the heart. That’s just as good as staking.’
And then I started thinking. If I killed the blond one, too, wouldn’t it seem a bit fishy, what with me surviving while vampires picked off the other three? Much better for one team of guards to perish together. But how to pull it off now that we were mismatched, with me from the first watch and the blond count from the second?
Much better to have killed the blond one and left the red one alive. I looked at the red wig on the ground. I looked at the blond wig on the head. Then back at the red wig. Then back at the blond wig.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘No one will believe that Isakovič turned into a vampire and killed our friend in the red wig. They’ll want proof. You know what the princess is like.’
He only nodded. He seemed truly frightened.
‘But they might believe that both of them were killed by vampires,’ I continued, moving my head up and down, too. I figured, if he can’t be talked into it, he can at least be nodded into it.
He nodded again.
‘And you and Isakovič were to be on second watch, weren’t you? It would be much better if the two of them’ – I pointed at the bodies – ‘had been serving guard duty together.’
‘But they weren’t,’ he argued. That was a good sign. Arguing always means thinking. And it’s always the wrong kind of thinking, which is just what I needed then.
‘But if we switch the wigs around – you take the red one, and our deceased compatriot gets the blond one – then it will be the blond count and Vuk Isakovič who died at the hands of vampires on the second watch.’
‘We can’t just change wigs and be different people.’
‘Oh, but you can, believe me. No one knows your name, and the only thing people remember about you is the colour of your wig.’
‘What about my sword?’
‘We just give your sword a little tug,’ I said, yanking it out of Isakovič, ‘and pop in this one – Vuk’s sabre – in its place. There, now it’s clear that when facing the vampires he chose to take his own life and risk eternal damnation rather than become one of the creatures himself.’
Then I picked up the red wig and handed it to the blond count, who then and there ceased to be blond. I took the blond wig and stuck it on the head of the red count, who now had a new posthumous personality. Then I sent the red count back inside the hut while I kept an eye out. I promised myself that the very next day, at the very first opportunity, I would get rid of him, too.
2
Not the real entrance. It was a crumbling side branch that led to the main channel of the aqueduct. Because it was falling to pieces, the passageway’s structure was laid bare. Later, when there was nothing overhead but a barrel-vault of solid masonry, we would be unable to see a thing. The darkness would be absolute, and we would have to feel our way.
But there at the start we could see a tunnel of Roman bricks, red with patches of whitewash. Water gurgled along a square-cut channel in the floor. To me it seemed as though the jaws of some enormous creature gaped open before us. We were in a red cavern, white teeth on either side of us, walking down the middle – the tongue. Harsh noises scraped from the palate as we stumbled along, the rushing air made moaning vowels, the whitewash chittered with toothy sounds, the holes in the walls hummed and droned. And we were heading into the very centre of it all, to the place where the sounds originated, where the flow was carrying us. Led by the tongue to the city.
It was damp and slippery. We had to stoop as we went, and after some time we took to crawling rather than walking. But even crawling is hard to keep up for long.
How long? A long time. In the dark, making your way on hands and knees, you lose track of time. You only remember that the entrance is far behind you. Everything after that first moment is an hour, a day, a week, a year, a – whatever you want to call it. And the time has already gone by, it’s been night and day and night again, and Saturday has been and gone, and the costume ball, and all the other things that have happened, one right after the other.
There I was, crawling along, leading the way from start to finish, because I had been the first to enter, and now it was too narrow to change places. Behind me was Novak, followed by the red count, and finally von Hausburg.
Nothing was really happening. We made our way along the tunnel, bent over, straightening up as far as the ceiling would allow, falling to our knees … You could hear the creaking of our backbones.
I’ve heard from Muslim pilgrims about the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. The Empress Helena had it built with massive doors. The invading Persians galloped right through those doors and into the church. But they didn’t destroy it, unlike other Christian holy places, because of the image painted above the doors: three wise men dressed in traditional Persian garb. They recognized themselves and were unwilling to destroy their own image. When the Christians returned, during the Crusades, they lowered and narrowed the doors so no one could enter the church on horseback again. But that didn’t stop the Turks, wielding their yataghans, from entering the church on foot. Everyone has a mother, though, and everyone is glad when a child is born. And so the Turks also bowed to the Mother of God. And made the doors even lower and narrower. Now to enter the church you must stoop, the doors have been set so low. That’s what the tunnel made me think of: a long entrance into church. And whether we wanted to or not, we had to go on bended knee. To be humble all the way.
What do you say to that, my dear cousin? Are we called upon to be humble?
Oh, you’re the one asking the questions, and I’m here to answer them?
If I do ask the occasional question, I’ll be sure to throw in the answer as well.
