The First Vampire

By John Davies

"...incredibly well-researched historical fiction."
"...high brow horror for intellectuals that intertwines the delicate art of voice with historical events and the supernatural."
-THE PORTSMOUTH REVIEW. 4.5 / 5.

The First Vampire provides an alarmingly plausible explanation of why and how the first human was transformed into a vampire, against a backdrop of factual Eastern European history. The historical insights clear up many of the myths and misconceptions of the Dracula legend.

In 1414, a priest and gifted singer from the Curtea de Arges region of Wallachia unknowingly set a chain of events in motion which had the potential to cause catastrophic ramifications for centuries after.

Forty-eight years later, Vlad Dracula returned home to Curtea de Arges after a great battle in which he slaughtered fifteen thousand Muslims. Triumph turned to tragedy when he learned that his turncoat brother, Radu, was lurking in the region. Dracula was about to face his greatest nemesis ever.

Twenty-first century, reluctant college sophomore, Kristi Johnson, is in a desperate race against time to save her family from complete disintegration. Her father commits the ultimate unspeakable act, and Kristi is forced to find answers immediately. Out of nowhere comes an unexpected possible solution—in the form of her unusual classmate, Alex.

The paths of the priest, the warlord and the college kid are set on the collision course from hell in this fascinating blend of history, myth and undying love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Davies
• Release date: Sep 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311532138

John Davies

John Davies is an electronics engineer specialising in telecommunication. He is the CEO and owner and now Chairman of Global Telecom (Pty) Ltd, South Africa. His first book was published in 1995 by Robert Hale and sold over 3,000 copies.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Some of the Latin phrases of this book were sourced from Christopher Marlowe's seminal theater piece The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus, which although not published until 1604 seems to have been performed as early as 1592. It is the story of a man who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for power and knowledge.

Thanks to Gerry Alcocer of Sunset Blvd. Mailboxes for his help in piecing together a small but very important part of Dracula's uniform as seen on the front cover. Also to David Trigg, formerly of University of St. Andrews and a Latin scholar who couldn't stop laughing at my Latin. Whether it was the content or the grammar that caused his mirth will probably never be known.

And many thanks to (real-life) friends Maritza Berta and Dave Del Prete of The Lot Studios in Hollywood for their constant interest in and support for this project.

Pronunciation

This book contains words, phrases, and names of people and places in Romanian, Hungarian, German, and Latin. You're not reading this book to get an education in classical and modern languages, so pronounce the foreign words however you like—don't get stuck on them. Fluent reading is more important than your mastering of the pronunciation of the Wallachian subdialect of the fifteenth century.

Maps and Photos

Readers may wish to use the free resources now available online to take a look at some of the places and structures mentioned in this book to get a clear idea of the settings of the action. Satellite views of locations may be of particular interest to some readers.

Views and images of locations will not appear at www.thefirstvampire.com, as they would be spoilers.

Social Media

Get involved with The First Vampire on social media.

Get started at www.thefirstvampire.com.

Facts

During his lifetime Vlad Dracula was never known as Vlad Tepes. Tepes, which means the Impaler, was added to Vlad's name several generations after his death in deference to his use of impalement as a punishment. Dracula impaled tens of thousands of his victims—some estimates are as high as one hundred thousand. His skill was legendary. It was said that he could insert a less sharpened stake into a victim's anus and manipulate it swiftly, but very carefully, so that it would emerge from the victim's mouth before he died. Certainly the victim would die, but not before seeing what had been done to him or her.

Dracula's only association with Transylvania is that he was born there. From the age of five, his life was spent, for the most part, in Wallachia and other parts of Europe, where he was engaged in military and political activities.

In the time of the House of Draculesti (the collective dynastic name of the Dracul family), the noun drac (plurals: draci and dracii) and its other forms—Dracul, Dragkwlya, and so on—meant dragon. Its meaning changed inexplicably, and in modern Romanian, it means devil.

