Carpathian Nights

By G. Eric Haroldsen

Carpathian Nights is a novel that explores the roots of classic 16th-Century Romanian folklore, framed against the backdrop of the Carpathian Mountains of Romania.
After suffering a personal tragedy, a young Catholic priest, Father Sovata, is assigned to a remote parish in the Carpathian Mountains, where he must repair the damage done by a renegade priest. Upon arrival, he discovers a close-mouthed community fractured by class and religious rivalries. As he becomes acquainted with his parishioners, he realizes there are other forces at work that go against everything he believes to be true.
Father Sovata must put aside his own prejudices to ally with both Orthodox Christians and Gypsies. Only then will they have a chance to combat the ancient demons that threaten to destroy their community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. Eric Haroldsen
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463121306

G. Eric Haroldsen

Since I was a very small child, I loved to be scared. I had an older brother that shared the bedroom with me who did all he could to terrify my once the lights went out. I loved every minute of it. As I have been teaching College and High School World History classes for 31 years, I have never missed a chance to throw in as much folklore as possible. I even enjoy dedicating one lesson just to the history of Halloween.

Book preview

Carpathian Nights

G. Eric Haroldsen

Carpathian Nights

Copyright © 2020 by G. Eric Haroldsen

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover by LLPix Design

Editing and Formatting by BZHercules.com

For my son, Rob

1997-2012

PROLOGUE: ARRIVAL

The sound of clicking bones and groaning ropes roused Father Sovata from his distant thoughts. The monotony of the four-day journey from Bucharest abruptly ended with the sight of the corpses suspended from weathered gallows at the crossroad before him. One body hung from each of the three sides of the scaffold. A deep pit lay at the center, probably intended as a place to cast old bodies when new victims arrived.

Each corpse represented a different stage of decomposition. The oldest of the three was particularly animated in the stiff October breeze. Its exposed bones had little flesh remaining to dampen the sound as they beat against themselves. The eyes, long since gone, gave an expression of demented joy. Black hair still hung in patches from the skull. Its death grin was marred by the damaged lower jaw that dangled tenuously from one side by a ribbon of blackened flesh. The jaw spiraled lazily one direction, then with a pause, the opposite. The other two corpses were mostly still and despondent.

Father Sovata wanted very much to keep his distance and take a wide path around the gibbet, but the dense black woods on one side and the wall of rock on the other required that he ride much too close. His initial position spared him from the revolting stench, but then the horse carried him downwind of the gallows. His stomach knotted with a sudden spasm of nausea. The priest was grateful that he hadn’t stopped for lunch yet; in fact, he made the immediate resolution to skip it altogether. With the sound and smell fading behind him, his thoughts returned to his journey and the task before him.

When Father Sovata left Bucharest, the Bishop described the route he would take. As the road ascends into the Transylvanian Alps, you will come to a crossroad used as a place of execution. Follow the southern fork. Within one or two days, you will enter the valley of Carpathia and the home of many troubled souls.

The Bishop turned to the window to conceal a face momentarily tortured by remorse. Once he had himself composed, he said, You have a great task before you and many wounds to heal. Some damage may seem irreversible. In all honesty, I don’t know how much help, save God’s alone, you can expect.

He turned back to face Father Sovata. The locals may treat you coldly or even with contempt. The past may have made them distrustful of the clergy. However, you must be understanding, slow to react, considering all that has happened. He took both of Father Sovata’s hands in his own. Father Dragos was a good man and a fine priest when I knew him last. Perhaps we are wrong to judge him, not knowing all of the facts. Still, you will be an excellent replacement. I believe that this may be just the thing needed to help you move beyond your tragedy.

The Bishop studied the younger man for a few silent moments. I believe that this will be a great triumph for you and a triumph of God’s great work. Now, do you have any additional concerns?

Father Sovata parted his lips as if to speak. Then, without an utterance, he let them close again. He did have many concerns and questions, but he had no skill to give them voice.

It is well, said the Bishop. A new parish is a wonderful thing, and I believe that the best way to forget your loss is to devote yourself to this calling with a whole heart. Now, Father, he said, placing his frail hands on each of Father Sovata’s shoulders, God speed your way.

* * * *

Father Sovata could see Varfuri de Tunete, Peaks of Thunder, peering menacingly over the smaller mountains to the southwest. To reach it, he had to follow the curve of the Buzau river, which went far to the north before it arced to the left and then due south to its headwaters. The priest saw that the mountain slopes were steep and rocky, judging by the few exposed glimpses seen through the thick, dark woodland.

After more than a day’s travel longer than the Bishop had promised, the whole shadow-blighted valley spread out in front of him. The mountain at its head was the primary focal point. In his vivid imagination, the horned peaks resembled the head of a demon rising to break free of its subterranean home. Descending down each side loomed saw-toothed ridges that jutted out of the forested slopes.

