CHAPTER 1: LUGOS
The runners of the sledge grated over the ice as the two horses in their elaborate harness, nostrils steaming in the bitter air, breasted a rise in the track leading to the village of Lugos, whose jumbled roofs and glittering spires looked as though they had been carelessly thrown down by the hand of God on the frowning heights above them.
To Coleridge, muffled in furs behind the driver, nursing his portable luggage at his numbed feet, the journey appeared endless. It seemed years since he had left the civilised comforts of Pest for this forsaken corner of Hungary, yet in reality it had been only yesterday.
Since then he had rattled endlessly along in fussy local trains, in largely unheated rolling stock, eventually to be decanted at the nearest station, a mere three miles from Lugos, where his driver and his droshkylike vehicle had awaited him.
He wondered, uncomfortably, whether he was expected at all today. Coleridge had missed the train from the capital he had originally intended because he had stayed on for the final sessions of the Congress. He had not realised conditions were so primitive at the other end, or he would have made more careful arrangements.
But as one of the organisers and principal speakers at the Congress, he had felt it politic to stay on, though to tell the truth there had been only some twenty-five or so delegates for the final lectures and discussions. But it had been a success, a great success, and Coleridge had been left with the pleasant afterglow of a task well accomplished as he sat hour after hour in trains which got progressively more uncomfortable as he rattled on his interminable journey.
It had been a disappointment that he had no colleagues to travel with; no less than six, at least, were due at the Castle for a ten-day gathering which was to act as a corollary to the main Congress. But all of them had cried off staying in the city until the Congress sittings had concluded and had departed to catch their trains a day or two before the proceedings terminated.
Now Coleridge ruefully knew the reasons why; his driver, who mercifully understood a good deal of English, had explained that the Tuesday express from the capital had excellent connections, with buffet car facilities on most of them, and that the primitive conditions existed only for the last three hours on the local train, which stopped at every station.
But the ordeal was over now, and the professor was looking forward to the magnificent hospitality at the Castle and the facilities of its superb library, where learned discourse and earnest discussion on their favourite subjects would continue late into the night.
He fell against the freezing handrail at the side of the sledge as it lurched over the ruts, the driver swearing at the two great black horses which pulled the contraption. He pointed with his whip into the far distance, where the jagged turrets glinted in the moonlight on a height which looked impossibly precipi-tous.
‘The Castle, sir. You will be most welcome.’
Coleridge glanced dubiously at the big silver-cased watch he brought from one of the capacious pockets of his fur coat. He did not hold it long, for the metal was already extremely cold. It was late, and it might be expeditious for him to present himself at his host’s door tomorrow morning rather than at this time of night.
‘Is there an inn in the village? I wish to go there first.’
The driver turned his pitted face toward his passenger. With his weathered features and drooping black moustache he looked like one of those old Magyar prints Coleridge was so familiar with.
‘The Golden Crown, sir. You are expected. It is the best. We stop there for drink?’
There was such an enthusiastic gleam in his eye that Coleridge was inwardly amused. And such hospitality as he might extend to his driver was expected, he knew. The Hungarians, with their admixture of Eastern European nationalities, were a hospitable race, and whatever refreshment as he might afford this man would be more acceptable to him; whereas a tip, the normal procedure in a capital like London or in his native America, could well give offence.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Coleridge said laconically, inwardly resolving to have some message sent up to the Castle to see whether he might be received this evening. It was already half-past nine, and he was extremely hungry. Judging by their present progress, the professor realised that at least another half hour would be required to reach Lugos, and the Castle gates and inner doors might well have been locked for the night.
His musings were interrupted by a low mournful howling that rose and fell on the wind that was beginning to blow, stirring the tops of the dark pine trees and whipping small whirls and eddies of snow from the dancing boughs.
‘What is that?’ he said sharply.
The driver gave him an amused glance from beneath his thick fur hat.
‘Why, wolves, sir. What did you think?’
Coleridge looked at him in surprise.
‘I did not know that there were wolves here.’
The driver spat expertly into a frozen snowdrift at the side of the road. He had slowed the horses to a walk now, to spare them on the upward incline. Coleridge could see the faint fret-mark of the road, like a scratch in the gigantic landscape, as it zigzagged down toward the moonlit village before again ascending the cliff that he understood led to the higher town and the Castle itself.
‘There are wolves everywhere in these mountains,’ the driver said. ‘But they have never come so far down toward Lugos for many years.’
He spat again.
‘It will be a hard winter if you are here, sir. By January you will see something.’
Coleridge huddled deeper into his thick clothing.
‘God forbid,’ he said. ‘I could not imagine anything worse than this, and it is only the second week in November. I shall be gone before the month is out.’
