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SERBIA - BELGRADE - PART I
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FEBRUARY 1923
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| FRIDAY FEBRUARY 12, 1923: BELGRADE Following our arrival in Belgrade, location of Todorovic, and “acquisition” of the necessary papers to convince Todorovic that we are authorised to search for antiquities in Serbia, We are pointed in the direction of a small village called Oraszac around 120 miles south of Belgrade. Leaving the parts of the simulacrum and other heavy items at the Hotel Drina in Belgrade, we head off on the train in the direction of the village.  The Village Of Oraszac The journey takes some time and finally we arrive after a train change at Mladinovic, an attack by a cockerel on Trent in the carriage (an assault which he scarcely manages to repel, I should add), and the amused, puzzled, and some downright hostile glances by our fellow travelers in the nearest station to the village. We are pointed in the direction of Father Filipovic. Those of us who were in dream Zagreb are still haunted by the ringing of bells of that terrible and singularly evil somnambulist metropolis, and are feeling a little worse for wear after the 5 hour bone rattling journey as we are greeted by Filipovic, an Orthodox priest. In broken English he welcomes us into his residency and orders his wife Iblrasze to prepare beverages and refreshments for us, to warm us on this bitterly cold winter afternoon. Filipovic is something of an exception in Serbia, ignoring the traditional local greeting which is to stare menacingly and unashamedly at newcomers, or darkly from behind curtains. We are much obliged of his efforts to make us comfortable. Particularly as we begin to sense that there is a growing crowd outside…   Filipovic And Iblrasze Filipovic tells us of his “Grandmother” who “lives in the woods” with her “Granddaughter”; and provides us with the priceless gem that “Grandmother knows many things”. In all my years of scientific, methodical research I have never heard anything quite so singularly ridiculous. I conclude that the religious and the deluded are even more closely related than grandmother and granddaughter. Nevertheless, now that we have embarked on this nonsensical journey and are now many miles from anything that even remotely resembles civilization we resign ourselves to our fate of having to listen to more of this Gebrüder Grimm claptrap (fortunately the massively bearded Filipovic does not hear our cynical remarks and references to said works of children’s fantasy). As we chat about the likelihood of locating a part of the simulacrum and the benefit of wearing red-colored equestrian cloaks in this godforsaken corner of nowhere, it comes to our attention that the Lady Iblrasze is looking somewhat irked by the growing raucousness coming from the mud track outside which pretends to be a street. The gathering is starting to resemble a mob. Initially we assume that this may be the second stage of a traditional Serbian welcome, possible involving the newcomers or guests being lynched from a nearby tree for their amusement. Father Filipovic assures us that this is “something pagan and embarrassing” – surely as a representative of his god here on Earth he is best qualified to identify any kind of religious delinquency. In any case, we decide to take a gander, and witness a bizarre washing ceremony. The village elder, a certain Mr. Nidic, explains to us that washing a gypsy is "good luck for weather". Personally, I can see more sense in washing gypsies than collecting ridiculous icons if you want to get closer to god, but I choose not to share this thought with Filipovic after casting an eye on his expansive collection of Orthodox icons.  Grandmother Finally, there is nothing for it but to head to Grandmother's hovel in the woods. Somehow I had envisioned a more scientifically fulfilling future for myself than wondering through the Balkan forests in winter searching for some senile old crone. A most curious thing occurs as we depart the random collection of huts and farm animals loosely referred to as a village. A young lady approaches me and presents me with a singular bone carved cone, designed to hold a lady's hair in place. It appears to be of early Slavic Byzantine design and is clearly far too precious to be given as a gift to a stranger. As I smoke one another lucky strike, the maid proceeds to demonstrate and gesticulate with wild, sweeping gestures precisely what I should do with the cone. There is a fear in her eyes that suggests to me that there may be more to the strange gift, so I agree to take it from her. We enter the mysterious forest. Regarding the dark and twisted trees which tower menacingly above us and the thorny undergrowth that hinders our progress and