The Keep by F. Paul Wilson
“And as for my father, he’s spent the last few years in almost continual agony. Completely miserable. And now he’s cured of his scleroderma. It’s as if he never had it! If human misery nourishes Molasar, why has he not let my father remain ill and in pain and feed on that? Why cut off a source of ‘nourishment’ by healing my father?”
“Why indeed?”
“Oh, Glenn!” she said, clutching him. “Don’t frighten me any more than I already am! I don’t want to argue with you—I’ve already had such an awful time with my father. I couldn’t bear to be at odds with you, too!”
Glenn’s arm tightened around her. “All right, then. But think on this: Your father is healthier now in body than he has been for many years. But what of the man within? Is he the same man you came here with four days ago?”
That was a question that had plagued Magda all day—one she didn’t know how to answer.
“Yes…No…I don’t know! I think he’s just as confused as I am right now. But I’m sure he’ll be all right. He’s had a shock, that’s all. Being suddenly cured of a supposedly incurable, steadily crippling disease would make anyone behave strangely for a while. But he’ll get over it. You wait and see.”
Glenn said nothing, and Magda was glad of that. It meant that he, too, wanted peace between them. She watched the fog form along the floor of the pass and start to rise as the sun ducked behind the peaks. Night was coming.
Night. Papa had said that Molasar would rid the keep of Germans tonight. That should have given her hope, but somehow it seemed terrible and ominous to her. Even the feel of Glenn’s arm around her could not entirely allay her fear.
“Let’s go back to the inn,” she said at last.
Glenn shook his head. “No. I want to see what happens over there.”
“It could be a long night.”
“It might be the longest night ever,” he said without looking at her. “Endless.”
Magda glanced up and caught a look of terrible guilt passing over his face. What was tearing him up inside? Why wouldn’t he share it with her?
TWENTY-SIX
“Are you ready?”
The words did not startle Cuza. After seeing the last dying rays of the sun fade from the sky, he had been anticipating Molasar’s arrival. At the sound of the hollow voice, he rose from the wheelchair, proud and grateful to be able to do so. He had waited all day for the sun to go down, cursing it at times for being so slow in its course across the sky.
And now the moment was finally here. Tonight would be his night and no one else’s. Cuza had waited for this. No one could take it from him.
“Ready!” he said, turning to find Molasar standing close behind him, barely visible in the glow of a single candle on the table. Cuza had unscrewed the electric bulb overhead. He found himself more comfortable in the wan flicker of the candle. More at ease. More at home. More at one with Molasar. “Thanks to you, I’m able to help.”
Molasar’s expression was neutral. “It took little to heal the wounds caused by your illness. Had I been stronger, I could have healed you in an instant; in my relatively weakened condition, however, it took all night.”
“No doctor could have done it in a lifetime—two lifetimes!”
“Nothing!” Molasar said with a quick, deprecating gesture of his right hand. “I have great powers for bringing death, but also great powers for healing. There is always a balance. Always.”
He thought Molasar’s mood uncharacteristically philosophical. But Cuza had no time for philosophy tonight.
“What do we do now?”
“We wait,” Molasar said. “All is not yet ready.”
“And after—what?” Cuza could barely contain his impatience. “What then?”
Molasar strolled to the window and looked out at the darkening mountains. After a long pause, he spoke in a low tone.
“Tonight I am going to entrust you with the source of my power. You must take it, remove it from the keep, and find a safe hiding place for it somewhere up in those crags. You must not let anyone stop you. You must not allow anyone to take it from you.”
Cuza was baffled. “The source of your power?” He racked his memory. “I never heard of the undead having such a thing.”
“That is because we never wished it to be known,” Molasar said, turning and facing him. “My powers flow from it, but it is also the most vulnerable point in my defenses. It allows me to exist as I do, but in the wrong hands it can be used to end my existence. That is why I always keep it near me where I can protect it.”
“What is it? Where—”
“A talisman, hidden now in the depths of the subcellar. If I am to depart the keep, I cannot leave it behind unprotected. Nor can I risk taking it with me to Germany. So I must give it over for safekeeping to someone I can trust.”
He moved closer and Cuza felt a chill steal over his skin as the depthless black of Molasar’s pupils fixed on him. But he forced himself to stand his ground.
“You can trust me. I’ll hide it so well that even a mountain goat will be hard-pressed to find it. I swear!”
“Do you?” Molasar moved even closer. Candlelight flickered off his waxy face. “It will be the most important task you have ever undertaken.”
“I can do it—now,” Cuza said, balling his fist and feeling strength rather than pain in the movement. “No one will take it away from me.”
“It is unlikely that anyone will try. And even if someone does, it is doubtful anyone alive today would know how to use it against me. But on the other hand, it is made of gold and silver. Should someone find it and try to melt it down…”
A twinge of uncertainty plucked at Cuza. “Nothing can stay hidden forever.”
“Forever is not necessary. Only until I have finished with Lord Hitler and his cohorts. It need remain safe only until I return. After that I shall again take charge of its protection.”