The driver shrugged, his expression regretful.
‘That is a pity, sir. We have many sports and diversions in the winter. Some of them at least you would enjoy.’
Coleridge wondered what they might be, but he kept his own counsel.
Now they were descending the steep track, which led to a large timbered bridge over a frozen stream. For some while there had been a brittle clatter in the distance, and Coleridge saw, in the clear sharp light, a group of horsemen who were now crossing the bridge, the breath of men and horses reeking up like steam in the frosty air.
They passed the sledge at a walking pace, the men’s faces red and frozen over the collars of their heavy overcoats, sabres and accoutrements jingling and creaking. Their leader, a slim, dark-moustached officer who rode a white horse, courteously saluted the savant as they passed, the horses walking in single file at the edge of the road.
Coleridge returned the gesture with a low bow, watching over his shoulder until the long procession had begun to fade round the bend in the road.
The driver had noted his interest.
‘The Forty-first Cavalry Regiment,’ he grunted, urging on the horses with the reins. ‘They have their barracks at the edge of the town.’
‘And who was the officer?’
‘Captain Rakosi. He is a well-known character hereabouts. You will no doubt be meeting him up at the Castle.’
They were coming off the end of the bridge, the houses of the village creeping up the skyline, and Coleridge roused himself and looked about with more interest as the buildings began to close about them.
It was obvious that Lugos was larger than he had expected. Many of the houses were seventeenth century and older, solidly built with stone and much timber, now fringed and festooned with fantastic patterns made by the icicles sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. A few primitive oil lamps burned at street corners and on the façades of the more imposing buildings.
The place was really a cross between a village and a town but was possibly rated in smaller terms on population grounds, Coleridge supposed. He looked around eagerly as they traversed a large square, but there were few people about: one or two passersby who hurried quickly into the sheltering warmth of a tavern and, once, a creaking cart containing firewood covered by a tarpaulin and drawn by a team of two patient black oxen.
The sledge skirted the edges of the square, following the icy ruts which were frozen as hard as tramlines, and the professor realised the centre of the square was now impassable, as the heaped snow had solidified into a mountainous mass whose texture and rigidity denoted a surface as hard as steel.
The runners of the sledge made an ugly grating sound which echoed and reechoed back from the façades of the buildings, and they turned up the third avenue where there was a sort of side-street; in fact, the square merely continued for a hundred yards or so into a cul-de-sac where they were evidently bound, the large buildings at the edge of the square composing the two sides. Light showed from a massive timbered structure set at the end of the cul-de-sac and which made up its third face.
The sound of a violin and piano sliced through the keen wind that set the elaborate golden signboard swaying and creaking, and Coleridge thought the mellow glow of lamps that glimmered through the leaded bay windows had never seemed so welcoming.
Even the horses seemed glad to be home because Coleridge knew that they were bound for the shadowy stable yard that loomed beyond a timbered archway to the right.
The driver passed his gloved hand across his frozen lips, his eyes bright with anticipation.
‘As you command me, sir. The Golden Crown.’
CHAPTER 2: THE TRACK OF THE WOLF
Coleridge was overwhelmed with the noise and warmth in the great hall after the frozen silence of the endless wastes he had traversed to get there. He was bewildered by the luxury of The Golden Crown. Instead of the simple inn he had expected, here was a hostelry in the grand style: a parquet floor that was polished to an eye-aching dazzle, skin rugs scattered about, a huge log fire burning in the vast stone fireplace, boars’ heads and other game trophies on the tapestried walls, a great balcony that ran around three sides of the entrance hall and presumably led to the bedrooms above.
The noise was coming from doorways leading off to the right, and when a girl dressed in peasant costume opened one the professor caught sight of a crowded barroom, discordant with the sound of clinking glasses and jumbled conversation. Above, two great crystal chandeliers shone down a mellow light from their electric candles, and through a glass screen up ahead Coleridge could see a restaurant where people dined discreetly among evergreen foliage. That door opened too, and a man in evening dress came out so that the half-frozen visitor could hear the noise of an orchestra playing; his ear caught the sharp, brittle notes of a zither and cimbalon.
His driver was standing near the entrance doors, Coleridge’s luggage piled around his feet, as though too awed to come any farther. He smiled faintly as he caught the professor’s expression.
‘Good, yes?’ he ventured, moving a little closer.
‘More than good,’ said Coleridge drily.
He went over toward the big pine reception counter in the far corner near the restaurant, where a bearlike man with a shock of black hair and a dark beard that made his white teeth look even more brilliant was advancing toward him. Coleridge guessed, correctly, that he was the proprietor. He did not speak any English, unfortunately, but he listened with deep attention as the driver explained Coleridge’s presence and his business.
