Black Spring

by Alison Croggon

  Aside from my mad landlord, I have few grounds for complaint about my treatment here: I have been most comfortably lodged! I swear that during my convalescence I put on quite two inches about the waist, and Anna was forced to let out the waistband of my breeches. She whiled away the time by telling me the history of Damek, which is indeed a wild and strange tale. I thought at first it might make material for a novel, but on reflection discarded the idea. The story is too rough and grotesque for civilized taste; there is a coarseness about its narrative which would not appeal to the manly literary palate, and a moral taint about these disagreeable characters which might outrage a polite readership. It would at best make a penny romance that could only appeal to maidservants, and I would not sully my reputation with such vulgar stuff.

  But now to yesterday’s events, which I record because it seems that I have unwittingly played a small part in this melodrama. After I recovered from my fevers, I had to suppress – discreetly and politely, as is my wont – the familiarity with the housekeeper my enforced idleness had encouraged, and so I was unaware of the recent developments. It seems that since my unfortunate visit to the manse, my landlord, whose rationality has long been uncertain, has lost the final remnants of his sanity. He spends days on end striding about the countryside like a madman, and often sleeps under the stars. This is no great hardship in the midst of summer, as the nights are balmy and short, but it is certainly conspicuously strange behaviour.

  Naturally I have avoided Damek since the dreadful night I spent in his company. On rare occasions while out walking, I have seen him approaching in the distance, and took good care to alter my direction to escape any awkward encounter. Until yesterday, this strategy seemed to work very well, since he clearly had as little desire for my company as I did for his.

  I was out for my usual constitutional when, on an impulse, I decided to strike out towards the river, an area I had not yet explored. Although the sky was clear it was a hazy day, with the sultriness of an approaching storm, and by the time I reached my destination I was uncomfortably hot. I paused for refreshment in a likely place, and was splashing my face with water when a hand gripped me roughly and pulled me with such violence that I was thrown onto my back.

  The source of this outrage was, of course, Damek. He was standing above me, glaring and breathing heavily, but not saying a word. I scrambled to my feet and asked him the meaning of his behaviour. I confess that I was alarmed, but I felt all the unseemliness of my position.

  His lip curled with contempt. “You!” he said. “I might have known.”

  “You have no right to treat me thus, sir!” I said.

  “And you have no right to be here!”

  “To my knowledge, I have not trespassed,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster. “And I would have you remember that I am paying you a significant rent to partake of these amenities…”

  He gestured impatiently. “This is no amenity,” he said mockingly, imitating my manner of speech. “And it is forbidden to come here. Do you hear?”

  “Forbidden?” I said. “On whose authority, sir? I believe my lease permits me the easeful enjoyment of this estate…”

  “On my authority. Mine. That should be enough for you, as it is for everybody else.”

  I was now as eager to leave as he was to have me gone, and I bent down to gather my pack, proffering an apology for unintentionally offending him, when he grasped my elbow and pulled me up to him, so close that I could feel his breath on my face. His eyes searched mine with an unholy passion, and his grip was so brutal that I afterwards found bruises on my arm.

  “Why did she show herself to you?” he muttered. “It’s driving me mad. What cruelty, that a poor specimen like you should see her, when I have longed for years… Not one sign, not one sighting! And yet you stumble into the house…”

  He took my chin and turned my face, inspecting me closely as I unavailingly attempted to loosen his hold. I felt as helpless as a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. He let me go so suddenly that I stumbled, and we stood facing each other. He was still glaring at me, his face so distorted that he was scarcely recognizable as human. I was too frightened even to move.

  Then it was as if a spell broke, and the moment passed. Damek laughed at me. “Look at you! All but pissing your pants with terror. How she would have despised you. And yet – if you knew how I envy you! I would be you, even if it meant having your sorry, insipid soul, for one glimpse… Just one glimpse… And there you stand, blind to your good fortune. My God, I could kill you for it…”

  By now my only thought was to get away, and I confess I forgot my pride and ran. I am still shaken, a day later. The man is clearly out of his senses, and a danger to everyone about him. I am deeply glad that my removal a fortnight hence makes any further meeting unlikely. I briefly told my adventure to Anna, who said that I had mistakenly stumbled on his meeting place with his lover, and so roused his wrath, and that if I avoided the place I should be safe enough. However, given his manifest jealousy that I seem to have seen this ghost, I feel some trepidation that he might seek me out further.