tears at our un seasonal clothing it occurs to me that this is probably a trap and that we are about to encounter the local bandits. For surely no "Grandmother" would live in the middle of a forest such as this... My suspicions are soon allayed as we enter a clearing containing a curious little cottage surrounded by a neatly arranged garden. Somehow I find myself wishing we had simply encountered heavily armed bandits. There is nothing for it, we must go on. Whilst the others take up covering positions, the Rabi Pini and myself are pushed to the fore to greet Grandma. We walk slowly to the front door. From within we can hear a woman's voice singing in a language we do not recognize. I manage to stutter "Hello? Dobrodan?" and the voice answers sweetly "Please come in!" We shrug and walk to the door which waits ajar. Entering the room, we spy a young lady busy sewing a tapestry. The granddaughter introduces herself to us as Czerca. She sits in a large room of the hut. She sits before a large oven and the smell of freshly baked bread lingers in the air. We hear noise from the back of the room and grandmother enters.  Mmm Granddaughter The hideous crone welcomes us to her home, rambles something incomprehensible to her granddaughter and then invites us to stay for dinner. Czerca promptly begins to prepare dinner, whilst the crone thinks about where she may have placed an item similar to the antique item we describe. After some searching, she points to an object tangled amongst some objects close to the ceiling. On her instructions, I climb on a chair and on to the top of a sideboard to reach the item. It is, without any doubt, the arm of the simulacrum. As I reach to grasp it, one of the most singularly unusual, and frankly, surreal situations unfolds that I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing. The basis of my scientific knowledge has been placed under some strain in recent months. The very fundament of modern scientific understanding has been shaken by the horrors I have witnessed - in particular the mind-numbing voice of the Lloigor in the caverns of Postumia which almost succeeded in shattering my faith in existence. But nothing had prepared Pini and myself for what then befell us. As I grasp the arm, several arms from within the roof reach out at lightening speed and hold me firm in a vice-like grip. Shock and terror render me incapable of even a scream as I watch from the corner of my eye as the hideous crone suddenly sweep the oven tray with supernatural strength and speed beneath my feet and in one fluid movement attempt to deposit me in into the oven. The oven, that is, which has suddenly sprung to unnatural life and appears to be eager to consume me. The entire hovel appears to have come to life in a nightmare of childhood visions which even the Gebrüder Grimm would have hesitated to recount. A primitive will to survive forces me to act and I am able to jump clear of the oven whilst still clutching the arm. Suddenly, the whole hut jolts violently and Pini and I collapse to our feet. The hut has become a living entity and rises bizarrely on two giant chicken feet. Grandmother sweeps the oven tray at me again and I am only able to avoid it thanks to the deflection incantation we learnt. Pini does the same as the Czerca lunges at him with a deadly kitchen knife. He fumbles for his pistol and fires off a few shots. Still clutching the arm I launch myself through the ever moving doorway and plummet to the ground outside. Outside the hut I hear the clatter of machine gun fire and the sudden detonation of hand grenades. It would appear that my colleagues have set about their task with the usual, familiar vigor.  Baba Jaga's Hut
Shots also are heard from within the crazily moving hut, when suddenly Pini also falls from the door. We are both out!It is then that I notice to my horror, that the garden fence formerly surrounding the hovel has transformed into a perverse wall of skeletal forms which lash out at all within their reach. Unfortunately I am within this ring of bone terror. I run towards a gap on the other side of the garden and my thoughts inexplicably return to the wild gestures of the crazy Serbian girl in the village. I plunge the cone into the ground and cast a glance back towards the hut which is lurching through the trees in pursuit of Pini. We all then flee through the forest towards the village as the forest undergoes a terrible transformation, which the unfortunate Pini witnesses. I fear his sanity has taken another severe battering as he recounts how he witnessed the spawn of shub niggorath - vast living trees with cloven hooves... He also recalls Fenalik's attack on him in Trieste and his chilling words: "You live because I need my skin to walk amongst men..." TO BE CONTINUED... |
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