“It will be safe!” Cuza’s self-confidence flowed back into him. He could hide anything in these hills for a few days. “When you return it shall be waiting for you. Hitler gone—what a glorious day that will be! Freedom for Romania, for the Jews. And for me—vindication!”
“‘Vindication’?”
“My daughter—she does not think I should trust you.”
Molasar’s eyes narrowed. “It was not wise to discuss this with anyone, even your own daughter.”
“She is as anxious to see Hitler gone as I am. She simply finds it hard to believe that you are sincere. She’s being influenced by the man I fear has become her lover.”
“What man?”
Cuza thought he saw Molasar flinch, thought the pallid face had grown a shade paler.
“I don’t know much about him. His name is Glenn and he seems to have an interest in the keep. But as to—”
Cuza suddenly felt himself jerked forward and upward. In a blur of motion, Molasar’s hands had shot out, grasped the fabric of his coat, and lifted him clear off the floor.
“What does he look like?” The words were harsh, forced through clenched teeth.
“He—he’s tall!” Cuza blurted, terrified by the enormous strength in the cold hands just inches from his throat, and the long yellow teeth so near…“Almost as tall as you, and—”
“His hair! What about his hair?”
“Red!”
Molasar hurled him away, sending him tumbling across the room, rolling and skidding helplessly, bruisingly along the floor. And as he did, a guttural sound escaped Molasar’s throat, distorted by rage but recognizable to Cuza as—
“Glaeken!”
Cuza thudded against the far wall of the room and lay dazed for a moment. As his vision slowly cleared, he saw something he had never expected to see in Molasar’s face: fear.
Glaeken? Cuza thought, crouching, afraid to speak. Wasn’t that the name of the secret sect Molasar had mentioned two nights ago? The fanatics who used to pursue him? The ones he had built the keep to hide from?
He watched Molasar go to the window
“How long has he been here?”
“Three days—since Wednesday evening.” Cuza felt compelled to add: “Why? What’s wrong?”
Molasar did not answer immediately. He paced back and forth in the growing darkness beyond the candlelight—three steps this way, three steps that way, deep in thought. And then he stopped.
“The Glaeken sect must still exist,” he said in a hushed voice. “I should have known! They were always too tenacious, their zeal for world domination too fanatical for them to die out! These Nazis you speak of…this Hitler…it all makes sense now. Of course!”
Cuza felt it might be safe to rise. “What makes sense?”
“The Glaeken always chose to work behind the scenes, using popular movements to hide their identity and their true aims.” Molasar stood there, a towering shadow, and raised his fists. “I see it now. Lord Hitler and his followers are just another façade for the Glaeken. I’ve been a fool! I should have recognized their methods when you first told me about the death camps. And then that twisted cross these Nazis have painted on everything—how obvious! The Glaeken were once an arm of the Church!”
“But Glenn—”
“He is one of them! Not one of their puppets like the Nazis, but one of the inner circle. A true member of the Glaeken—one of its assassins!”
Cuza felt his throat constrict. “But how can you be sure?”
“The Glaeken breed their assassins true to a certain form: always blue eyes, always faintly olive skin, always red hair. They are trained in every method of killing, including ways of killing the undead. This one who calls himself Glenn means to see that I never leave my keep!”
Cuza leaned against the wall, reeling at the thought of Magda in the arms of a man who was part of the real power behind Hitler. It was too fantastic to believe! And yet it all seemed to fit. That was the real horror—it all fit.
No wonder Glenn had been so upset at hearing him say he was going to help Molasar rid the world of Hitler. It also explained Glenn’s unceasing efforts to cast doubt on everything Molasar had told him. And it explained, too, why he had instinctively come to loathe the red-haired man. The monster was not Molasar—it was Glenn! And no doubt at this very moment Magda was with him! Something had to be done!
He steadied himself and looked at Molasar. Cuza could not allow himself to panic now. He needed answers before deciding what to do.
“How can he possibly stop you?”
“He knows ways…ways perfected by his sect over centuries of conflict with my kind. He alone would be able to use my talisman against me. If he gains possession of it he will destroy me!”
“Destroy you…”
Cuza stood in a daze. Glenn could ruin everything. If Glenn destroyed Molasar it would mean more death camps, more conquests by Hitler’s armies…the eradication of the Jews as a people.
“He must be eliminated,” Molasar said. “I cannot risk leaving my source of power here behind me while he is about.”
“Then do it!” Cuza said. “Kill him like you killed the others!”
Molasar shook his head. “I am not yet strong enough to face one such as he—at least not outside these walls. I’m stronger in the keep. If there were some way to bring him here, I could deal with him. I could then see that he would never interfere with me—ever!”
“I have it!” The solution was suddenly clear in Cuza’s brain, crystallizing even as he spoke. It was so simple. “We’ll have him brought here.”
Molasar’s expression was dubious but interested. “By whom?”
“Major Kaempffer will be more than happy to do it!”
Cuza heard himself laugh and was startled at the sound. But why not laugh? He could not suppress his glee at the idea of using an SS major to help rid the world of Nazism.
“Why should he want to do that?”
