The dragon came down our valley.
He burned the crops and took the maidens.
He frightened the Turkish infidel and protected our villages.
His breath dried up the rivers and we walked across them.
“As Ranov finished translating, Brother Ivan, the librarian, spoke up with some animation. He still had his hands in his sleeves, but his face was bright and interested. ‘What’s he saying?’ I asked quickly.
“Ranov shook his head. ‘He says he has heard this song before. He collected it from an old woman in the village of Dimovo, Baba Yanka, who is a great singer there, where the river dried up long ago. They have several festivals there where they sing these old songs, and she is the leader of the singers. One of these will be in two days, the festival of Saint Petko, and you may wish to hear her.’
“‘More folk songs,’ I groaned. ‘Please ask Mr. Pondev—Brother Angel—if he knows what this song means.’
“Ranov put the question with considerable patience, but Brother Ivan sat grimacing and twitching and said nothing. After a moment, the silence drove me to the very edge of my feelings. ‘Ask him if he knows anything about Vlad Dracula!’ I shouted. ‘Vlad Tepes! Is he buried in this region? Has he ever heard that name? The name Dracula?’ Helen had seized my arm, but I was beside myself. The librarian stared at me, although he seemed to feel no alarm, and Ranov gave me what I might have called a pitying look if I’d wanted to pay closer attention.
“But the effect on Pondev was horrifying. He turned very pale and his eyes rolled back in his head like great blue marbles. Brother Ivan leaped forward and grabbed him as he slumped from the chair, and he and Ranov managed to get him onto the cot. He was a clumsy mass, swollen white feet protruding from the bedclothes, arms dangling around their necks. When they had him safely prone, the librarian fetched water from a pitcher and trickled some on the poor man’s face. I stood aghast; I hadn’t meant to cause such anguish, and perhaps now I’d killed one of our only remaining sources of information. After an endless moment, Brother Angel stirred and opened his eyes, but now they were wild eyes, wary as a hunted beast’s, and they flickered in terror around the room as if he couldn’t see us at all. The librarian patted his chest and tried to make him more comfortable on the cot, but the old monk pushed his hands away, trembling. ‘Let us leave him,’ Ranov said somberly. ‘He is not going to die—of this, at least.’ We followed the librarian out of the room, all of us silent and chastened.
“‘I’m sorry,’ I said, in the reassuring brightness of the courtyard.
“Helen turned to Ranov. ‘Could you ask the librarian if he knows anything more about that song, or what valley it came from?’
“Ranov and the librarian conferred, the librarian glancing at us. ‘He says it comes from Krasna Polyana, the valley on the other side of those mountains, to the northeast. You may come with him to the saint’s festival in two days if you wish to stay here. This old singer might know something about it—she will at least be able to tell you where she learned it.’
“‘Do you think that would be helpful?’ I murmured to Helen.
“She gave me a sober look. ‘I don’t know, but it is all we have. Since it mentions a dragon, we should pursue it. In the meantime, we can explore Bachkovo thoroughly, and perhaps use the library if this librarian will help us.’
“I sat wearily down on a stone bench at the edge of the galleries. ‘All right,’ I said.”
Chapter 68
September 1962
My beloved daughter:
Damn this English! But when I try to write to you in Hungarian, a few lines, I know at once that you are not listening. You are growing up in English. Your father, who believes that I am dead, speaks to you in English as he swings you up onto his shoulder. He speaks to you in English as he puts your shoes on—you have been wearing real shoes for years now—and in English as he holds your hand in a park. But if I speak to you in English, I feel that you cannot hear me. I didn’t write to you at all for a long time, because I could not hear you listening in any language. I know your father believes I am dead, because he has never tried to find me. If he had tried to, he would have succeeded. But he cannot hear me in any language.