When Vlad II of Wallachia was inducted into the Order of the Dragon (Latin: Societas Draconistrarum) in 1431, he adopted the surname Dracul (the Dragon). When his son, Vlad III, was five years old, he too was inducted into the order. He was given the surname Dracula, the only meaningful translation of which is Son of the Dragon. During his life, Vlad Dracula wrote and signed his name in Latin documents as Wladislaus Dragwlya, vaivoda partium Transalpinarum—Vlad Dracula, Warlord (Prince) of Wallachia. The title that was bestowed upon members of the order was baron. From age five until his death, Vlad's correct title with respect to his position in the order was Baron Dracula, not Count Dracula.

On May 26, 1897, author Bram Stoker published what would become one of the most well-known and greatest works of fiction in history. Entitled Dracula, it gave rise to the vampire legend in the modern era. Stoker's intention wasn't to write a factual book—he wanted to write something very entertaining, and this he achieved magnificently. One of the deviations from the facts that Stoker indulged in sees Dracula based at Castle Bran, Transylvania, twenty miles or so southwest of Brasov.

The location of the real Dracula's Castle is some sixty or so miles southwest of Castle Bran, just north of Curtea de Arges, former capital of Wallachia. Dracula refurbished Poenari Castle (or Citadel) as a stronghold and residence, largely due to its unassailable geographical location. When he wasn't at Poenari, he was at his other headquarters, Curtea Domneasca (the Royal Court) at Targoviste. He certainly knew Castle Bran, since he passed by it at least once on his way to Brasov, where he murdered hundreds of Transylvanian Saxons.

The sources of Stoker's information have only ever been speculated upon, but this is irrelevant as he only intended to write fiction, and as a fiction writer and inspiration to future writers, he was one of the greatest masters of all time.

Dracula's wife committed suicide, in 1462, probably sometime in June, by throwing herself from the tower of Poenari Castle.

Historical records often disagree about the facts, depending on who wrote the records, and when and where they were written. This is the case regarding the Catholic church and monastery built in Curtea de Arges in 1381; its location cannot be established with any certainty. The single demonstrable fact, other than that of the date of its inception, is that it was burned to the ground in 1603. As to its name, nothing is known.

The very popular opera Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute), composed by Mozart to a libretto by Shikaneder, premiered in 1791 in Vienna. One of the principal characters is Die Königin der Nacht—the Queen of the Night—and the role of the queen is one of the best known in all opera. Both Mozart and Shikaneder were Freemasons from the same lodge, and the opera is steeped in Masonic allegory. That the queen represented the Catholic, and harshly anti-Masonic, Empress Maria Theresa is unsubstantiated and speculative. As lodge brothers, Mozart and Shikaneder shared many secrets; who, or what, inspired the role of the queen will never be known.

The oil portrait of Dracula which is featured alongside the photographic portrait on the cover of the ebook and on the back cover of the print edition, was not painted during Dracula's lifetime. It was copied from the original sometime around 1560. The original has been lost or destroyed. The anonymous artist who painted this copy has given Dracula a Habsburg Lip. That is, a large, protruding bottom lip due to a condition known as mandibular prognathism. It was a family trait of the Habsburg dynasty, hence its name. There is no evidence that Dracula had a Habsburg Lip and he was not a predecessor of the Habsburgs. The artist may have included the feature with the intention of lending some greater nobility to Dracula.

Miracles that cannot be explained by scientific or medical investigation are part of what must be inspired by the remains of persons who are considered for beatification and canonization. Praying over the bones or grave of a potential saint must produce results that baffle science. For example, a terminally ill cancer patient whose body is riddled with tumors might suddenly present to the hospital with no sign at all of ever having had cancer as a result of his or her family praying over the remains of a nominated person. If enough of these miracles occur and are perfectly documented in the scientific sense, then the person may be considered for beatification or canonization.

The crux of the matter is that praying over the remains causes the potential saint to make intercession to God on behalf of the ill person, and the result of that intercession is that the person is cured. The miracle happens, and there is no way that science or medicine can explain it.

A 2007 Baylor religion survey found that 54 percent of Americans absolutely believe in Satan. That's not so strange considering that the ultimate expression of good, in juxtaposition with that of evil, makes up the backbone of many of the world's religions.

