We are called, as men of this century, to advance in the science of man himself as well as the evolution of reason.
There is an old belief among Gipsies that Vampyres walk among them. Across all former Lands of Saint Stephen’s Crown, Vampyre presences appear as man-eating Pricolitsh wolves, as over-ripened ground fruits made animate during full moons, and as cloven-footed, nocturnal suitors offering no more than ill-repute for any sweetheart accepting their affections.
The mullo dudia appears here as well, as it does in farther-flung Gipsy settlements. These maleficent lights drive men to madness with a vampyrrhic draining of any Godly connections. It is a horrible fate, to be sure, and a story persistent to keep the Gipsies of this land observing specific and prescribed death rituals and propriety, as the mullo dudia haunts violators of these rituals.
In fact, these death rituals figure largely into Gipsy history in Transylvania. Wallachia alone reports stories of the Vampyre as recounted by Sir Jonathan Harker, et al: the blood-draining immortal as found in England and modern Europe. It will be clear later in this report that the survival of these peoples depended on these death rituals in practice, and was instrumental in their connection to the Wallachia Vampyre himself.
Interestingly, gentlemen, as Harker experienced, I firsthand found the superstitions rampant among the Roomanian peasants of the Borgo Pass region. They recount these stories in whispered tones, and over spice their dishes with garlick.
In the villages, Mister Harker, his wife Mina, the physician Seward, the American, and Professor Van Helsing are well-remembered. Notwithstanding Harker’s definitive report on the final death of the Vampyre, I found a surprising number of the villagers remaining unwilling to travel the pass through the Carpathians; instead choosing long, circuitous journeys to traverse the mountains.
All this I was told at Bistrita, by the dowager proprietress of the Frumoasa Han. The inn is most historic and picturesque, and has been owned by the same family since the time of our first Tudor King. The lady proprietor—Zsófia, as she is called—has been most helpful and informative, to prepare for my final leg and encampment. Though my Roomanian and her English are elementary, we quickly established excellent rapport.
The town is picturesque with medieval charm. Narrow alleys open to well-trod squares. The structures are primarily thatch and wood, with touches of remarkable flair: uncanny visages, of excellent masonry, peer at visitors from unexpected perches atop homes and shoppes.
Mistress Zsófia confirmed the location of the castle ruins, described by Sir Harker, and that it is still tended by camps of Gipsies. I gathered the ancestors of this Gipsy tribe were sworn to the former Voivode, Vlad Țepeș Drăculești III, and loyal ever since.
If true, sui generis. This tribe has upheld their duty an unprecedented length of time. With no more restraint than a word given centuries past, these Gipsies have fought their very nature to sustain a blood-oath.
Why not roam, as they are wont to do? It is the way of the Romany. This set me to work with renewed zeal.
In my sparse and comfortable room at the inn, I reviewed the writings of Harker and others. The good woman Zsófia contributed to the framing narrative of Bistrita, which I’ve documented separately in my notebooks. Further study is warranted on the Roomanian village tales of missing girls and domestics, mutilated livestock, and waylaid travelers never heard again. Of the state of the Gipsies, however, Zsófia knows little except to confirm their presence, and cross herself—not from lack of generosity, dear colleagues.
Zsófia herself kindly oversaw the refitting of my carriage, and a supply of goods I had never considered. She insists the sturdier wheels are necessary for the last leg of the climb, and the supplies of garlick, blackthorn, juniper berry, and dried rose petal tea will save my life. Dear lady. She cooked a breakfast the morning of my leave, eggs seasoned to an inch with the customary garlick and pepper, and saw me off, with the requisite gestures against the evil eye and the devil, a waving handkerchief, and crosses to protect me from daemons.
The Borgo Pass road is rugged, uncared for. Though I am a seasoned horseman, as a coachman on this terrain, I am amateur. I therefore kept slow and steady, and—grateful for the new wheels—enjoyed my time and the scenery.