A gray river snaked down the valley, splitting the village of Carpathia. Small thatched homes huddled grimly together in clusters. Two churches distinguished themselves above the houses, one on each side of the river. One building was larger than the other but was simple in design except for a steep pyramid-capped tower. It undoubtedly was the Orthodox chapel. Father Sovata had expected this but was uncertain how to react with a religious rival so near. The second building was his own, a Roman Catholic chapel whose construction remained incomplete. It seemed to be a parish church that aspired to become something more but had fallen far short and was bemoaning its wretched state.

Father Sovata slowly rode past a large estate that exuded some pride and taste. Certainly it belonged to one of the great landed families. One other large house, though in a fallen condition, perched on a cliff over the village. In spite of its ruined walls and collapsed roofs, one tower remained, which was able to manifest a shadow of lost dignity and elegance.

Proceeding through the village streets, Father Sovata saw mostly peasant women spying on him through narrow gaps in the shutters. Their morbid eyes followed his progress. A nod of the head was the only acknowledgment that he could solicit with his greetings of introduction. Wasted dogs, with tails and heads down, prowled the shadows. There was no other evidence of life.

Father Sovata looked up to see the parish chapel rise before him. He was pleased and surprised to see how pleasant it turned out to be upon closer inspection. The gray clouds broke the charming illusion of the church as they passed over the sun. The walls and buttresses lost their crisp appearance, looking instead like a once-living thing, limp after a killing frost.

With disappointment, Father Sovata eased himself off the horse in front of the adjoining rectory. He stretched his body with painful relief. Drawing in a deep breath, he renewed his commitment, and after a pause, approached the entrance of his new domain. The door opened of its own accord before his hand could reach the latch. There stood a wizened man, bent and gray, yet perhaps no more than middle-aged. His eyes narrowed to evaluate the new priest.

Good afternoon, said Father Sovata with all the cheer that he could muster. I am Father Iosif Sovata, just arrived from Bucharest ... the new parish priest for Carpathia.

There was a long pause while the priest wondered if the man had heard him, but then he did speak. I am Tirgu, your sexton ... and undertaker, he said without a hint of emotion. I’ll put your things inside and take care of your horse.

As Father Sovata followed the listless caretaker, he attempted to start a pleasant dialogue. I would very much like to know something about you and the people of this parish.

Father Sovata waited for a response for some moments, wondering if he needed to rephrase his statement to elicit a reply. Tirgu seemed to struggle for a thoughtful response, but the effort was fruitless. What you see, Father, he said morosely, is what we are. It began to dawn on Father Sovata that he would likely spend many hours in Tirgu’s silent company.

The following morning, Father Sovata contemplated the merits of a get-acquainted walk through the village and perhaps out to the fields where the men were certain to be doing the autumn work. While he considered this, he was startled by a loud knock on the rectory door. Someone to see you, Father, said Tirgu, entering.

Someone? asked Father Sovata, hoping for an introduction before the arrival of an unknown guest.

In spectacular contrast to all that the priest had experienced so far in Carpathia, a young man’s cheerful face peered inquisitively through the open door. As he stepped in, he said, Father, let me be the first— He abruptly stopped in his greeting to glance at Tirgu. Then, with confidence, he resumed, Yes, the first, I’m certain, to welcome you to Carpathia.

It pleased the priest to know that there could be someone full of pleasant irony amid this valley of gloom. I’m Paul Lonesco. I assist Father Joseni of the Orthodox congregation. He asked me to come and make your acquaintance, and to offer you my assistance in getting settled... he glanced again at Tirgu with a smile, knowing that you are not likely to get much help from anyone else.

The Orthodox Church? said Father Sovata. Is it customary in these parts to have a working relationship between Orthodox and Catholics?

Paul smiled. No. Never, but considering the current state of things, it would seem ... um ... prudent. Father Joseni would like to call on you shortly, but he is not doing so well today and often has trouble getting around.

Father Sovata knew it would be wise to accept any help offered. I would be happy to meet him. Since I need to be out and about, why don’t I spare his legs and call on him myself?

Excellent! exclaimed Paul, preparing to leave. He will be pleased and grateful.

My son, before you go, said the priest in a panic over this retreating opportunity. If you have a moment, I wonder if you could give me a little information, that is, some background about this community. I know next to nothing.

Certainly, Father. But what specifically do you want to know?

Very well, Father Sovata said, smiling. I was wondering if you could give me an overview of the characteristics... the attitude of these people. They seem a bit… He searched for a milder way to express his thoughts. They seem a bit reserved.

