*
They had a hard time waking Jan up the following morning. He’d drained his flask the night before and supplemented his thirst with the delights of the inn. He now snored and dribbled and grunted in his bed like an old, fat seal, and no end of shaking or shouting could wake him up.
‘He’s hardly the most brilliant of guides,’ said Tom, looking down at the sleeping, snuffling man.
‘What do you mean?’ replied Walter, looking genuinely surprised. ‘I’m delighted with him. He knows all the local dialects and he’s probably the only person who can speak a word of English within a hundred miles of here. And he actually knows where this castle is. You don’t know how hard it was to locate it.’
‘You still haven’t told me why we’re going there. Where is it? What is it? Who lives there?’
‘My mother.’
Tom made a start and then turned to Walter in astonishment.
‘Or at least I think she did once,’ he continued, making for the door. ‘I’ll find a bucket of water. Cornelius forgave us for it; I’m sure Jan will too.’
*
They devoured cheese and thick hunks of bread smeared with pork dripping before they left. There was fresh milk too, warm and frothy. It seemed to do the trick for Jan, who’d been sulking ever since his surprise drenching.
‘Come, we go on now,’ he said at last, licking the froth from his lips and slapping his palms hard down on his knees like a new man.
The load on the back of his waggon was gradually depleting and there was now space for Tom and Walter to sit on a ledge at the side. Their feet dangled down, making long spidery shadows in the road. Three or four hours into their journey, they slowed down to pass a little girl and an old woman, who were travelling by foot. The woman strode into the middle of the road when she saw the waggon and Jan swore as he was forced to draw to a halt. She began to rattle away at him in a strange tongue, brandishing her basket of goods beneath his nose. He retorted back at her, first in Czech, then German, and then what appeared to be a strange amalgamation of both. Whatever language he used, it was quite clear that he was being far from polite.
As the two argued and gesticulated at each other, the small girl inched around the cart to peek at Walter and Tom. She had an impish, dirty face: a pointed chin and high cheekbones and enormous emerald eyes. Her ears were pierced with small gold hoops and she wore a red beaded dress that was ragged about her knees. Walter leaned forward and pulled a pale yellow moth out from behind her ear. When she saw it, she gasped with delight and disbelief. She yelled in a torrent of indiscernible words to the old woman, who came shuffling around the waggon to see what was happening.
‘Don’t speak to them!’ called back Jan. ‘They are dirty gypsies!’
But as soon as the old woman’s eyes fell on Walter, she released a stunned cry that shocked everyone into silence. Tom looked from the woman, to Walter, and then back at the woman again. She seemed spellbound by him; all the heat and passion of her encounter with Jan had drained from her face in an instant. Her skin was deeply weathered and wrinkled. Wisps of grey and black hair escaped from the scarf that was tied around her head. But her eyes were bright green, just like the little girl’s, and she fixed them on Walter with such fascinated amazement, that it seemed impolite to break the spell. Walter held her gaze but did nothing. He seemed to be waiting for her to take the lead in whatever drama was about to unfold.
At last she stepped back, her basket dropping to her side. And then she smiled.
‘Kralis,’ she whispered. ‘Kralis.’
Jan let out a soft laugh from the front of the waggon. ‘You are lucky man, Walter. She is calling you King!’
*
The gypsy settlement was a mile away, along a path so narrow that Jan eventually had to abandon his waggon. He swore persistently under his breath. At first he had refused to come, until Walter finally offered to pay him a handsome sum for his translation services. The young girl was left to watch over the waggon.
‘Wonderful guard! Oh, yes, yes, wonderful guard, this tiny little girl!’ Jan expostulated, scratching his head and looking back repeatedly at his precious goods. Clearly he believed that he would never see them again. Tom tried hard to placate him as Walter walked on ahead. The old woman solemnly led the way.
When they broke into a clearing, ten or more young children ran towards them. They seemed just as sheepish and curious about the newcomers as the first little girl had been. They hung off the old woman and scampered around her as she forged ahead and batted them away like flies; barking continuously at them in their language.
The homes in the settlement, which was really just a large forest clearing, were an assortment of rickety caravans and temporary wooden structures. Pine needles clicked beneath their feet as they entered and brown flies buzzed around their faces. The air smelt of the thin looking horses that grazed all around. Tom felt the sweaty dustiness of them climb up his nostrils. The beasts lifted their heads mournfully at the sight of the approaching party and then continued to chomp at the undergrowth. Faces and bodies began to appear in doorways, curious and questioning. The old woman marched up to the largest of the caravans and threw open the door, calling inside. At last an old man hobbled out. He wore an old, tattered shirt; his face was dark and unshaven, as creviced as an old, rotten conker. She led him towards Walter.
The reaction of this man to the sight of Walter’s face was no less extreme than that of the old woman. He visibly jumped as he caught sight of him, muttering through brown teeth. Tears filled his eyes. The woman talked at him furiously. The word ‘Kralis’ appeared over and over again.
‘Do you understand her?’ Tom asked Jan.
‘No. Only very few words. And she talk faster than even my wife.’