Early on, there are farms and farming families, but the rolling agriculture soon gives way to more foreign views, no less breathtaking. The Carpathians appear of indigo rock, collared with snow and clouds. The foliage is of the deepest green, but in the thickest forest, pines and fir stand shoulder to shoulder and swallow the sun; they are patches of dense black, inky smudge in the far distance.
The air grows thinner, but remains richly perfumed. I am remiss in my botanies, but strains of pink oleander, and some celadon and viridian blossoms I cannot name (samples enclosed) stand up to the cold and flourish.
The excitement and intoxication exhausted me, and I thought it prudent to retire at dusk. I covered myself well in fur blankets, and slept at the helm of my carriage.
Gentlemen, I was under stars clear and close, dozing to a lullaby sung by a waterfall somewhere in the crags. I was only disturbed once, by the howls of distant wolves celebrating a successful hunt.
I started again at dawn, and the day proceeded much as the first. At the top of the afternoon, I reached the pronounced ascent described so feverishly in the diaries of Mister Harker. Gentlemen, his consternation is to be understood. This rise is remarkable. To the eye, it measures the same gentle angle as the road already traveled; but to the stomach, and to the strain suffered by the horses, the climb is abrupt, precipitous, and entirely unexpected. I cannot describe it in sensible terms. It is a terrain that nearly reduces a man to belief in magic, to decipher the experience. All I could do was slow the horses, and stay true.
Up, up, up I inched, until in the afternoon, unsettled, I arrived. It is most jarring. But, as promised, I was at my destination.
I pulled gently into the massive courtyard, enclosed by the ruins of a once-magnificent castle.
Truly, one could imagine the estate at its prime, comparable to the majesty of any in England and Europe. At one time, its stone battlements reached to the sky, with windows taller and wider than the mightiest of men. Now, it is a ravaged skeleton, home to only wind, ravens, and decayed finery. I stood, dwarfed by its size and possibility, only disrupted by ribbons of campfire smoke from the far side of the courtyard. That I missed the vatra of vardos and tents, I can only attribute to the size of the ruins and my relief at flat ground.
I setup my encampment in the center of the yard, close enough to force familiarity, but not so close to frighten. Children, as they most often do, first approached me, with the bravery of the uncorrupt. Soon after came Romany with warmly suspicious welcomes, and then women, with hospitality of fruited tea and a spot of rich stew.
The Gipsies were excellent specimens of their race: strong and stout, but well-proportioned, with heart-shaped visages and skin bronzed by exposure and roughened by industry.
I established quickly that I rokkered Romanes and local argot. There was immediate rejoicing, and soon, I was moved closer to camp, and invited to a feast in my honour.
Dinner was fine meat and winter vegetables, followed by walnut cake drowned in cream worthy of Devon. As the children toddled to bed, there was plum brandy, passed freely. The men drew their fiddles, and toasting and singing and dancing lasted well into the night.
My rapport found its boundary, however, when I set to my task the next day. At breakfast, over leftover cake and the customary tea, I asked directly of the Wallachia Vampyre and their extraordinary oath.
I was politely put off, at first, and given tours and visits and other activities designed to busy me. When I asked again, it was requested I lead prayers, and afterward, met each time with appeals for ceremonial duties, which could not be refused.
When it became apparent to my hosts that I would not tire of my inquest, nor honour their polite rejections, the older men sat me down to recount their f
olklore. It was a queer thing, as we know it is the Gipsy women who trade in the mysteries and magic, and who are the tellers of these tales. But I did not wish to offend, and there is value in collecting provincial versions of familiar tales, and how they would differ told by men. I heard them through: the colorful mischief of pumpkins given life; dog-men hungry for the virtue of vulnerable rakli; and the mullo dudia, who in this region appear not as lights, but as faceless men who walk sideways (I have also documented this in my notes, as well as the protections mentioned: turning garments inside-out, carrying stones with naturally-worn holes through them, sprinkling thresholds with iron filings).
These stories were excellently told, and I offered my admiration and appreciation. When it was apparent they were finished, I asked my questions again, as directly as before: “Good sirs, I thank you for this knowledge, but there is more I wish to know. Please tell me of the immortals tied to this land, the dark gentry, the never-dead. I wish to know the family to which you are sworn, of this castle, the Drăculești, loyally all these many years.”