In modern parlance, the miracles referred to here may realistically be described as inexplicable things that happened because somebody made a deal with God, and the medium by which the deal was entered into was, at least on the face of it, prayer. If it wasn't prayer, then whatever it was is still beyond our current imagination and knowledge—and that makes it even scarier. The taking of the sacrament, where bread and wine mysteriously and symbolically become the body and blood of Christ, might also be thrown into the mix.

So, if we can make a deal with God, can we also make a deal with the devil? It looks like 54 percent of Americans might have to believe that it is possible. Would the means be the same—prayer and perhaps communion? Possibly.

To the Catholic way of thinking, making a deal with the devil is a reality. In the Rituale Romanum (The Roman Ritual), one of the standard reference books of the religion, there appears an eighty-four-page section entitled De Exorcismus et Supplicantionibus Quibusdam (Of Exorcisms and Certain Supplications). The section deals with, among other things, the correct procedure whereby Satan and his fallen angels (or demons) can be commanded to depart from the bodies, minds, and souls of humans whom they've taken control of.

The Roman Ritual advises that individuals suspected of being possessed must undergo an exhaustive medical and psychological investigation, to the end that if they have an identifiable (or, if not identifiable, suspected) psychiatric or medical condition, they can be helped by the appropriate professionals in our community—the medical professionals. However, if after all medical and scientific avenues have been exhausted there appears to be no rational explanation for what seems to manifest itself as demonic possession, the church may, and only may, consider that the person is indeed possessed and take appropriate steps in the form of exorcism.

Whatever way it's looked at, it seems that making some kind of connection with the ultimate good may be possible. The medical miracles seem to substantiate that notion, and it has happened. What about evil?

Warning

We have practically no understanding of the ultimate good, and it only stands to reason that our understanding of the ultimate evil is no better.

If by some strange means we manage to connect with the ultimate good (by prayer, ritual, sacrament, etc.), then we may bring an abundance of good into our life. By connecting with the ultimate evil (by similar means), then we can only expect that we may attract an abundance of evil, and how that manifests itself is unknowable. Maybe it would be possession. Whatever it might turn out to be, it certainly couldn't be pleasant.

On the balance of probabilities, it would be at best unwise and at worst stupid beyond belief to pronounce in its entirety within the context of a purpose-designed ritual the Latin text of this novel that is aimed at communicating with Satan. Do so at your own risk. Be advised that, by simple definition, no good can come of it. Don't even be tempted to experiment. If it works, you will wish that it hadn't, and you may eventually wish, in lucid moments, that you'd rather be dead. Has communication with the ultimate evil ever happened? Yes. And it will happen again. Don't let it happen to you.

You have been warned.

His tail swept down a third of heaven's stars and threw them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth so that when she gave birth, he might devour her child.

She gave birth to a son, a male child who is to rule all the nations with an iron rod. Her child was snatched up to God and his throne.

Then the woman fled into the desert, where God has prepared a place for her. There she will be taken care of for one thousand two hundred sixty days.

Then there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought the dragon. The dragon and his angels fought back,

but they did not prevail, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. So the great dragon was thrown down. The old snake, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world, was thrown down to the earth; and his angels were thrown down with him.

—Revelation 12:4-9 (Common English Bible)

Prologue

I

Curtea de Arges, Capital of Wallachia—1390

In 1381, Curtea de Arges became the seat of the first Wallachian Roman Catholic bishopric. It was established under the auspices of the Archdiocese of Kalocsa, Transylvania, the patron saint of which was Saint Paul. Priests, tradesmen, and others were dispatched to the Wallachian capital to build a church and monastery and to instigate the presence of Catholicism. This they did. Under the leadership of Mircea I, who became ruler in 1386, the new order flourished, largely due to the fact that the prince was a devout defender of the faith. The church (with its attached monastery) was known to the local people as Saint Paul's (even though that doesn't appear to have been its real name) because a very fine statue of the saint had been erected in the grounds of the building in deference to the order's holy patron.

The church known as the Royal (or Princely) Church, which was constructed at Arges as part of the Royal Court by Basarab I and completed around 1360, was dedicated to the Orthodox faith.

