“Come on! Let’s go!” I whispered. I looked at the clock before I shut the door: a quarter to six….
Peter, snarling and cursing with frustration, swung himself up onto the black horse, and Hannerl struggled to keep the bay still while I mounted. Peter’s horse snorted with impatience while I said, “Good horse—nice old thing—be gentle, now—” and similar daft things. The horse tossed his head scornfully, Hannerl opened the door, and we were off.
It was dark. There were lights in the windows of the houses we rode past; a little snow was falling, just swirling fretfully about, trying to make up its mind whether to land or fly on for a bit. Peter rode straight off at a trot, not looking to right or left. My horse wasn’t keen on the snow, and I didn’t blame him, but I wished he wouldn’t skip about.
I managed to stay on until we came to the bridge.
This was going to be the most dangerous part. The bridge was always busy; it was the only place for miles where you could cross the river, and the road wasn’t an unimportant one: there were always travelers coming and going, besides the villagers themselves and us up at the castle. So I wasn’t surprised to see two or three men strolling across from the other side. They were strangers; they looked as if they’d been for a walk, for they weren’t carrying any luggage, nor were they dressed for a long journey. One of them was holding a lantern. They stood aside to let us by; and then suddenly one of them gaped and gripped the arm of the man with the lantern.
“That’s my horse!” he cried, pointing at the black that Peter was riding.
Peter cursed and drove his heels into the horse’s sides to kick it on. The man leapt into the road in front of him.
“Ringl! Ringl!” he cried, waving his arms, and tried to seize the reins as Peter, galloping now, swept past. But the man missed his footing, slipped on the icy road, and fell heavily—right under the hooves of my horse! I screamed, and Peter yelled something up ahead and the other two men shouted, too; and my horse leapt and seemed to spring sideways and missed the man who’d fallen. But I was nearly out of the saddle and I’d lost a stirrup and one hand was clutching the horse’s mane while the other tugged fearfully at the reins; and as I twisted, trying to find the stirrup and my balance simultaneously, one of the other men jumped forward and seized the reins—and the horse’s head slewed round suddenly, and I fell.
It didn’t hurt at first. I was too shocked. I scrambled to my feet and ran, while the men shouted at me to stop and the horse neighed and whinnied with excitement and fear, and other shouts from behind told me that the rest of the village had heard. How long before the police arrived? I felt sick with disappointment.
Peter had vanished. I hoped he’d managed to see what had happened, so he wouldn’t wait for me; we’d lost too much time as it was. There’d be an alarm out for sure; the horses would be traced back to the Jolly Huntsman, Ma would be questioned, and—
I sank into the snow under the shelter of the trees and the gathering darkness. I felt like weeping. Before it had even begun, our plan was in ruins. Behind me on the bridge, the little knot of men pointed after Peter, held the plunging horse, helped up the man who’d fallen, shouted for help, and began to stream over the bridge in pursuit. The sergeant was leading them; they were armed with muskets….
I lay still, the cold seeping through my dress and straight into my heart, and my pockets full of the now useless garlic. It was all up to Peter now—and a little ball of silver. But would he be in time?
Triumph is a grim quality! Especially when it is not yours but another’s. And especially when that other is a knuckle-chewing, twitching, icy-eyed uncle with a smile like the snarl of a tiger. He welcomed us—that is to say, Charlotte and me and Max and Eliza—into his study with an air of such slinking, smirking, purring greed that I nearly turned tail and ran away at once.
We’d decided to say nothing. Max spoke, and Uncle Heinrich rubbed his hands together and never for one moment let his eyes stray from the two of us. I tried to outstare him, but the chilly gleam was too much for me and I had to look down.
“We found ’em up the mountain, sir,” Max was saying. “They was wandering about lost. It seemed the kindest thing to bring ’em home, like.”
“Very good—very good….” said Uncle Heinrich. “Very pleased to see them….Dear little things! My poor little poppets! They’ve come home to Uncle Heinrich….” And so on, while his eyes flickered icily up and down from our heads to our toes, and his hands, white-knuckled, rubbed each other with a never-ceasing little shush-shush noise, and his lips grinned stiffly.