“Do not ask us this thing, Rye,” the old men said. They did not look angered; simply tired, in a way beyond age, beyond even a hard day’s work.
I did not immediately press further.
If this inquiry were to only satisfy a personal curiosity, or even to simply legitimise Harker, I would not have continued. But I steeled myself with our higher purpose, and pushed my query into each interaction.
I deployed strategies ordinarily successful with Gipsies, offering pay, trade of goods. Each time, the doors to knowledge were firmly shuttered.
I remained a welcomed guest; there were no reprisals for my insistence. But, gentleman, I admit, I began to despair none would ever speak of the Vampyre to me.
I had been with them a fortnight—a failure—when I was approached by a chavvy.
“Why do you want to know of the Devil?” he asked. His eyes were bright, wise, and I briefly wondered him a dwarf, but his smooth, unmarked skin verified he was but a child, if a remarkable one.
“Chavvy,” I said. “For generations, your people have shouldered a terrible burden. I wish to understand its effects fully.”
“Can you help us?” he asked.
How does a just man give a child hope that is not false, but neither defeats their spirit? I answered him with honesty. “I do not know.”
That seemed to satisfy; moreover, I credit the chavvy with deft persuasion, because on the fifteenth evening, I was greeted at my carriage by a doykitso of indeterminate age: over fifty or so. The fire played off the black shine in her plaited hair, the shadows in her cheekbones, and her quick smile full of small, tight teeth. She introduced herself as Mera Szgany, a Hungarian name—I remarked on it, and she answered, “He gave us that name, when we struck the abominable bargain.”
She seemed a woman of fair education, and she explained, in a pure dialect, that she was schooled as a young girl in Roomanian, Saxon German, and a little English, under the tutelage of the Bishop of Satu Mare. This assertion was hard to believe, but proven by her articulacy—equal to or beyond any English commoner.
“What do you know of the Vampyre?” she asked.
“I have read the accounts of Jonathan Harker, his wife, and the doctor and professor that aided them.” I answered.
“Ah,” she said. “Yes. The Inglezítska and the Ivropáno. I remember them.” Mera Szgany studied me with flashing black eyes. “What did they say of us?”
“Little,” I answered. “The same as the villagers: that you serve the Vampyre and his interests. That you served him well.”
“It is klaviya. Slavery.” Mera Szgany spat on the ground. “Do slaves serve? Or are they forced?”
“Slaves are forced,” I agreed.
“And slaves of a Vampyre are chained in thrall.” Mera Szgany pushed her fingertips together. “Though we were desperate, though we were hungry and frightened and dying, we came to him of free will. We struck the bargain that gave us our name and our curse.” She watched me carefully for a reaction. “But those were the last choices we Szgany ever made.”
I kept my face neutral, though my fingers itched to take notes, and questions rose in my throat. My respectful silence pleased her, and she continued. “I will tell you what you want to know of the Vampyre, on one condition.”
Victory, gentlemen! “I will meet this condition.”
“You will hear what I say, you will write it down, you will keep it true.”
“Phenav chachimos,” I agreed. “Only the truth, Mera Szgany.”
Mera Szgany spat again, but this time into her palm. I copied the gesture and we clasped hands.
We had our own unbreakable bargain.
Mera Szgany gestured for me to sit back, and then, sirs, the floodgates opened in earnest.
What follows is transcribed from her tellings.
Night Fifteen-th
“My people were promised many gifts from the prince that ruled this land. He told my people that his palms were open, that the land yielded iron and the water glinted with its gold. We would be welcomed here. So my people crossed the Danube onto this land.
“We were deceived.
“This prince gave not my people gifts, but instead gave my people as gifts, boons for lords and priests from whom he wished favor. My family was presented to monks of Făgăraș.
“We were slaves for the first time. Klave cigani mănăstireşti.