Curtea de Arges literally means The Court at Arges, Arges being the name of the river that flows in a generally southerly direction through the region. Arges also refers to the town itself.

Young Mrs. Vaduva Speaks

I woke with a start, which was very unlike me, especially during winter. I thought I heard something—some strange sound that just didn't belong in this place. Maybe it was part of the bad dream I'd been having. I was sweating quite heavily, too. Perhaps the nightmare with its odd sound and my waking up were all due to my being too hot.

I sat up in my bed and tried to work it out. I could swear that I heard a noise. Didn't I hear something? Maybe not. I got up and stumbled a bit because I was still very drowsy. I wrapped a blanket around myself and went to the table to look at my clock. I'd been very fortunate in that I was paid this month with candles, one of which was beeswax—that was a kind and valuable bonus from a sympathetic employer. He had already marked the side with small notches, and each one marked the passing of an hour as the candle burned down. I was so thrilled—this was the first time in my life that I'd ever had a clock. I lit it before going to bed, and my excitement and curiosity about this new modern convenience drove me to leave it burning throughout the night. Seeing how far it had burned down, I knew it was somewhere around 3 am.

I didn't want to disturb the clock candle, so I lit a regular tallow one. It stank and sputtered, but it provided light. By now, I'd forgotten about how I'd woken up, and I went to the door to take a look at the weather outside. Before I opened it, I strained my ears to detect any sounds—there was always the possibility of a wolf or something else hanging round. Nothing. It was silent—actually, it was too quiet. I opened the door a few inches and immediately realized why there was nothing to be heard. Curtea de Arges was completely enveloped in a very thick fog. It was a little unseasonable, but the end of last year had been colder than usual—so maybe that explained it. That said, it was already February 4, and it should have been warming up a little by now. Very thick fog just seemed odd to me.

The sweat had left my brow, and although I'd been on my feet for a minute or two, I still wasn't wide awake—aren't you in your deepest sleep around three in the morning? I continued to peer out the door, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could make out something glowing very faintly in the distance. I probably wouldn't have seen it if there weren't any fog, but light seems to get reflected when there's a heavy mist. It was a dull, yellow glow, and it was quite a distance down the street. It was strange, because of the hour and the season. Nobody in town would normally be doing anything other than sleeping.

Something disturbed the thick mist sixty feet or so from me. It caused a swirling in the layers. It was just a tiny breath of wind. I kept trying to work out what the faint glow was. For a fraction of a second, it disappeared, but then it came back. And it happened again. I worked out that the light was coming from the tall, narrow windows of the monastery. I couldn't imagine why anyone would be awake over there. The light was interrupted a few more times, and I figured that somebody was passing between the lamps, candles, and windows. It seemed to be busy judging by all the moving shadows.

It must have been the cooks preparing meals for the monks...but the kitchens were on the other side of the building. I had visited the place often enough to know the layout. My son, Dragos, lived there. He had been there for a couple of years—ever since his father was killed in the war. The priests ran a conservatory—a kind of orphanage where they looked after children whose families could no longer manage to do so. They were so kind to do that, as so many of us had lost our husbands to the war. I could just imagine little Dragos all curled up safely in his cot, surrounded by other boys—all his friends—and I thought how fortunate we'd been.

After a few minutes, I ventured a few feet outside to take a better look at the glow. Suddenly, there was a wild shrieking above me, high up in the trees, which were shrouded in fog. I couldn't see anything, but I knew what it was. In the next moment, a large bat swooped down and made me dodge, and my heart skipped a beat. His sense of direction must have been messed up by the fog. He flew back up into the trees and resettled on his branch. I heard his wings flap for a few seconds before everything became quiet. I stood still for a half minute and became sleepy again, but I'd solved all the mysteries of the night, so I started back for my bed.

