" 'Leave?' I asked.
" 'The doctor who can save Andrew is a monk. He lives in a hermitage in the Carpathian Mountains.'
"I asked why it was necessary we leave that night. Father was away on business. It would be difficult, very difficult, to make the arrangements.
" 'Andrew has no time to spare,' Liszt said in a somber voice. I knew he was right. 'I have already attended to the details,' he continued. 'I will send a carriage in two hours to collect you, your mother, and brother.' "
" 'But Father—'
" 'He will understand your ability to act decisively when he returns to find his son's health restored and his life saved,' the Maestro said. 'Pack enough clothing for a week and bring plenty of books to read. The abbey is in a lonely place, and even with the fastest horses it will take us several days to reach our destination.' "
* * *
38
The Abbey of St. Stephen
"OUR DESTINATION WAS a tenth century monastery perched on the top of a remote mountain in a distant part of the country, a province that had remained depopulated since the time Suleiman the Magnificent put down an uprising by drowning the region in its inhabitants' blood.
"To reach the Abbey of St. Stephen, we traveled through the first night, all the next day, and into the following night. Fortunately, the Maestro knew how to travel in comfort. Our carnage had been built to his specifications, and was large and comfortable. We made good time while the roads were good, pulled behind a team of eight horses. We would stop at taverns and country inns along the way for meals and to stretch our legs. It was never long before we were back on the road again. The Maestro had arranged to have a fresh team of horses awaiting us at each stop. There were two drivers up top, and whichever one wasn't holding the reins would serve as footman and sleep between driving shifts.
"Liszt had been amazingly right about Andrew. His time was running out fast. He was comfortable when we were traveling, the motion of the carriage rocking him to sleep in Mama's arms. Whenever he awoke, the Maestro would begin telling him a Hungarian fairy tale, and before long he would be asleep again. Though he was too young to understand much of what Liszt told him, Andrew seemed mesmerized by anything our benefactor had to say.
"The rest of the time the Maestro either stared out the window, filled with a strange sadness, or read Shakespeare. He has a passion for books and art generally, which he likes to say have the power to refresh the soul. He once told me architecture is music crystallized, and music is the ethereal translation of the grace and symmetry of a beautiful building.
"The second night of our trip, while Mama and Andrew were asleep, Liszt told me about our destination.
" 'The Abbey of St. Stephen is not the sort of place one thinks of in terms of a monastery of quiet monks,' he said. 'The original abbey was built a long time ago, when Christianity came to what was then a pagan land. It was fortified during the wars. After much prayerful consideration, the brothers took the position that God did not want them meekly laying down their lives for Christ when only by fighting could they keep their faith from being extinguished in this part of Europe. They became a brotherhood of warrior monks, blessed by God with unusual powers. They have returned to their quiet lives of devotion, but they remain keepers of secret blessings that came to them during times of utmost desperation.'
"Under most other circumstances, Liszt's talk would have disturbed me, but the only message I heard in what he'd said was that the brothers of St. Stephen would be able to cure Andrew, if only we arrived at the monastery while there was still time.
"The country became increasingly wild, the road narrow and rough. We stopped seeing other travelers along the way. There were no towns and only a few peasant cottages as the team of horses pulled us high into the Carpathian Mountains.
"My first glimpse of the Abbey of St. Stephen was by ragged moonlight as clouds began to blacken the sky. Even with the Byzantine cross atop the highest tower, the abbey was one of the most sinister-looking medieval fortresses I have ever seen. It stood alone atop a rocky peak blasted free of trees, a place so steep and forbidding that even shrubs and moss found it difficult to find purchase for their roots. The ramparts and gables were steep, in the style one sees in that part of Europe, especially in the mountains, where there is a need to resist the weight of heavy winter snows.
"The driver slowed the horses to a creep as we rolled onto a bridge crossing a deeply plunging gorge. In the moonlight, I saw the gears of the mighty engine that was used to raise the bridge, making access to the abbey impossible. We stopped before the gate, which remained closed. The horses pawed their feet and cried out, the way they do when they are anxious or afraid.
