by John Burke
“It’s all over now,” said Tom thankfully, echoing her thoughts as he followed them down the slope.
Dracula–Prince of Darkness
1
The road into Carpathia had been rough from the start and got steadily worse as it progressed—or, rather, unsteadily worse. The sombre forests closed in as though to crush it out of existence. The mountains humped against the sky cast threatening shadows over the dusty, rocky surface. The four travellers in the coach were jarred from side to side as the horses stumbled and the wheels grated into ruts and against loose stones.
The wild scenery had been fascinating for the first few hours but now was beginning to pall. Twilight brooded over the landscape and the skyline was stormy. They longed for the warmth and hospitality of a good hotel; but it was unlikely that the inn for which they were heading would be up to the standard of the Viennese one in which they had recently lodged.
Perhaps it would have been better to spend the rest of their holiday in the splendor of Vienna instead of pressing on into these remote parts. But Charles had urged that they should be adventurous, that four of them travelling together had nothing to fear, and that a few days’ climbing in the Carpathians would be good for them.
They had come this far. It was unthinkable that they should turn back now. They would keep to their itinerary although it was more strenuous in reality than it looked on the innocent flatness of a map. All they asked was that this stage of the journey should soon end and that they should have the chance of resting their aching bones.
The darkness thickened until it was impossible to believe that the driver could see his way. A whinny of protest came from one of the horses. There was a murmur of encouragement, another whinny, and then the creaking, scraping wheels slowed. The steady beat of hoofs broke up into a gentle clop . . . and then the coach was at rest.
“Are we lost? Heaven only knows where . . .”
But they had arrived. The driver clambered down and the landlord of the inn was suddenly hurrying across his cobbled yard to open the door of the coach. There was a welcoming noise and bustle; lamplight streamed out through windows and an open doorway; in the middle of this frowning countryside there was, all at once, warmth and cheerfulness and the promise of food and rest.
The visitors’ rooms were ready. The inn was small, its ceilings low and its furnishings primitive, but the landlord was efficient and anxious to please these mad English people who had come so far. Jugs of hot water were prepared: word had reached him that the English made a great ritual of cleanliness and used up a great deal of hot water. By the time they had freshened up after their journey and stretched their cramped limbs, food was on the table.
After the meal they relaxed near the smoky glow of the large fireplace, succumbing gratefully to the warmth of the crackling wood and of the wine.
Three of them, that is, relaxed. Charles Kent was too active to stay still for long. This European tour had been his idea and he intended to get the most out of every minute of it. He had an insatiable curiosity and an insatiable appetite for new experiences, new places, and new people. While the others settled comfortably on the benches—which were hard and unyielding but which at least did not jolt up and down or from side to side—he tried out his faulty German on the landlord and then on the dour, reserved men who drifted in for an evening drink. Some of them spoke a local tongue which was quite unintelligible. Others knew some German as rough and erratic as his own. One or two did not wish to speak to the newcomers at all, but huddled together muttering secretively.
By the time Charles had bought a couple of rounds of drinks, the hostility began to thaw. They chuckled at his attempts to communicate, and chuckled even more readily at the sight of brimming tankards. He realized that he was accepted when the landlord set a green felt-covered tray on the bar and offered him three dice. There was a brief, somewhat confused explanation of the rules by which they played in this part of the world, and then Charles began to roll the dice. He played against the landlord and an elderly man whose bright, shrewd eyes could not force themselves away from the sight of the flashing, turning numbers. Other men drew closer.
There was laughter. It grew in volume. Smoke from a dozen pipes choked the atmosphere. The room became warmer and noisier.
Charles threw and won . . . threw and won.
There were groans. He bought another round of drinks and the groans turned to murmurs of relief.
The seamed faces of these men who battled incessantly in the woodlands and on the harsh pastures of the hillside closed in around Charles. Beyond them, under the great dark beam of the fireplace, the faces of his companions looked very pale and foreign.
Helen was frowning. He might have expected it. Of course she would disapprove—and of course she would feel it her duty to show it.
And Alan, his older brother, though not actually criticizing, was wryly watchful.
Charles was still surprised that he had succeeded in persuading Alan and Helen to join them on this expedition. Alan was not a stuffy person, but by nature he was cautious. The two brothers had inherited an adequate small fortune each from their father, and while Charles took pleasure in spending it on the good things of life—not madly but with a certain lavishness—Alan made careful investments, methodically assessed the financial and political scene every morning, and refrained from indulging in any exuberant adventures. He was a pleasant, tolerant man, but not an imaginative one. A slight touch of pedantry every now and then made his voice dry and calculating: Charles knew of the genuine warmth beneath his brother’s mannerisms, but also knew how difficult Alan found it to let this warmth show through.
