“I did manage to save this,” I said, holding up the Transylvanian glass bottle I’d retrieved from my pocket, feeling glad it had not smashed.
“Thanks, Dolf,” said Henry, “but that manuscript was priceless,” he added through gritted teeth. “Not to mention the information it could have given us about Dracula and the Snagov Beast.”
I wasn’t surprised that Henry was more concerned about losing a few bits of paper than the danger we had encountered. I looked up at the window. There was no further sign of our attackers. “How did you know the window was just above the ground?”
“I didn’t,” said Henry with a shrug. “It was just the only realistic way out.”
Doing my best to ignore the fact we might have fallen to our deaths, I asked the next big question. “What next?”
Henry had turned away and was looking out across the huddle of buildings between the sea and us.
“Now we go to Transylvania!” he said.
THE UNPRONOUNCABLE PLACE
One of the best things about travelling with Henry Hunter is that he has access to the kind of resources that very few people have. After several calls and only a few hours later we took off from a private airfield at Denham in a Learjet registered to Hunter Electronics – heading to ‘the land of vampires’, as Henry kept calling it. Once we were onboard he produced a small mountain of books about vampires which he began to speed-read, while I sank back into the comfortable leather upholstered seats and ordered a milkshake, a large bag of cheese and onion crisps, a cheese and chutney toasty and a party-size bag of white chocolate mice. (Well, travelling with Henry I never knew when our next meal might be, and I have a tendency to get grumpy when I don’t get enough to eat.)
I was rounding up the last few crumbs when Henry shoved a paper under my nose.
“Take a look at this, Dolf.” I realised he’d reached the end of his book mountain and had moved on to an English newspaper. It was folded down to show a single small article.
ACADEMIC IN VAMPIRE ORDEAL
Respected historian Dr Hans Trembling (55), currently residing in Whitby, suffered a terrifying ordeal when he was kidnapped from his home by two men speaking with foreign accents and taken to an unknown destination. There he was questioned at length about the history of Whitby’s famous literary monster, Dracula. Having apparently failed to satisfy his captors, Dr Trembling was placed in a coffin and the lid fastened down. He was only freed after his desperate cries attracted the attention of a local man (name withheld) who released him. Dr Trembling is currently being treated for shock in Whitby General Hospital. The police are treating the incident as foul play and are continuing their investigations.
“So now we know,” said Henry.
“Okay,” I said, scanning the article again in case I’d missed anything “Um… what exactly do we know?”
“We know that there are some shady people looking for the same things we are,” Henry answered. “Probably the same ones we encountered in Whitby. We also know it all has something to do with Dracula.” He beamed at me. “I think we haven’t seen the last of those chaps in black.”
That’s the difference between Henry Hunter and me. He was positively looking forward to re-encountering the ‘shady people’ whereas I would have been happy never to see them again.
It was only minutes later that we landed on a small airstrip at a place called Tigu Mures, which, accordingly to the in-flight information screen, is pretty much bang slap in the middle of Romania.
We emerged from the warm interior of the jet into a blast of cold air and a steady curtain of rain which made a fog of the surrounding countryside. But at least the guide Henry had arranged was waiting for us with a comfortable air-conditioned car.
Mr Radu Antonescu was a tall, dark-eyed man with a red-cheeked face. He had a large moustache that gave him a permanently dismal expression, but he spoke perfect English and seemed to have a good knowledge of the variety of sites to do with Dracula.
“There are many castles associated with the Count,” he said through the driver’s sliding screen as we drove away from the airstrip.
Henry nodded. “I know of half a dozen at least.” He turned to me. “There’s a lot of disagreement among the experts, Dolf. There are many who believe there actually was a Count Dracula, but they all have their own ideas about who he was.”
“May I suggest,” said Mr Antonescu, “that we begin with Castle Bran? There are many strange stories surrounding that castle.”
