They Were Counted (35 page)

‘You have nothing to fear, Mr Notary. State legal officers are elected by the community and can only be displaced as a result of disciplinary action.’

‘Yes, yes, of course I know that, but …’ He looked around him as if to be sure that no one would overhear, then: ‘Look, sir, between men of the world, between gentlemen, I don’t need to hide the truth. The fact is I fixed the last elections in Hunyad. The government candidate won by nine votes, and that was only because I myself had brought in all the voters from here, all thirty-seven of them. Well, now I hear that some people are
saying
that the election was rigged and that twenty of those I brought were never on the electoral roll. The rascals! Someone’s already been up to spy around. Of course I threw him out.’

‘What really did happen?’

The notary, thinking his explanation had been convincing enough, began to bluster: ‘Well, the district judge is a good friend of mine. It was he who asked me to bring everyone. There are many bad people here; they hate me because I keep strict order, don’t let them get away with anything! Also I’m the only real Hungarian here, in this little outpost. Let them grumble, I’m not afraid! But if we had a new county prefect, named by the
government
, then perhaps they’d think they could testify against me. False witness, of course, false witness!’ He struck the pommel of his saddle to emphasize his point.

There was no need for Balint to reply at once as the road just then descended to a small river and the riders were obliged to go in single file, the sure-footed little ponies wading through the swift running water carefully testing each step for sharp or dangerous stones. When they had made the crossing successfully Simo again advanced to Balint’s side.

‘I have something else to request of your Lordship. The church at Gyurkuca is very small and ought to be enlarged. Only a small quantity of timber would do the job and it would create an
excellent
impression if it were to be donated by your Lordship. May I send them word?’

Balint said that he would look into the matter.

‘I can vouch for the district
popa
, a most trustworthy man. His son is actively pro-Romanian, but it doesn’t matter as he is dying of tuberculosis. But the priest is a good man, reliable; he always lets me know what is going on up there! I help him, of course, and try to keep the son out of trouble with the authorities. So can I tell them they can have the wood?’

‘I can’t decide now. I’ll look into it when I get there.’

‘But I’m vouching for him. I, Gaszton Simo!’ The notary was incensed not to have his word accepted at once.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Abady. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I would like you to return to Beles. I have things to discuss with the rangers. Good-day to you, Mr Notary!’ Balint raised his hat and spurred his horse on ahead to catch up with Zutor.

Simo looked after him, his expression full of hate. ‘Damned stuck-up aristocrat!’ he said to himself and turning his horse abruptly he started to gallop back the way they had come. Blind with rage he nearly ran down the foresters leading the
packhorses
.

 

Now they started to leave the valley and climb up to the high mountains. Here and there they passed log cabins surrounded by wooden fences. Dogs ran out and barked, but kept their distance as there were too many people for them to attack with safety. Krisan Gyorgye, in his self-appointed role as the young master’s
bodyguard
, ran towards them cursing, while the other porters and the men and women of the settlement giggled with amusement.

The valley they rode through was filled with a light mist, a
bluish
vapour that softened the outlines of everything around them while nevertheless holding a sparkling quality which hinted that the sun above was shining brightly. Almost before Balint was aware, the mist was blown away by the mountain breezes and the little party emerged on to a high ridge from which they could see an endless panorama of mountains and forests stretching into the far distance.

They stopped. There was not a cloud in the sky which arched above them like an ice-blue celestial dome. The mountain ranges in front receded in ever paler shades of cobalt, darkening only in the intervening valleys. On their left the bright sunlight etched the outlines of ridge after ridge of dense forest. As Balint took out his maps, Andras showed him the landmarks in front of them.

‘There, on the right, is the Gyalu Boulini! The Szamos river curves round the base of the mountain. That sandy hill there marks the start of the foothills of the Humpleu, but we can’t see the summit from here, it’s too far away. Our boundary lies on the top of that mountain ridge – there! – and then descends to the river. Beyond lie the Church lands, there, on the fourth ridge, is the Intreapa. The boundary follows that bend, rises to the left and then rises again to the summit. That’s the third side. His Lordship’s Valko forest meets the State lands at the Pietra
Talharalui
, those high cliffs there.’ He pointed at three rocks rising like giants’ tombstones on the horizon.

Far in the distance, about four or five miles away beyond the deep valley of the Szamos river which was shrouded in wisps of low cloud, Balint could just make out some faint black specks on the snow-covered mountainside and, behind them, a patch of grey that seemed to have a toothpick planted upright beside it.

‘Is that the church of Gyurkuca? Perhaps we could pass that way tomorrow? I’d like to see it.’

‘As your Lordship wishes.’

The road was extremely steep and also, because it was used by the peasants for hauling down the cut tree trunks, very
slippery
. To Balint it seemed a miracle that the little ponies could manage to climb it at all. As they went on their way they met a few Romanian peasants on the way down, their ox-carts dragging huge trunks after them. Each time a cart appeared, Krisan Gyorgye would run forward ordering them out of the way shouting and waving his arms about to show the
Mariassa
– the exalted one – that he was loyal, efficient, and always strict and severe in his master’s service. His zeal was such that Balint had occasionally to intervene to prevent him boxing the ears of the poor sandal-shod peasants. Andras Zutor’s behaviour was quite different. Always soft-spoken, he opened his mouth only if it were necessary to ask for a receipt or check that no more than the quota had been taken. Then he would ride on without a word.

