passed between us. But I knew these explanations would fall on deaf ears, and I did not have the words to express what was in my heart. So without another word I left, stepping into the late afternoon sun and cold, an outcast now in my own little world.
I only thought of Hendrik, of finding Hendrik and leaving the town. Now that the pass was clear of snow, a coach came through twice a week. It would come again in two days time. We could hide until then, and then take the coach all the way to Salgótarjan if we liked. There we could find work. We could be together. But where was Hendrik? He knew no one in town but my family. I looked up the mountain. There was only one place he would go.
I would not have tried to take Hendrik to the ruins so early in the pleasant season. While the town was largely cleared of snow, higher up the storms still came, and the wind still breathed bitter cold at night. Sure enough, I had traveled less than thirty minutes’ time before I saw the first fulsome advent of snow and, there, Hendrik’s tracks heading up. I could tell by his many stumbles that he was not used to walking in conditions as these, and I muttered a silent prayer under my breath that I would not find him higher up with a broken leg, or worse. I traveled as swiftly as I dared to catch up to him, but try as I might, he always stayed ahead of me. It was approaching nightfall when I finally caught glimpse of the ruins, but there was no sign of Hendrik anywhere, not even a flash of red from his scarf. There were only his tracks in the snow, fumbling and rushed, as he made his way toward the stone entry of the monastery.
I followed his tracks to the front entrance, but as I passed through the arch, I noticed that they disappeared. Which way did he go? “Hendrik!” I called out, the first words I dared speak in some time. “Hendrik!” I yelled again, but I heard no reply. Or did I? There was a sound, a small whimper, a sound that reminded me of the last time I was here. Wolves! Had Hendrik met up with…? I pushed the thought from my mind and raced through to the courtyard.
The snow was heavy here, up to my knees as it had blown around and drifted against the stone walls. I pressed through it as best I could, wading through the thick morass like a man pursued. I burst into the courtyard and saw… nothing. No Hendrik, no wolves, nothing. The snow wasn’t even disturbed, not a whit out of place, just a perfectly smooth sheen that glowed in the twilight sun. But then, I saw it. A flash of red, there, in the northwest corner by our mound. My heart sank as I thought of Grandmamma’s stories of the snagov vrolok and the evil that befell the men here. But wait… the red was flowing, blowing in the breeze. It wasn’t blood—it was a scarf, Hendrik’s scarf. I ran over to it, stepping through feet of snow each time. I got there, grasped the scarf in my hands, and pulled. It did not yield. It was stuck, still attached to something below, something underneath the snow. Was it Hendrik? Was this some sort of trick, a joke on his part? If so, it was not funny.
“Hendrik!” I said sharply, pulling even harder on the scarf. Still it would not dislodge. I heaved with all my might, and finally, the scarf came hurtling out of the snow. Nothing. It had been attached to nothing. But there was something still there, something in the snow where the scarf had been. A small corner of the scarf had been left behind, thick strands of red thread that had been torn off when it was attached to the branch, or rock, or whatever it had been fastened to. But the strands were growing bigger, slowly but indeed larger, as if swelling, or engorging. Suddenly I realized that it was not thread at all, not thread but liquid, liquid that came up from underneath the snow in small drops, drip drip drip . I knew this was impossible, that drops could not come up from below, but that is what my eyes were seeing, a slow drip drip drip of some thick red liquid coming
I only thought of Hendrik, of finding Hendrik and leaving the town. Now that the pass was clear of snow, a coach came through twice a week. It would come again in two days time. We could hide until then, and then take the coach all the way to Salgótarjan if we liked. There we could find work. We could be together. But where was Hendrik? He knew no one in town but my family. I looked up the mountain. There was only one place he would go.
I would not have tried to take Hendrik to the ruins so early in the pleasant season. While the town was largely cleared of snow, higher up the storms still came, and the wind still breathed bitter cold at night. Sure enough, I had traveled less than thirty minutes’ time before I saw the first fulsome advent of snow and, there, Hendrik’s tracks heading up. I could tell by his many stumbles that he was not used to walking in conditions as these, and I muttered a silent prayer under my breath that I would not find him higher up with a broken leg, or worse. I traveled as swiftly as I dared to catch up to him, but try as I might, he always stayed ahead of me. It was approaching nightfall when I finally caught glimpse of the ruins, but there was no sign of Hendrik anywhere, not even a flash of red from his scarf. There were only his tracks in the snow, fumbling and rushed, as he made his way toward the stone entry of the monastery.
I followed his tracks to the front entrance, but as I passed through the arch, I noticed that they disappeared. Which way did he go? “Hendrik!” I called out, the first words I dared speak in some time. “Hendrik!” I yelled again, but I heard no reply. Or did I? There was a sound, a small whimper, a sound that reminded me of the last time I was here. Wolves! Had Hendrik met up with…? I pushed the thought from my mind and raced through to the courtyard.
The snow was heavy here, up to my knees as it had blown around and drifted against the stone walls. I pressed through it as best I could, wading through the thick morass like a man pursued. I burst into the courtyard and saw… nothing. No Hendrik, no wolves, nothing. The snow wasn’t even disturbed, not a whit out of place, just a perfectly smooth sheen that glowed in the twilight sun. But then, I saw it. A flash of red, there, in the northwest corner by our mound. My heart sank as I thought of Grandmamma’s stories of the snagov vrolok and the evil that befell the men here. But wait… the red was flowing, blowing in the breeze. It wasn’t blood—it was a scarf, Hendrik’s scarf. I ran over to it, stepping through feet of snow each time. I got there, grasped the scarf in my hands, and pulled. It did not yield. It was stuck, still attached to something below, something underneath the snow. Was it Hendrik? Was this some sort of trick, a joke on his part? If so, it was not funny.
“Hendrik!” I said sharply, pulling even harder on the scarf. Still it would not dislodge. I heaved with all my might, and finally, the scarf came hurtling out of the snow. Nothing. It had been attached to nothing. But there was something still there, something in the snow where the scarf had been. A small corner of the scarf had been left behind, thick strands of red thread that had been torn off when it was attached to the branch, or rock, or whatever it had been fastened to. But the strands were growing bigger, slowly but indeed larger, as if swelling, or engorging. Suddenly I realized that it was not thread at all, not thread but liquid, liquid that came up from underneath the snow in small drops, drip drip drip . I knew this was impossible, that drops could not come up from below, but that is what my eyes were seeing, a slow drip drip drip of some thick red liquid coming
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