Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 31. Chapter 31: Bound & Bound

Chapter 31: Bound & Bound

I GRIP THE GRAB BAR OVER THE passenger-side window in white-knuckle suspense. Sil is taking the curves of this winding country road like a stock car racer out for a Sunday drive.

Still, I'm glad we opted for this rental car, because travelling Romania by train was getting to be a drag.

The narrowness of the forest gap we are driving through right now suddenly gives way to farm fields.

We have been ascending in elevation for an hour, and at some point crossed the border into this new region of the country. Ahead of us lay shadowy mountains, and to them is where we are destined to go.

I think to myself with a suppressed chuckle, 'Transylvania – the setting of so many bad Gothick horror novels!'

And yet, it's lovely in an introspected way. Lush farmland, brooding forests and ice-clear, cold-running streams all bisect this place that had formally been a mere 'setting' to me. Now it's a living, breathing landscape that is beautiful: beautiful, dark and 'haunted.' Somehow I feel privileged to actually lay eyes upon a land that Bram Stoker could only romp through via his imagination.

The road narrows again as we cross a small river, and the pavement begins to veer left into a patch of woods.

My hand goes up to stroke the side of Silviu's head. I let my fingers linger on his ear, because I know that turns him on.

"Emeric, am I going the right way?" There is some fatigue edging the roundness of my partner's voice.

"Let me check."

I remove my hand from his person, and shift drastically sideways in my seat towards him. My excuse is to fish my phone out of my front right jeans pocket. But it is actually also my apology to quickly lay a kiss upon my man. He darts eyes from the road for a half-second to meet my lips with his own. His kiss leaves me satisfied, for as I right myself again, Silviu's tiredness from driving has miraculously dissolved into the contentment of a happy grin.

I check the inner pocket of my blazer and feel my father's letter is safe and sound there. I think maybe I should just take a picture of the contents with my phone, but every time 'I go there,' some little voice in the back of my head becomes insistent that I don’t do that. Wonder why..? Anyway, Sil's idea of having it locked up in the safe of the hotel or Bed and Breakfast we are staying at is a good one, at least a good one for now.

I unlock my phone screen by sliding my fingertip across it, and up pops the GPS map I had been referencing earlier. A red dot on the cartoon-looking course says 'your location.' I zoom out a bit, and see the blue arrow of our destination.

"It's telling me," I inform Sil with a chuckle. "We still have twenty-five kilos to go. Straight ahead, Captain. There she blows!"

Silviu begins to mumble something. It sounds like "I wish you'd blow…"

"What's that you're saying?" My tone is all sparkle.

His voice grows robust; his hand demonstrates the region in question, in case there are any doubts. He tells me with a grin, "I could go for a blowjob right about now."

"OH, Sil – the way you talk!"

"Well, you're not busy, are you?"

"Yes I am, stud. Remember? I'm shotgun to your stagecoach driver; I'm navigator to your piloting; I'm – "

He cuts me off. "You're a Red Cross blood drive to my Dracula; you're a Brazilian wax to my Wolf Man; you're ectoplasm to my Ghostbuster – "

"I'm cream to your peaches; I'm the good to your day…" I lean over again and sneak in a kiss, half on the side of his lips, half on his cheek. I stay close and croon one more softly-aid aphorism directly into his ear, "I'm the jam on your toast, buddy boy."

I sit back, and he glances at me with smirking tenderness. "Nah, baby – though it's a totally worn out cliché to say it at this point – you're Robin to my Batman."

"Yes." I stroke his cheek for a moment, and then roughly pinch his cheeks like I imagine his Daj had done many, many times. "You're Batman to my Robin, and I bet you will look hot in those black tights too – after you get your Brazilian wax, that is."

He laughs. "Well, what do you think part of Robin's duties are! And as far as you looking hot in tights, remember Batman makes his boy-wonder wear them too." His flaring brow arcs wickedly a couple of times over his wink for me. "I can't wait to get to the hotel, and have you start heating up the hair pullers."

I settle back. "Well, we'll see about that." I suddenly remember the phone in my hand. Some backburner notion makes me turn serious a moment. So, while I'm still in the glow of feeling good about making my man feel good, I open a second internet browser and google 'curse' and 'quotes.'

I go to the site I usually look over first to find inspiration and notable quotables. One excerpt on this page catches my eye. I read it over several times to myself. I need a second opinion. "Hey, Silviu. Listen to this:

Bound and bound, a twisted malediction

Wraps around strongest hearts most effective,

Where wound and wound, the spring of prediction

Unwinds angry Fate's direst invective."

"Who said that?"

