by E. C. Hibbs
First published February 2017
SEPIA AND SILVER copyright © 2017 E. C. Hibbs
Cover copyright © 2017 Elphame Arts
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and locations appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, known now or hereafter invented, without permission in writing from the author.
OTHER BOOKS IN THE TRAGIC SILENCE SERIES
Tragic Silence
The Libelle Papers
OTHER TITLES BY E. C. HIBBS
Blindsighted Wanderer
Night Journeys: Anthology
Blood and Scales: An Anthology
Dare to Shine: Anthology
SEPIA AND SILVER
E. C. Hibbs
For Rhian.
Thank you for all your incredible support,
and for becoming Bianka Farkas.
But first, on earth as Vampire sent,
Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corpse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are wither’d on the stem.
– Lord Byron; ‘The Giaour’
CHAPTER I
The dream always began with the same setting sun. The sky was stained gold and red, highlighting the autumn leaves like a great blazing fire. The final dregs of light beat down on Hattyúpatak, a cold east wind carrying the smell of damp earth.
Inside the house, I sat at my mother’s knee, as she worked away at sewing a new dress. In the background, my cousin Zíta was hunched over the large open fireplace, shovelling the ashes aside to make room for a fat new log. Her younger brother Erik was out with the woodcutters, honing his skills with an axe in the forest behind the village.
“Anya?” I said to my mother, and she turned her warm brown eyes on me. “Can you help me with my dolly later?”
“Why do you need my help, darling?” she asked. “You were managing fine by yourself.”
“Her hair keeps falling out.” I fished under the folds of my skirt until I found the misshapen ragdoll that I carried everywhere. Zíta had made her body, and then left the face for me to decorate as I wanted. A pair of eyes made of wooden buttons sat at odd angles just below a hairline of yellow threads.
Anya chuckled, laying the fabric over her lap so she could take the doll. She ran her dainty fingers across its head.
“Have you thought of a name for her yet?”
“Igen. Yes, I have,” I smiled. “I’m going to call her Mirriam.”
Anya looked at me with a sweet half-smile. “My name? Why?”
“Because I want her to be as pretty as you,” I replied. “I wish I looked like you.”
“You do look like her,” Zíta interjected, dusting her hands on her apron. “You have the same nose.”
I scowled in response, prompting Zíta to gently jostle my arm. Then she brushed my hair back with her fingers and bunched it into a loose ponytail.
“Don’t pull such a face, Éva Kálvin!” she said. “You don’t want to grow up and have it stick that way, do you?”
Anya shot Zíta a wink; then handed the doll to me. I pressed it to my chest and wriggled closer, wrapping one arm around her calf. Zíta let go of me and moved away, so I turned my eyes to the fireplace, watching the flames begin to find purchase on the new fuel she had fed it. Sparks of blue and red burst from the log, and I looked on in wonder.
“They are the sprites that lived inside the tree,” Zíta said. “They don’t like the fire, so they are leaving to find a new home.”
She instantly had my attention. “Why don’t they like it?”
“Because the bark keeps any kind of heat from getting inside the trunk,” replied Zíta, with absolute conviction. “They are not used to it, you see. So when their tree burns, they leave it behind, and go back into the ground to make a new one grow.”
“Honestly, girl!” Anya laughed, but her eyes were shining. “Your superstition is as bad as any I’ve seen. Hush now, you shall give her nightmares!”
“No, she won’t,” I insisted, looking up imploringly. “I’m not scared of anything!”
Zíta laughed, dimples rising on her cheeks. She was fourteen: ten years older than me, with a small, squat physique and rosy face. There was an air of strange wisdom about her, which some were easy to dismiss. The only one who seemed to not chide her for it was her own father: my great-uncle Alexander, the priest of the village. But being the child I was, I hung onto every one of Zíta’s words, never doubting for a moment that her tales were real.
“Do you mean to say you aren’t scared of the dark ones?” Zíta lowered her brows dramatically. “They come in the night, when the sun cannot protect you, to steal you away!”
“No, they wouldn’t!” I cried, sticking my chin out defiantly. “I wouldn’t let them get in here!”
“What would you do?” she said. “What if they came behind you, down the chimney or through a crack in the window? And then they would simply need to look at you, and you’d be unable to move!”
“That’s enough, Zíta,” Anya snapped, a new firmness in her voice. “If you’re going to tell her tall tales then can you please ensure they are pleasant?”
“Sorry, Mirriam,” Zíta relented, and returned to her story about the tree-sprites. I didn’t protest and listened obediently, nodding in all the right places.
For as enchanted as I was, imagining the little beings flying through the forest, I couldn’t help but think back on the dark ones. They were the demonic creatures we all knew, but dared not speak of. Zíta had once mentioned to me, in a whisper, that she and my great-uncle had actually seen one in the flesh.
Time snapped by in a heartbeat, the day fading into darkness. A full moon climbed high in the heavens. My perception blurred; the walls of the house fell away until I was standing outside beneath a huge open sky. The cold night mingled with the warmth of flaming torches above. Figures towered over me on all sides, and I held tight to Anya’s arm with one hand, my doll in the other.