“They’ve been ever so frightened, your grace,” said Eliza. “Someone’s been putting wicked tales into their heads. They didn’t know what they were doing, I swear they didn’t.”
“Yes—yes—I’m sure you’re right. Poor little things! So cold and hungry! Are you hungry, girls? Mmm? Answer me, now. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, Uncle Heinrich,” I said. I had to speak; he was gripping my cheek between his finger and thumb in a gesture which I suppose might have looked tender from a distance.
He released my cheek, and I rubbed it while he rang the bell. Then he turned to Max and Eliza again and fumbled in the drawer of his desk.
“Here,” he said, and gave them some money. “Take this, with my thanks.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Max, and tugged his forelock. I could see he didn’t enjoy it; he was a bad actor at the best of times and I wondered how he’d ever managed to perform beside Doctor Cadaverezzi. But Uncle Heinrich was in too triumphant a mood to notice things like that, and he patted Max on the back and then (horror!) came between Charlotte and me, put an arm around us both and hugged us. We stood very still.
Then Frau Muller, that sour personage, came in to take us away to be fed—and, I knew, locked up until required, like luggage on board ship. We didn’t say good-bye to Max and Eliza—there didn’t seem to be time—but Eliza gave us a swift smile when Uncle Heinrich had turned to speak to Frau Muller, and Max winked. But they looked as anxious as we felt, and I thought (for the ninetieth time): Have we done the right thing?
Once we were out of sight of our supposed rescuers, there was no doubt that we were prisoners. Frau Muller spoke to us harshly, and Wilhelm the groom—an uncouth individual and a brute with the horses—stood guard over us while we ate, in Frau Muller’s austere parlor, some thin gruel and dry bread. She allowed us a cup of wine each, which, being thirsty, we drank at once; and hardly had the last mouthful of food vanished down our throats than we both yawned and nodded with exhaustion. I remember thinking: This is odd, they’re watching us, and there’s someone else arrived—oh, it’s Herr Snivelwurst—he’s sneezed all over Charlotte, but she hasn’t noticed—she’s fast asleep—someone’s lifted me up—I’m falling asleep too….
And then, nothing but a rushing darkness, filled with strange impressions that loomed like dreams and then sank out of sight: cold; and jolting discomfort; the sound of horses; something that creaked like dry leather; a face thrust close to mine, with an air of stale brandy about it; something that scratched my cheek, like a rough blanket; and finally, silence, and sleep again—the deepest sleep I’d ever known.
Hours went by. I think that what woke me in the end was the ticking. Some clocks are distinctive, with personalities—friendly or malicious as the case may be. I see no reason to deny personality to a machine, in this age of marvels, when natural philosophy is daily plumbing the Mysteries of Life itself. I recognized this clock, and I did not like it. It had a malevolent wheeze. An ancient, fragile creaking from deep inside the case told of how it was gathering its strength for the next tick—and they were very slow and somber, these ticks, as if each one might be its last—or yours….
It was the clock in the hunting lodge. We were there, captive!
I was awake in an instant. I found I was lying on a rug in front of the hearth and that I had been wrapped tightly in several blankets; too tightly to move. Or was I bound? I struggled, with panic rising in my
breast, but found that there were no ropes, at least. There was no fire in the hearth and it was bitterly cold. I sat up. Charlotte lay beside me, similarly wrapped. I shook her, and the movement made me feel very sick and sent blows of pain resounding through my head. She would not wake, and I had not the strength to shake her again. I lay back trembling.
The darkness was not quite total. There was one small window, which looked out at the close-packed ranks of dark trees, and through this a fragment of moonlight, inexpressibly melancholy, filtered hazily. As the throbbing in my head subsided, I looked around and saw by this dim and gloomy radiance that we were alone. Ugly lumps of black shadows thrust themselves out from the rough wooden walls like gargoyles: hunting trophies, the heads of bears and stags slaughtered by the count or his predecessors. It was my fancy, but their glass eyes all seemed to gleam with the same glacial ferocity as Uncle Heinrich’s, and they seemed to be crying silently in their several voices: Victims, victims! As we are, so you shall be….