"Shakespeare's rival – and his buddy and probable lover and twinkie bedfellow – Ben. Jonson. I can't figure out the 'bound' part of it."

"Bind is the old verb for applying a curse. It's like from the Bible – the ancient Greek term translated directly into English."

"There are curses in the Bible?"

Sil scoffs, "You're kidding, right! There's more damnation in that book that glad tidings, IMO."

"So," I say thinking out loud. "A curse can be bound, just like a prisoner or slave can be bound to servitude – that makes sense, as both are miserable conditions to have to live with."

He smiles like he's glad I have learned something, for a change.

I stroke the side of his spiky hair as the car leans into an outward curve. I tell him sincerely, "Your brain is so sexy."

"You love my brain?"

"I love your everything."

"Awww. That's sweet." He adjusts his crotch. "You love my every thing."

I gently remove his fingers and take over their work. I rub up the ridge of his fly and slide my pinky in between the button tops and fabric. Pop. "Well, it's true…" Pop. "I do…" Pop. "Love to…" Pop. "See you happy." Pop.

My fingers have free access now. I stroke him, and guide his standing staff to see the enchanted countryside along with me.

As I bend down to please the man I love, and greedily inhale his mystical scent into my nostrils, I wonder if Bram Stoker's imagination could ever envision this transpiring in his beloved Transylvania. Somehow with a wink and a nod I feel certain he would.[1]

˚˚˚˚˚

We had parked our car in the designated lot, and followed a footpath from there via the sign that said: "To Castle".

Now, as we get into a clearing, I am astounded. My pulse begins to throb in my neck, my breath grows thready, and my sweat glands dilate to let heat flush out as a massive wave from my core.

Silviu and I walk on this wooden drawbridge of sorts. The overpass is long, about one hundred metres, but narrow and barely wide enough for three grown men to traverse shoulder to shoulder. A solid handrail with wooden panels down to the floor ensures no one or nothing slips off of this bridge. This is a good thing, for it's a long way down. The floorboards are cut and nailed together to form a chevron pattern pointing straight ahead, as if there were no other path but this one.

I grip the rail and peer over the side. Two hundred metres below, the craggy rift of this fortified gully levels out to a wide margin of grass and tress surrounding a meandering waterway.

I right my gaze, and from the periphery of my awareness I come to know that I am freaking my boyfriend out. But I can't help it.

Suddenly, I stop walking. The view up ahead to the castle – with its ramparts, and its mountain range of sloping and peaked roofs – is ominous.

Dead in front of us is a square-planned tower. Its height rises above a portcullis to a spindly wooden gallery below the spire of a red roof.

To the left is a mélange of fortifications and other towers, the largest of which is a massive round structure with a wizard-hat cone of yellowish tiles. But it is to the right that all the nightmares of fairy tales reside. A central hall interlaces with an out-jutting gallery of Gothic-style stone tracery, arches and copper gargoyle rainspouts. Bay windows march along like soldiers on guard duty, and alternate between three-sided and curved. These four sentries are held aloft by rough masonry piers that rise all the way up from the riverbed just to support them individually. Atop the lacy stonework, each bay is capped with its own pointy roof and iron-spiked lightning rod. It's the least inviting place I've ever seen.

My vision narrows almost to pinpoint blackness, and fear grips my heart. I have seen this view before: been here before, been frightened by this sight before.

Like a repeat button has been pushed in my brain, the dreamlike vision I have of this place replays; the one I had the night my father lay dead in a hospital bed. I hear thunder crack deep from the back of my head…

"Emeric?" Silviu touches my elbow.

My eyes blink, and my attention slowly finds his anxious face to focus on.

"Are you all right?" he asks quietly.

All I can do is slowly shake my head, but then I inhale with fresh resolve and slip my hand through the crook of his strong arm.

"Let's go," I say, pulling him along. "We're getting close. Really close."

˚˚˚˚˚

Our tour guide is a young woman.

She is attractive, not too tall, and has wavy chestnut hair that is pulled into a loose ponytail. Her voice is thin and droning, but maybe that's just because of all the echoing stonework around us.

A middle-aged German Mann und Frau are the only members of our tour, and they have their 35mm cameras and sunglasses at the ready.

"This," our tour guide intones through a languid Romanian accent. "Is the courtyard of Castle Corvin."

As she rambles on about construction dates, my Romani protector slips his hand in mine. He shakes it gently until I glance up into his soulful blue eyes.

Silviu plants a sultry whisper on my ear. "It will be all right. We're in this together."

He squeezes my hand to make sure I get the message. I smile briefly to make sure he knows I am listening.