Then there was a very muffled sound, which again grabbed my attention. It's so busy in town tonight. What is going on? This new noise was off to my left as I looked out onto the street again, so it was to the north. Though it was dampened by the fog, it was becoming louder, and I soon made out the crunching noise of wheels and the dull thud of galloping on the dirt and gravel road. It must have been a carriage, but surely this was no time for such a thing to be happening. I backed into the cottage and peeked out the door, which I had all but closed. The vehicle was moving very quickly, and as it approached, I could hear that the driver was pressing the horses very earnestly.

I could make it out better as it came closer. My God! Six black horses in silver liveries, and they had black plume headdresses. Steam was flying out of their mouths and noses, and the driver was taking to them with the whip. There were two bright lanterns, one on each side of the coachman, but as the carriage roared past, I couldn't make out his face because he was wearing some kind of hood. The interior of the vehicle was lit up, but I couldn't see the people. Maybe it was coming to fetch someone. Yes, that was why it was empty. The destination of the coach was unknowable, but it came from the north. Arges isn't far from the border, and this vehicle could have had only one possible point of origin—Transylvania. Once again, I'd solved all the mysteries of the night. I'd explained everything to my satisfaction, and I'd be able to go back to sleep easily.

I returned to the warmth of my bed and almost immediately began to drift off. As my head slumped to the side and my imagination started to flood with that formless, numb grayness that precedes sleep, it happened again. My eyes opened immediately. I recognized it. It was the sound that woke me up. I wasn't dreaming. Then it happened again. A shattering sound of some kind. Yet again it happened. That was the noise I heard. It sounded strange, but it was most like glass being broken. Sleep clouds irresistibly filled my head. Oh...of course was my final conscious thought. The coach...flung a stone up through...the church...window...Oh, it's Friday...they'll have it fixed by Sunday...

Mrs. Vaduva had interpreted everything she saw and heard within the confines of her own understanding of the world—that was all she could do. In reality, she had solved none of the mysteries, as none of them could be explained in the terms she was familiar with.

II

Dragos was sleeping very peacefully in his small cot in the young boys' dormitory.

He considered himself to be fortunate—his bed was next to the large entrance door, and that gave him a head start on all the other boys when it was breakfast time. He was most often first out the door and, consequently, first in line to get his meal. He loved starting his days with a small victory. After the morning meal, he said prayers with all his friends, and as soon as that was over, all the boys raced back to the dormitory to get ready for classes. Like the others, Dragos had a wooden box under his bed that contained all his worldly possessions. He was the proud owner of two pieces of paper and a feather quill pen. He didn't know how to write yet, but he'd learn. He also had a couple of colored rocks and a modest collection of dead leaves. There were two half-eaten bread rolls that by now were as hard as the rocks. Every day, he decided that he should probably get rid of them, and every day, he didn't. It was just so busy. His most prized possession was a piece of string that had knots tied in it at regular intervals. He'd been told by one of the priests that it was a measuring string, and when anybody wanted to know how long something was, Dragos would be able to tell them exactly. His services as a measurer had thus far never been called upon, but he figured that it was only a matter of time. He'd be ready and willing.

He understood why he was at the conservatory at the church. His story was no different from that of many of the other boys who lived there. His father had been killed defending Wallachia. His mother lived close by, and he saw her at least once each week—on Sunday. In between her visits, he was kept busy with constant chores and classes. Many hours of the week were taken up by music lessons, which he enjoyed. (He would never know that, centuries later, his descendants would routinely refer to any music school as a conservatory, in deference to the fact that music was one of the mainstays in the education program of a conservatory (which was an old word for a hospital for foundlings and orphans). He knew that he was lucky to always be fed, and he was aware that his mother was very grateful to the priests for that reason, among others.

There were also girls at the conservatory, but the boys rarely saw them. They were looked after by the nuns, who also took care of a lot of the maintenance tasks at the church and prepared food.

Dragos was making good progress in the monastery. He was a good singer—not a great one, but his voice was high, so it was capable of lending some brightness to the simple line of vocal sound that was created for several hours a day by the older boys and priests. He liked the way the voices echoed around in the church, and he always had fun at singing practice. He'd never stopped to reflect on it, but all in all, he enjoyed his life very much. Of course there was constant work to do in growing food and preparing it for the cooks and collecting and cutting wood, but everybody had to do these things whether they were in the monastery or not, and he figured that helping out was the least he could do to thank the priests for helping him and his mother.

