The Moonlit Pathway | Juliet Marillier #3
“I’m a dancer,” I say. “I’ll manage.” It’s the truth. I may not have the ethereal figure of a classical ballerina, but dancing is my life, and it’s made me strong.
* * *
We’re up here in the tower, just Gabriel and me.
Stefan’s gone away to tick off another duty from his no doubt lengthy list. When the Foundation took over this place, they did a massive renovation.
Now it’s a blend of old and new, elegant and comfortable, with plenty of quirky old touches.
On the same level as my tiny but cute bedroom there’s a study area for two: decent-sized desks, bookshelves, a small electric heater, even a counter with a tiny fridge, a sink and a kettle.
At the bottom of the spiral staircase there’s a little bathroom with basin, shower and loo all somehow tucked in.
The renovation must have cost a fortune, all for the worthy cause of supporting scholarly research.
And, of course, spreading the word about the Foundation’s good work internationally.
If the late Daniel Lupescu, an academic renowned for his comprehensive writing on Transylvanian history, is looking down on all this, I think he must be well pleased.
I’m investigating the tea and coffee possibilities when Gabriel comes in. “How’s your room?” I ask. And can’t resist adding, “Gavril?”
“The bed’s on the short side, but I’m used to that. How’s your room?”
“Nice. Getting our own private space is great. It’ll be much easier to concentrate up here. Quiet.”
“Mm.” He draws a breath. “Gavril is my birth name. I mostly use Gabriel back in Australia. It’s easier for people. Same roots, different branches.”
“And you’re Gabriel in the brochure.” He’s looking awkward. Doesn’t like talking about personal stuff, I bet. “Gavril suits you better.” It’s softer. Subtler. I don’t ask the obvious question about family, but he answers it anyway.
“It is a Romanian name. My mother’s antecedents came from here. A long way back.”
Wow. “From here, as in Transylvania?” It explains his research topic.
“Mm. I spent some time as an exchange student at the university in Brasov. They run a Master’s course in diachronic linguistics.”
“Some time, I’ll get you to explain what that is. Right now, I doubt my brain is up to it. Cup of tea?”
Gavril nods. “Thanks. I’ll make it next time.”
I assemble tea bags, milk, some clean mugs.
All the time debating whether I should ask another question, or whether it’ll make him clam up and destroy the fledgling trust between us.
When he said his mother’s people came from here, did he mean right here, in this small community?
If his mother knows this place, she may have some insights into the strange old story.
Not that I can demand to meet his mother when we get home to Australia. But there are possibilities.
“Sophie?”
I’m jerked back into the here and now. I pass him a mug. “What?”
“I want to show you something. Bring your tea.”
I follow him up the narrow spiral staircase to his room, and although it’s directly above mine, I see that it’s not quite a twin.
His bedroom has a second door. The heavy bolt has been drawn aside.
He pulls the door open to reveal a balcony, just big enough for two folding chairs and a little table.
The view out over the forest is spectacular.
Just as well there’s a guardrail. It’s a long, long way down to the pebbled path.
From the nearby roof of the main building, various gargoyles glare at us.
I think they’re meant to be creatures from the local folklore – an owl-faced Striga, a fearsome C?pc?un, a scaly Balaur with the regulation seven heads.
Every weird face is turned in our direction, as if to say, What do you think you’re doing here? But it’s the forest that draws my eye.
“Is that the lake of the nymphs?” There’s a big body of water there, well shielded by trees, but catching the light of a rising moon and glinting here and there through gaps in its dark cloak.
The moonlit pathway. As I feel the touch of magic, sudden tears come to my eyes.
If that’s the lake mentioned in the descriptions of this place, it has its own stories.
Folk once believed forest nymphs – Iele – lived close by.
Their song was irresistible to men. But they also loved to play tricks, and those tricks could lead folk down dangerous paths.
Perhaps that’s why even today’s tourist info warns people off the place.
“Yes,” my companion says.
“It doesn’t look far to walk.” As soon as the stupid remark is out of my mouth, I regret it. Quite apart from any hostile nymphs, hasn’t Stefan just told us we’re not to go wandering beyond the castle gardens?
