The Urn Page 6

  I quickly thrust my guns into my pack and shouldered the bag while the creatures heaved at poor Baba until she hung suspended by their claws and gorging lips.

  Biting back my fear and sadness, I swept up the master’s urn and slung its strap across my shoulders. With this burden before me, I held my sword high and hacked at the nearest boughs before charging out of the circle of trees and plunging recklessly into the darkness.

  It left me with a heavy heart to abandon my faithful Baba to such a gruesome fate, but my loyalty to the master was a match to her own.

  11th November. I thank our patron saint that the attack came so near to sunup and that it was a clear morning, for it appeared that on this sixth day of travel that my pursuers were delayed by the light that poured from the red sky behind the distant mountains.

  Or were they simply engorged after their feast of my poor mount? That notion had my blood boiling and I wished that some of my tribe were near, that I might lead a group of Szgany warriors to avenge the cruelty of these unnatural things, for we Gypsies value loyalty as a king does his gold.

  But alone such thoughts were folly, for I had no interest to feel the bloody kisses of those fiends, and by myself, I knew I would not long avoid their embrace.

  So, I continued on afoot, my exhaustion growing with each yard I covered; but there was no chance now for rest or safety, and I wished to make the most of Baba’s sacrifice. If the creatures were delayed by food and sun, then I would be able to get many hours ahead of them.

  The map showed that I was close to my goal, but that the coast was still a long way for a man to walk cross-country with so many burdens. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was not finished with this ordeal, that the creature that had come at me alone had not died from his wound, and that he and his brothers were on a greater mission that could not be turned aside by a mere Gypsy servant or the meal they had made of his loyal mount. They had come for me, but it seemed Baba had been an irresistible feast to a hunger that overwhelmed their darker purpose.

  If they came for me now, I would not survive.

  I had stopped mere minutes after my escape to reload my musket and check my pistol, and an hour after that I paused again for a lonely breakfast of cold sausage and bread. I opened the second bottle of slivovitz to raise a cheer to Baba’s part in the journey and brushed away a tear knowing I could not have made it so far without her.

  I continued on with the master’s urn swinging from my shoulders before me, my sword firmly in hand, in much the same way as I had since first starting upon the path, and I was soon crossing flat meadows and trudging over rolling hills that would lead me to the coast, and to Varna.

  I saw few people, but I had kept my distance from the road where it followed a small river a quarter mile to my right and I answered what hails of friendship came to me with silence. None of them could know my mission or the value of my burden, and those who attempted contact would never know their luck, for I had been commanded by the master to kill anyone who might guess my purpose.

  Near the end of the day, I mounted a rise to rest and eat and when I chanced to look back I was startled to see the movement of the creatures again. They were following me by keeping to the shadows where they could, under the overhang of the riverbank or beneath the shaggy trees that grew beside the river. The creatures moved from shelter to shelter, reluctant to bear the full burden of sun for which they were not made, but unwilling or unable to let me escape.

  It was slow going for them, and they were still far behind, and whether they had feasted or not, the sunlight was exacting a punishing toll, for steam leapt from the skin of any it touched.

  Their game was clear enough to me, however. They’d move through the light of day and press upon my trail to wear me down, so that in darkness they might overtake me. I’d be ripped to ribbons, and my dear master would be lost forever, or worse.

  I hurried on with all possible speed, my limbs aching, my lungs and heart laboring. My clothing was soaked through with sweat, and I had been stifled beneath it in the heat of the sun.

  Continuing at a staggering jog, I nibbled sausage and cheese, but had lost my waterskin in the last attack. My tongue was swelling in my mouth for I had shied away from the narrow river that was so close but acted as a roadway for my enemies.

  I could only eat more after I could slake my thirst, but each time I thought of it I grew depressed. The miles that passed seemed to put me farther from safety, for I’d progressed from the rolling hills to flatlands where a few trees, a road and riverbed offered little defense. I could only lurch forward, chased by the fiends that grew nearer still.

  As the shadows grew longer and the sun slid behind the distant hills, I caught sight of thatched and shingled roofs ahead that marked a village. I had abandoned the master’s secret path when I realized the road was the only way I might find relative safety. While this way to the coast was well-marked on the map, I knew I would not survive another night in the wild.

  But when I struck the road, some strange feeling of urgency thrilled along my nerves and I began to run over the bed of small stones that snaked to the south through the gently sweeping landscape. At times the road drifted near the river on my right where its waters babbled in a cloak of bluish mist.

  Then, I saw that the watercourse turned toward the road ahead of me and went under it where the locals had built a small bridge of arched and solid stone. There the boards upon the bridge sloped gently upward between two walls of rock. I paused before it to curse my luck, and then set a boot upon the nearest plank.

  For if the ghouls had followed the stream then...

  My suspicion was proven before I finished the thought, for over the side of this expanse clambered one of their number.

  I froze when I recognized the very fiend that had attacked me in the forest. His face was a ruin where he glared at me with a single eye.

  He was tall and wrapped in rags that barely covered his body. The pale skin that showed through was gray and raw in places, but somehow blended with the mist that filled the riverbed and crept into the air around the bridge. The creature’s eye shone now, a sickly blue, with glimmering green rings glowing around it in the gloom.