Allow me to continue. We made our way without too much difficulty. True, it was a strain on our bodies, but at least our minds were free, and we weren’t thinking about anything. At least I wasn’t. What can one think about, after all, when the very next step might mean dashing one’s head against the wall or slipping and breaking an arm or leg. I don’t know how far we’d gone before we were faced with the first decision.
The tunnel branched off into three. Novak explained it: only one of the branches led to the city, while the other two supplied the outlying villages. He said that even if we made the wrong choice, it was nothing to worry about: we’d just come out somewhere and get our bearings, and then, if it was a wrong turning, we’d make our way back and try our luck down another branch.
‘Easy for you to say,’ von Hausburg shouted, his voice echoing all around us. ‘You fool! It hasn’t even occurred to you that this might be only the first of many junctures. The decisions will get harder and harder, the options will multiply a hundredfold and a single wrong turn will lead us out into a wasteland, into empty fields, into enemy countryside teeming with vampires. The sun may have se
t already for all we know, crawling around down here in the dark.’
‘But there are only three lines,’ said Novak stubbornly.
‘And a thousand possible decisions, of which nine hundred and ninety-nine will take us down the two wrong paths. And only one…’
‘That’s life for you,’ said the red count, and everyone fell silent.
There was an incessant dripping on the back of my neck, especially bothersome when I wasn’t moving. I wanted to keep going, any direction at all, as long as it meant not standing still.
‘Let’s take the left branch,’ Novak said.
‘Right, let’s go, even if it’s the wrong one,’ I said.
I was seized with a desire to run, so badly did I want to know what lay at the end. But I was hampered by tiredness and the need to stoop and could only quicken my pace to a swift walk. Novak hurried to keep up, huffing and puffing, but made no complaint. The red count was a nobleman, as was von Hausburg, and the nobility do not grumble or make a fuss. Complaining is a trait of commoners, who even make a habit of it.
We were relieved to find that the tunnel ran straight on with no more side-branches. It was somewhat narrower than the first tunnel we’d come down, and that troubled me. From experience, one knows that the minor byways are smaller in every sense. The lack of side-branches was another clear indication of the tunnel’s unimportance. Just as in life, the wrong path can be recognized by an absence of difficult decisions after the first wrong turning. It all seems to go so smoothly after that. But I said nothing and simply kept going, not speaking up, just like everyone else.
And when I saw light ahead, for the first time since we’d gone underground, I knew it would turn out to be some village, not the fortress. And I was right – but the day was already fading, and night was coming on. Still, we were glad of the chance to get out and straighten up. Everyone stretched, and I even lay down in the grass to ease my aching bones. I was cold and hungry. Hungry for the very first time.
Novak reconnoitred a bit and told us that we had probably reached Mali Mokri Lug, and that we must get back into the tunnel soon, for it was nearly dark.
‘As if we’ll be any safer from the vampires down there,’ von Hausburg said. Then he exclaimed, ‘Water!’
‘What do you mean, water?’ we asked.
‘Water! The vampires are attracted to water. They gather around it. In the watermill. Don’t you see? We’re safer out in the open.’
‘The aqueduct leads to the city. Vampires can’t enter the city. We know that much. If there were any vampires in the tunnels, they’d have shown up in the city by now,’ Novak replied.
Von Hausburg had been out-argued, and only retorted sarcastically, ‘Maybe they’re as lost as we are.’
The discussion was getting us nowhere, and I turned and went back into the tunnel. After the first few steps I heard something splashing at my heels. I assumed it was Novak. Just then, a scream rang out. And, after the scream, the words Oh God. I turned around. Novak was already dashing outside. When I came out, I saw von Hausburg peering down at something. I raced to his side. Only then did I see that we were standing on the edge of a sheer drop. Down at the bottom of the gorge lay the shattered body of the red count. The wig lay beside the body, and blood was seeping out in every direction.
‘We didn’t even know we were standing on the edge,’ von Hausburg gasped. ‘He slipped and fell. I couldn’t keep hold of him.’
‘Oh God!’ I said.
‘Just what I said,’ von Hausburg responded.
‘We have to keep moving,’ I decided. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him now.’
I stepped back into the tunnel. Behind me came Novak and von Hausburg.
3
I stepped back into the hut, somehow knowing that it would be a long night. Novak was sleeping peacefully, snoring; the new red count was tossing and turning. If any vampires came around he’d be sure to hear them. I don’t know why, but being indoors made me less afraid of the vampires, as if the walls could really offer any protection. I hadn’t forgotten that Radetzky met his death indoors, but that was a watermill, and this was a hut. And maybe they’d had enough by now; the corpses were piling up, and they could have their pick of the next one to become a vampire. No sense bothering with the living. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. At one point I was in that curious state that is like a foretaste of true sleep, when you no longer know where the lights and sounds are coming from – whether from within, which is sleep, or from without, which is the real world. But soon my eyes flew open, and I was staring into the dark, more awake than ever, angry and exhausted. When I jolt awake like that I know that sleep will be a long time coming. I was lying on an ordinary bedroll on the hard ground, and I was sore from head to toe. I sat up. I didn’t want to get up all the way, just to prop myself up a bit.