  I have followed Aron Lamaga’s instructions, and each night drop a little of the green liquid from the glass phial he gave me on my pillow and at my bedroom door. I felt foolish anointing every threshold in the house as if I were an anxious old woman, and so, until last night, my vigilance somewhat slackened on that count; but these measures seem to have protected me from malignant powers, even if they haven’t quite prevented the recurrence of nightmares. My fear now is that this lunatic might assail me here, but Anna shows so little alarm at this prospect that I feel reassured. I suggested we should employ some sturdy fellows to guard the house, but Anna thinks it unnecessary. Surely she would know her own master well enough to judge the risk?

  But now to happier thoughts. Confined indoors, I have spent the chief of my time on my manuscript of poems, which has confronted me with technical challenges enough to while away the hours pleasantly. I believe that at last my native talent, which I have long felt stirring within me, has burst forth in full flower! At times I have almost felt a divine power coursing through me, as if I were the vessel of a god. It is not I who speaks, but the Muse of Poetry, who bends to my ear and whispers a language of such transcendence and power that I am sometimes awed. I am impatient to return to the city and show my achievements to S—; I am certain he will be as taken as I am. It must be enough to establish myself as more than a minor poet in the undistinguished annals of an ignored country. So much for those myopic critics, who took such exception to my original expression and mocked my rhymes: will they dare to sneer at this force of inspiration? I will have to stop myself from shaking the book in their faces. Surely even their benighted sensibilities will be stirred out of their foetid darkness? Surely my genius can no longer be denied?

  Elbasa

  23 May

  My dear Grosz,

  I have now seen my second month in this godforsaken hamlet, and I am as anxious to return home as ever I was to come here. There is, I’ve found, precious little to be gained from an exile from the city, save a keener appreciation of civilized life. Unvarying and limited company, a sullen landscape, and the grim visages of the populace conspire to induce in me the most poignant melancholy. As you know from my previous letters, I have an anecdote or two that will give me some currency in those fashionable watering holes I think of now with the most acute nostalgia, but I have discovered that one can have too much peace. I was never more bored in my life!

  I can see you laugh, given my trepidations in travelling here. My residence has not been all bad, however. The nervous condition which plagued me through winter has vanished entirely; I have never felt better in my life. It is, I fear, the influence of clean country air and healthful walks; I have little else to do except walk and breathe. I have seen more of this countryside than anyone could wish; it is, after its initial romance, bereft of all interest, since all it offers is undistinguished hamlets and dull plains and endle
ss rain. The local wizard, whom I have seen plodding about the fields and streets, is sadly disappointing, and has done nothing more dramatic during my stay than to rebuke a peasant for stealing a goat. Sadly, my infected leg and the bad cold that went with it meant I was never able to make that visit to the Black Mountains, which might have given me at least a little picturesque splendour to justify my visit.

  I have completed my manuscript of poetry, of which I have high hopes. I am excited, Grosz; it is my best work yet, and surely will establish my reputation in the city. Maybe, I dare to think, even further, if only I could find a reputable translator. I have settled on calling it Black Spring, and after much thought have decided to dedicate it to L—; the dedication gives the book a certain romantic mystery, and surely it is ambiguous enough to cause no impertinent comment? Tell me what you think of this.

  I must relate the events of the past week, which have livened the tedium considerably, if not enough to make me sorry to leave, and have kept the peasants in an uproar. They concern my mysterious landlord, Damek, who has finally taken leave of his senses. Amusingly enough, the locals believe he is the Devil himself and cross themselves when they mention his name. I think him to be no more than an unusually unpleasant man – he is, for example, a notorious miser – but his countenance is such, saturnine and brooding withal, that you can see why such superstitions have arisen.