  The eerie fog must have protected him for the last rays of the setting sun no longer caused his flesh to steam. But in the growing dim, his ugly black maw opened and closed grotesquely, flexing outward to show many shiny teeth on the pulsing ring of flesh.

  I pulled my pistol and shot, but the ball went wide, so I drew my sword to make a stand. My heart labored with doubt, for I had not the time or inclination to set my master’s urn aside, and yet strapped over my chest it was clearly in harm’s way.

  For this thing, despite its injuries, seemed to be invigorated by the mist and made well by the approaching night.

  But there was nothing for it. I lunged ahead, slashing at its chest. The blade made a deep cut from its shoulder to belly as it dodged, but the creature felt nothing, and lashed out with its claws to catch my gleaming blade.

  Heaving back, I managed to wrench my weapon free but I stumbled against one of the low stone walls that lined both sides of the bridge. As I struggled to gain my balance, the ghoul’s hideous mouth swept open again, and from the distended orifice came a horrific moan that caused my heart to sink for its call was echoed by similar voices to the north.

  The others were coming fast.

  The one-eyed creature leapt recklessly toward me, pushing my sword aside as it slipped its arms around my master’s urn.

  Its breath stank of corrupted flesh, and the purpled lips were dotted with suppurating pustules where they puckered in the air near my face.

  I slid one arm around the urn for the creature’s grip was strong and it was too close for me to strike with my curved blade. I dropped my pistol and it clattered on the bridge.

  The creature kicked my thigh and heaved on the urn, dragging me away from the wall; the makeshift belt around my shoulders twisted, the leather creaking as my precious b
urden was pulled from my grasp.

  The ghoulish thing snarled at me and blew stinging spittle at my face as it wrenched and tugged at the urn. I struggled to keep my balance and turned my sword enough to slash the creature’s side, but just as it heaved and swung me about, a noise burst from inside the urn.

  “Urrrghzz!” came a sound like a grating growl. Angry and wet it crackled in the air, and the thing attacking me froze.

  The bright eye in the ghoulish face lit up, and something like a lustful smile pulled its fleshy lips away from its sharp teeth. Paused it did to gloat at the defiant noise from within the urn, and in that second I found my footing, and stabbed my sword upwards. The point slid in just between the creature’s lower jaw and its throat and came out through the fiend’s remaining eye.

  The creature screamed and released the urn, pushing most violently against my sword arm, until at last it staggered free of my blade and fell off the span into the mist.

  Barely pausing to snatch up my pistol, I continued over the bridge at a run for I could waste no time with the ghoul’s partners coming fast for me. I hurried toward the orange lights of the village hoping there was help there, or that many lanterns gathered would be enough to repel the creatures that followed me.

  I was surprised when I arrived at the village that there was no sign of any local militia mustering a response to the battle at the bridge, but I realized though the night was still, the sounds from the struggle had not carried over the distance.

  It seemed that the groans issuing from my attacker and his brothers were either meant for my ears alone, or they were a common enough occurrence that the village folk attributed them to some natural force unworthy of investigation. Sadly, I was unlikely to learn more, since the secrecy of my mission would not suffer the acquaintance of any local that I might query.

  My asking questions would only provoke the same from others.

  The Fortress Inn was a low stone building at the village’s edge. It was one story in height, made of heavy blocks and entered through a narrow door comprised of thick oak and iron bracing. The building’s few windows were stoutly shuttered also and once closed would have made a formidable castle of the place. I came in through the front door over which hung a shield-shaped sign marked with the inn’s name.

  There were only three rooms on the large main floor that were offered for rent, and of those two were occupied, and another had been put aside for a merchant who was traveling from the coast, and due to arrive at any moment.

  The innkeeper was a heavyset man with a thick moustache who gave away his Slovak heritage in his accent and bearing; but he was a seemly and courteous fellow, as I have often found them to be in the presence of ready gold.

  He lamented that the only accommodation he could offer me was a mattress in the small attic over the back of the building. It would not be fancy, and might be musty, but I was assured it was a most comfortable place for a weary traveler.

  “For the master is weary, is he not?” he asked, looking me up and down, and I quaked for a moment at mention of “master” but my alarm diminished quickly when I realized he was simply addressing me formally. This I attributed to my opening of a coin purse when I had first entered to inquire about a room, and making sure the lamplight glinted off the gold within his line of sight.

  I accepted the attic room and ordered a dinner of bread, meat pie and cider. While I waited, I kept the urn and my things piled by my knees beneath the table, and when he delivered my drink I queried the proprietor about the means of getting a berth upon a ship.

  “To work?” he asked incredulously. It was clear in his expression that he judged me too old for such employment.

  “No, for travel, only,” I explained. “There is a great distance I need to go.”

  “Well,” he said, with a curious flare of his eyes. “Then you must ask the harbormaster when you reach Varna. He will know which ships are going where and when.”

  I sat bolt upright. “Am I not in Varna?”

  “You are at Aksakovo, a village on the road to the port,” the innkeeper said and laughed. “The Black Sea is six miles south from here.”