My hand sought Charlotte’s and squeezed it fiercely. With a sharp smothered cry, she awoke—and sat up, as I had done, and then pressed her hand to her head.
“Lucy! Where are we? Oh! My head—I feel sick—” She sank back on the rug and turned swiftly onto her side, so that I thought for a moment that she was going to be sick. But the impulse passed and she relaxed. “Oh, Lucy, my head does hurt….”
“I think we’ve been drugged, Charlotte. It was the wine.”
“Oh, no—poison!”
“No, not poison—just something to make us fall asleep. I don’t remember anything after starting to eat—”
“I remember Herr Snivelwurst sneezing all over me, disgusting man….Oh, what are we going to do?”
I sat up, more carefully this time, and looked at the clock. It was nearly half-past eleven. Just over half an hour to midnight….
“Lucy, the time!” said Charlotte. “They should be here by now!”
“Perhaps the clock’s fast. I’m sure it’s fast. It can’t be half-past eleven already.” I tried to sound calm.
But she too was on her feet now, peering up at the clock. Just as she did so, it seemed to sense our presence and a spring deep inside its wicked heart began to whirr. We stepped back involuntarily, and the clock struck once for the half-hour and then seemed to sigh with an unpleasant satisfaction as the spring unwound inside it.
“What can we do?” Charlotte said.
She ran to the window. I ran to the door. It was locked. The window was barred. There was no way out….We came together in the center of the room, looking this way and that, distracted, nearly mad with fear.
“We’ve got to think, Charlotte; we mustn’t just give up and start wailing—Miss Davenport wouldn’t want that. Listen: what about the chimney? Could we climb up through that?”
In a moment we were both on our knees, peering at it. Oh, if only it wasn’t so dark—and if only all the shadows weren’t so full of horrors. But we felt all round the sooty cavity with our hands, and no, there wasn’t room. It was only a narrow slot in the wall, lined with bricks, not one of those great friendly chimneys you could get right into and sit next to the fire.
What next? Could we break the door down?
No—it was too solid, and there was no furniture, nothing to use as a battering ram, even if we had the strength, which we did not.
The window? Could we slip through the bars?
No—we might break the glass, but the bars were too closely set and newly fixed into the wood. It was then that I saw our uncle’s wickedness most clearly. He knew we’d try to escape; he knew he’d have to block every means; and even in a small detail like barring the window, he’d been thorough. I nearly despaired. It seemed that he’d thought of everything. We were helpless.
“Lucy,” whispered Charlotte, “what will he do?”
No need to ask who he was: Zamiel, of course.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” I said, so frightened that I sounded angry.
“He’ll tear us to pieces!” she said, and her voice was so weak it was almost lost. “The hounds—I’ve seen what they do—”
“Oh, so have I! Do stop, Charlotte! We’ll be all right. Miss Davenport said….”
Charlotte sank to the floor again and drew the blankets over herself. It might have been cold or it might have been terror; I felt both those sensations myself, and was powerfully tempted to join her. But I thought of Miss Davenport, and of Hildi, on her way now to rescue us. I looked out of the window at the grim ranks of pine trees. Even if we could get out, we would be no safer out there.
The clock ticked on. There was a peal of thunder, very far away over the mountains. I was so tense that I heard every sound there was to hear: real ones, like the smug wheeze of the clock, and imaginary ones, like the terrified scramble of small woodland creatures to bury themselves in their burrows out of reach of the Demon Huntsman. Who would be here in—I looked at the hated instrument—a quarter of an hour….
Another peal of thunder. And what was that? Hooves? And that far-off, lost, wailing sound, like the voices of phantom children on the shores of the kingdom of the dead—was that the hounds?
No, no—I was imagining it.