“And so we lived. We were slapped by those open palms. Iron and gold? We worked it and washed it until the metals held the smell of our blood.
“Our equals were dogs; and that is how our monks treated us. They chained us up, bred us, beat us. They sought to train us, like dogs loyal to their master, to obey them, even to love them.
“But we could never be like the dog. We would never submit, not truly. If they looked, they would see we are like the wild horse or the forest stag: fierce, magnificent, unbroken.
“So it went for five lifetimes: we worked, we loved, we suffered, grew old and died, all inside their cages. But we never called them master. And so they despised us.”
The sky lightened to dramatic tones of orange and blue. I had not realised we’d passed the entire night. A lovely chej maiden set me down a breakfast of walnut cake and jam-laced tea. One bite and one sip, gentlemen, and Mera Szgany was gone.
I climbed into my bedroll, exhausted. But sleep was fitful, in stops and starts, punctuated by the sounds of the caravan life. My dreams were strange, febrile, full of things half unseen and remembered.
I was awakened by a different chej, with food, at dusk. My chagrin at missing the day was soothed by a hearty supper of spiced lamb, delectable, along with a side of riced turnips. And in front of my little fire, stoked back to life by my lovely server, sat Mera Szgany.
“Good evening, Rye,” she said. “I can talk whilst you eat.”
I agreed, and Mera Szgany poured me a bit of sweet red brandy to accompany my plate, sat back on her heels, and continued her tale.
Night Sixteen-th
“For five lifetimes, we lived, the best that we could. Klave outside. But inside, free.” She beat her chest, over her heart, in emphasis. “And for five lifetimes, this, we did.
“But then came the Black Sickness. You know of this sickness?” she asked.
I swallowed and nodded. “It affected much of Europe,” I said. “Many, many, many people died.”
Mera Szgany continued. “We had seen other terrible illness. Some of my own vitsi perished from the Great Sweat and of Pox. But the Black Sickness was beyond compare.
“The Sickness came as tumors, big as onions and filled with cream and blood. First, they grew beneath the arms, and then, around the sex. They ruptured, and the sick tanned blue and purple, as if they bruised all at once. It was devil-ugly, and as deadly. It took almost all in the villages. Children, too.
“And it took the entirety of our monks.
“But it spared my people. It little touched any kalve ciga
ni mănăstireşti. Even when we took pity and nursed gadjin, when we cared for the men who treated us like dogs. No day ended without death, but we were healthy.
“Nais tuke, Devlesa! It’s what we thought. Oh, thank you, sweet God. You free us finally, your children. We could afford to be kind. Things would be made right.
“We tended the monks like they were fellow Gipsies. We fed the fires so it was never dark, one of us was always with the monks. We kept watch, vartováni, like they were our own. When they left this world, we closed their eyes with stones. We had no gifts to give them, except handfuls of the land to which they tied us. We ate pomona in their honour. We killed and buried our hate.”
Mera Szgany laughed, an angry, ragged sound. She refilled my cup with the red brandy, and then overfilled her own. It was so full of spirit, gentlemen, that she leaned down to the glass for the first sip to avoid spilling it. Then she emptied the remainder in a haste one hates to see in a woman. She wiped her mouth on the edge of her shawl and continued.
“When the last monk died, we looked over our inheritances. We were free, but needed supplies. Vardos, horses, quilts. We took down the gilt crosses and the silver urns. We poured out the water from the great jewelled bowl, unhooked the tapestries that covered the altar and the walls.
“There was no disrespect. We worshipped Devlesa with no such trappings. He did not require them; we did, to trade for goods.
“The men carried the goods to town. The women and the children, we rested.
“Our men were robbed of our goods, and chased away. The villagers swarmed the monastery grounds with torches and with ropes. They meant to hang us, then burn us, kill the witches. They thought us evil, fraught with magics and spells. They said we cursed them with the Black Sickness.
“They said we were devils, and held our trade as proofs.
“My people argued otherwise: if it were our doing, with witchery, why would we wait for five generations to strike down our captors? Why wait so many years to punish the villages who allowed it?
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