  I’m sure you remember that vision I saw in the bedroom mirror in his house; I am not ashamed to confess even to you, Grosz, that this witch still appears in my nightmares, and no amount of scepticism will induce me to remove the wizard’s ring from my finger! It seems that Damek was convinced (as, too, was my housekeeper) that I saw a vision of an unfortunate woman called Lina, a local witch who was in fact the mother of my landlord’s present wife. I had a most unsettling encounter last week, in which Damek threatened to kill me out of jealousy that I, not he, had sighted this phantom. Have you ever heard anything more curious and primitive in your life?

  My housekeeper saw him shortly after I did, and told me that he was fairly quivering in some strange ecstasy of delight, claiming he had seen Lina for himself, and that he soon would join her beyond death. It seems that he refused all meat and drink, and stayed out in all weathers, scaring half to death any peasant who encountered him. Anna, good soul, was convinced he was possessed, and was full of anxiety for his wife, a poor beaten slattern who had once been in Anna’s care and who, she assured me, was, for all her disagreeable manner, of gentle upbringing.

  Two days ago, Mr Damek locked himself in a bedroom – I assume it was the same bedroom in which I stayed, which my housekeeper tells me must be the room where this witch died – and would not answer any summons. In the depths of the night the household was awoken by a shot, and Mr Damek’s manservant became alarmed and shouldered down the door. He found his master’s form stretched across the floor, lifeless from a bullet to the head. I am sure it is the man’s excited imagination, or perhaps shame at the disgrace of his master’s suicide, but, according to Anna, this manservant claims that he saw the witch standing over the body holding the gun, and that she turned and smiled diabolically before she vanished into thin air, leaving the weapon to clatter to the ground. Moreover, he maintains that the placing of the head wound means it is impossible that the man had shot himself.

  Since he was locked in a room all by himself, this seems a difficult tale to credit; but the simple peasants around here all claim that he was shot by the ghost of his erstwhile lover, in revenge for his cruel treatment of her daughter. Anna takes issue with this verdict, arguing rather that the man has been released from his torment at last, and his curse expiated. Pious woman that she is, she has been praying for the redemption of the two unhappy souls.

  These events have tediously impacted upon my domestic well-being, since Anna has been away at the manse looking after my landlord’s widow, leaving me to the mercies of the undercook. That good woman has kept me from starving, to be sure, but with small delight.

  It is an outlandish tale, no? For all its air of ignorant superstition, it almost makes me think of picking up the idea of the novel again: but even should I evade the perils of entering such a narrative, I fear such stories are going out of fashion. Those Naturalists are now making the pace, and I should be better off writing about accountants or miners or suchlike. I’ll stick with poetry; I might indeed get a creditable poem out of the story’s uncanniness. One never knows.

  In any case, I will see you next week, thoroughly cured of any desire for solitude. How I shall appreciate the luxuries of cultured companionship and post offices and hansom-cabs and electric light! I shall never complain of the tedium of the city again.

  I remain

  Your obedient servant,

  Oskar Hammel, Esq.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alison Croggon is the acclaimed author of the Books of Pellinor and an award-winning poet whose work has been published extensively in anthologies and magazines internationally. She has written widely for theatre, and her plays and opera libretti have been produced all around Australia. Alison is also an editor and critic. She lives in Melbourne with her husband Daniel Keene, the playwright, and their three children.

  First published in 2012

  by Walker Books Australia Pty Ltd

  Locked Bag 22, Newtown

  NSW 2042 Australia

  www.walkerbooks.com.au

  This ebook edition published in 2013

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Text © 2012 Alison Croggon

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Croggon, Alison, 1962– author.

  Black spring / Alison Croggon.

  For young adults.

  A823.3

  ISBN: 978-1-922244-67-3 (ePub)

  ISBN: 978-1-922244-66-6 (e-PDF)

  ISBN: 978-1-922244-68-0 (.PRC)

  Cover image, girls face © Eva Mueller/Getty Images

  Cover image, landscape © prudkov/Shutterstock.com

  To Ismael Kadare