The little party finally arrived at the highest point of the track which marked the boundary of the Abady forest holdings. Here they rested for a while and Balint dismounted to sit on a rock and enjoy the view before they plunged once more into the darkness of the woods.

Four of the
gornyiks
went ahead so as to prepare the night’s camp before their master arrived. With long even strides, they soon crossed the open meadow and disappeared into the dense fir plantations.

Abady decided to follow, but this time he went on foot for, not being used to the high wooden saddle and the steepness of the climb, his legs were beginning to feel cramped. Going was slow on the icy path. The forest was beautiful and mysterious, silent and seemingly full of secrets. The sun’s rays, unable to penetrate the dense overhead foliage, cast no shadows and, on each side of the track, dark fir trees stood, majestic in their perfect
immobility
. As the little party moved slowly onwards the deep silence was broken by the faint sound of knocking in the distance and, as they turned a bend in the track, in a clearing fifty yards below, two men could be seen cutting a great fir with their axes. Wood thieves, obviously, for as soon as they realized that they had been spotted they ran swiftly off downhill, with Krisan Gyorgye after them, using his axe-handle as a rudder as he skidded down the slope on his heels as if they were skis. Fast though he moved the men had long disappeared into the depths of the forest by the time he reached the tree stump. For a moment, until Abady told him to return, Krisan stood there shouting curses after the thieves, and he continued to growl and curse under his breath long after the march had been resumed, thereby still showing the
Mariassa
how faithfully he was served.

The camp was well sited, a low stone wall forming a semicircle under an outcrop of rock. In the centre a pillar made of a tree trunk supported a roof thickly covered by fir-boughs. Below, beds of more fir-boughs neatly tied together, were ready for the rugs that would be thrown over them. Firewood, long dry branches, had been laid against the entire length of the stone wall. When lit these would have to be fed all night so that those inside the shelter would not freeze to death.

Even before they had finished unloading the horses and
bringing
their supplies into the shelter, Zsukuczo, who knew better than the others how to arrange the dry sticks, feed the young flames slowly and intersperse them with strips of resiny bark so that the flames spread evenly, had had the campfire started. In ten minutes it was burning merrily.

It was Zsukuczo, too, who had chosen the site. As a former
poacher
he knew the whole forest even better than the others and he knew, too, how important was the protection offered by the rock-face and where the nearest spring of sweet water bubbled up among the rocks. No man bred to the mountains would ever camp on an open site or far from water.

Darkness fell and Zutor handed out the bread, bacon and onions that were to be their evening meal. The men, knowing their station in life, settled near the fire a little away from the place accorded to the master; and when Zutor gave out the large tin cups generously filled with brandy, they all drank noisily, with much clearing of throats, which was the way of mountain folk when they wanted to show their appreciation that so little water had been added to the spirit.

 

As soon as Balint got into his sleeping bag he fell into a deep sleep partly because he was so tired but also because everyone slept well in the sharp mountain air. At about eleven, however, he woke up, conscious that around the campfire his party was
entertaining
visitors. Three men had joined the group, as is the custom in the mountains where men will walk three hours and more if they see a camp fire where they can come and talk the night away exchanging news and discussing their problems.

As everyone thought that the
Mariassa
was asleep they talked freely without restraint. They spoke in Romanian, and one of the visitors, an old shrivelled man squatting on his haunches, who was facing Balint, was recounting a long and mournful tale of
injustice
concerning a house, money, lambs, loans and interest, and cheese. The words
domnu
Notar
occurred frequently and there was some reference to the Romanian priest at Gyurkuca. Even more frequently he repeated a name, Rusz Pantyilimon, and each time he did so he spat contemptuously into the fire.

Balint raised himself on to his elbow trying to hear what was being said, but even though he could remember a few words of
Romanian
from his childhood, he could not grasp the details of the old man’s tale of woe. He understood, all the same, that the others commiserated with him and nodded their heads in sympathy.

At one moment Zsukuczo got up from where he was sitting to stir the dying embers of the fire with his axe-handle. When all was arranged he threw on some new dry branches and, as the flames sprang up, he noticed that Balint was awake. Quickly he turned away and said something to the others who fell silent.

Balint watched as the campfire blazed into life again. The thick logs on which it had been built were already half consumed, and a multitude of tiny white flames glowed round the dark stumps at the heart of the fire. Every now and again, stirred by some
internal
gust of air there stretched out long tentacles of orange flame, dancing with apparent life, which rose up in moving
arabesques
only to vanish and die as quickly as they had appeared. He watched for a long time, feeling that he had never before seen such beauty, such a raging desire for life, and as this thought came into his mind he was reminded of Adrienne flying over the ice. Did she not have the same restless thirst for movement, for life? Was it not of a flame that she had then made him think, as she fluttered, bending and gliding from one partner to another, her half-opened mouth red and burning with life?