Henry squinted at Mr Antonescu, as if he was trying to work something out, but then sat back and nodded. “Okay, Castle Bran it is,” he said.
After this brief exchange we all fell silent – the only noise was the rustle of the peanut packet I’d found in the limo’s minibar. As I munched I wondered just who the dark-clad people were who had attacked us in Whitby and stolen Jonathan Harker’s manuscript. Mr Antonescu said nothing more – though once or twice I caught him looking at us strangely in the rear-view mirror. Still, Henry Hunter tends to get that kind of look all the time, so I paid little attention to it.
We drove for a couple of hours, our altitude climbing steadily. Henry appeared to fall asleep, while I looked out of the window at the endless impenetrable forest we were tunnelling through.
The next thing I knew, Henry was shaking me. “Wake up, Dolf, we’re here.”
“Where’s ‘here’?” I asked, trying to get rid of the dull feeling in my head.
Henry replied with something that sounded like Turkey Vest and which I later learned was actually Tirgoviste. I never did learn to pronounce it properly.
Mr Antonescu had booked us a room in a hotel which he said was “very popular with the tourists”. I had to assume that there weren’t many tourists about, because we were the only guests.
I didn’t sleep very well that night. My dreams were full of people with white faces and red eyes who came to stand around my bed, and who looked like they thought I would make a good snack. But after breakfast the next day (a cold porridge-like concoction that has to go down as one of the worst meals I’ve ever tasted – and on our adventures there have been some very strange ones), we headed off along a series of switchback roads, heading north and seemingly always upwards. The rain of the previous day had thinned and a watery sunlight filled the landscape – though it did little to cheer it up. The scenery was certainly spectacular, if a bit grim. Mountains frequently overshadowed the road, rising on both sides into lowering cloud. Thick swatches of trees clustered everywhere, making the place seem even darker.
“Listen to this, Dolf,” Henry said, looking up from the guide book he had ‘borrowed’ from the hotel. “It says here that it was only in the early twentieth century, some time after Bram Stoker’s novel had appeared, that the outside world learned the real identity of Dracula. Until then it had been assumed he was just a story. Then a couple of scholars visited Transylvania, along with the adjacent countries of Moldavia and Walachia, where they discovered that a fifteenth-century warrior called Vlad Tepes – that’s pronounced ‘Tep-esh’, Dolf – had earned the nickname ‘the Impaler’ because of his cheerful habit of impaling prisoners of war on sharp stakes.”
“Nice,” I interjected, thinking that medieval warriors clearly didn’t like to mess around.
“Anyway, that much I already knew,” Henry said. “But it also says here that he was part of a secret organisation called ‘the Order of the Dragon’. That’s probably how he came to be called Dracula, because – did you know this, Dolf? – the word ‘dracul’ can mean either dragon or devil. And adding “a” to the end of a name often means ‘son of’—”
“So the old Count’s name really means ‘son of the dragon’?” I asked, trying to keep up.
“That’s right! And get this, Dolf. When the old boy died, probably around 1 4 76, he was buried in a whacking great big tomb.” He paused and closed the book with a snap. “Guess where, Dolf?
“Somewhere near here?” I guessed.
“Snagov,�
�� said Henry triumphantly.
The light bulb in my head flashed on at last. “The same place as the beast?”
“Yep, that’s right, Dolf. And what’s more, when they opened up the tomb about a hundred years after, it was empty!”
“So does that mean Dracula is the beast?”
“Well, he could be. But if you remember, the note we found suggested they were actually two separate things – that maybe Dracula became a vampire because of the Snagov Beast…”
“So what does that mean..?” I said, leaving the sentence hanging.
“We have to go there, of course!” said Henry. “But as we’re already on our way, let’s see if the castles around here have anything to tell us first.”