Our tour guide's hand goes up. "This way, please."

She heads to a wide doorway in a plain stone wall that bears the clear outline of a missing porch roof. That silhouette, of course, is in the shape of a witch's hat.

We let the German couple go first, and as I try to walk without Sil's hand in mine, he tightens his grip.

"How ya doin?" he asks.

"You ever have déjà vu so bad that you can hardly move?"

"Hang in there, Em."

We go through the portal, our eyes begin to adjust to the lower light, but even without 'seeing' it, I know this a cavernous room.

"Welcome to the Knights' Hall. This is the central ceremonial space of the castle, and it saw many distinguished guests."

She strides into the heart of the space. Four red-veined, eight-sided columns march down the centre. High Gothic vaulting forms a ceiling in stone. On one side, deep recesses in the fortification walls ends in fancy windows, and marbles steps lead up to niches.

Glass display cases with arms and armament line the other long wall.

"This space," drones our guide. "Was also a judgment room. The most famous case being against Prince Vlad of Walachia in 1462. Laszlo Corvinus, Lord of Hunyadi, and brother to the reigning monarch of Hungary, charged Vlad the Impaler with being in leagues with the Ottomans, and the Devil."

She steps to one of the niches, and points ominously towards its floor. The Germans crowd around her, subtly pissing her off.

"Vlad was imprisoned right here – stand back please – in the castle's oubliette."

I heard the German lady mumble, "Was ist ein Oubliette?"

Her husband shrugs.

The tour guide brings her hands together by her waist in a show of professional annoyance. "An oubliette is like a dungeon, only it is designed to be a shaft pit from which no prisoner could ever climb, and which was narrow and cramped. These spaces were intended to hold only one or two men at a time."

"Right here?" I ask.

"The shaft sinks about ten metres, but yes. Vlad Tepes was kept right under the Knights' Hall as a most valuable prisoner."

The German's have a moment to snap pictures.

Silviu moves his hand to grip my shoulder from behind. He says low to me, "Lock 'em and forget 'em."

My ears suddenly ring as if under water; my head trembles like I have a chill. My focus shifts out of this fine medieval hall and into a cess-like pit. One man is sitting in the tattered remnants of silk finery. He holds his back rigid against the wall and concentrates on the noise of activity coming from above him.

His mind is targeting some one of those people over his head, and the one who wields power over his fate. This man's jaw is set and almost froths with an awesome display of psychic prowess. And then, his eyes refocus and look at me.

"Emeric..?" Sil's voice finds me again.

I blink.

Every one of the tour party is regarding me with concerned attention.

"Very interesting," I say with halfway believable aplomb.

After a moment of doubt, the tour guide's hand goes up towards the exit. "All right, shall we continue?" Her tone is icy and efficient.

She leads us out the way we came, and across the narrow end of the courtyard is another door. This one is fancy: curved on top and the frame surrounding the portal is all worked in Gothic gewgaws and swoops. She enters, and we follow.

It is quiet in here.

As our docent steps to the centre of the space, my eyes wander up. Half of the room is below a simple arched ceiling, while the other half is formed by a five-sided niche in high Gothic vaulting. The two narrow windows set in the angled walls allow some stain-glass light into the room, and the moody shafts of red and blue fall across someone's sepulchre.

"This is the chapel; the final resting place of Lord Laszlo Corvinus. This sacred space was also the site of recent intrigue. A few years back, a former night guard was bribed to allow in satanic worshipers who held a ritual here." Her hand commands attention to a rough and ancient-looking exterior door strapped with iron, and her tone softens to one of dark intrigue.

"After this devil-worshiping ceremony, this heavy door would repeatedly open and close on its own every night for a month. Fortunately, the guard was caught, and the black-arts practitioners have not been allowed back in."

Her voice changes to one of resumed disinterest. "Now, if you will follow me…"

Silviu scoffs gently into my ear, "Haven't been back, as far as they know – "

I interrupt him by pointing at the tour guide. "Um, excuse me – but if Lord Laszlo is buried here, where is his wife?"

She looks at me wide-eyed and mystical. "Her story is coming."

Her hand goes up melliferously, and her banal tone reasserts her control. "Now, if you will please follow me."

She leads the way with the Germans starting to follow. But before they move on they cast furtive and suspicious glances at my face; no doubt they are wondering what there is to get upset about. As I take a step, Sil's hand slips into mine, and this time I need and want it, so I squeeze him hard.

We exit the door we came in, and follow our guide as she strides halfway down the long side of the court. She walks up to the bottom of a wide and fancy set of exterior steps.

"Now, we will visit the state apartments."