  He returned to his business with a smile, crossing the room to an open space behind the bar where an old woman worked over a stove.

  I lifted my drink, but almost dropped it when a clatter arose at the entrance. Fearing the worse, I spun around reaching for my sword; but it was only a man in work clothes standing before the open front door rubbing his large hands together and grinning before he entered and made his way to the bar.

  I turned back to my table breathing a sigh of relief that the newcomer was not one of my creatures. Either they were fearful of so many people, or they were reluctant to attack with their leader injured—if leader he was. Yet, I could not shake the feeling that they would come again. The strange desire I had seen in the creature’s face when he had his arms wrapped around the urn had hinted as much.

  Then I wondered if I hadn’t had some small piece of luck, as I remembered the clear sky. Perhaps it was the full moon that kept the creatures at bay, for I had seen the great disk rising, setting fire to the dark just before I had staggered the last few feet to the inn.

  Thought of them brought me back to the urn and the strange growl that had issued from it during the fight on the bridge. I still had not had time to investigate it for myself, and I gasped, suddenly worried that the noise would come again, and draw the attention of others. I lifted my pack and set it atop the container, knowing the thick cloth would insulate it, should any noise begin.

  After my simple meal, I paid the innkeeper with a gold coin. The big Slovak exposed a crooked row of rotten teeth beneath his moustache that he promptly used to test the metal by giving it a hearty bite.

  The man pocketed the money, smiling distractedly as he showed me along the inn’s single hallway and to the rear wall where a rough wooden ladder led up to the attic.

  “I am sure you will be warm and dry. We keep the flour up there!” he said, with a laugh. “Will you join us by the fire for drinks and stories? Many would be curious to hear your tale.”

  That notion caused me to tug at my beard and pull up my collar to obscure my face a little more. Such a public gathering would not do, so I told him I had come far and was leaving early, though I would appreciate some breakfast if there was any when I arose for the day.

  He assured me that his wife would be cooking sausages before the sunrise, so I thanked him and carried my pack and musket halfway up the ladder where I saw a simple mattress of tick and straw that raised a cloud of dust when I threw my bag on it.

  I started back down, but the innkeeper was too fast and had already hoisted the master’s urn up for me to take.

  “Shoof!” he said, wrinkling his nose, and eyeing the urn suspiciously. He had caught a whiff of its contents, but made no comment as he passed it to me and wiped his hands on his apron.

  I frowned and heaved the urn up into the attic, before accepting the chamber pot and small brass candleholder the man held up to me.

  Nodding my thanks, I climbed into the attic, and carried the master’s urn over to the mattress where I knelt, suddenly overcome with curiosity. I quickly removed the covering blanket, feeling a twinge of fear when I noticed streaks of the ghoul’s black blood upon the cloth as I folded it.

  And then I held the glowing candle up over the vent. The grating had a rusty tinge to it and from it came a dank, coppery smell that I noticed quickly filled the attic space with the scent of decay. A draft played about my whiskers as I nosed the scent and I judged that the urn’s odor would not likely disturb the rest of the inn if I covered it again with the blanket.

  I held the candle gingerly in one hand, angling the brass holder so its light would penetrate the vent after I had shifted the dampers out of the way. Sadly, my curiosity was not well rewarded because I could only make out a peculiar dull, reddish gleam in the dark interior, and perhaps a contour of some shape where the crimson turned from purple to s
hadow like something round and fat was nestled in there.

  I got a sudden sense that there had been some small movement, but then my vision blurred as my weariness took hold, and I rubbed my eyes as I leaned against the urn. How could I trust my senses? And I dared not disturb whatever lay within, so I closed the dampers, set the blanket back atop the vent, and made myself comfortable beside it on the mattress.

  I fell asleep before I took my third deep breath.

  CHAPTER 5

  FROM THE GYPSY HORVAT’S JOURNAL

  12th November, 1893. Bound for Africa

  “For the dead travel fast,” I muttered the old saying to myself with some irony as I trudged onto the crowded wharves at Varna the following morning, my arms trembling and back aching from my burdens and many labors.

  My sleep at the Fortress Inn had been deep, but not restful, seeming to have aggravated my many physical discomforts; and my pains were little helped by the ration of slivovitz that I had sipped along the way.

  The miles had passed slowly after sunrise, marked by a gently rolling landscape home to farmer’s fields, vineyards or orchards where tight stands of apple, plum and cherry trees grew—and in other places wild bush dominated still with beech and fir branches hanging over the road.

  Everywhere the air was growing warmer and moist, but that did little to buoy my spirits.

  The urn had seemed to have increased in weight with every step I took along the master’s knotted paths, and this relatively short journey from Aksakovo to the Black Sea port with the rising sun glowing on my left shoulder had worn away whatever desperate energy remained to me.

  I had slept deeply even though I should have been vigilant. It was only my good luck that the creatures had not attacked the village in the dead of night, nor peered in shuttered window or pounded on door, and the innkeeper had reported nothing untoward occurring.

  As anxious as I was about my impending trip to foreign lands, and as dark as was my sheltered anguish at the thought of leaving my home and people, those ghoulish creatures were one thing I would be pleased to leave far behind.