Your loving mother,
Helen
May 1963
My beloved daughter:
I do not know how many times I have silently explained to you that in the first few months you and I were very happy together. The sight of you waking from your nap, your hands moving before any other part of you stirred, your dark lashes fluttering next, and then your stretching, your smiling, filled me completely. Then something happened. It was not something outside of me, not an external threat to you. It was something inside me. I began to search your perfect body over and over for some sign of injury. But the injury was to me, even before this puncture on my neck, and it would not quite heal. I became afraid to touch you, my perfect angel.
Your loving mother,
Helen
July 1963
My beloved daughter:
I seem to be missing you more than ever today. I am in the university archives in Rome. I have been here six times in the last two years. The guards know me, the archivists know me, the waiter at the café across the street from the archive knows me and would like to know me better if I didn’t turn away coldly, pretending I don’t see his interest. This archive contains records of a plague in 1517, whose victims developed only one sore, a red wound on the neck. The pope ordered them to be buried with stakes through their hearts and garlic in their mouths. In 1517. I am trying to make a map through time of his movements or—since it is impossible to tell the difference—the movements of his servants. This map, really a list in my notebook, already fills many pages. But what use I can put it to I do not know yet. While I work I am waiting to discover this.
Your loving mother,
Helen
September 1963
My beloved daughter:
I am ready, almost, to give up and return to you. Your birthday is this month. How can I miss another birthday? I would return to you immediately, but I know that if I do, the same thing will happen. I will feel my uncleanness, as I first did six years ago—I will feel the horror of it, I will see your perfection. How can I be near you knowing that I am tainted? What right do I have to touch your smooth cheek?
Your loving mother,
Helen
October 1963
My beloved daughter:
I am in Assisi. These astounding churches and chapels, climbing their hill, fill me with a sense of despair. We might have come here, you in your little dress and hat, and I, and your father, all of us holding hands, as tourists. Instead, I am working in the dust of a monastic library, reading a document from 1603. Two monks died here in December of that year. They were found in the snow with their throats only a little mutilated. My Latin has lasted very well, and my money buys any help I might need with interpreting, translating, laundering my dresses. As it does visas, passports, train tickets, a false identity card. I never had money when I was growing up. My mother, in the village, barely knew what it looked like. Now I am learning that it buys everything. No, not everything. Not everything I want.
Your loving mother,
Helen
Chapter 69
“Those two days at Bachkovo were some of the longest of my life. I wanted to hurry to the promised festival immediately, wanted it to occur instantly, so that we could try to follow the one word of that song—dragon—to its nesting place. Yet I also dreaded the moment that I thought must inevitably come, when this possible clue, too, would vanish in smoke, or turn out to be related to nothing at all. Helen had already warned me that folk songs were notoriously slippery; their origins tended to be lost over centuries, their texts changed and evolved, their singers seldom knew where they’d come from or how old they were. ‘That’s what makes them folk songs,’ she said wistfully, smoothing my shirt collar as we sat in the courtyard our second day at the mon
astery. She was not given to domestic little caresses like that one, so I knew she must be worried. My eyes burned and my head ached as I looked around the sunny cobbles where the chickens scratched. It was a beautiful place, a rare and for me exotic place, and here we were seeing its life flow on as it had since the eleventh century: the chickens looked for bugs, the kitten rolled near our feet, the brilliant light pulsed on the fine red-and-white stonework all around us. I could hardly feel its beauty anymore.
“On the second morning, I woke very early. I thought perhaps I’d heard the church bells ringing but couldn’t decide if that had been part of my dream. From the window of my cell, with its rough curtain, I could see four or five monks making their way into the church. I put on my clothes—God, they were dirty now, but I could not be bothered with washing clothes—and went quietly down the gallery stairs to the courtyard. It was very early indeed, dusky outside, and the moon was setting over the mountains. I thought for a moment of entering the church and lingered near the door, which was open; from inside spilled candlelight and a smell of burning wax and incense, and the interior that looked profoundly dark at midday was warm and beckoning at this hour. I could hear the monks chanting. The melancholy swell of the sound went into my heart like a dagger. They had probably been doing just this, some dim morning in 1477 when Brothers Kiril and Stefan and the other monks had left the graves of their martyred friends—in the ossuary?—and set off through the mountains, guarding the treasure in their wagon. But which direction had they gone? I faced east, then west—where the moon was dropping out of sight very fast—then south.
