High Upon Faith’s Sunlit Mountains
Béla sees a familiar face at The Golden Krone. How can he believe what this man tells him?
Written for the 30 Days of Fright writing challenge, Day 30
“All good things must come to an end, Vilmos,” said Béla, as he embraced his friend. “Alas that I must leave fair Bukovina, but my home is in Bistritz, and I've been away for far too long.”
“May God grant you a safe return, Béla,” the other man replied.
Béla boarded the coach, and with a smile and a nod at Vilmos, he took his seat. Four others got on with him. Strangers. He looked out the window. Vilmos and his wife Gerda were waving. He waved back. Such a sweet couple. Although he was certain he had outstayed his welcome by at least three days they had been nothing but kind to him, and he had been amazed at how the burgeoning technology of the telegraph had enabled him to carry on his wine merchant's business as easily from Kiev as from Bistritz. Still, he couldn't do everything remotely and was obliged to return. The Russians were buying his wine, and they were happy with it.
He was not looking forward to the journey through the Borgo Pass; that dreadful place where fiends took the shapes of men and beasts to prey on good folk.
He winced at the memory of the English Herr. ‘Such a nice chap,’ as they would no doubt say in London. God only knew where he was now; he had been handed over to the Devil—and was eager to go—dismissing as mere superstition the fears of his fellow passengers. Well, as Vilmos had said, there was nothing he could have done.
Béla dozed as best he could despite the swinging and jolting of the coach on the potholed road. Soon enough—and sooner than he would have liked, the coach arrived at the Borgo Pass. He could see Castle Dracula towering above it, the broken battlements and small, high windows grinning in the incongruous sunshine like a punch-drunk boxer. There was something about the place now that puzzled him; an ineffable lightness, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from it. Birds flitted to and from their nests. He could hear their songs. Squirrels chased each other through the trees. Flowers bloomed in bright colours as if they were glad to be alive. In the far distance he could see the high flat-topped mountain known as God's Seat. He knew where he was, but this was a different place now. What had happened to the way things were?
Further on, the bright silver ribbon of the Bistrița River twinkled playfully far below. As their route drew them downwards, the spent wreckage of a large, square container lay pushed to one side.
A few hours later, when the sun was sliding down the sky, the coach rumbled into Bistritz.
Béla disembarked, received his bags, and lumbered into the Golden Krone. He found inside it a scene of cautious celebration.
Small groups of locals were eyeing a group comprised of an elderly gentleman, three younger men, and a woman, who sat eating and drinking, occasionally clinking their glasses and nodding at each other.
One of the men turned. The English Herr!
Suddenly lightheaded, Béla's knees sagged. Someone helped him to a chair.
One of the English Herr's party rose and came over. He gently placed a hand on Béla's shoulder.
Béla looked up and saw kindness in his eyes.
A moment later, the English Herr was at his side, asking in broken German, “Are you not well?”
“Young Herr,” Béla replied, unable to make sense of his presence, “I rejoice to see you alive and well. I thought you had gone to your doom.”
“I did,” the English Herr told him, with a shrug. He pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “And what a doom it was! I thought the Count was a nobleman. He was, but he was also every bit the devil you said he was. He imprisoned me, and tried to set up home in England to prey on my people. He killed that man's… young lady.” He moved his fingers against his ring finger to mime placing a ring on it. He tried to take my wife for himself. We chased him away, back to his castle. His men killed our friend Quincy.”
The memory of the bucolic scene near the castle floated into Béla's mind. “And the Count?”
“If you truly rejoice to see me again,” said the English Herr, “Come, sit and rejoice with us, for Count Dracula is dead. I cut off his head with this knife.” He lifted a flap of his jacket to reveal it. “Our friend Quincy stabbed him in the heart. We watched his body crumble to dust in the last light of the dying sun yesterday.”
Shock gripped Béla's heart. He could not believe what he had just heard. These foreigners had killed the fiend of the forest? With knives? But the land was full of life when he had travelled through it just a few hours earlier. Such a contrast with the sullen atmosphere when he had traversed the Borgo Pass four months before! Did he dare to believe? But the doomed man, whose demise he had agonised over for months, was sitting here, alive and well, though the bagged eyes and care-lined face declared that his victory, if he had truly won it, had not come easily. He glanced up at the locals, some of whom appeared to have understood the English Herr's words. They were gazing at him with knit brows, whispering dissent.
One woman pointed to her own forehead, then at the woman in the English Herr's party.
The locals nodded. Some of them sought out the Bukovina coach's passengers and spoke to them. One of them boldly approached the woman in the English Herr's party, touched his forehead, then made a snatching motion.
She raised her hat, revealing a clear forehead.
The local woman gasped.
Hope wormed its way past disbelief and warmed Béla's heart. He could feel faith spreading through him. The people had witnessed something extraordinary. Well, the local woman had. He himself could not deny the sense of lightness in the Borgo Pass as he traversed it. He had a choice. To accept the evidence before him or deny it. He took a breath, then stood up. “I will buy a bottle of wine and rejoice with you,” he said. The weight of guilt slid off him like a wet cloak. “But you must tell me everything that happened; how you rid us of the fiend, from the first day to the last.”
This story is a sequel to Denn Die Todten Reiten Schnell.