He waved the professor over to a great carved chair near the fireplace, where he thawed out gratefully. A waiter had appeared from somewhere, bearing a tray on which stood a wine bottle and glasses. The manager had bustled out again now, giving Coleridge a reassuring smile, while the driver came and stood deferentially behind his chair.
‘You are expected, sir,’ he explained. ‘Mr. Eles has a message for you from the Castle. Dinner will be ready for you in a quarter of an hour.’
He came round the other side of the table, warming his hands at the fire also, his eyes looking approvingly as the waiter finished pouring the sparkling wine into the glasses.
Coleridge picked up his goblet and tasted tentatively. He felt the warmth permeating his body.
‘Excellent.’
The driver, at Coleridge’s invitation, raised his own glass.
‘You may well say so, sir. Tokay! The wine of the country.’
He looked at Coleridge reflectively.
‘I will be available to drive you directly to the Castle after supper, sir.’
Coleridge understood that it was not really socially proper for his driver to drink such an excellent wine with him in such an establishment, and he felt a momentary discomfiture. The man could not sit down, so he stood up also to put him at his ease. He was grateful for his help, and his excellent English had certainly smoothed the path this evening. What he had originally taken for taciturnity was obviously the driver’s natural reserve.
‘Please order whatever wine and food pleases you and have the management put it on my bill,’ he told the other, brushing aside his stammering thanks. He glanced up anxiously at the ornamental gilt clock that stood on the mantelpiece. His feet were warming nicely now. The driver had intercepted his glance, stooping to unobtrusively refill his own glass.
‘They keep late hours at the Castle, sir. We have at least until midnight before it would cause embarrassment.’
‘That is good,’ Coleridge told him. ‘Shall we say an hour?’
‘Very well, sir.’
The driver bowed with great dignity, drained his glass regretfully, putting it down on the table, and went out of the hall into the bar where all the noise and conversation was coming from.
Coleridge settled himself gratefully, his feet out to the logs, and refilled his own glass. He was still sitting there contentedly some ten minutes later when Eles, the bearded proprietor, came silently back across the parquet bearing an envelope for him.
Coleridge read the letter for the second time. It was a most warm and cordial welcome from the Count. He had left instructions that all the entertainment and refreshments at The Golden Crown should be at his expense. He felt, as a courtesy to his guest, that it might be more convenient for his honoured visitor that he should pause and refresh himself awhile before the final stage of his journey to the Castle. But the writer assured Coleridge that he and his family would be awaiting his arrival in person, however late the hour.
Coleridge was overwhelmed at the generosity of his hosts, but all his expostulations through the driver had carried no weight with Eles, who had simply smiled, wagged his bearded head, and refused all offers of payment. Instead, Coleridge had made an arrangement with the proprietor that his driver should be rewarded with further refreshment at his fare’s expense, just as soon as he had returned from the Castle. With that the professor had to be content.
Now he had resumed his outdoor clothing and stood at one side of the hall, warm and replete, while the driver finished his conversation with the proprietor. The dinner had been startlingly lavish, and the wines choice and well selected; in fact, Coleridge mused, he could not have dined more rewardingly at any of the great restaurants of London or Paris, which was surprising indeed for such a small place as Lugos.
He guessed, rightly as it happened, that the inn was under the direct patronage of the noble family in the Castle above, who liked to have such facilities available for their guests and who no doubt also patronised the establishment from time to time.
Eles now came forward affably and pumped Coleridge warmly by the hand, conveying through the latter’s guide his wishes for a pleasant and comfortable stay at the Castle. With his smooth manners and assured, self-confident air the savant guessed that he was an educated man who had devoted his life to The Golden Crown and its standards of excellence. There were many such people, he mused as he followed his guide down the steps, who chose such obscure places in which to practise whatever profession they had chosen and who were content with a somewhat narrow world which they had entirely mastered. And who was to say they were not right in eschewing the clamour and rough competition of the wider world?
Certainly in 1895, Coleridge reflected, things were becoming intolerable in the great cities with their obsessive noise and stifling proximity of man to man, which was why his scholar’s soul luxuriated in such an atmosphere as that expressed by Lugos. And his deep studies in the folklore of bygone ages impelled him backward into even more remote periods of time.
Not that he despised the swiftness of travel in the present age or the comforts personified by such establishments as those of Herr Eles. Coleridge supposed that he was an elitist; like so many people he wanted all the advantages of a modern society without being obliged to share them with millions of others.