"A sudden agitation gripped Liszt. He jumped down from our carriage and strode past the horses. I put my head out the lowered window and saw him standing before the massive gate, staring up at it, the wind blowing his silvery hair and long black cloak about him. He did not call for the gatekeeper or pound his cane against the gate. Instead, he stood looking up at it, as if his impatient countenance could provide all the force needed to open the massive gates and admit us to the Abbey of St. Stephen.
"The sound of clanking chains behind the wall woke Mama, though Andrew continued to sleep. The gate groaned, as if seldom opened, and began to slowly rise. The Maestro got back into the carriage without a word of explanation as the driver snapped the reins and set the horses moving forward. The outer gate was but the first of several. After many more minutes we stopped, the door opened, and one of the drivers folded down the steps so that we might more easily disembark. The courtyard was much larger than I expected, meaning the Abbey of St. Stephen was even more massive than it had looked coming up the mountain. A single monk in a hooded caftan awaited us. Otherwise, the abbey seemed completely deserted. It was nearly midnight. The others were in bed, I thought.
"The monk attending us was of average height. Even beneath his hooded robe, one could see his broad shoulders and barrel chest. He drew back his cowl as he stepped forward to accept the Maestro's hand. He had a high, prominent forehead and eyes set deep beneath a ridged brow. He seemed strangely familiar, although I was sure we had never met. The other surprising thing about his appearance was his hair. Instead of being tonsured, as most brothers are, he had a thick head of long black hair, which he wore brushed straight back. I heard Liszt greet him as Brother Ludwig. It was plain from the look on Brother Ludwig's face that they were old friends.
" 'Welcome to the abbey. Brother Franz," the monk said. Brother Franz, I noted. But then I recalled reading somewhere that the Maestro's late-blossoming faith had led him to take vows as a lay member of the Order of St. Francis. Even that seemed a bit out of kilter when I thought about it. The Franciscans took vows of poverty. The Abbey of St. Stephen appeared too warlike for the Franciscans, and, I thought, looking around me at the profusion of stained glass and elaborately carved stone ornamentation, entirely too rich for Franciscan blood. The citadel walls dated from the tenth century, the Maestro had said as our coach came up the mountain, which was two hundred years before St. Francis of Assisi's time, if I remembered my history correctly.
"The Maestro introduced Mama and me to Brother Ludwig. Though he was happy to see 'Brother Franz,' I was not so sure he felt the same about the rest of us.
" 'The sleeping child Lady Moore is holding in her arms is named Andrew. He is ill. Gravely ill,' Liszt added.
" 'I can see that,' Brother Ludwig said in German-accented English.
" 'We must help him,' Liszt said, giving the friar a look fraught with more meaning than was contained in his words.
" 'We will have to speak with the Abbot first.'
" 'Please, sir,' Mama said, sensing a certain reluctance in Brother Ludwig. 'I beg of you, help my child.'
" 'The Abbot is a compassionate man,' Brother Ludwig said. 'He will do what is best.'
"Liszt and Brother Ludwig stared at one another for a long moment. It was almost as if a communication without words
was taking place, although that was, of course, impossible.
"The chapel bell began to toll midnight. The sound of singing, beautiful singing, began somewhere within the abbey walls. The Gregorian chant echoed against the courtyard walls, swelling louder and louder and louder. The monks emerged from a doorway overlooked by two menacing gargoyles. They walked two abreast, intoning a Latin chant that had probably been heard within those walls for more than eight hundred years, maybe longer. They moved in their double file toward the chapel for Mass. The higher voices of boys joined in. At least that is what I thought at first, but then I realized I was hearing women's voices. This was a very strange monastery indeed, I thought, with monks and nuns living alongside one another.
"One of the two brothers leading the procession broke away and came across the courtyard toward us. Liszt took a few steps forward to meet him. I could not hear the brief conversation, but the sharpness of the words—spoken in Latin, it sounded like—made it plain that there was disagreement. I guessed it was the Abbot the Maestro was speaking with. Surely he wouldn't refuse to allow the great physician who lived at the Abbey of St. Stephen to try to save little Andrew's life, I thought.
