passed scornfully under the bats where they chittered and formed a ceiling of living fur, stepped timidly where the pivoting floor and wall of the passage had rocked smoothly back into place, and paused to gaze down at the now silent urn. Then … he whined deep in the back of his throat, jumped down into the pit and up onto the runnelled slab above the urn, and crept timidly between the spikes to a clear area at the head of the trench. There he turned about and began to free Dumitru’s drained body from the spikes, lifting the corpse from them bloodied shaft by bloodied shaft.
When this was done he’d jump up out of the pit, which wasn’t deep here, reach down and worry the body out, and drag it to the Place of Many Bones where he could feed at will. It was a routine with which the old wolf was quite familiar. He’d performed this task on several previous occasions.
So had his father before him. And his. And his …
II: Seekers
S AVIRSIN, R OMANIA; EVENING OF THE FIRST F RIDAY IN A UGUST 1983; the Gaststube of an inn perched on the steep mountainside at the eastern extreme of the town, where the road climbs up through many hairpin bends and out of sight into the pines.
Three young Americans, tourists by their looks and rig, sat together at a chipped, ages-blackened, heavily-grained circular wooden table in one corner of the barroom. Their clothes were casual; one of them smoked a cigarette; their drinks were local beers, not especially strong but stinging to the palate and very refreshing.
At the bar itself a pair of gnarled mountain men, hunters complete with rifles so ancient they must surely qualify as antiques, had guffawed and slapped backs and bragged of their prowess—and not only as hunters of beasts—for over an hour before one of them suddenly took on a surprised look, staggered back from the bar, and with a slurred oath aimed himself reeling through the door out into the smoky blue-grey twilight. His rifle lay on the bar where he’d left it; the bartender, not a little gingerly, took it up and put it carefully away out of sight, then continued to wash and dry the day’s used glasses.
The departed hunter’s drinking companion—and partner in crime or whatever—roared with renewed laughter; he slapped the bar explosively, finished off the other’s plum brandy and threw back his own, then looked around for more sport. And of course he spied the Americans where they sat at their ease, making casual conversation. In fact, and until now, their conversation had centred on him, but he didn’t know that.
He ordered another drink—and whatever they were drinking for them at the table; one for the barman, too—and swayed his way over to them. Before filling the order the barman took his rifle, too, and placed it safely with the other.
“Gogosu,” the old hunter growled, thumbing himself in his leather-clad chest. “Emil Gogosu. And you? Touristi, are you?” He spoke Romanian, the dialect of the area, which leaned a little towards Hungarian. All three, they smiled back at him, two of them somewhat warily. But the third translated, and quickly answered: “Tourists, yes. From America, the USA. Sit down, Emil Gogosu, and talk to us.”
Taken by surprise, the hunter said: “Eh? Eh? You have the tongue? You’re a guide for these two, eh? Profitable, is it?”
The younger man laughed. “God, no! I’m with them—I’m one of them—an American!”
“Impossible!” Gogosu declared, taking a seat. “What? Why, J never before heard such a thing! Foreigners speaking the tongue? You’re pulling my leg, right?”
Gogosu was peasant Romanian through and through. He had a brown, weather-beaten face, grey bull-horn moustaches stained yellow in the middle from pipe-smoking, long sideburns curling in towards his upper lip, and penetrating grey eyes under bristling, even greyer brows. He wore a patched leather jacket with a high collar that buttoned up to the neck over a white shirt whose
When this was done he’d jump up out of the pit, which wasn’t deep here, reach down and worry the body out, and drag it to the Place of Many Bones where he could feed at will. It was a routine with which the old wolf was quite familiar. He’d performed this task on several previous occasions.
So had his father before him. And his. And his …
II: Seekers
S AVIRSIN, R OMANIA; EVENING OF THE FIRST F RIDAY IN A UGUST 1983; the Gaststube of an inn perched on the steep mountainside at the eastern extreme of the town, where the road climbs up through many hairpin bends and out of sight into the pines.
Three young Americans, tourists by their looks and rig, sat together at a chipped, ages-blackened, heavily-grained circular wooden table in one corner of the barroom. Their clothes were casual; one of them smoked a cigarette; their drinks were local beers, not especially strong but stinging to the palate and very refreshing.
At the bar itself a pair of gnarled mountain men, hunters complete with rifles so ancient they must surely qualify as antiques, had guffawed and slapped backs and bragged of their prowess—and not only as hunters of beasts—for over an hour before one of them suddenly took on a surprised look, staggered back from the bar, and with a slurred oath aimed himself reeling through the door out into the smoky blue-grey twilight. His rifle lay on the bar where he’d left it; the bartender, not a little gingerly, took it up and put it carefully away out of sight, then continued to wash and dry the day’s used glasses.
The departed hunter’s drinking companion—and partner in crime or whatever—roared with renewed laughter; he slapped the bar explosively, finished off the other’s plum brandy and threw back his own, then looked around for more sport. And of course he spied the Americans where they sat at their ease, making casual conversation. In fact, and until now, their conversation had centred on him, but he didn’t know that.
He ordered another drink—and whatever they were drinking for them at the table; one for the barman, too—and swayed his way over to them. Before filling the order the barman took his rifle, too, and placed it safely with the other.
“Gogosu,” the old hunter growled, thumbing himself in his leather-clad chest. “Emil Gogosu. And you? Touristi, are you?” He spoke Romanian, the dialect of the area, which leaned a little towards Hungarian. All three, they smiled back at him, two of them somewhat warily. But the third translated, and quickly answered: “Tourists, yes. From America, the USA. Sit down, Emil Gogosu, and talk to us.”
Taken by surprise, the hunter said: “Eh? Eh? You have the tongue? You’re a guide for these two, eh? Profitable, is it?”
The younger man laughed. “God, no! I’m with them—I’m one of them—an American!”
“Impossible!” Gogosu declared, taking a seat. “What? Why, J never before heard such a thing! Foreigners speaking the tongue? You’re pulling my leg, right?”
Gogosu was peasant Romanian through and through. He had a brown, weather-beaten face, grey bull-horn moustaches stained yellow in the middle from pipe-smoking, long sideburns curling in towards his upper lip, and penetrating grey eyes under bristling, even greyer brows. He wore a patched leather jacket with a high collar that buttoned up to the neck over a white shirt whose
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