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3 December?
I am unsure of the date; I am losing track of time. We left Hermannstadt
yesterday, and the Szgany brought us towards the mountains until the way
became impassable for the wagon. Since then we have made our way on foot.
Dracula led me through silent pinewoods and stretches of high pasture. It was
growing intensely cold; frost glittered upon the branches and the forest floor
crunched beneath our feet. As we emerged from the trees on to a broad saddle
of grass, a bitter wind cut into us.
I flinched; the Count only looked up at the sky. In the moonlight every grass
blade was crusted and quivering in the wind, a field of fragile pennants.
As Dracula watched the horizon, clouds began to bank along the mountains and
surge towards us. They came so fast, forming out of thin air as they came,
that I knew this was unnatural. It was as if he summoned the clouds himself!
Soon they clotted thick and low in the sky, obscuring the moon. Darkness
folded in, yet I could still see my way, for the clouds and the landscape had
a curious luminosity.
He took my arm. As we went on, light veils of snow began to dance across our
path.
We must have appeared a pair of spectres in the snowy wilderness.
The mountains rose steep and black before us. The sight of them filled me with
dismay, for I was shivering and exhausted. At last I said, 'I need to rest. I
cannot climb the mountains tonight!'
'Then I will find you somewhere to rest, and I will go on alone,' Dracula said
simply.
Strange, how at some moments he can show such effortless courtesy. That both
kindness and cruelty should come so instinctively to him, as to a child!
Presently we came to a sloping spur of grass, with the forest running down
steep on either side. Near the highest point of the spur was a low wooden
building with a steep, overhanging roof. A cart track led us to it, and
through a wattle gate in an arched gateway. It was a church. Not a fortified
Saxon church but one of the picturesque
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Orthodox ones that are less common in this region. The spire rose like an
arrow against the snow-laden sky; around us, gravestones, walnut trees and
waist-high grass were quickly turning white. The reflective paleness of the
snow made it increasingly easy to see, and as we came close to the church I
saw that it had a galleried porch with great carved posts, long low walls of
massive planks which were curved at the apse like the stern of a ship. It made
me think of the ark. A refuge to keep me safe from the storm?
Dracula stopped before he reached the porch but held out a hand, ushering me
towards it. I saw, beneath the tiny windows, memorial crosses nailed, and pale
outlines where
older ones had fallen away. I wondered if he could enter a church, or only a
chapel where his native earth lay?
I hesitated, with the flakes swirling into my face, the wind biting my cheeks.
I did not want him to leave me. He leaned down and kissed me, full on the
mouth; then he said, his
-voice-stem as the snow, 'I know not how long I will be gone; in the
Scholomance I can rest without my native earth, so I need not return to the
Szgany. But I will come back to you as soon as I may - if not with Quincey,
with news of him. By then you must have made your choice.'
With that, he stepped away from me, and almost immediately vanished into the
swaying curtain of snow, which was growing heavier by the minute. Quickly I
entered the church.
Near the altar I found matches and candles, and I lit three - no more,
although it hardly seemed possible that anyone would pass the church and see
the glow. With the benefit of light, I found there was a stove to the left of
the nave, and a good supply of dry wood in a basket beside it. The lighting of
this kept me occupied for some time. At last the fire took and I was able to
warm myself.
I ate some bread, cheese and sausage, rationing myself, though I had a
tremendous hunger from all the walking. Then I settled down in my furs -
resting on the floor by the stove, with my back against a wall - and tried to
forget my bodily discomforts in prayer.
But I could not pray. God has surely abandoned me, and will never take me back
until
I repent - but how can I, when Quincey's life is in the scales?
I must make my choice tonight. Oh, impossible, cruel choice!
Opening my eyes again, I noticed the paintings. Every wall was covered with
frescoes! There were saints and martyrs looking down upon me, Moses with the
stone tablets, Elijah in a chariot drawn by winged horses, Jacob's ladder, a
beast with seven heads and the angel of the apocalypse with a face like the
sun. They were peasant paintings, naive and with crooked perspectives, but
their very awkwardness gave them an eerie power. They had been clouded by
centuries of candlesmoke, and stared at me through the waxy layers as if
through a dim veil of time. Tiers of icons glimmered on the decorated screen
that separated the nave from the sanctuary. The mingling of candleglow with
the snowlight that now filled the windows created the most unearthly effect.
The saints watched me with pitying, terrible eyes. And there, arrayed above
the screen - the iconostasis - was the Last Judgement; the sinners being cast
down into the flames of
Hell!
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