"Liszt turned and rejoined us, the Abbot coming with him. The monk drew back his cowl, the better to peer at us. He had a shaved head and a narrow, ascetic face. Though it was evident that our presence was not entirely welcome, he managed a small smile, which put us instantly at ease.
" 'I am Brother Michael, the Abbot here.'
"The Maestro introduced us. Brother Michael laid his hand on Andrew's head, nodding as if he understood everything perfectly. Andrew stirred a little in his sleep but did not open his eyes. It was beginning to rain.
" 'Bless this child, Lord, and watch over him so that he might walk in thy ways,' Brother Michael said, a benediction.
" 'Lady Moore, you must be very tired after your long journey,' he said to Mama. 'Brother Joseph will show you to your rooms. Your luggage will be brought up to you, along with hot water for washing and some hot soup, tea, and bread, if you wish it.'
"Brother Joseph seemingly materialized behind us when the Abbot said his name.
" 'You are very kind,' Mama said.
" 'We will talk in the morning,' the Abbot said. 'Now, you need to rest. God bless you.'
" 'And God bless you, Brother Michael,' Mama said, turning to follow Brother Joseph.
" 'A moment, if you please, Miss Moore.'
"I stopped almost before I could begin to follow Mama, Andrew, and Brother Joseph. They continued across the courtyard without looking back at me.
" 'I invite you to join us at chapel, if you are not too tired after your journey, Miss Moore.'
" 'I think I would like that very much,' I said. I wanted to thank God for bringing us as far as He had, and to ask Him to help Andrew get well.
"The Abbot regarded me closely for long enough that I began to feel uncomfortable.
" 'The three of us must have a long talk,' Brother Michael said, 'you, Brother Franz, and I.'
"I looked to the Maestro, expecting reassurance, but the expression of concern on his face did nothing to put me at ease. The rain had started to fall in earnest by then, cold against our faces and bare heads. In the torchlight, I saw that Liszt's white hair was now streaked with black. The dye he had used to color his hair gray was being rinsed out by the rain, running down the shoulders of his cape, staining it. The Maestro gave me a curious look, then understood what was happening. He touched his fingers to his hair and glanced at them with distaste.
" 'I should have used something more permanent,' he said.
"I hardly heard his words. I was too transfixed with what was happening to his face. His entire head seemed to blur as some strange metamorphosis occurred. I felt myself become faint. I was hallucinating. It was the result of exhaustion and worry, I thought. Or perhaps I was sick myself, standing there in the freezing rain.
"Brother Ludwig's strong hand took me by the arm, steadying me. I blinked to clear my eyes, but the illusion would not go away. I was looking at Liszt and not seeing the old man he was but rather the man he must have been thirty or even forty years earlier.
" 'You have no idea how difficult it has been to maintain this charade,' Liszt said with a sigh.
"I was grateful to feel Brother Ludwig's hand clamped onto my arm. At that moment, his grip seemed to be my only connection with the real world.
" 'You are not losing your mind, Olivia, although I certainly understand why you would think you are,' Liszt said.
" 'Perhaps we should forego the chapel and have our talk now,' Brother Michael interrupted. 'The Lord will understand if we miss Mass. Come. We must get the young lady out of this cold rain before she goes into shock.' "
* * *
39
The Abbot's Laboratory
OLIVIA AND LUCIAN had gotten up from the pavilion and walked around the frozen lake, turning back toward the house. The majestic Palladian facade of Collingsworth was in front of them in the distance. Olivia thought it good that Lucian have something solid to fix his eyes upon as her story became increasingly unreal.
"We have become so civilized that it is difficult for us to accept that something beyond the commonplace is possible," she said. "Yet my brother's illness had pushed me to a place where the impossible was what I prayed for. The world is a much larger place than we think. Strange things happen in distant lands. When we hear of them, we think they are fairy tales, because we have become incapable of folding our minds around the fantastic and magical. Think of what I am about to tell you as if it were a fairy tale, Lucian. If you love me even a little, do not be too quick to think I have lost my mind."
Olivia glanced up at the man who had only a short time ago asked her to marry him. He was looking down at her with an expression of tender concern. She hoped he would understand. She had no choice but to continue. She had told him too much to stop now.