“I expect we’ll be needing breaks from study,” Gavril says. No more than that. But it’s as if a light goes on inside me, some thing warm and good and inviting.
“Mm. I expect we will.”
* * *
Next day, we get the quick tour of the castle.
The other women are sharing a long, high-roofed room.
The windows there have coloured glass and the sunlight shining through them illuminates two rows of folding beds, with various possessions either neatly unpacked or messily strewn about, depending on the individual.
Is that a violin case? I wonder who plays. We could have live music and dancing.
All through the tour, Belle and her friends keep talking about this and that, even when Stefan is explaining something.
He’s too well-trained to reprimand them.
However, among our fellow scholars there’s a Frenchwoman, Brigitte, very chic and a few years older than most of us.
She eventually speaks up, telling them firmly to hush.
David, the Canadian, silently applauds her.
Stefan nods thanks to Brigitte, and finally Belle shuts up, though for how long that’ll last, who knows?
I find myself shivering as we head off toward the library. Lovely as the long chamber was, it gave me a strong sense of something not quite right. I wonder what happened in that room, long ago?
“Okay?” murmurs Gavril as we approach the library.
“Mm.” I’m not, really. My thoughts are scaring me just a bit. But I won’t tell him about it now. It helps that he noticed something was wrong.
The library has a collection equal to that of a large university, but with an emphasis on Romanian culture and history.
There’s a rare books section at one end, behind glass doors.
A librarian, Lidia, runs through various rules that need to be followed: no eating and drinking in here, and no removing anything from the library.
Keep noise to a minimum. At the end of the tour, Lidia draws me and Gavril aside and tells us that as we have our own separate study space, we may take books up there provided we first fill in a form for her.
Nothing from the rare books section, of course.
We smile and say thanks and of course not.
I wish I could show her the fragment I already have and ask for her opinion.
But it’s too high-risk; nobody wants to talk about what may or may not once have happened here, a series of events as strange as any fairytale.
* * *
It’s a fine day, crisp but sunny, so the village square is full of folk.
I’ve come down there to talk to a couple of local women who organise traditional dance performances, whether that’s a community celebration on a special day or entertainment for a group from the castle.
Stefan has arranged for them to meet me outside the café.
The women – one around my mother’s age, one younger – are at first rather wary, and my Romanian really isn’t up to the job, but Gavril has sacrificed his own study time to come with me, and the ladies warm to him, though I can tell he’s edgy, especially when interested locals start gathering around to listen.
“And our favourite dance for the spring festival,” he translates, “starts with a double circle, men on the outside, women on the inside. We weave in and out like this.”
The older woman, Liana, demonstrates, lifting her hand to grasp that of the other woman, Madalina, passing and returning.
“The men go one way, the women the other, until we find our true partner again, and then we vary the move.” She stops in her tracks, looking at Gavril.
She adds a few words, raising her brows in question, and he fails to translate.
“What?” I ask.
“Need him,” Liana says in English, pointing. “To show. You and him.”
I’ve never seen anyone look more awkward than my fellow scholar does then. Our audience is growing all the time as people emerge from the café and stop to gawk. I spot Belle and Mandy among them. Gavril’s looking as if he might bolt.
“Please,” I say, and I do that thing, left foot tap, right foot tap, both feet shuffle. After a moment that seems to last forever, he steps forward and takes my hand. Speaks to the women in Romanian. I think what he says is, I am no dancer.
The women break into laughter. It’s plain they’re delighted with the whole awkward situation.
It’s also clear to me that we need more than two couples to demonstrate the dance she referred to.
But as we move into place, the two women facing each other, Gavril and me copying, other folk come forward to make up the required double circle.
Young women pass babies into the care of others.
People set down bundles or bags next to the café’s outdoor seating.
A couple of brawny-looking men and a group of half-grown boys ensure the two circles are of equal number.
I’m impressed. Especially so when Liana sends a small boy into the café and he emerges leading a man holding a fiddle and a woman with an instrument like a mandolin.
When we’re all in place, Liana gives them a nod, and they strike up a tune so lively a person simply has to dance.