A younger man then came over to them. He had high cheek bones and thick brown hair. He listened to the old couple attentively, tucking the folds of his shirt into his belt as if he’d just got out of bed. When at last they had stopped talking, he turned to Jan and began to say something to him in the local dialect. Jan’s responses to the man were surly and begrudging. He brushed flies from his shoulders and barely met his eyes. But the young man seemed to be a persistent, persuasive character and the exchange continued for some minutes. At last Jan turned to Walter.
‘Man wants to know if you are gypsy?’ he said.
Walter looked back at them all, silently. The old couple fell silent too, watching with wide expectant eyes.
‘I don’t know. I was abandoned as a child. I don’t know my family.’
This Jan relayed back to the young man, which resulted in a new and even longer debate between the old couple. Walter remained patient and silent throughout it all. And yet something was beginning to dance in his eyes; something quite brilliant. He seemed entranced by them. His face contained a fascinated delight in what was unfolding before him.
At last the young man spoke again and Jan began to translate:
‘Old people say you have face of famous man. Famous man from their people. He was magician and sort of doctor. He was very wise. All old gypsies in this land know his face. Because of his power they call him Kralis - King. He had darker skin but, apart of that, he look like you. No difference.’
As if to accentuate this final point, the old woman came up to Walter and gesticulated wildly with her hands, shaking her head and whistling loudly between her teeth, as if she still couldn’t quite believe her eyes.
Walter remained very still, but Tom could see everything that was brewing inside him burning brighter and brighter in his eyes.
‘Where is this wise man now and what is his real name?’ Walter asked.
The old couple shook their heads and consulted each other. The young man spoke and Jan translated again:
‘He gone for many years. East. Far, far away. He like to be alone. They think Ephraim is real name. There are more gypsies across river. Maybe they know more. They will all say “Kralis” when they see Walter face.’
Wal
ter bowed his head and thought for a long time. A crowd had gathered around them now and all stood still, as if Walter commanded the same reverence that this man, Kralis, had done in the past. Tom remembered all those times when he had studied the vast array of faces that swarmed through the docks of London. Faces of every creed and colour. Not one of them, in all those years, had truly resembled Walter. And yet here they were, in the middle of a place he’d never heard of, and Walter had been recognised as the image of a long lost god.
‘Could you please thank these people for their kindness,’ Walter said at last to Jan. ‘I am very, very grateful to them. I must make a journey now but could you tell them that I will return, as soon as I can, to find out more about this man?’
Jan looked even more outraged at having to pay the gypsies such a compliment. He translated Walter’s words in a brief, mumbling sort of way. But the old couple seemed to be able to see through his utterances and they nodded encouragingly to Walter. He beamed back at them and took their hands warmly in his own. Tom had never seen Walter smile like that before.
When they returned to the cart the small girl was still there, lying quite comfortably along the back of one of the horses and dangling her legs down either side. She sat up in anticipation at the sight of Walter. He shaped her hands into a bowl, raised his own hands into the air with a flourish, and a shower of boiled sweets cascaded into her fingers. She shrieked with delight and slid off the horse with perfect poise. In a moment she’d slipped back into the forest, clutching her new treasures up into her chest. Walter watched after her.
‘Could it really be true?’ he asked, in a voice so low that it was little more than a faint whisper.
‘I can’t say, my friend,’ Tom answered, patting him softly on the back. ‘But it is quite remarkable. Quite remarkable.’
Chapter 26
They finally reached the castle on a cold, bright morning. A thin mist hovered in the air. The castle towered above them on a steep, mossy hill. Its four towers, one of which was painted white, mushroomed sleepily up into the glinting sunlight. Tom blinked at its smooth, soaring turrets like a small boy lost in a fairy tale. For all these years, the pinnacle of his dreams had been nothing grander than a brick house with a silver birch tree in the front garden. It was an almost laughable vision when placed in the shadow of such splendour. The castle seemed no more real than a beautiful toy. He closed one eye and reached out a hand before him, imagining what it would be like to stroke the chalky wall of the white tower with his finger-tip.
Jan’s waggon was nearly empty now. Soon he would have to return to Prague and their time with him would come to an end.
‘They are quiet family, not interested in strangers,’ he said with a shrug, as they all glanced up at the ancient walls of the building.
‘Then we will have to make them interested in us,’ replied Walter.
They took the waggon up the steep, cobbled road that led to the castle. From the top there was a breath-taking view of a meandering river and undulating landscape all around, dotted with pine trees. The air was so fresh that it tasted sweet. Directly below them was a town of rickety old houses. Tom could see its people milling through the streets like ants.
The castle itself was guarded by two great wooden doors, with figures of mermaids carved at the top. Their smooth faces gaped down at them like beautiful gargoyles. They tried knocking at first, but to no avail. Then they tried calling out at the top of their voices. Suddenly, the head of a thin man appeared at a window that was half way up one of the towers. He wore small spectacles at the end of his upturned nose and his brow was knitted in a stern expression. He called out to them in German.
‘He says he has no time to talk to you,’ said Jan. ‘If you wish to speak to servants you can enter other end of castle. These doors are stuck.’