“A breeze had begun to stir the leaves of the lindens, and after a few minutes I saw the first light of the sun reaching far across the slopes and over the monastery wall. Then, belatedly, a rooster crowed somewhere in the confines of the monastery. It would have been a moment of exquisite pleasure, the kind of immersion in history I’d always dreamed of, if I’d had the heart for it. I found myself turning slowly, willing myself to intuit the direction Brother Kiril had traveled. Somewhere out there was a tomb—maybe—whose location had been lost so long that even the knowledge of it had vanished. It might be a day’s journey on foot, or three hours, or a week. ‘Not much farther and without incident,’ Zacharias had said. How far was not much farther? Where had they gone? The earth was stirring now—those forested mountains with their dusty outcroppings of rock, the cobbled courtyard under my feet and the monastery meadows and farm—but it kept its secret.”
“At about nine that morning we set off in Ranov’s car with Brother Ivan navigating in the front seat. We took the road along the river for about ten kilometers, and then the river seemed to disappear, and the road followed a long, dry valley, which looped precipitously around among hills. The sight of this landscape jarred something in my memory. I nudged Helen and she frowned at me. ‘Helen, the river valley.’
“Her face cleared then, and she tapped Ranov on the shoulder. ‘Ask Brother Ivan where the river went. Did we cross it somewhere?’
“Ranov spoke to Brother Ivan without turning and reported back to us. ‘He says the river dried up here—it is behind us now, where we crossed the last bridge. This was the river valley a long time ago, but there is no more water in the valley.’ Helen and I looked silently at each other. Ahead of us, at the end of the valley, I saw two peaks rising sharply out of the hills, two lone mountains like angular wings. And between them, still far off, we could see the towers of a little church. Helen suddenly grasped my hand hard.
“A few minutes later we turned up a dirt track into broad hills, obeying a sign for a village I’ll call Dimovo. Then the road narrowed and Ranov pulled up in front of the church, although Dimovo itself was nowhere in sight.
“The Church of Sveti Petko the Martyr was very small—a weathered stucco chapel—and it sat by itself in a meadow that might have been used for haying late in the season. Two crooked oak trees made a shelter above it, and next to it huddled a graveyard of a sort I hadn’t seen before—peasant graves, some of them dating back to the eighteenth century, Ranov explained proudly. ‘This is traditional—there are many such places where the rural workers are buried even today.’ The grave markers were stone or wood, with a triangular cap at the top, and many had small lamps set at their bases. ‘Brother Ivan says the ceremony will not begin until eleven-thirty,’ Ranov told us as we lingered there. ‘They are preparing the church now. He will take us to visit Baba Yanka first, and then we will return to observe everything.’ He gave us a hard look, as if to see what interested us most.
“‘What’s going on there?’ I pointed to a group of men working in the field next to the church. Some were dragging wood—logs and great branches—into a pile, while others set down bricks and stones around them. They had already collected a vast arsenal from the forest.
“‘Brother Ivan says that is for the fire. I had not realized this, but there will be walking in the fire.’
“‘Fire walking!’ Helen exclaimed.
“‘Yes,’ Ranov said flatly. ‘You know of this custom? It is rare in Bulgaria in this modern era, and even rarer in this part of the country. I have heard of fire walking only in the Black Sea region. But this is a poor and superstitious area that the Party is still working to improve. I have no doubt such things will be eliminated eventually.’
“‘I have heard of this.’ Helen turned earnestly to me. ‘It was a pagan custom, and it became a Christian one in the Balkans as the people were converted. Usually it is not so much walking as dancing. I am very glad we will get to watch such a thing.’