She begins to climb, and Sil and I are next, as it seems the Germans need a little extra time, and a firm grip on the stone banister.

While we mount the broad steps, Silviu asks me, "So, what did you see in the knights' room?"

"I saw him."

"Him, who?"

"I saw Vlad Tepes. He was in the oubliette, sitting, focusing his powers against his captors. It was a long, long time ago."

Sil grips my hand tighter, and whispers in slow amazement, "No shit..?"

"It was scary, Silviu. Scary."

His hand detaches from mine and goes to rest above my belt at my lower back. He rubs over my jacket lightly. "It's all right," he sighs. "One step at a time."

The German gentleman speaks to his wife with a tone that comes out louder than a whisper, "Ach! Junge Liebe, erinnerst du dich..?"

His wife replies, "Ja, sie sind so ein süßes Paar."

Despite my dire mood, I find myself chuckling softly.

"What," Sil laughs. "What did they say?"

I place my hand on his lower back – interlacing our arms behind us – and lean in a bit as I hug him. "They're musing that young love is a wonderful thing, and that we make a beautiful couple."

Sil lets out a breath of confirmation. "Damn right we do!" He kisses my ear when we get to the top.

Our docent is down about five metres from us, waiting on a colonnaded walkway open to the elements on the courtyard side. She waits for the older pair to catch up before leading us into a set of connecting chambers.

This first room is painted in a faded red, and display cases line the side walls.

She strides up to a table in the centre of the room. On it sits a model of the castle and its hilltop setting. She passes her hands over the top of it protectively while the Germans snap pictures of it.

She tells us calmly, "These apartments were occupied by successive lords and ladies of Castle Corvin. I will tell you now of one who never left. Reports have come in for hundreds of years of a lady in red who haunts these chambers.

"She is seen most often on the eve of political turmoil, most notably in 1918 when the citizens of Transylvania rioted for this territory to be taken from Hungary and united with Romania. She also appeared before the Nazi invasion in 1940, and then again in December before the democratic revolution of 1989. She seems to feed off of political peril and uncertainly."

"Und," says the German lady. "Who is she, this Geist – ghost?"

"Lady Gretza Corvinus. The wife of the man buried in the chapel." She finds and holds my gaze, continuing, "As for where her earthly remains are, no one knows for sure."

I glance towards Silviu fighting down the knot in my stomach.

The guide's hand goes up again. "If you will follow me."

She exits into the next chamber with the older couple following.

Sil pokes me in the ribs with a gentle elbow. He is all smiles as he says, "You don’t believe it, do you? Every castle has its resident lady ghost in grey, black, or pink polka dot."

I stifle my laugh. "Shoosh. Our tour maven already doesn't like us. Don’t make it worse…"

We start walking into the next chamber, giving each other the hush finger.

We are so focused on one another, we stumble right up to the portrait our docent is gesturing to.

"This," she says. "Is Lord Laszlo, the man who imprisoned Vlad Tepes here in 1462."

Silviu makes a small gasp.

"What?" I ask him.

He leans in and whispers pretty loudly, "He looks like you."

I glance back at the portrait and catch the Germans' reaction as they think they see the resemblance too.

The man sitting in the medieval portrait is about thirty years old. He is handsome, but his eyes look troubled and burdened with terrible secrets. A reassuring hand his is on his lower arm. A younger man stands to his right and behind him, and his eyes are aglow with what I interpret as devotion and gratitude.

"Who is the younger man?" I ask.

"He is the lord's chief retainer and advisor, Lord Louis."

"Was it customary for masters to be painted with their retainers?"

"Yes and no," she says with obvious enjoyment of her cryptic tone. "Many did, but the relationships were special ones: especially close ones." Her gaze drifts off of me for a moment and lands on Sil while she suppresses a smile. "Next to him…" She gestures and steps back to let us see the painting her figure had been blocking. "Is his wife."

I glance over, and again the sitter is in the centre of the portrait. A noble woman with a proudly beaming face sits holding a baby in her lap. She's beautiful, but instantly I am drawn again to the figure standing behind her with a hand on her shoulder – it is the same young man from Laszlo's portrait, and now he looks just as proud, but also protective.

"Wait," I stammer. "She is his wife?" I gesture to the other portrait.

"Yes, this is Lord Laszlo's second wife."

"Und her name?" asks the German man.

The tour guide pivots her head straight to me. "Lady Maria Corvinus."

I turn back to look at Lord Laszlo's image. As the tour guides rambles on about dates and wars and such, my eyes lock with those of my dead relative. In some fashion, without needing the confusing machinations of thought, I know this man is directly tied to the curse I am dealing with these five hundred and fifty some years later. And yet, within those soft brown irises, the emotion I both project and feel reflected back is the same one – profound pity.

