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mould-scented, all laced with cobwebs. The wolf watches intently, panting, his tongue
lolling over his long teeth. I cannot stop until all the dust is gathered. I make a bundle of
my shawl. As I do so, he goes up on to the track and picks up something small and white
between his teeth. Holding it delicately, like a cat carrying a kitten, he brings it to me.
It is a handkerchief, lacy and delicate, such as an Englishwoman would have. The
initials 'W.H.' are embroidered on one corner. I use it to tie the top of the bundle. Then
the wolf has me carry it to the courtyard of the castle.
The great gateway and the high frowning walls sway across my sight. I am terrified;
ghosts and dead leaves blow about the courtyard, black passages yawn into crypts. Surely
the stone towers will come tumbling down and bury me. My companion shows me a
niche in which to hide the bundle. Then I run away down the long, hard path.
Of the journey home I remember little. My feet were sore, and I was delirious from
exhaustion and lack of food. The wolf must have led me safely back to the farm; my
strongest impression was of the force of his will, which seemed loyal, single-minded, yet
wholly pitiless.
It was afternoon when I reached the farm. I looked around for my friend but he was
gone. I had not eaten for two days, and I was all in filthy rags. The shock of my father
and the farmers when they saw me! They had been searching for me! And I could not
explain where I had been, or why, for I don't know!
Somewhere I stepped out of reality and entered a nightmare.
When I could not and would not explain, my father dragged me to my room, closed
the door and beat me with his belt. I deserved it, I know. Now I am locked in the room
alone, without food, writing my journal to keep me from crying with pain.
I can hear my father arguing furiously with the farmer and his wife through the door.
Oh God, they are telling us to leave! They say that their youngest son saw me feeding a
great white wolf by the well, that the shepherd saw me walking through the forest with
my pale companion. They say I am a witch, in league with the Devil, I will bring a curse
upon them if I stay!
Because of me, my father will lose his good friends and be unable to complete his
paintings. He will never forgive me. Tomorrow, they say, we must go. Oh God, help me.
Soon it will all be over.
Chapter Three
PROFESSOR KOVACS'S JOURNAL
(Our Search for the Scholomance -A Record)
10 August
I begin my record by noting that it is not only for my eyes, but for those of my good
friend Abraham Van Helsing -assuming that I have anything of value to record! (If not,
my friend, one of us shall consign it to the fire!) All there is to note so far is that Miklos
and I have cheerfully endured a slow journey from Pesth to Hermannstadt, and that we
have checked through our equipment; bedrolls, provisions, lamp and candles, and so on -
the minimum we need to survive for two weeks.
It is strange to think that my brother and my dear niece are also somewhere within
these mountains, albeit many miles to the east and north. I have heard nothing from them,
but then did not expect to. They will come home, I dare say, as soon as the weather turns
cooler. No doubt Emil's paintings will be admired for generations to come, while my dry
studies are long consigned to a forgotten corner of some museum archive! Tonight we
camp on a scrubby slope brightened by patches of dandelion and wood violet. Between
the cultivated land and the mountains there is no hilliness -the mountains make a
dramatic barrier beyond which it is easy to believe that a place such as the Scholomance,
where Count Dracula learned his dark wisdom, exists - indeed, from which the Four
Horsemen might come riding down to announce the Apocalypse.
11 August
All day we have walked through the mountains, and the country grows ever wilder
and more magnificent around us. The weather is fine, making hot work of our walk, and
we are both suffering blisters despite our stout boots. A minor annoyance. Nature in its
raw state lends us vigour! Miklos and I imagine ourselves a pair of intrepid explorers, in
search of some fabled land; and the grim nature of our goal seems to add fascination
rather than fear to the expedition. When we make camp I must check our provisions. We
have such tremendous appetites from walking, I fear I may have underestimated our
need. There is no habitation for miles around.
I find our map to be vague, unhelpful and inaccurate. I am adding my own corrections
and notes to it as we go. My compass and instinct prove to be better guides!
Evening
Disappointment! Despite my careful researches as to the most likely location of the
Scholomance - the region of Lake Hermannstadt - we have found nothing. All day we
scoured the area for evidence; a man-made path, remains or foundations, the tell-tale
patterning of the ground that might indicate a building once stood there.
I am being impatient, of course. I knew this search might take days, weeks, even
months! I need only the tiniest seed of evidence to justify a bigger, more organized
expedition. I am, of course, very much out on a limb. It is generally accepted that the
place is a myth, simply a part of the rich folklore of this land. It is more than likely that
there is nothing to find. I am prepared for that possibility.
There is also a chance, however, that the school lay near some other, unknown, lake,
and that the two have become confused in folk memory ...
12 August, morning
The mountainscape in the dawn is breathtaking. Great peaks surge up through the
mist, the lower slopes painted dark violet by shadow. Long tongues of forest run down
into the valleys, but the naked rock of the peaks is drenched by the sun's first rays to the
most wondrous hues of rose and silver. I wish I could have captured the moment before
sunrise, when sky and mountains turned as ruby-red as blood.
We are very high up now, and seem to be beyond civilization, on the roof of the
world. All along the way I have been looking for the smallest sign - and have asked
Miklos to do the same - that human beings once passed this way. A horseshoe nail, a
button! So far, nothing. Time now for a meagre breakfast, and onwards.
13 August
Another fruitless day. We have climbed steep, rugged slopes, wound our way through
thick forests until we are both exhausted and disorientated. My usually infallible sense of
direction seems constantly to disagree with the compass! It will be restored by sleep. We
are camped in the lee of a cliff, and it seems very dark tonight. The fire burns low and
Miklos is in a deep sleep. The weather has turned cold and the howling of wolves sounds
unutterably eerie. These mountains are so vast and wild, it would indeed be possible to
wander in circles and never find our way home. It is all too easy, in a state of extreme
tiredness, to allow all kinds of imaginings to intrude on the mind. No wonder
superstitions take such a hold on the peasant brain. Away with these thoughts!
14 August
We have cast the search wider and are making for a westerly chain of peaks that looks
promising; great limestone obelisks towering from the forested steeps like a voivode's
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