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SERBIA - BELGRADE - PART II
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FEBRUARY 1923
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| FRIDAY FEBRUARY 12, 1923: BELGRADE As we emerge from the forest, exhausted following our flight from the singularly nightmarish horror in the woods, we pause to take breath and dress injuries. Our thoughts turn to Filipovic: The cranky priest set a trap for us – let him now see if his god can save him from a unit of heavily armored, battle-hardened men who are armed to the teeth with all manner of modern small arms technology. Mr. Museltov appears to be more agitated than I had imagined and continues to babble in his hysterical Yiddish drawl something about “On my life! They are all the same! All the same person! Grandmother, daughter, granddaughter – oy weh – what are we to do?!!”  The Village Of Oraszac We formulate a plan to divide into two groups to enter the village and take the treacherous priest by surprise. The group which I join encounters a trio of primeval Cetniks who have clearly been savoring the deadly delights of their self-burnt Slivovica. Before I can say “Jehova”, our raving Rabi decides to rush ahead and discuss the veritable merits of kosher cuisine with the dangerously unpredictable drunkards. I swiftly calculate a variety of probability outcomes, all of which end in some kind of violence and quickly light up one of my few remaining precious Luckies. Fortunately, our colleagues attempt to sneak around the back of the house goes predictably awry with such a ruckus of noise being made by the Hindoo that the entire village, and indeed all neighboring villages, are alerted to the fact that this curious bunch of foreigners is making an attempt to break into the house of their local witchdoctor. A shriek of petrified terror reaches us from the house as I follow my colleagues in. A scene of despair and dismay greets us as the witchdoctor Filipovic gawps in complete bewilderment at the state of his erstwhile wife. All that remains of her lies desiccated in atrophy on the floor. Irma insists on teaching the village shaman a lesson for his wicked betrayal, but it soon becomes clear that this poor fool has already been punished enough. Something has snapped in the poor man’s mind. It would appear that our work has now been done here, so we begin to leave the house and consider our return to Beograd. We meet the village elder who seems strangely comforted by our return from the forest – could it be that we have freed them from an evil curse? His daughter, who had given me the cone which it would seem caused the forest to rise up and turn on the nightmarish incarnations of Baba Yaga and her mobile hovel, also approaches us and presents me with a garland of flowers around my neck whilst placing (to my astonishment) a kiss on my cheek. Curiously, and for reasons which I can find no logical, physiological, or scientific explanation for, I sense a sudden reddening of my complexion accompanied by a singular inability to speak. This matter may merit further study, but, most unfortunately, for the present we have other pressing issues at hand.  Mmm Granddaughter After some discussion about what to do next, including some fairly reasoned arguments for heading directly to Constantinople we decide that either way we must first return to Beograd and can make our final decision from there. The village elder most kindly agrees to drive us to the station, whereupon another highly singular event attempts to outdo all previous singular events for the utter bizarreness of its singularity: As we are driving out of the village a horde of black, demon-eyed chickens suddenly sweeps around a corner ahead of us, apparently hell bent on pecking our eyes from their sockets and feasting on the grey yolk within. But if this is to be Baba Yaga’s final revenge, she once again has underestimated the destructive power of modern weaponry against ghoulish fairytale constructs. My colleagues and I once again follow our well-drilled routine, and to the utter shock of any who happened to witness this scene of madness, we dispatch of the chickens with a combination of grenades, dynamite, and sub-machine gun fire. The village dirt track is now littered with hundreds of drumsticks covered in a spicy sauce of mud, blood, shrapnel, spent cartridges, and cordite. The village elder, clearly in a state of shock, manages to negotiate the impact craters and bring us to the station. February 13, 1923 At last we are back in a town which vaguely resembles civilization, even if this impression is a purely superficial one. Our train leaves late afternoon for Sofia. A growing sense of foreboding begins to cloud the back of my mind, even more so now we possess all but one of the pieces of the Sedefkar Simulacrum.  