Paul shook in silent laughter. Oh, Father, that is a generous description. He wiped the tears from his eyes. Well, they certainly are that. I sometimes have a hard time distinguishing the living from the dead. Then a resolute calm came over his demeanor. Not that it makes any difference, as far as I’m concerned.

Father Sovata was shocked at the undisguised bitterness suddenly revealed in a soul so amiable. Go on, I’m listening, he said slowly, hoping for an explanation.

Drawing a long, thoughtful breath, Paul explained, These mountains are the lowest point on God’s green earth. The misfortunate souls born here are already lost.

Growing quite disturbed, Father Sovata asked, Why are you saying this?

Oh, Father, didn’t you feel something unholy the moment you arrived in this valley?

I felt something, he conceded.

This place has been abandoned by God. It is undeniable.

Paul, he said, feeling uncomfortable at counseling what was essentially a stranger, God abandons nothing. Besides, if you believe all that you say, why are you here? You are a young man; why don’t you leave? Go to Brasov, Bucharest, or farther still.

Paul studied the floor. I stay because I have a mother here and ... because I want to be a witness to something. Something terrible... something that will certainly happen.

Father Sovata felt a chill of dread with these words, confirming the building impression that something cataclysmic and powerfully unpleasant was close at hand. Are you saying that you would take delight in seeing unholy events take place here?

Sounds unchristian, doesn’t it? Paul said, humbled slightly by the simple interrogation. We Orthodox are Christians too. I know what is right and wrong, and I would generally wish no evil on anyone. There are, though, certain individuals who deserve no effort on their behalf. He then said with growing strength in his voice, Something is near, and I will shed no tears for certain people.

Even if their fate is your own? said the priest sharply. Paul was silent.

Father Sovata dismissed the building tension with a smile. Paul, it is not my place to judge. I don’t know the facts. Help me. Tell me about these people, starting with those of greatest influence.

Paul brightened. But I have told you. These are the ones that I was referring to. He then continued as if reciting a well-rehearsed speech. There are two families of particular influence here. The Roznovs control most of the lands south of the village to the headwaters of the river at Cozoroc de Trasnet.

He diverged for a moment from his delivery and observed with bitter humor, It seems odd that the river flows northward through the valley before it wraps around the eastern mountains to adopt a more conventional path to the south. I think it is a characteristic in keeping with this place.

He glanced up into Father Sovata’s face and resumed. The Roznovs are native Romanians who sold out ... Paul diplomatically shifted his approach, who ... renounced their Orthodoxy and accepted Catholicism to retain their estates after the Turkish wars. Alexander Roznov is the head of that family and will no doubt make his presence and position well known to you. He is the local magistrate with a very gray area of jurisdiction. You see, we are just north of the border into Transylvania, so he should be under the authority of a superior in Brasov. The problem is that it is almost impossible to reach directly with the mountains in the way. So, for the most part, Alexander reports to the Walachian authorities in Bucharest, which, I guess you would know, is quite a distance away. Regardless, he does mostly what he pleases.

There was a long silence. The other family? prompted Father Sovata.

The other family of influence is the Vatras, who control the lands to the north where the river makes the bend. I’m sure you saw their rather impressive home on your way in yesterday. Father Sovata nodded his acknowledgment. The Vatras aren’t even natives, or at least their family has only been here for a couple generations. I think that their background is Hungarian, and they were granted lands here shortly after the outbreak of the wars.

Father Sovata noticed that Paul spoke these last sentences with a momentary clenching of fists.

Paul continued, Until recently, Nicholas Vatra was the head of that family, but he died in a rather mysterious hunting accident. Got hit by an arrow, right in the eye. Paul suppressed a smile that he discovered coming to his lips. "Ivan, Nicholas’ oldest son, is now the head of the family. Can’t be much more than twenty years old. Seems a decent enough fellow, I suppose.

For the most part, the rest of the people are peasants, bound to one master or the other. Most are my people, simple Orthodox Christians.

Paul stopped speaking. After some moments, when Father Sovata realized that it was the end of the delivery, he asked, I noticed the ruins of an impressive home on the cliffs above the village. Tell me about that.

Paul’s jawline rippled. That, he said, was my home. Father Sovata could see Paul struggle with his emotions and prudently waited for him to continue when ready. My family, the Lonescos, have farmed and governed much of this valley since Roman times. We were proud, God-fearing people. Then the Turks came. When it was time to choose to compromise, to accept the will of the invader and embrace Catholicism, under their Muslim mandate, or lose our titles and estates, my people chose the higher path. I’m not sure if I would have been so stalwart.

Father Sovata felt uneasy with this indirect attack on the Catholics. Still, he was fully aware that the Turks had decided to have dealings only with one group of Christians, and the Catholics appeared to them to be the most accommodating.