He smiled faintly before once more returning to the biting cold and icy streets of the village. His driver had already disappeared within the shadows of the yard at the side of the hotel, and a few moments later, as Coleridge loitered on the pavement, conscious of the keen wind and the breath which smoked painfully from his nostrils, he could already hear the impatient hoofbeats of the horses and the grating of the sledge-runners across the frozen ground.
He walked down a way, pausing beneath a lamp, and as soon as the vehicle appeared, wormed his way quickly beneath the thick blankets and heavy fur coverings of the passenger’s portion of the sled. The heavily moustached driver had already stowed his baggage carefully to one side, and now Coleridge checked, making sure everything was there.
He already had his heavy leather briefcase, which he kept with him at all times. It contained the notes of the major lectures he had delivered to the delegates of the Congress and other important material which he hoped to research and discuss with his colleagues at the Castle.
Now, at a nod from his passenger, the driver gently urged the horses on, the heavy sledge-runners making a crisp, brittle noise which seemed an intrusion in the silence of the streets. The moon was obscured by cloud and it was dark, though the brilliance of the snow and the lamplight of the town made it appear a good deal lighter.
They again skirted the square and took a broad side-road which led slightly upward; they crossed another bridge shortly after, this time a rather grandiose stone affair whose buttresses and elaborate balustrades, thickly capped with frozen snow, bespoke some antiquity.
There were few people about in the streets, though lights shone dimly from behind blinds and shutters, and once they passed some sort of tavern where shouting and drunken revelry, interspersed with wild violin music and the noise of breaking glass, made a vivid contrast to the silent, dignified streets through which the horses threaded their unerring way.
Once they were across the bridge, the moon came from behind the clouds and illuminated the wild and rugged landscape beyond. To the left-hand side of the road the terrain dropped swiftly to a savage valley where another frozen stream glittered like a photograph in the pallid light.
Dark pines and firs made a sullen fringe of forest in the glacial whiteness of the snow, and far above rose jagged ice-capped peaks. A chill wind blew here, and Coleridge huddled deeper into his thick clothing, conscious that Lugos represented a thin veneer of civilisation. Once out of the streets or a few yards off a known road, and a man could be lost and die here in a few hours. A man like himself, at any rate, Coleridge mused wryly.
To his right the houses of the village continued, and now the road began to rise and turn, doubling back on itself, to where the frowning towers and spires of the Castle started to reveal themselves on the battlements above.
But before that there had come a curious interruption; Coleridge was aware of a faint, faraway noise above the harsh grating of the sledge-runners and the panting breath of the horses as they thrust themselves into their collars and settled to the work. The driver had caught it before him, and now he reined in the horses, enjoining silence on his passenger with a peremptory motion of his hand.
Coleridge sat stock-still, his breath smoking from his mouth, while his eyes searched the frozen slopes below them. They had halted almost at the edge of the track where it started to ascend in a spiral toward the Castle. Up ahead there were more houses clustered about the foot of the rock on which the Castle was built and another street which formed a sort of suburb of Lugos.
At the point where the sledge had paused was a dog-leg of road, protected from the precipitous drop into the valley below only by a rough wooden fence. The driver’s gaze was fixed on the near distance where the lower slopes debouched from the fringes of thick forest that Coleridge had earlier noted.
Two rifle shots echoed out sharp and clear in the frosty air, slapping echoes from the cliff-face beyond. At almost the same moment the savant noted a small, melancholy procession which was emerging from the tree-line opposite. Now the moonlight was clear upon the slope, and Coleridge could see that it was made up of a long file of men, thickly clad in furs, like black insects against the whiteness of the snow.
In the centre of the file they were clustered about a smaller group which moved slowly and painfully as though they carried a heavy burden. The horses shifted uneasily in the sledge-harness, snorting heavily through their nostrils, and Coleridge cast an interrogatory glance toward the driver, whose immobile back showed no inclination to move.
Something of the man’s rapt attention transferred itself to the passenger, for he again felt his eyes fastened on the group in the valley below, limned in the faint and eerie light given both by the moon and by the reflected radiance of the snow. They were closer now, and he could make out that the men in the centre were carrying a sort of rough wooden stretcher on which reposed a shapeless mass that was covered with furs.
The two men sat in a tense silence as the sombre party seemed to glide almost imperceptibly toward them, making for a small bridge and a path which would eventually bring them out upon the road on which the halted sledge stood.
Coleridge felt a vague, indefinable sense of doom as the ghostly tableau came on, slipping and stumbling occasionally, its progress now audible as the crunch of footsteps in the snow. A chill wind blew, and on it, as though from vast distances, came the low, menacing howl of wolves from the forest beyond.