Dragos was unaware of the very dense fog that had come in during the night. It started creeping down the Arges River valley around 6 pm and reached into every corner as it made its way toward town. By around 3 am, the temperature was approaching its lowest point; the little boy stirred to pull up his blanket, but he didn't wake up. He loved being in his bed in winter—it was so cozy, and he thought he slept better when it was cold and foggy or rainy.

Apparently, not everyone in the monastery was asleep. Far away from the boys' dormitory, there were muffled sounds in one of the offices, where it seemed that people were working. Not much later, more subdued whispers and the odd soft word made their way along the hallways, as did the soft scuffling of sandaled feet. The light from one small torch gradually and inexorably made its way through the corridors, casting unearthly shadows as it went. It stopped for a moment, and the whispers became softer.

III

Inside the dormitory, only the chaotically rhythmic breathing and light snoring sounds of sleeping boys were audible. Those noises could be heard very faintly through the large wooden dormitory door by anyone standing around in the hallway, but other than that, it was silent out there. Without warning, there was the tiniest crackling noise that lasted for less than a quarter of a second. It was just outside the imposing door. A spider web was singed by a small flame. There wasn't another sound after that. It immediately became totally silent and remained that way.

Dragos was sleeping on his back and giggling very feebly to himself. He was dreaming about the clown at the Arges Fair last fall. The kids all thought he was great because he was the craziest person they'd ever seen and he made the funniest stupid faces. Even the adults roared with laughter when he moved his rubbery face around to make it look like a large dog's butt, with his tightly scrunched-up mouth representing the obvious part. Then there were revolted groans and dirty laughs from everyone as the clown pushed pieces of chewed meat through his tight lips. It looked disgusting, and the crowd absolutely loved it. And somehow he also made woofing sounds while he pretended to be scratching fleas from between his legs. The kids were laughing so much that some of them couldn't stand up any longer and fell over. And of course, after the show, they all walked around like idiots trying to look like dogs' butts. They kept it up for weeks.

The great dormitory door flew open almost silently. A dull light flowed into the room as quickly as did the two large men in the dark robes. The source of the light remained in the hallway, and the men appeared as silhouettes. Instantly, a thick wrap was placed over Dragos's mouth and was quickly wound round his head. He yelled, but it was almost completely stifled. The second man covered the boy's body with another thick, heavy wool blanket to constrain his movements. In another two seconds, the man had his arms around the little boy and lifted him while his associate held the muffler in place over the futilely squirming boy's head and mouth. They hurried out into the hall with their prey, and the third man who'd waited outside now deftly closed the door before retreating after his coconspirators. The grim parade receded down the passageway in as much silence as it had arrived.

IV

In a large room on the other side of the monastery, two men were silently working at a long, sturdy table on which sat various tools, jars, and bottles, as well as heating equipment and laboratory stands. The working areas of the room were well lit by torches and beeswax candles, but the corners were still quite dark and shadowy. Some light was faintly reflected from the glass in the tall, narrow windows far above the floor. One of the men was making the final adjustments to a contraption of his own design. It was an oval-shaped metal frame about five inches in length and three inches wide. It had some contours along the metal edges. When laid flat on the workbench, it stood about one inch high. The frame was filled with firmly packed, fluffy wool fiber, and the man was wrapping the whole gadget in a single layer of loose muslin fabric. He placed the finished article over his nose and mouth, pressed it firmly onto his cheeks, and breathed through it. His colleague was watching the test. The man found it easy to breathe through the wadding and nodded to his associate, indicating that, whatever it was, it worked. He gave it to the other man, who busied himself attaching a thin leather thong to each side of the frame. He tugged on them to see how strong they were. He too silently nodded approval. He knew that the strength of this gadget might soon be put to the test and there could be no mistakes—this device could not fail in its grim purpose.

The faint light that emanated from the narrow windows was eerily diffused by the heavy fog that had settled over Arges. From outside, it seemed almost as if the windows were surrounded by halos—very appropriate for a place of God. From time to time, a tiny breath of wind stirred for a moment through the mist as if an invisible figure were stalking through the night.