I couldn’t see much, but tension saturated the air, pressing down on me. Everyone was shouting and singing the lyrics of Himnusz: the national anthem of Hungary. Zíta’s voice lifted passionately in front of me, and she elbowed Erik in the arm to encourage him to do the same. I tried to join in as well, but I only knew the first stanza, and soon just fell into humming the tune.
“Elmegy!” a voice was shouting from ahead of us: that of my great-uncle Alexander. I could just catch brief glimpses of him, waving a burning birch branch in one hand, his robes billowing with the wind. And before him was a huge black cloud of writhing bodies, their eyes flaming and long teeth snarling. They slithered over each other like maggots, all fighting against their bonds, desperation gnawing at their features.
The dark ones: flying bringers of nightmares. Now there was no doubt in anyone’s eyes. They were real, after all.
Alexander shuddered for a moment, but forced himself to stand firm, and swept the branch back and forth. Sparks drifted into the air and the demons were pushed further on, growing even more frantic.
“What’s he doing?” I called to Zíta.<
br />
“Forcing them across the border,” she replied, breaking off from her singing. “They are beings of Hungary alone. If he gets them into Romania, then they will disappear forever.”
I listened to the ferocious hisses that split the air like knives. Shockwaves of wind slammed into my face. The power around us was incredible: a huge pressure that nearly pulled me down to the ground. My knees trembled with the effort of staying upright. And all the villagers kept the chant like a battle-cry, filling the night with their passion.
“Bal sors akit régen tép,
Hozz rá víg esztendőt,
Megbűnhődte már e nép
A múltat s jövendőt!”
“Go away!” Alexander bellowed again. “In the name of God, leave us, I command.”
The demon-beings howled in fury; the edges of their misty prison beginning to fade into the dark. I looked on, my mouth agape, as they passed over the creek that marked the boundary between us and the neighbouring country. The cloud grew smaller by the moment; the movements more frenzied as they fought their way forward, desperate for escape.
One managed to reach the front and conjured a strange yellow orb in its hand, like a fishing lure. The light pulsed golden, throwing an eerie glow across the grass.
Anya’s voice suddenly grew fainter. Her hold on me tightened; then became slack. I looked at her questioningly. Her eyes were wide with shock, lips parted a little. Then she let go of me and bolted forwards, screaming. Stunned by her movement, the crowd parted as she sprawled face-first into the dirt.
“Anya!” I cried, running after her. I dropped my doll, but I was too frantic to care. She struggled to her feet and sprinted, blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders. I shoved around Zíta, but my cousin quickly snatched my arm and pinned me to her side.
“Nem, Éva!” she snapped. “Stay here! Stay here with me!”
I tried to wrestle my way free, but Zíta’s iron grip held me fast. Giving up, frightened tears began to spill out of my eyes.
“Anya, please come back!” I wailed, but she didn’t hear me. She was too far away now. She passed Alexander and he made a futile grab for her, shouting at her to stop.
She paid no heed; reached a hand towards the light.
“Anya!” I cried, partially muffled as Zíta spun me away. With my face pressed into her belly, I couldn’t see a thing, but nothing could block the inhuman snarl; the sound of something wet raining down from the sky.
I heard the loud dull beats of wings, and then everybody was running, screaming in panic. Zíta struggled to stay on her feet, seizing Erik with her free hand and bundling us both back towards the house.
The smell of blood wormed up my nose. And I knew, with a biting horror, that it was my mother’s.
The last thing I managed to glimpse was a single demon, escaped from the cloud, bringing its teeth towards Alexander’s throat. Then Zíta slammed the door shut behind us, and I woke with a start.
*
I jolted against the mattress, crying out in fright. My eyes flew open and I sat up, looking around anxiously. The bedroom took shape; one of my blankets kicked onto the floor. Early morning sunlight was peeking around the edge of the raggedy curtain.
I held a hand to my chest as I brought my breathing back under control. Then I heard footsteps outside before my door opened, revealing Zíta’s ruddy face.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just a dream.”
“A nightmare? What happened?”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry. Where is Erik?”
“He left a half hour ago for the forest,” replied Zíta. “Éva, are you sure you are alright?”
“Igen,” I nodded to reassure her. “I’m fine. Come on, we may as well see to the chickens.”
Zíta gave me a small smile; then left me alone so I could change. I threw off my nightgown and changed into the plain smock that I usually wore on working days, tying an apron around my waist. Then I combed my long black hair, weaving it into a braid, and wrenched back the curtain from the window to let in the new day.
I glanced at my reflection in the chipped glass. I was no longer a little girl with a mother to cling to. This would be the fifteenth winter since the demons were exorcised from the land; since I’d lost her. Now, I was fast approaching my twentieth birthday, and I looked into my eyes, hanging in one strange moment between past and present.