As for Helen, she had been married to Alan for seven or eight years now and still looked like a spinster. She was in her early thirties and by no means unattractive, but some deep-seated instinct made her pull her hair back tightly so that her face looked strained and old, and her naturally thin lips appeared even thinner because of her habit of drawing them in and sucking disapprovingly at them. Helen encouraged her husband in his economies and his rigidly organized way of life. It suited both of them. She had not responded enthusiastically to Charles’s suggestion that they should join him and Diana on a holiday quite out of the ordinary, off the beaten track—but for once Alan had been seized by an odd desire to branch out, and somehow they had fallen in with Charles’s plans and the whole thing was arranged . . . and here they were, incredibly, in a lonely inn crouched below the first ridges of the Carpathians.
Charles realized that in his pleasure at offering drinks to his new-found friends he had forgotten to replenish the glasses of his fellow travellers. Quickly he took a stone carafe of wine from the landlord and went towards the fireplace.
“Too extravagant by half,” Helen said as he approached.
But Diana was smiling. Diana’s mouth was generous where Helen’s was pinched; Diana’s eyes were richly appreciative of all that went on, where Helen’s were cool and querulous; Diana’s skin was soft to the touch and her body passionately responsive to his, while Helen . . . well, it was difficult to imagine that sallow, dry girl in his brother’s arms or to imagine either of them yielding to pleasure.
Diana held out her glass frankly, greedily. Charles poured wine into it. Helen shook her head brusquely.
“You’re already buying too much,” she said. “They don’t appreciate it, you know.” Again she shook her head, this time condemning the whole room. “They just think you’re a fool.”
“I do what I do for my satisfaction,” said Charles blandly, “not anyone else’s.” He turned to Alan. “Do you disapprove of my misplaced generosity?”
Alan smiled. “I long ago gave up approving or disapproving of what you do.”
“Foolishness is foolishness,” said Helen.
Diana drank deeply and smiled up at Charles—their own secret, loving smile. She said:
“I think it’s time we all went to bed. We have to be up early in the morning.”
“Oh, that co
ach!” said Helen. She was already starting to get to her feet as though to hurry them all away before they changed their minds. “I certainly need a good night’s rest before setting out in that again.”
They were halfway across the room when the door from the courtyard crashed open and a swirl of cold night air blew smoke about their heads.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in monk’s garb stood in the doorway. He looked round, assessing them swiftly one after another, with a curl of the lip which. indicated contempt rather than priestly charity. Then he slammed the door behind him and strode towards the landlord.
“Mull me a bottle of good red wine. It’s not fit for a beast out there tonight.” He turned towards the fire and his head brushed against something hanging from one of the beams of the ceiling. It was a wreath of garlic. With a wild sweep of his hand he tore it down. “Garlic to keep out the bogey man? There is no bogey man any more. And if there was, this wouldn’t keep him out.” He tossed the garlic on to the fire.
The landlord hastily glanced at one of the older men and hastily looked away again. “Father Shandor—”
“Can’t you get it into your thick skulls,” roared the deep, commanding voice, “that it’s over . . . finished these past ten years?”
The room that had been so noisy with merriment a few minutes ago was now silent. Men lowered their eyes as Father Shandor glared at them.
“Tonight,” he raged, “this very night, I have just managed to save one poor childish corpse from being savagely abused. The stake, the hideous blasphemy of it—and a priest there, prepared to let it happen. Can you never free yourselves from this superstitious fear?”
There was no answer. The monk grunted derisively and drew closer to the fire. He became aware for the first time of the presence of strangers. For a moment he surveyed them arrogantly, then his stern, aquiline features softened and he made Diana a courteous bow. She smiled an acknowledgment. He turned to Helen. She remained stiff and uncertain.
“Ah!” Father Shandor turned to face the room, hoisted his cassock, and wriggled his behind appreciatively. “That’s better. My calling still allows me the luxury of a warm posterior. One of the few pleasures left in life.”
An arrogant man, thought Charles, but a strong one; a man who would stand alone and not be frightened, who would speak his mind because the truth was the truth and must never be shirked. An admirable, powerful man; but an uncomfortable one to have around.
He said: “You take your pleasures seriously, Father?”
“I do, my son. Indeed I do. Pleasure in this life is important. There will be little enough of it in the hereafter.”
Helen gasped a protest. Shandor’s massive head swung slowly in her direction. “What alternatives are there? Hellfire and brimstone or . . .” He raised a dark, bushy eyebrow towards the ceiling. “I’m sure the warming of one’s backside in front of an open fire”—he put out a broad hand as the landlord approached with his wine—“and mulled claret are not part of the Grand Design. No, these are earthly pleasures, to be enjoyed while one has the opportunity. And may I ask what four charming English people are doing in the Carpathians?”
Charles made formal introductions of his wife, his brother and his sister-in-law. The monk nodded politely, swigged his wine, and then said:
“And I am Father Shandor, Abbot of Kleinberg.”
Charles tried to conjure up a picture of the map which they had consulted so intensively before setting out and while on their journey. He could not recollect having seen the name.
“That is close at hand?”
“No. Some considerable distance.” The monk bowed his nose into the faint steam of the mulled wine and breathed deeply. “You are hunting?”
“Some climbing,” said Charles. “And some sight-seeing. Travel broadens the mind—or so we are told.”