V

There was a distinctly timed threefold knock at the heavy door. The two men inside looked at each other, recognizing the signal. Perhaps such an elaborate coded knock wasn't really necessary, but things could and did go wrong. A person could be sleepwalking and come to this room; someone from the local area could wander in trying to make confession and take a wrong turn; a drunk might arrive by accident. Nothing could upset this plan, so having some precautionary measures in place wasn't overkill.

One of the men turned to go and open the door, and the other one placed the masklike device on the table. He looked in the direction of the door, and the corner of his mouth flinched involuntarily and almost imperceptibly.

The men entered with their captive, who had ceased his attempts to escape—he'd struggled so hard he'd tired himself out. A minute later, Dragos's feet were on the floor.

I'm going to unwrap you now, but before I do, I must tell you that there's no point in yelling. Nobody can hear you from here. Dragos nodded his understanding. One of the other men removed the blankets from the boy's head and body. Of course, Dragos screamed out as loud as he could. None of the men moved, as they knew his noise was inaudible everywhere but here.

As the little boy slowly gazed around the large stone room, his eyes grew wider and wider. The soft yellow glow of the candles and torches lent a welcoming atmosphere to the room, but it wasn't quite welcoming enough to disperse the threatening nature of what Dragos saw. Around the walls, hanging on hooks and sitting on shelves, was a selection of frightening objects. There were short whips made of rope and leather, some of which had knots tied in the ends of the thongs. Hanging from a stand were some strange-looking belts made of interlocked circles of wire that had very sharp-looking spikes protruding from them. He could also see some knitted vests, but when he squinted to get a better view, he saw that they weren't made of wool. They seemed to be made of something like wolf fur.

When he saw a brazier full of dull red coals, his sense of smell started sending him messages. He smelled the heat, and now that he thought about it, he could smell something else that was familiar to him, but he had trouble placing it. That odor may have been coming from a table where two men were heating up jars of fluid. Perhaps it was the steam coming from them. Whatever it was, he recognized it.

By now, the boy was glued to the spot. He couldn't move; he dared not move. It finally dawned on him—he was in a torture chamber. He'd heard of them but could never have imagined that one day he'd actually be in one. It all added up...the spiky belts, the hot embers, and the long iron tools and weapons. They were going to torture him, but he'd done nothing wrong. In a state of mounting panic, he retraced his actions of the past week, trying to think of anything he might have done that would warrant punishment. Nothing came to him immediately. Certainly he wasn't without guilt in his life. The boys often played tricks on the older friars, and if they were found out, they were given a normal punishment, such as being made to wear a mask that looked like an animal's head or a hat that made the other boys laugh and jeer at them. The only thing Dragos could think of was that he'd unknowingly committed some great offense, the seriousness of which he was totally unaware. He was terrified and bewildered.

As startling as a thunderclap on a calm and very quiet day, a very deep-sounding, resonant voice pierced the heavy atmosphere of the chamber, bringing Dragos to the point of intolerable anticipation of harm.

Don't be afraid. You'll be perfectly safe with us. But you'll need to be cooperative.

Dragos had gone into a state of panic, and these words only made it worse. He felt sick to the stomach and became dizzy, and he started to hear a hissing sound in his head, like strong wind in the treetops. He staggered, and he could feel a cold sweat breaking out on his upper lip and forehead.

Undress him.

Dragos ran the words through his head a couple of times. Two of the men approached him, and it dawned on him that they were going to take his clothes off. The poor little boy peed himself out of sheer terror.

Prepare the table.

A silent nod came from one of the other men as he crossed the room to pick up a wooden structure. It was about a foot high, two feet wide, and four and a half feet long, but it wasn't a rectangular prism. The man set it down lengthwise along the timber table. Viewed from the side, it was a trapezoid, starting at a foot high and remaining at that height for the first fifteen inches of its length (viewed from left to right). The remaining three feet or so sloped downward toward the other end, making a kind of ramp. It was entirely covered by several layers of thick fabric.