“Ranov shrugged and herded us away toward the church, but not before I’d seen one of the men working around the wood suddenly lean forward and ignite the pile. It caught quickly and blazed up, then spread, then began to roar. The wood was tinder dry and the flames soon reached the top of the pile, so that every branch glowed. Even Ranov stood still. The men who’d built it stepped back a few feet, then a few more, and stood wiping their hands on their trousers. With a rush the fire leaped fully to life. The flames were nearly as high as the roof of the church nearby, although far enough from it for safety. We watched the fire eating this enormous meal until Ranov turned away again. ‘They will let it burn and die for the next few hours,’ he said. ‘Even the most superstitious would not dance in it now.’
“As we entered the church, a young man, apparently the priest, came forward to greet us. He shook our hands with a pleasant smile, and he and Brother Ivan bowed cordially to each other. ‘He says he’s honored to have you here for their saint’s day,’ Ranov reported a little dryly.
“‘Tell him we are honored to be able to see the festival. Would you ask him who Sveti Petko is?’
“The priest explained that he was a local martyr, killed by the Turks during their occupation for his refusal to give up his faith. Sveti Petko had been the priest of an earlier church on this site, which the Turks had burned, and even after his church was destroyed he had refused to accept the Muslim faith. This church had been erected later and his relics interred in the old crypt. Today, many people would come to kneel there. His special icon, and two others of great power, would be carried in procession around the church and through the fire. Here was Sveti Petko, painted on the front wall of the church—he pointed to a faded fresco behind him, which showed a bearded face not unlike his own. We should come back and take a tour of the church when he had everything ready. We were welcome to see the whole ceremony and to receive the blessing of Sveti Petko. We would not be the first pilgrims from other lands who had come to him and been relieved of sickness or pain. The priest smiled sweetly at us.
“I asked him through Ranov if he had ever heard of a monastery called Sveti Georgi. He shook his head. ‘The nearest monastery is Bachkovski,’ he said. ‘Sometimes monks from other monasteries have come here on pilgrimage, too, over the years—mostly long ago.’ I took this to mean that pilgrimages had probably ceased since the communist takeover, and made a mental note to ask Stoichev about t
his when we got back to Sofia.
“‘I will ask him to find Baba Yanka for us,’ Ranov said after a moment. The priest knew exactly which house was hers. He wished he could go with us, but the church had been closed up for months—he came here only on holidays—so he and his assistant still had much to do.
“The village lay in a hollow just below the meadow where the church stood, and it was the smallest community I’d seen since coming to the East Bloc: no more than fifteen houses huddled almost fearfully together, with apple trees and flourishing vegetable gardens around the outskirts, dirt paths just wide enough for a wagon to drive through the middle, an ancient well with a wooden pole and bucket hanging over it. I was struck by the utter lack of modernity and found myself reading it for signs of the twentieth century. Apparently this century was not occurring there at all. I felt almost betrayed when I saw a white plastic bucket in the side yard of one of the stone houses. These houses seemed to have grown up out of piles of gray rock, their upper stories stuccoed as an afterthought, their roofs made of smooth slate shingles. Some of them boasted beautiful old half-timbered ornamentation that would have looked at home in a Tudor village.
“As we entered Dimovo’s one street, people began to come out of their houses and barns to greet us—mainly old people, many of them gnarled almost beyond belief from hard labor, the women grotesquely bowlegged, the men hunched forward as if perpetually carrying an invisible sack of something heavy. Their faces were brown-skinned, red-cheeked—they smiled and called greetings, and I saw the flash of toothless gums or glinting metal in their mouths. At least they got some dental work, I thought, although it was hard to imagine where or how. A few of them came forward to bow to Brother Ivan, and he blessed them and seemed to be making inquiries among them. We walked to Baba Yanka’s house in the midst of a small crowd, the youngest members of whom might have been seventy, although Helen told me later that these peasants were probably twenty years younger than they looked to me.