I perceive the group move away, and Silviu – history buff – is drawn by the docent like a child by the pied piper of Hamlin.

I stare into the void of this Laszlo Corvin and wonder exactly how he fucked it all up. The only thing I'm certain of is it has something to do with Vlad Dracul.

The tour guide's voice drifts to me. The room I'm in is empty – they have moved into the next chamber, but I can catch her cold tone saying something about Lady Gretza.

I turn the corner, and there she is, Laszlo's first wife and the supposed lady in red ghost. Unlike the other portraits, she stands as if the act of sitting would convey a weakness she did not possess. She is in fact a shockingly beautiful woman with an almost 'modern' face, which is what artsy types say when they think the person looks like an ordinary slob they could see shopping at the supermarket.

I take a step towards her to get a better look. The tour guide's spiel barely reaches my level of consciousness, for in the woman wearing the lustrous red silk gown is something complex. Above and beyond her lovely features, this complexity swirls around the way I feel in regards to her. Slowly, like a kettle on the flame, the pressure mounts within my brain until I cannot take it anymore. I am in an internal roil of hate for her – hate, anger, sorrow and also, love.

My pinpoint of focus turns black. It hits me all at once, and I feel my jaw slacken. This face, this woman, she is the one from the night the curse passed to me. She was the one standing by my side in my vision/dream, the one whom I both treasured and despised.

I blink.

My pulse accelerates, my breathing shallows, my fists clench, for as my eyes scan the portrait tracing the descending flow of her arm, I see her fingers are resting on the head of a big black dog.

Riding over the brow of this strange beast with red eyes is a ring on her finger – a large cabochon of a stone with an engraved spider on a web.

I reel back with a faltering step. In a blinding series of rapid-fire flashbacks, I gain clarity: I see Ronald's ring in the back of the hearse with me; I see the ring that flashed at me when his hands were on the desk in the office. That odd ring on his finger – I am finally able to 'see' it clearly – it is a spider in a web, and it's not a copy, it's her ring. It's the same one this woman wears before me.

I fumble around, and am able to extract my father's letter from the inner pocket of my blazer. I open it up and find the warnings that made no sense to be before:

"Be wary of the spider's web;

relay none of this to Ronald: EVER!"

I grow paranoid. I feel like someone is looking over my shoulder – her eyes glow in maniacal hate for me – I dare not turn around. Instead I feel like I have to run, so I bolt.

I go back the way I came, and the fresh air on the loggia feels good, but I don't stop there. I run down the length of the of the external staircase two steps at a time.

As I near the bottom, I am close to an all-out panic, but suddenly my eyes meet those of an old woman. She is sweeping with an decrepit broom that is nothing but a bundle of switches and the bow of a tree, and doing so around the low stone wall of a wellhead.

I stop running and look around. This too was in my vision; this was the spot where I stood with that Lady Gretza.

Silviu comes up breathless behind me. "Are you all right?"

I turn manic glances on him. "I know who my enemy is now."

Sil looks instantly saddened. "Our enemy, but go on."

"It's my father's fucking lawyer, Ronald Ionescu. He's part of this, must have been the whole time. He's been tracking our every movement."

I start walking to the well folding my dad's letter and putting it away; Silviu follows me, asking in a stunned tone, "But how?"

"With this." I pull out my cell phone. "This is how he keeps finding us. I should have – "

"It's ok, baby. We know now, and that what's important."

The old woman approaches us. She gestures towards the chapel walls and speaks to us with a heavy accent. "They are still there, you know."

"Who?" Silviu asks in Romanian.

She ignores him and continues in English. "The captive slaves who dug this well."

I swallow down my fear and ask, "Still here…how?"

"On the wall, high up, they placed their names; but they are still here in other ways too. Some say their curse will echo through these walls forever."

She opens her toothless maw and raises a howling cackle. It gives me goose flesh, but she simply sweeps her broom and moves on with soft chuckles intended only for her own amusement.

"Give me that damn thing." Sil takes the phone from my hand. Odd, but because of the old woman, I had momentarily forgotten all about it.

He places it on the top of the wellhead. Then Silviu picks up a loose rock and raises it above my phone. He looks to me for permission.

I nod, and he smashes it with one authoritative blow.

I use my hand and sweep the pieces into the abyss. Peering down, I can see the fragments of plastic twist in the air as they fall like confetti.

Water shimmers far below as my disabled device strikes its surface. It slowly sinks to forever remain at the bottom of the slaves' well.