CHAPTER II
I joined Zíta in the chicken coop, lifting the roof off the hut to collect the eggs. I was sure to leave one in each nest so the hens would return to lay more; then carefully stowed the others in a basket. I covered them with a cloth and placed them on the doorstep.
When the animals were clean, Zíta pressed a coin into my hand and sent me to the bakery to buy a loaf of bread. Deciding to let the fresh air clear my head, I walked slowly, taking deep breaths through my nose. The village opened up around me; everybody was working to harvest the crops before the frosts could sweep in. Men went by pushing wooden wheelbarrows of turnips while others cut back the weeds.
Hattyúpatak was my whole world. I hadn’t been born here, but the little network of streets within the forest was in my mind as far back as I could remember. Zíta had explained to me that Anya and I had come to live with great-uncle Alexander when I was a babe in arms, after my father had died in the streets of Buda-Pesth far to the west. She was descended from the wealthy Tákacs family, but shortly after the tragedy, they became destitute, leaving her only a small sum of money. She had brought it with her, and gave every penny to Alexander, to help him improve the village for the benefit of everyone. They all loved her for her generosity, and there wasn’t a single person who hadn’t mourned her.
On the way towards the bakery, I passed by the church, its thin spire stretching towards the grey sky. In front of it lay a field of tombstones, some broken and leaning with age. But my eye was drawn to the left, where a family was standing, dressed all in black. The new priest, József, read rites quietly as a coffin was lowered into a fresh grave.
I paused for a moment, feeling my lips press together in a grimace of sadness. The funeral was for one of the farmers’ daughters, just a few years younger than me. She’d been found in the field last week, with her arm ravaged and throat cleanly cut. Since then, everyone had exchanged anxious glances and hushed whispers. I didn’t need to overhear anything to know they were worrying about the rogue demon that escaped Alexander’s banishing.
I looked away from the service to a simple white stone near the church door, marking where he lay. Even from here, I could read the writing chiselled onto it.
ALEXANDER FARKAS
1827 – 1879
He Entered The Dark So That We May Walk In The Light
It was one of the best maintained in the entire cemetery, with fresh flowers always draped around the top. Everybody revered his memory for all he did, ridding us of the dark ones. I knew there were many people outside this place who would scorn the idea of vampires, but nothing of that sort was found in Hattyúpatak anymore, not after that night.
I gave a respectful nod in the direction of the grave, and walked away, wishing my Anya hadn’t been taken back to Buda-Pesth to be interred in the Tákacs vault, amid the largest cemetery in the city. Then I could have her nearby, and gone to her every day with flowers of my own.
*
Returning home, the first thing I noticed when I turned the corner was a fresh cart of neat logs parked outside our house. That instantly told me that Erik was back for lunch. I eased my way around it and headed to the chicken coop, tossing some loose crumbs from the loaf over the fence. The hens clucked excitedly and ran over, jostling each other out of the way. I giggled quietly; then jumped when Erik appeared at my side.
“Jó napot!” he said with a broad smile.
“Good afternoon to you too,” I replied; then motioned at the bucket of whitewash clutched in his hand. “What are you doing?”
&nb
sp; “My raving sister has demanded I splash this all over the door,” Erik replied with a shrug. He raised the brush and tickled me lightly on the nose. “Be a dear and make me some tea, will you?”
Grateful he hadn’t started painting yet, I wiped at my face and slipped inside, putting the loaf down on the table. Zíta was on the other side, her hands white from rolling out pastry for a pie top. She glanced up at me as I pushed the kettle-hook above the fire.
“They’re burying Ilona this morning,” I said, rummaging for some tea leaves in a pot from the cupboard.
“Poor girl. Bless her,” Zíta muttered, drawing a cross over her chest. Then she sprinkled some flour onto her pin and continued working. “Has anyone else painted crucifixes on the doors yet?”
“I saw a couple of them.” I rubbed at my eyes. “Why did you tell them to do that? Do you honestly think the vampire is back?”
“No,” said Zíta. “Well, it’s not the one everyone thinks it is, at any rate. He wouldn’t dare come back here.”
“How do you know?”
“That was a Lidérc. There are none of them left now, not after what my Apa did. And even if there were, it would never crawl within fifty miles of this village. I’m certain this is some other kind of demon.”
“Like what?” I asked. “Do you not know exactly what to do to get rid of it?”
Zíta shook her head. “Not unless I know what type it is. I think it may be an Izcacus, but it is best to not take chances. A crucifix should work in general. I just pray we can find out more about the beast before Ilona has company in that graveyard.”
I cleared my throat, toying with the ends of my hair as I waited for the water to boil. There was no point burning birch branches as a deterrent if the vampire was not a Lidérc. Each creature had its own powers, and we would have to adapt our protection accordingly.
Zíta had wasted no time in explaining to me that every single country in the world would have its own unique types of demons, which could exist nowhere else, but terrorized all who lived within. No human was safe from them, not even in pretences of ignorance. Ilona hadn’t believed in them; she had been too young to remember what happened here on the night of Alexander’s exorcism. It hadn’t stopped this new demon crushing the life from her.