“Admirable. But I question your choice of route. You won’t have your mind broadened by these creatures.” Shandor nodded at the occupants of the bar.
“You don’t seem to have too high an opinion of your flock.”
“Not mine,” said Shandor haughtily. “I wouldn’t tolerate them. They are not in my care—more’s the pity for them. No, you will find things very different around Kleinberg. I hope that you will visit us there. You may stay at the monastery. The brothers would make you very welcome.”
Charles was fascinated by the prospect. It would he an interesting experience and he felt that when Shandor started to talk freely, on his home ground, he might well open up a whole new world to them.
He said: “That sounds a most—”
“We won’t be able to,” said Helen curtly. “Our itinerary doesn’t allow for it.”
“We need not be too rigid,” said Charles. “I’m sure a little digression—”
“Tomorrow,” said Helen, “we go to Josefsbad.”
Father Shandor tensed. He said harshly: “I suggest that you do change your itinerary.”
It was so blunt and aggressive that Helen flinched. She might almost have been struck across the face. Alan took a step forward. At such a time he was clearly and decisively on his wife’s side.
“It is kind of you to invite us,” he said, “but we made our plans before we set out and it would be unwise to—”
“It would be unwise to adhere to it,” said Shandor. “I do not wish to force you to visit Kleinberg. That is entirely your concern. But I do say that you should not go to Josefsbad.”
“We have heard it’s very beautiful,” said Diana.
“So is atropa belladonna.”
Helen glanced at her husband. He said: “Deadly nightshade.”
“We’re experienced climbers, Father Shandor,” Charles assured the monk.
“Climbing has nothing to do with it. You may think I’m a somewhat eccentric cleric and not much credit to my cloth. Perhaps so. But I can be serious, and I am serious now. You would do well to stay far away from Josefsbad.”
“Why?”
“If I told you every detail you would not believe me. Or, worse, you would consider it a challenge. Being a superstitious clod has its advantages. These people here would no more visit Josefsbad than they would consider flying to the moon. And those who do venture near it are not well thought of by folk outside. You will not be helped. You will not be welcome. There are more beautiful things to be seen in this country. See them—and enjoy your visit. But I tell you not to go to that one place.”
“As you said,” observed Charles, “it is rather a challenge.”
Shandor growled deep in his throat. He raised the empty carafe as though to hurl it across the room, then bellowed:
“Landlord!”
The landlord scuttled forward and took the vessel from him.
“I left my horse with your ostler,” said Shandor imperiously. “Tell the man to bring him round.” As the landlord hurried away, the monk turned back to the English group. “I am delighted to have met you, and I wish you well. I wish you to heed what I have said. But”—he shrugged with dour resignation—“if you do decide to disregard my advice, at least stay well clear of the castle.”
“Castle?” said Alan. “There is no castle on the map. I would have noticed.”
This was true. Charles knew that Alan had absorbed every detail and retained it neatly classified in his memory.
“Because it is not on the map, that does not mean that it doesn’t exist,” said Shandor. “Stay away from it.” He bowed to the ladies and turned abruptly away. A cluster of men who had been muttering near the door parted quickly to allow him through.
The door was wrenched open and then slammed shut again. Everyone in the room was listening. There came the clatter of a horse’s hoofs, dying away on to softer ground and fading into nothingness.
There was a soft sigh in the room. Voices began to babble again more freely. The landlord fussed about collecting up pots and tankards.
Alan said: “Landlord . . . Father Shandor said something about a castle. Do you know of it?”
/> The landlord gave him a sly, swift, sideways glance. “Castle?”
“Near Josefsbad.”
The man contrived to look frightened and shifty at the same time.
“I know of no castle.”
He was obviously lying. As he edged away, Diana said:
“What’s he scared of?”
“Shandor seems to have that effect on all of them,” said Charles.
Helen said: “If we’re going to make good time to Josefsbad—”
“There’ll be no time to stop on the way and look for nonexistent castles?”
“We worked out our itinerary,” said Helen, “and we will follow it through. That’s all there is to be said.”
“Mm.” Charles glanced thoughtfully at Diana, who was waiting for him to join her and go up the dark, uneven staircase. “But if there were a castle . . . not too far off our route . . . something really worth seeing . . .”
2
The coach rumbled to a halt at the crossroads. It was the fourth time today that it had stopped without apparent reason. On one occasion the reason had soon become all too readily apparent: the coach had slipped a wheel which had resulted in a four-hour delay.
Following a neatly calculated itinerary was not as easy as it had seemed in London. Breakdowns had not been allowed for; the surliness of local people had not been taken into account; there was no margin for mishaps or for a slowing of the pace.
Charles got down impatiently from one door of the coach. Alan, with practised dignity, descended from the other.
The driver said: “I drop you here, yes?”
“No,” said Charles. “You certainly don’t.” He looked around. A small woodcutter’s hut stood back from the crossroads, but otherwise there was no sign of human influence. The dark trees marched off up the hillside, and the darkening sky pressed down on the winding road. “This isn’t Josefsbad, is it?”