The same man who'd given the first order spoke again. Clean him up, wash him, and give him one of the workshop aprons.

The last of the men had been kept busy preparing something at another workbench. He was warming up a pint of solution. It gave off strong fumes, although it wasn't boiling. The fluid was thicker than water and moved around the vessel as would olive oil. The chemist picked up a spoon to taste it. He gave a silent nod of approval. Whatever it was, it was now ready. He ladled five ounces of it into a drinking vessel.

Drink this. It will help. You may take small sips, but you must drink it all—and as quickly as possible.

He put the vessel into Dragos's hand, and the boy threw it to the floor, smashing it.

I said that you must cooperate. It's for your own good, said the big man, and to the chemist he added, Bring another. The chemist complied.

You can either drink this yourself, or I'll make you drink it. Either way, the fluid will be consumed.

There was no way out. Dragos was independent of mind, but he wasn't stupid. He took the vessel that was warm to his hand and raised it to his mouth. He sniffed at the contents, and he immediately coughed. The fumes were very strong, but he found he'd been right before. He knew this smell, and it was a common smell.

As he stood holding the concoction, the men fell silent once again. They were motionless, and that filled the small boy with a sense of the surreal. They seemed like unmoving brown creatures from another place and time.

Drink it.

VI

Dragos sipped and then gagged and coughed because of the strong fumes coming from the vessel. The warm fluid itself was quite sweet, and now that he'd tasted and smelled it, he remembered where he'd experienced it before. It was the strong drink the friars made in the monastery. The thick, sweet liqueur was made in another section of the monastery that was forbidden to everyone except the chemists who worked there. The boys knew that the friars drank it at night, and it was this fact that gave rise to some of the mischief they perpetrated, because, from time to time, some of the priests seemed to be drunk after taking too much of it.

This at least gave some slight hope to Dragos, as he knew that if the men drank the fluid and didn't die, then he could drink it as well. He started sipping it slowly. He didn't get used to the fumes at first, and he gagged again a couple of times when he attempted to swallow it. But he soon managed to get the fluid down. He started to feel queasy and dizzy, but he continued drinking, as the men were still standing silently, expectantly, watching him closely. After several minutes, he'd finished, and he was proud of his effort but disappointed when the man who appeared to be in charge told the chemist to bring more. Again, the chemist filled the vessel, and Dragos sipped on the warm, sticky fluid.

It was a strange flavor, but he didn't mind it too much. Actually, he was surprised to find that it wasn't offensive at all but was more like some kind of special treat that might be given to children at Christmas. He didn't gulp the fluid, but he was now taking bigger sips. Maybe this was some special trick the older men played on the young boys and was aimed at introducing them to the special product that was made in the monastery. After all, the men hadn't beaten him or tied him up. He wondered if the other boys had gone through this same process but hadn't mentioned it. Maybe the men would tell him later that he should never mention this to the other boys, who would, in due course, receive their own education in the special drink. Yes. That was it. He was heartened somewhat when he thought he detected a slight, momentary smile on the face of one of the men.

His cup was filled yet again, and he started to drink it straightaway. The men were also drinking now. He leaned back against the table and silently scolded himself for being so stupid. After all, he'd lived here for a long time now. Why would they want to kill or torture him? They'd provided for him after his father's death, hadn't they? Once again, the chemist restocked the vessel, and Dragos continued to consume the beverage.

He remembered a game. He'd always been the fastest boy when it came to gulping down water. The boys often had races with their water cups to see who was quickest. It entered his head to try this now. He was feeling quite at ease now, so he decided that it couldn't hurt and it might impress the older men. They might even praise him when they saw how fast he could drink. Of course they would! Stupid me! he thought. They're having a drink with me now. We're all friends here. They'll like this trick. Watch this, Fathers. He pinched his nostrils tightly closed, put his lips to the edge of the vessel, and took a larger breath than usual. Then he sucked the fluid into his mouth as quickly as he could and swallowed it in one big gulp. Success! He drained the whole vessel.

His head spun, and he passed out.

VII

Is the concentrated solution ready?

Yes.

"Then, prepare the