On To Sofia Nevertheless delighted to be back on board the Express, except when I discover that I will be quartered with the increasingly raving Rabi. He has covered our compartment with a number of occult writings and scraps on which he writes seemingly confused notes in Hebrew. I attempt to talk some sense into the man, but I fear that our episode in the forest may have truly pushed him over the edge into the abyss of lunacy. He begins to ramble on about Heroditus’ records of Scythian burial rites. Between his “vot terrible things did zey do! Death rites, death schmites! Like the Egyptians, cooking zee concubines and everyone else and one year later – fifty more! Ach!” I begin to fear that the Rabi is on to something. He appears to be cross-referencing his notes with what Fenalik had already told him – “Jew, do you fear me? Even the Spartans feared me!” To prevent myself being drawn too deeply into the ranting of this maniac I make a closer examination of the arm of the Simulacrum. It has a metallic or ceramic composition unlike anything I have ever seen – if only I could have access to the research facilities of the Miskatonic right now! I feel certain that I am on the verge of making a major breakthrough in the field of quantum mechanics and chemistry and the relation of time and space to some of the utterly bizarre experiences I have undergone, including my visit to a distant side of the universe during our stay in the dream city of Zagreb. The answer, I feel lies in the relation between sub-atomic particles and their manipulation by forces beyond our comprehension. I will have much work to do if I make it back to the New World alive and with my intellectual faculties intact. Rabi Pini Museltov requests another strong coffee (he obviously hasn’t slept in days) so I head to the dining car. Trent appears to be making a transparent attempt to charm some Slavic “dame”, whilst Simon Grand appears to being similarly “charmed” by the barman Lorenzo. Lorenzo, I later learn, has mistaken Grand for a leading theatrical producer and is prepared to do almost “anything” to get a job on the stage. It also comes to our attention that the rather solitary and paranoid figure of Rich Lazenby appears to be scoping the train and its passengers – but for what?  Relax On The Orient Express As night descends, we are nearing the Bulgarian border. As I carry the coffee to the Rabi, I let the cup fall to the floor, as I espy, to my utter horror, the strutting rooster-like figure of Baba Yaga’s hovel striding its way at an incredible speed alongside the train! I reach for my .38, but as the train crosses the border approaching customs, the hut disappears into the distance… A member of the carriage staff spots me gaping out of the window with hand inside my jacket (luckily without drawn weapon!) and the dropped cup… “Everything is in order, Monsieur?” I can barely nod. “Perhaps Monsieur would like some more coffee?” Having settled my nerves with a drop of whisky, I return to the dining car for a bite to eat and a smoke. We stop for a passport check, which passes uneventfully, and many guests begin to file into the dining car. Amongst them is the odd figure of Biff Baxter. Dressed in full cowboy regalia, the preening yokel spends much of his time ensuring that his ten gallon sits at the appropriate jaunty angle, and seems to enjoy regularly checking his reflection in the train window when his gaze is not firmly set on the barman Lorenzo. I learn from Irma that Biff is one of those actors appearing in those dreadful moving picture shows that are all the rage now. Irma clearly gets the whiff of another sensational scoop for the press and engages Biff in conversation. He then has a chat with Biff’s manager and promoter but spots Biff surreptitiously leaving the dining car in pursuit of Lorenzo. Making his excuses, Irma decides to check what Biff is up to… Trent joins him and the two make their way to the stable carriage where Biff’s beloved stallion is quartered. It is there that a barbaric scene of heinous depravity greets their eyes, with Biff and Lorenzo in what can only be described as an amorous bestial embrace whilst in a state of immodest undress. Irma retains his wits and a single flash of his camera captures Biff and Lorenzo in flagrante and illuminates the ignominious scene for posterity.  Biff Baxter & Snowy I had decided to return to my compartment, in the vain hope that Museltov may have finally ceased rambling and nodded off, so that I could perhaps grab some much needed sleep of my own. Typically, and most tragically, this was not to be the case. As I headed along the carriage corridor, the train suddenly lurched as the emergency cord was pulled and the train began to screech and judder to a htitle. I later learned, that Grand, in this moment had been attacked by someone dressed in a Simplon uniform whilst paying a nightly visit to the bathroom. As Grand struggled, the attacker attempted to slice the neck and hence decapitate our British friend. Grand fought valiantly, and the attacker was unable to achieve his aim of taking his head, but his efforts were not without fruition as Grant’s left eyeball was hideously ripped from its bloody socket. The attacker managed to flee, Grant’s eyeball in his possession, and I would speculate that I saw him disappear into the woods before I was able to take proper aim…  Are We Missing Something Mr Grand? The Hindoo, Irma, and I headed off in pursuit whilst Gaidar attended to our injured colleague. Running back down the track we were able to trace the footprints in the snow of the attacker, up through the forest to a nearby road, where we arrived just in time to see a motor vehicle race off into the night. We returned to the train empty handed. The guards were now armed and patrolling in case of further attacks. A police uniform was discovered on the train. This was clearly a carefully planned operation. Grand is alive but badly injured – morphine helps him sleep, for now. TO BE CONTINUED... |
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