Paul smiled. There, I’ve come clean. You now see the source of my unchristian feelings toward the Vatras, and especially the Roznovs, who chose a different future for their family than my own.

I understand, said Father Sovata. And I’m sure that God understands your feelings, but he cannot overlook them indefinitely.

I hear this all the time from Father Joseni. I am working on it. Honestly, he said with renewed cheer. You know, I can tell that you and Father Joseni are going to get along well.

* * * *

Later that afternoon, Father Sovata called on Father Joseni. He had never entered an Orthodox chapel before. The large, architecturally drab building was brightened some by the painted icons of saints, apostles, and the holy family on the stucco portions of half-timbered walls. Even that color was muted with the sun already beginning its slow descent behind the high western mountains.

The inside of the building was particularly dark as Paul Lonesco guided him toward the altar. Father Sovata noticed a stout wooden plank and blacksmith hammer leaning against the doorframe. These items reminded the priest of the fact that the Turks had outlawed church bells, a potential tool of war. Because of this, there was the new custom of calling Christians to mass with the hammering on wood.

At that moment, Father Joseni made his first appearance through the opening of the sanctuary. He was black-robed and wearing the traditional cylindrical hat of his office. The old priest hobbled forward with his hands outstretched. With no teeth behind his lower lip to drive the grey beard down into a natural position, its bristles jetted straight forward. Father Joseni clasped the younger priest’s hands and drew him forward for a double embrace and kiss on each cheek. Exhausted from the effort, he gestured for Father Sovata to take a seat as he collapsed into the nearest pew.

Father, you are welcome here, so very welcome, he exclaimed wearily. Then he leaned forward to retake Father Sovata’s hand. I know that it is strange for an Orthodox priest to seek warm relations with a Catholic, but we need not be enemies. We must band together or lose the fight. I have lived long in this valley, battling the enemy. I have spent my energies. You are still a young man, and so I must yield to your strength.

Father Sovata assured the other priest of his acceptance of friendship by offering his other hand. Father Joseni continued saying, I hope that you will forgive the urgency of the situation that I want to impress upon you. I assure you that it is not without precedent. There is much evil here among these people. Most of it is self-made, childish jealousies and hereditary resentments.

Father Joseni directed his view at Paul, who remained standing with head bowed. Building on that, there is an uninvited evil that has perhaps always lived in the darkness of these mountain forests. It has given rise to some pagan beliefs. The long-held habit of our people seeking, or at least yielding to these beliefs, incarnates them, it realizes them, as you shall soon see.

The old priest gave a weary sigh. Particularly unfortunate is the difficulty in distinguishing which forces are useful and which are detrimental. But there is hope, my friend. We may still act. We must have a united front. All is futile without unity.

This torrent of words seemed to be an additional drain on Joseni’s limited vitality. After a moment, he renewed his intense focus on Sovata. We Orthodox Christians teach ‘When you are saved, you are saved in a community; when you fall, you fall alone.’

PART ONE: THE DARK OF THE SOLSTICE

ONE: Sanmedru’s Fire

It is my understanding that, too often in the past, residents of this valley have employed this autumn season in an unholy focus on death. Many have made it a practice to summon questionable spirits to divine the future using some of the foolish traditions of Sanmedru’s fire. This practice must end. We must not invite the profane into our midst!

A thunderclap exploded with the growing storm, neatly adding power to Father Sovata’s sermon. A scattering of villagers cowered in the center pews under the massive stone pulpit. The seemingly unaffected Vatra and Roznov families sat firmly in reserved benches on opposite sides of the general congregation. Rainwater columns spilled off the roof, striping the gothic arched windows.

The people of Carpathia knew well the unhallowed things that dwelt in the shadows of these mountains and of the potential horrors that they could produce. Even here, in the sanctuary of God’s house, they sensed that presence. The congregation fluttered with the motion of people crossing themselves.

I propose, then, that we break with tradition and replace any compromising ritual with a community autumn celebration, which will focus on the blessings of the harvest and God’s love.

He studied the congregation fruitlessly for evidence of a positive reaction to his proposal. Also, to end years of malice and family rivalry, I propose that this celebration be alternately sponsored each year by one of our two prominent families.

Father Sovata turned to focus on the Vatras to his left. Ivan Vatra, will you and your family host this year’s festivities at your estates – on Sanmedru’s Eve? Surreptitious, fearful glances ricocheted through the congregation. Do you accept? asked the priest.

The parishioners fixed their eyes on young Ivan, who had recently assumed leadership of the family after his father’s tragic death. For a moment, the rain and rumble of an angry sky was the only thing to break the silence. Yes, Father, we will do this.

The villagers stole glances at the Roznovs on their other side, who showed no emotion except that betrayed by the tense ripples of clenched jaws.

"I am new to this