As we drove on, I stared out of the window at the wild countryside, easily understanding how any writer would be inspired to set a novel about vampires, werewolves or monsters here. Every few miles we passed the ruins of some old castle or monastery. Mr Antonescu told us the area had been overrun by the Turks a number of times and these ruins were the result. He made it sound as though it had only just happened, but in fact most of it seemed to date back to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries – the same period as Vlad Tepes.
“He is one of our greatest heroes, you know,” volunteered Mr Antonescu. “Despite the terrible things he did, he saved the country from being invaded.”
We stopped for lunch in a small village called Cimpulung. We ate our bowls of meatball soup (infinitely better than the breakfast offering) in a little restaurant room that we had to ourselves at first, before a small, thin fellow with very sharp eyes sat down at the table opposite.
Mr Antonescu put down his spoon and whispered, “If I’m not mistaken, that’s Mathias Corvinus! He’s known in the area for being a venerable expert on all matters to do with the history of Vlad Tepes.”
Henry looked doubtful, but I nudged him regardless. “Should we talk to him? It could be a chance to find out more about what’s going on here.”
“Okay, I suppose there’s no harm in it,” Henry said, scraping the last of his soup. He tapped the skinny man on the shoulder and said something in Rumanian, which I can only guess was Hello.
After a brief exchange, Mathias Corvinus came and joined us at our table, while Mr Antonescu went to fill up the car with petrol.
“You are here,” said the expert on Vlad the Impaler, “in search of the history of our great Count Tepes?”
I nodded, but Mr Corvinus frowned. “You are aware of the foolish stories that are told about him. Most people who come here are looking for wampires.”
I had to force myself to suppress a snort of laughter at his thick accent.
“We know about that,” said Henry, “but we’re really interested in the history of the country.”
This was obviously the right thing to say because Mr Corvinus lost some of his rather frosty demeanour and began to talk about various historical characters with unpronounceable names.
After a bit I stopped listening – until I heard Henry say something about reports of vampire activity. A long silence followed, punctuated by some throat-clearing from Mr Corvinus. Finally he said: “That is nonsense. No such things happen here!” All the frostiness was back, but Henry wasn’t put off.
“I’m not saying there’s any truth in it, but the reports remain…”
“What reports?” demanded Mr Corvinus. “I have heard nothing of any such things.”
I remember thinking that if there were any such reports I hadn’t heard them either. Then Henry caught my eye in a way I knew meant, “Play along with this, Dolf.” He obviously wanted our ‘expert’ to tell him something and this was clearly the quickest way to do it.
I thought on my feet. “Um, yes, um, the reports were pretty definite about signs of vampire activity in this area,” I lied.
At this Mr Corvinus suddenly gave in. All the stiffness went out of him and I suddenly saw that it wasn’t that he was angry – he was frightened.
He stood up suddenly and walked across to the restaurant window. He looked out and then carefully drew the curtains. Then he came and sat down again and looked at Henry and me.
“I do not know how you hear of these things, Mr Hunter, but it is true… there are stories…” He hesitated. “If anyone at my university were to hear me repeating such things, I would be ridiculed.”
“I promise that whatever you say won’t go any further,” said Henry firmly.
“It is the case that there have been as many as six or seven reports of strange, dark things lurking in the hills around the village. Several animals – including a cow – have been found drained of blood. You must understand,” he went on, “it does not take very much to start people talking of wampires, in this of all places.”
Henry was silent for a moment. I wondered if I should change the subject, or think of something intelligent to say. But then HH asked, “Have there been any other visitors around here, anyone out of the ordinary?”
Mr Corvinus bit his lip. “There were some people here, just a few days ago. They were in a big black car and they spoke no Rumanian. When they talked to the people in the village they seemed friendly enough, but I heard afterwards that they threatened some of those who live in more remote areas.”
Henry leaned forward. “Do you happen to know what they were asking about?”
“Yes,” said Mr Corvinus. “The same thing as you. Any unusual things happening. Any strangers in the area. And… if they had seen any… young men… looking for information…”
I gasped at this revelation, but Henry seemed unaffected.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr Corvinus.”