“Leave it to me!”
Cuza seated himself in the wheelchair and began rolling toward the door. His mind was working furiously. He would have to find the right way to bend the major to his way of thinking, to let Kaempffer reach on his own the decision to bring Glenn over to the keep. He wheeled himself out of the tower and into the courtyard.
“Guard! Guard!” he shouted. Sergeant Oster hurried over immediately, two other soldiers behind him. “Get the major!” he called, puffing with feigned exertion. “I must speak to him immediately!”
“I’ll relay the message,” the sergeant said, “but don’t expect him to come running.” The other two soldiers grinned at this.
“Tell him I’ve learned something important about the keep, something that must be acted upon tonight. Tomorrow may be too late!”
The sergeant looked at one of the privates and jerked his head toward the rear of the keep. “Move!” To the other, he gestured toward the wheelchair. “Let’s see to it that Major Kaempffer doesn’t have to walk too far to see what the professor has to say.”
Cuza was wheeled as far across the courtyard as the rubble would allow, then left to wait. He sat quietly, composing what he would say. After many long minutes, Kaempffer appeared at the opening in the rear wall, his head bare. He was obviously annoyed.
“What do you have to tell me, Jew?” he called.
“It’s of utmost importance, Major,” Cuza replied, weakening his voice so Kaempffer would have to strain to hear. “And not for shouting.”
As Major Kaempffer picked his way through the maze of fallen stone, his lips were moving, indubitably forming silent curses.
Cuza had not realized how much he would enjoy this little charade.
Kaempffer finally arrived at the wheelchair’s side and waved the others away.
“This had better be good, Jew. If you’ve brought me out here for nothing—”
“I believe I’ve discovered a new source of information about the keep,” Cuza told him in a low, conspiratorial tone. “There’s a stranger over at the inn. I met him today. He seems very interested in what is going on here—too interested. He questioned me very closely on it this morning.”
“Why should that interest me?”
“Well, he made a few statements which struck me as odd. So odd that I looked into the forbidden books when I returned and found references there which backed up his statements.”
“What statements?”
“They are unimportant in themselves. What is important is they indicate that he knows more about the keep than he’s telling. I think he may be connected in some way to the people who are paying for the keep’s maintenance.”
Cuza paused to let this settle in. He didn’t want to overburden the major with information. After sufficient time, he added:
“If I were you, Major, I would ask the gentleman to stop in tomorrow for a chat. Maybe he would be good enough to tell us something.”
Kaempffer sneered. “You aren’t me, Jew! I do not waste my time asking dolts to visit—and I don’t wait until morning!” He turned and gestured to Sergeant Oster. “Get four of my troopers down here on the double!” Then back to Cuza: “You’ll come along with us to assure we arrest the right man.”
Cuza hid his smile. It was all so simple—so hellishly simple.
“Another objection that my father has is that you’re not a Jew,” Magda said.
The two of them were still seated amid the dying leaves, facing the keep. Dusk was deepening and the keep had all its lights on.
“He’s right.”
“What is your religion?”
“I have none.”
“But you must have been born into one.”
Glenn shrugged. “Perhaps. If so, I’ve long since forgotten it.”
“How can you forget something like that?”
“Easy.”
She was beginning to feel annoyed at his insistence on frustrating her curiosity.
“Do you believe in God, Glenn?”
He turned and f
Magda leaned against him. “Yes. I suppose it is.”
What was she to do with this man who was so unlike her yet stirred her emotions so? He seemed well educated, even erudite, yet she could not imagine him ever opening a book. He exuded strength, yet with her he could be so gentle.
Glenn was a tangled mass of contradictions. Yet Magda felt she had found in him the man with whom she wanted to share her life. And the life she pictured with Glenn was nothing like anything she had ever imagined in the past. No cool lingering days of quiet scholarship in this future, but rather endless nights of tangled limbs and heated passion. If she were to have a life after the keep, she wanted it to be with Glenn.
She didn’t understand how this man could affect her so. All she knew was how she felt…and she desperately wanted to be with him. Always. To cling to him through the night and bear his children and see him smile at her the way he had a moment ago.
But he wasn’t smiling now. He was staring at the keep. Something was tormenting him terribly, eating away at him from the inside. Magda wanted to share that pain, ease it if she could. But she was helpless until he opened up to her. Perhaps now was the time to try.
“Glenn,” she said softly. “Why are you really here?”
Instead of answering, he pointed to the keep. “Something’s happening.”
Magda looked. In the light that poured from the gate as it opened, she could make out six figures on the causeway, one of them in a wheelchair.
“Where could they be going with Papa?” she asked, tension tightening her throat.
“To the inn, most likely. It’s the only thing within walking distance.”
“They’ve come for me,” Magda said. It was the only explanation that occurred to her.
“No, I doubt that. They wouldn’t have brought your father along if they meant to drag you back to the keep. They have something else in mind.”
Chewing her lower lip uneasily, Magda watched the knot of dark figures move along the causeway over the rising river of fog, flashlights illuminating their way. They were passing not twenty feet away when Magda whispered to Glenn.