Fogg watched the wood penetrating the men, into their anal cavity straight through their guts to their mouths. Spitted and left to rot on the side of the road, an old familiar message in an ancient script.
– Like Vlad, Drakul tells him. Materialises by the fire, sits down to chat. Like they’re in some tea parlour in Budapest. Fogg listens to the night sounds, things moving in the foliage. Lookouts around their camp. High vantage point. The city of Marosvásárhely nestled far below. No SS should be able to sneak up on them. Though Fogg has private doubts.
– Vlad? Fogg says.
– Vlad the Third, Drakul says. Vlad Țepeș. They called him the Impaler. Rubs his hands mournfully together. The sound of dry leather, like pages turning in a book. It is an ancient message for my people, he says. Vlad was a Christian. It is said here in Transylvania that he was a hostage of the Turks as a boy. They raped him many times. When he grew up to be a man he fought them, impaling them as a warning and a message.
Drakul makes a curious noise, somewhere between a spit and a laugh. Through the anus! he announces. His men laugh.
– Your people? Fogg says. Yes, my people, Drakul says. Transylvania is a land of its own. Magyar, Romanian – here he makes as if to spit again – gypsy or German or Jew, we are first, all of us, of Transylvania. It is in the blood, my friend. It is in the soil.
Germans, too, Fogg thinks. A minority in this mountainous land, like the Jews – but their fate in this war is very different. He says, You style yourself after him?
– Of course! Vlad was defender of Transylvania.
Fogg isn’t sure what to make of that. Had found a beat-up old volume of Stoker’s Drakula , in English, that the partisans, for whatever reason, kept. Two names, handwritten inside it, suggested both previous recon officers had had it in their possession at some point. Fogg saw it as an ill-omen. Avoided the book.
– The land and the forests shaped me, Drakul declares. I am of this soil. I am the soil!
He tends to speak in this fashion, when he speaks at all. Declaiming insane proclamations. His men hanging on to his every word. An assemblage of misfits, crooks and the damaged. See this Übermensch as some demi-god, as Vlad Third Reincarnate. Fogg, shivering despite the heat from the fire, tries to draw the conversation, if you can call it that, back to more pressing matters.
– Brigadeführer Hans von Wolkenstein, he says.
A sudden silence around the fire. The men turn black gazes, black as night, on this Englishman, this Fogg . Drakul is still. A piece of night, of old leather, a bat man in this land full of ancient horror stories.
– Der Wolfsmann , he says. But quietly. His voice so soft it makes Fogg shiver. As soft as when he speaks the order to impale his prisoners.
– Yes, Fogg says. Into that silence. Wraps his coat around him tighter. Nervous. The fog hovers at the edge of the clearing. When Fogg is nervous the fog responds. Though it is strangely different here, in the high altitude of the mountains. The fog here responds more clearly, almost eagerly, its touch on the skin is like the touch of silk. Yes, der Wolfsmann, he says, whispering the words.
– What of him? Drakul says, at last. There is a nervous relaxation around the fire. The men turn back to their own affairs, the silence broken. But in this renewed conversation, Fogg nevertheless knows that they’re listening.
– My masters in London are very interested in Herr Wolkenstein, Fogg says.
– So, Drakul says. Seems to lose interest. Examines his nails in the light of the fire. They are long and jagged like talons. Fogg once again wonders what he was like before the change. Before Vomacht. The name brings uncomfortable feelings back. Feelings he had hoped to forget. Had pushed deep inside, into the dark recesses of the mind.
– So, Fogg says.
– He is a bloody Nazi, what, Drakul says. A bad imitation of Fogg’s accent. His companions laugh,
– Like Vlad, Drakul tells him. Materialises by the fire, sits down to chat. Like they’re in some tea parlour in Budapest. Fogg listens to the night sounds, things moving in the foliage. Lookouts around their camp. High vantage point. The city of Marosvásárhely nestled far below. No SS should be able to sneak up on them. Though Fogg has private doubts.
– Vlad? Fogg says.
– Vlad the Third, Drakul says. Vlad Țepeș. They called him the Impaler. Rubs his hands mournfully together. The sound of dry leather, like pages turning in a book. It is an ancient message for my people, he says. Vlad was a Christian. It is said here in Transylvania that he was a hostage of the Turks as a boy. They raped him many times. When he grew up to be a man he fought them, impaling them as a warning and a message.
Drakul makes a curious noise, somewhere between a spit and a laugh. Through the anus! he announces. His men laugh.
– Your people? Fogg says. Yes, my people, Drakul says. Transylvania is a land of its own. Magyar, Romanian – here he makes as if to spit again – gypsy or German or Jew, we are first, all of us, of Transylvania. It is in the blood, my friend. It is in the soil.
Germans, too, Fogg thinks. A minority in this mountainous land, like the Jews – but their fate in this war is very different. He says, You style yourself after him?
– Of course! Vlad was defender of Transylvania.
Fogg isn’t sure what to make of that. Had found a beat-up old volume of Stoker’s Drakula , in English, that the partisans, for whatever reason, kept. Two names, handwritten inside it, suggested both previous recon officers had had it in their possession at some point. Fogg saw it as an ill-omen. Avoided the book.
– The land and the forests shaped me, Drakul declares. I am of this soil. I am the soil!
He tends to speak in this fashion, when he speaks at all. Declaiming insane proclamations. His men hanging on to his every word. An assemblage of misfits, crooks and the damaged. See this Übermensch as some demi-god, as Vlad Third Reincarnate. Fogg, shivering despite the heat from the fire, tries to draw the conversation, if you can call it that, back to more pressing matters.
– Brigadeführer Hans von Wolkenstein, he says.
A sudden silence around the fire. The men turn black gazes, black as night, on this Englishman, this Fogg . Drakul is still. A piece of night, of old leather, a bat man in this land full of ancient horror stories.
– Der Wolfsmann , he says. But quietly. His voice so soft it makes Fogg shiver. As soft as when he speaks the order to impale his prisoners.
– Yes, Fogg says. Into that silence. Wraps his coat around him tighter. Nervous. The fog hovers at the edge of the clearing. When Fogg is nervous the fog responds. Though it is strangely different here, in the high altitude of the mountains. The fog here responds more clearly, almost eagerly, its touch on the skin is like the touch of silk. Yes, der Wolfsmann, he says, whispering the words.
– What of him? Drakul says, at last. There is a nervous relaxation around the fire. The men turn back to their own affairs, the silence broken. But in this renewed conversation, Fogg nevertheless knows that they’re listening.
– My masters in London are very interested in Herr Wolkenstein, Fogg says.
– So, Drakul says. Seems to lose interest. Examines his nails in the light of the fire. They are long and jagged like talons. Fogg once again wonders what he was like before the change. Before Vomacht. The name brings uncomfortable feelings back. Feelings he had hoped to forget. Had pushed deep inside, into the dark recesses of the mind.
– So, Fogg says.
– He is a bloody Nazi, what, Drakul says. A bad imitation of Fogg’s accent. His companions laugh,
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