Walter grasped the immense iron handle before him and, with what appeared to be a relatively gentle push, eased one of the doors open. It creaked like an old shipwreck rising to the surface of the sea. The man stared down at them incredulously, pushing his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose. They slithered down again almost immediately. He shouted something and then suddenly disappeared from sight.
‘What did he say?’ asked Tom.
‘He told us to wait here.’
The doors led to a courtyard, with a large well at the centre. Walter nodded when he saw it, as if acknowledging something. The walls of the lower parts of the castle were thick with ivy and the courtyard’s flagstones were worn down into smooth dips.
A low, arched door opened in the castle’s wall and then not one, but three men appeared from it. One of them was the man from upstairs and the two others, who also wore spectacles on upturned noses, looked so remarkably similar to him that they were almost undoubtedly his brothers. They all wore faded jackets, had thinning hair and moved with a stiff, formal gait that suggested that they might be uncomfortable, or unused to the company of others. Before they had even greeted their guests, the two new brothers stopped to stare at the open door in bewilderment. The first man spoke and Jan translated.
‘These doors have been closed for fifteen years. No man could open them without breaking wood.’
‘You are English?’ said one of the other brothers. He stepped forward a little; his voice had a smooth, Germanic tone.
‘Yes,’ replied Tom. ‘We are from London. Please excuse our sudden arrival; we only wish to ask you a question about someone who used to live here.’
But the man was now eye-balling Walter through his thin-rimmed spectacles. For the second time he looked decidedly startled.
‘I know your face,’ he said.
‘Really?’ replied Walter.
‘Yes, I have seen it somewhere before.’ He thought deeply, as if trying to rifle through a great cupboard full of memories. ‘Never mind, please come in.’
Inside the castle, there were books everywhere. Almost every wall was lined with crammed bookshelves, and piles of books teetered all over the floor and on almost every surface. The building had a dusty but not unpleasant aroma and windows were open here and there to let the fresh air filter through. There were no corridors; one room simply led on to the next. The stuffed heads of various unfortunate creatures gazed down at them from the walls, but little other adornment had space to exist within the voluminous collections of books.
They were ushered through to the library, although it would have been challenging for a stranger to tell it apart from any other room. The library’s bookshelves reached to the very top of its lofty, wooden ceiling, from which hung an immense chandelier made of antlers. Suspended from the centre of the chandelier, was a wooden carving of a mermaid.
‘This was a hunting room once,’ said the brother, following Tom’s curious eyes. ‘We do not hunt, we read.’
‘I can see that you have a great many books.’
‘Yes. We are compiling a historical and geographical compendium about this region.’
‘How interesting. I imagine that that would take some time.’
‘Nearly thirteen years so far and our father ten years before us. I spent two years in Oxford, making geological studies. My brothers speak no English, but I do a little. Our name is Schlensak.’
Tom and Walter were beckoned to chairs and the brothers sat down in a row before them like a panel of judges, where they twitched about in their seats and took it in turns to push their spectacles up their noses. Their manner seemed to be a confused mixture of annoyance at having been disturbed, and fascination at the nature of the disturbance.
‘You have questions, about an inhabitant of the castle?’ asked the English speaking brother, who had taken the seat in the middle.
‘Yes,’ said Walter. ‘We know of a woman, now called Catherine Huntingdon, who says that she once lived here. Her family name was Weiss. There was an uprising against the rich and her father was killed. She and her mother had to run away from here. Is this story familiar to you? Was she a sister perhaps? Or an aunt of yours?’<
br />
There was a pause and then the three brothers conferred quietly for a time.
‘There has been no uprising against this castle for more than a hundred and forty years,’ said the middle brother. ‘We have no sister and no aunts. Our father died peacefully in his sleep two years ago.’
Walter and Tom looked at the three men, lost for words. Three pairs of thin rimmed spectacles peered back at them. The stillness of the room was so disquieting that Tom was filled with the sudden urge to break it in some sort of dramatic fashion. He wondered whether a loud sneeze, or a raucous burst of laughter might do. Perhaps an explosion of this kind would generate such a shock, that the entire contents of the bookshelves would unleash itself in a gigantic avalanche of paper.
‘Well, thank you for…,’ Walter began.
‘Wait,’ said the brother, putting up his hand. ‘That is not to say that you are wrong. A maid did once live here. We think more than twenty years ago. Her name was Katrin.’
‘Can you tell us more about her?’ Walter asked.
‘Yes. We remember her quite well because she was a difficult person. I think your expression for her would be ‘high-spirited’ perhaps. She was not suited to the life of a maid in a small, quiet town like this. She had strong opinions. She argued with other servants and even the family. And then, one night, she disappeared.’
Walter sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his long fingers entwined.
‘She had been spending time with gypsies,’ the brother continued. ‘One man in particular. This did not make her popular.’
He paused and then his eyes widened. He was studying Walter’s face again. He spoke to his brothers in a low murmur and then they began to stare at Walter too.
‘This gypsy man. Was he known as Kralis? I believe that his real name was Ephraim,’ said Walter.
‘Yes…yes Kralis. That is what they all called him.’
‘Do you know any more about him?’
Illusion Page 24