"We reached the Abbot's office and I realized Brother Michael and I were alone. The others had turned off somewhere in the monastery's winding corridors, leaving us to have our talk in privacy. We were in one of the abbey's more ancient wings, and yet Brother Michael's office was anything but inhospitable. The central chamber sat in the midst of six vaulted alcoves, most of them apparently filled with books and obscure scientific apparatus. A rich Persian carpet covered the stone floor, and a fire burned in the fireplace, which was large enough to walk into, making the Abbot's lair somewhat more comfortable than it otherwise would have been. The main part of the room, centered around a massive table covered with books and manuscripts, was bright from the light of what seemed like a hundred candles. I noticed Brother Michael's medical gear in one alcove—an examining table, a fearsome array of surgical tools in a glass cabinet on the wall, and, fading into the distance, shelves containing medicines, herbs, and drugs. For some reason, perhaps the Gothic setting, it put me in mind of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, but I pushed such thoughts out of my head.
"He took my cloak and put a shawl around my shoulders to keep me from catching a chill.
" 'I am sure you are unaccustomed to spirits,' he said, handing me a glass of brandy, 'but as a physician I urge you to drink this.'
"I took a sip. The liquor burned my throat, but had its desired effect.
"Brother Michael said he could tell that I was curious about Brother Franz, as they called Liszt, but that I should leave those questions for another time. Of greater importance to them all was Andrew's well-being. 'He is gravely, gravely ill,' the Abbot said in a sepulchral tone. I nodded.
" 'Can you help my brother?' I asked in a beseeching voice. 'Are you the great healer the Maestro has told me about? Please tell me you will use your skills to save little Andrew's life.'
"Brother Michael's lips made a tight, straight line as he looked at me in an almost fierce way. I was certain he was going to refuse my request. We were seated next to one another on a pair of heavily carved, high-back wooden chairs. Looking at him, the co
ld authority in his face, made me feel as if I were facing a judge about to condemn me to the gallows.
" 'I will oversee the boy's treatment…'
" 'Oh, thank you, Brother,' I interrupted. He held up his hand, cutting off my gratitude midstream.
" '… but only if you decide you wish to pursue the treatment, once you understand the ramifications. The child has leukemia. I wish that I knew a cure for such a disease. I don't. One doesn't exist.'
" 'Then there's nothing you can do to help?' I said, so weighed down with disappointment that I could hardly speak.
" 'I did not say that,' Brother Michael replied. 'This abbey has been here for many centuries. Through the grace of God we have managed, in all modesty, to collect most of what little wisdom there is to be had in this world. We are a brotherhood of mendicants and scholars. And yes,' he added, 'the other thing you have heard about us is also true. We have been warriors, when forced to defend the faith, but it has been a long time since we have had to take up our swords in defense of the Lamb. In recent years we have been left at peace to devote ourselves to the various arts, some practical, some better suited to celebrating the beauty of God through music and art. My own pursuits have been, as you can see, of a scientific nature.'
"He indicated the laboratory he maintained in his office. I expressed my interest, thinking perhaps Brother Michael had made some medical discovery that would help Andrew, even if it wouldn't cure him. The Abbot smiled at me for the first time. He was proud of his achievements and keen to share them. I followed him into a darkened alcove where there was a worktable beneath the low-vaulted ceiling cluttered with tools, boxes, and scores of tiny gears. He turned on a lamp, illuminating the scene, but it was a lamp unlike any I had ever seen.
" 'This is called an incandescent light,' Brother Michael explained. 'Do you know much about electricity? Electricity is the energy you see expressed in lightning during a thunderstorm. It is possible to make electricity by various means, mechanical and chemical. By combining the proper chemistry in a barrel I keep on the roof, I maintain an electrical charge to power this lamp. The light is created when an electric current passes through the carbon-filament fiber within this curiously shaped little bell jar made of thin glass. The interior of the bell jar is an airless vacuum. I perfected the technology a few years ago, but continue to tinker with the design. I am working on another design where light results when the electricity passes through a gas medium instead of a carbon filament. Such a lamp might have a longer life.'
The London Vampire Panic Page 22