That’s when I saw him. My first thought was that he was a vampire. But he sat calmly in the Turkish manner looking at me in surprise. As if I were a vampire.
I thought about jumping up and running outside, but his henchmen Isakovič and the blond count might be waiting for me, now that they’d had plenty of time to cross over to the other side. I didn’t move. And he continued to stare at me with his eyes wide open.
After a while he spoke but without opening his mouth. I could hear him, although there was nothing to hear.
‘So you do exist then?’
‘Not only do I exist, I am also very, very powerful.’ I spoke softly, trying to make up for being at a disadvantage.
‘I was sure you were purely imaginary, but now I know you’re not.’ Perhaps the words were only in my mind, for the old man had not spoken aloud, had not even moved his lips as in a ventriloquist’s trick.
‘I don’t know whether you are to be congratulated or pitied,’ I said, noncommittally enough to maintain the upper hand.
‘Neither do I,’ he said with what struck me as modesty. ‘But now that I know for sure, Isaac – now that I know, it must be for the best that you do exist.’
Why was he calling me Isaac? Ishak, he pronounced it, the Bosnian way. What nonsense the old man was coming out with, and all without opening his mouth? I made no answer, only waited for him to (not) say something else that would tell me which Isaac he thought I was. And sure enough, he didn’t stop there.
‘But if you are so powerful, why did you rebel?’
Why did I rebel? How should I know why Isaac rebelled? I could only explain my own reasons for rebelling. I took a closer look at the old man. Only then did I realize that he was some sort of dervish.
‘Listen here, dervish,’ I said. ‘All acts of rebellion are the same in the end. Why did Shaitan rise up against Allah?’
He nodded. This was meant to show that he understood. ‘Yes. And rebelling always makes another devil of us. We started out believing in justice and goodness and ended in evil. I know that better than anyone.’
‘Pride,’ I said. ‘It was pride that we began in, and when we ended it was in despair …’
Then came the thought, as the words were leaving my mouth, that this was the man in crimson. In the guise of a dervish. The archvampire. Or archangel. Michael.
FIVE
The End of the Story
1
I could hear my heart beating. He could hear it. Was this truly the last night? Would dawn bring with it the Day of Wrath? Michael, archangel, servant. The humblest servant of all. I hadn’t seen him for aeons. Aeons. The last time, before all that fog outside Belgrade, I had seen him at the beginning of the world. And now I was seeing him again, here at the end. I was hopeless. Hopeless. I’d been so remiss, so wrong, so foolish. I buried my face in my hands. The palms grew wet. I lowered my hands. Looked around. He was gone. No dervish, no Michael … Whoever he was, he was gone. I crawled to the door. Peeked outside. It was dark but empty, with no one in sight. I looked back at the room and saw only Novak and the red count. I didn’t understand. Who was he? Did he even exist? Perhaps I was … breaking
down? Losing my mind? I had another look around. Everything seemed real and matter-of-fact. I had to think. Think hard. The only way out of this was by thinking long and hard and getting it right. But nothing was coming to mind. My head had never been emptier. I sat on the ground and trembled. I don’t know what would have become of my mind if Novak hadn’t woken up just then.
‘Master, why aren’t you sleeping?’
‘Novak, my one and only Novak, talk to me. Tell me something, anything.’
‘What would you like to hear, master?’
‘Tell me about … Do you remember how I was telling you about Mary Magdalene, how we arranged to meet that Sunday morning at the fountain in the garden of Gethsemane?’
‘But you never finished telling me that story. You got as far as the part in the tavern when you were making plans to meet on the Sunday.’
‘I didn’t tell you about that Sunday?’
‘No.’
‘All right, let’s go outside. I don’t want anyone else to hear.’
We stepped outside. Novak’s eyes fell immediately on Isakovič and the blond count. I suddenly remembered that I should also be surprised.
‘This doesn’t seem like the work of vampires,’ he was saying. ‘Looks more like they did each other in. Or someone else did it for them. Definitely a man, not a vampire. Not you by any chance, master?’
‘Why would I do such a thing? What had they ever done to me? You know I don’t like it when you accuse me of things.’
‘Maybe the peasants then. It’s no mystery why they’d kill Isakovič. He was bleeding them dry. He was a hundred times worse than the Austrians. The blond one would have had to go, too, because he was with Isakovič.’
‘What shall we do with them?’ I asked. People like it when you ask them questions. Makes them feel powerful.
Novak looked at me in surprise. ‘Not a thing. We’ll leave ’em right where they are. It’s no more than Isakovič deserved. Tomorrow when the princess wakes up, let her figure something out.’
Fear and His Servant Page 21