But I wasn’t imagining the hoofbeats. They were louder. They were real. I ran to Charlotte and tugged her up, and we clung together, with no words left to speak, as the rider drew up his horse outside. Zamiel? Was it the Demon himself? But it wasn’t midnight yet, and the horse was whinnying and stamping the ground as if it was frightened itself.
There was a moment’s pause, and then a blow on the door—and then another and another, as if some other demon were seeking to break in and consume us before Zamiel could arrive.
“Hildi!” I cried, more in despair than hope.
But another voice answered—a man’s, and we could not hear what he said, for now there was no doubt about it: above his voice sounded the eerie baying of hounds, coming nearer. Charlotte’s hands were gripping mine and our eyes were turned toward the door in terror, as the man outside shouted louder and hammered more furiously on the heavy door.
And then, pure and savage and blood-chilling, came the worst sound of all: the single wild note of a hunting horn….
I had to keep saying to myself: Peter’ll lose the police, he’s too clever for them, they’ll never find him….Because otherwise, I’d have cried.
It all depended on him. There was nothing I could do. A terrible feeling, that: to see something dreadful happening and to be powerless to help….But as I sat shivering in the darkness and listened to the shouts of pursuit dying away up the road and felt my shoulder and arm begin to throb with pain from where I’d fallen on them, I was conscious of something I’d never known before—and it was so odd that I couldn’t put a name to it, at first. I had to search my memory before I came up with the word that fitted. And that word was vengeance.
Yes, it was very strange. You read about the banditti in Sicily, about their blood feuds and their proud way of avenging their honor, and you think: Well, they’re different, those Southerners, they’re more passionate than we are. We’re a bit stolid here in Switzerland; we don’t carry on like that. But then you remember that William Tell was Swiss, and was there ever a braver, prouder action than when he tucked the second arrow into his belt, to use on the hated tyrant Gessler if he’d missed and killed his son with the first? Maybe we’re not so dull. Maybe we can be passionate too, if we’re stirred. And I was stirred now. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I was going to do something. Count Karlstein was as bad as Gessler—if not worse—and it was time someone told him so. I set off for the castle.
I can’t really remember that walk up the mountain. Hardly surprising, I suppose; I’d done it so many times, I could have walked up there with my eyes shut and not fallen over the edge. All I can recall is a sensation as if I had thunder and lightning inside me. Anger; fury. I was hot and cold and dizzy and tired, and I suppose a little crazy by now. It seemed to take no ti
me at all before I was standing outside the castle gate.
I looked up at the tower first, to see if his study window was illuminated. It wasn’t. Well, if he wasn’t there, I could get there first—and give him a surprise when he did arrive. Very quietly, then, and taking great care to keep in the shadows, I slipped inside the gate and made my way around the edge of the courtyard. One or two of the dogs looked up, and my heart missed a beat, but dogs don’t know if you’ve been dismissed; as far as they were concerned, I still belonged, and when they’d seen who it was, they settled down again.
The castle clock struck as I came to the stable door: eight o’clock. I lifted the latch and went inside, feeling my way along the wall until I came to the door of a little room where I knew they kept things like brushes and saddle soap—and candles. I fumbled through the drawers until I found one and then made my way out and onto the back staircase. It wasn’t a route I’d used very often, since my work hadn’t taken me to the stables, but I knew it well enough. It was narrow and steep and filthy dirty—and pitch black. There was a small window at every floor, but this was the shadow-side of the castle, and precious little light—and dirty, secondhand light, at that—came in.
Then I had to creep along a corridor under the attics and down another staircase to the hall. This was the riskiest part of the whole journey. I waited, and held my breath, and rushed across to the fire and lit my candle; and then went swiftly under the stone archway that led to the tower and climbed the stairs to the study, guarding the flame from the drafts that streamed like ghostly flags from every crack in the wall. As I climbed, I wondered how long it would take the count to get back through the forest after leaving the girls in the lodge. He’d have Snivelwurst with him and that would slow him down, but they must be fairly close by now. However, he might not come directly up to his study; he’d want to eat first and get warm.