Our guest cleared his throat several times and stood up to go.
At that moment the lights went out. The restaurant room, which was already dim because of the closed curtains, suddenly went very dark. And by that, I mean thick, impenetrable darkness that made me feel as if I had gone blind or as if someone had wrapped a thick scarf around my head. Frozen to the spot, I heard something – it sounded as if someone had tried to move and fallen over a chair or table, while someone else shouted something in Rumanian. But it was another noise that got my intention – a curious scratching, as if something with very long claws was moving about – right there in the room!
Then, and I know this is going to be hard to believe, I was lifted up… Yep, straight off the ground.
It felt as if something – or someone – with cold, hard hands, literally yanked me off my feet, spun me over so that I was lying horizontally, and then suspended me in mid-air.
At the same time, the room became ice cold.
CASTLE DRACULA – MAYBE
When you can’t see, your other senses get really sharp.
I heard a cork being pulled from a bottle. Then the sound of liquid being splashed about. A harsh cry followed and suddenly I was falling.
I hit the ground hard, winded and seeing stars. Then, just as suddenly as they had gone out, the lights came back on.
The scene they revealed was surprisingly less chaotic than I expected. Mr Corvinus was standing in the middle of the room, exactly where he had been when he got up to go. He hadn’t moved. I don’t think he could. His eyes were screwed shut and both his arms were wrapped tightly around his narrow chest.
Henry was standing by the door, as calm as ever. In his hand was a familiar glass bottle.
As I sat up, gasping for air, Henry looked concerned.
“You okay, Dolf?”
I couldn’t get any words out, so I just nodded. Then, as my lungs finally started working properly, I croaked, “What just happened?”
“I’m not sure,” said Henry. “But I think we were visited by a vampire.”
I had feared this, but hadn’t dared think it until now. While I felt at my neck for bites, Henry picked up a stopper from the floor and stuck it back into the small bottle. He saw my enquiring look. “I thought it a good idea to put a little Holy Water in it befo
re we left home. You never know when you might need it when you visit vampire country…”
Henry was interrupted by a crash and we both looked round quickly – Mr Corvinus had fallen over. His eyes were still shut tight and he was as stiff as a corpse. Henry went into action. He grabbed a glass of water from the table and dribbled a bit between the old man’s lips. As it trickled into his mouth and ran down his cheeks he started spluttering and slowly opened one eye.
“It’s okay, Mr Corvinus, its gone – whatever it was.”
Slowly, Mr Corvinus sat up. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. All gone. Nothing to worry about at all.”
Mr Corvinus started shaking. “You should not have come here, Mr Hunter,” he said. “No good can come of it.”
He got up to go and bowed politely to us both.
“I assume that you will be returning home tomorrow?” he said, his voice lilting at the end with what was clearly hope.
“Good grief, no!” said Henry, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. “As soon as Mr Antonescu comes back we’re heading to Castle Bran.”
And so, minutes later, we were driving further into the mountains. The road curved up steadily through fog until it finally emerged into thin sunlight. It was the first time since our arrival in the country that it had stopped raining and I for one was glad of it. The countryside, now I could see it, was impressive – more deep gorges and steep mountains, mostly covered by dark trees.
We arrived at the town of Bran after a couple of hours and drove up a steep incline to the castle. I felt as if we should have been in an old-fashioned coach drawn by black horses with nodding plumes, rather than a modern car – but I have to say my imagination was already a bit overworked by then.
I’m not really into castles or history, but its smooth, white walls and towers topped by crimson roofs made the place stand out among the darker colours of the surrounding country. The gate was wide and had one of those iron portcullis things – as if it was built to keep out everything. Or to keep everything in, for that matter. I thought it looked a bit familiar and couldn’t work out why until I realised it had been used as a location for several old horror movies. Somehow it didn’t look quite the same off-screen.
Henry Hunter and the Beast of Snagov Page 3
