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Authors: Royce Prouty
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television documentary and the gracious hands of the avowed, how likely my fate would have followed the same path. Both stunned and humbled standing in that castle window, I finally understood how far I had risen from the stone cold floors of’s rubble.
C ome,” Arthur Ardelean said, “allow me to show you the tourist route we intend.”
Lengthy dinner concluded (Arthur had referred to it as venison, which I suspected meant
local
) and after taking proper leave from Luc, we walked the route sightseers would track on the Dracula tour. Much of the old castle furnishings and decorations had been provided by the Romanian royal family, a combination of German baronial and traditional Romanian styles with dark stains and shadowy accents. Several sleeping chambers had beds of timber beams with taut ropes, the origin of “sleep tight.”
Night had drawn its shade when we stepped out into the elevated courtyard and walked to one of several lookout vantages. An alpine chill had claimed the earlier breeze while the western horizon squinted its last purple slivers. In the east the moon, still a couple days from full, inched over the hills toward. Fast-moving clouds flickered the moonlight’s intensity.
I thought of the soldiers who, over the centuries, had stood watch along this wall. High stakes in those times, when runners and carrier pigeons arrived with skinny notice of approaching armies, when battles lost meant plunder of everything dear to the soldier—not just possessions, but life, home, and family. And for survivors, slavery.
“It is time, Mr. Barkeley.”
Arthur held open a door, and we walked a hall half the length of a parapet wall before stopping at an oak door, built heavy and sturdy like an exterior door, with a double crossbar lock, also of hardwood. Arthur lifted it with ease, and I stepped through into a tall stairwell. The circular stone steps spiraled tightly down windowless stone walls, a twist too tight to see your destination. The air smelled of dust from the stones. At sixty steps I lost count. Dim lanterns cast eerie red light as we descended farther and farther, our breathing and echoing footfalls the only noises.
At the bottom Arthur lifted a lantern from a wall hook and shone it on the door, another solid oak barrier with a speakeasy window and a stout iron locking mechanism. He produced a key from his pocket, a large old-fashioned iron one, and turned it in the opening. I heard two clicks and a loud clunk, and the door eased open with a hiss and a rush of cool air.
Arthur entered the room first and felt the wall for a switch. Sconce lights on three walls clicked on and only grudgingly lit the room, revealing several large wooden picnic-style tables covered with dusty tarps. They had detached bench seats. A couple smaller chambers, both doorless, occupied the left side. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the right side wall appeared to be solid rock. Underfoot it felt like compacted dirt. There was a certain feel to the room I could not place immediately, but I had felt it before.
“Come, this might be of interest to you,” Arthur said.
He showed me to the two smaller rooms along the left side, the first one used as storage for chairs and such. They did not have wood where you might expect door frames. Perhaps they had barred entrances at one time.
“This,” he said, holding his lantern up, “this is where Vlad the Third slept when he was . . . a guest in the castle.”
I looked inside. “Vlad the Impaler.”
“Yes.” A table leaned along one wall, and an empty bed frame along another.
It dawned on me that I was in the foundation of the castle, the part of the structure built from the rock itself, and the temperature and air felt like a cave. The sound from the walls failed to reflect—dead air.
We stepped out of the guest room, and he pointed toward the dark fourth wall. “Back there is the old wine cellar.”
“Which you plan on converting to display the
C ome,” Arthur Ardelean said, “allow me to show you the tourist route we intend.”
Lengthy dinner concluded (Arthur had referred to it as venison, which I suspected meant
local
) and after taking proper leave from Luc, we walked the route sightseers would track on the Dracula tour. Much of the old castle furnishings and decorations had been provided by the Romanian royal family, a combination of German baronial and traditional Romanian styles with dark stains and shadowy accents. Several sleeping chambers had beds of timber beams with taut ropes, the origin of “sleep tight.”
Night had drawn its shade when we stepped out into the elevated courtyard and walked to one of several lookout vantages. An alpine chill had claimed the earlier breeze while the western horizon squinted its last purple slivers. In the east the moon, still a couple days from full, inched over the hills toward. Fast-moving clouds flickered the moonlight’s intensity.
I thought of the soldiers who, over the centuries, had stood watch along this wall. High stakes in those times, when runners and carrier pigeons arrived with skinny notice of approaching armies, when battles lost meant plunder of everything dear to the soldier—not just possessions, but life, home, and family. And for survivors, slavery.
“It is time, Mr. Barkeley.”
Arthur held open a door, and we walked a hall half the length of a parapet wall before stopping at an oak door, built heavy and sturdy like an exterior door, with a double crossbar lock, also of hardwood. Arthur lifted it with ease, and I stepped through into a tall stairwell. The circular stone steps spiraled tightly down windowless stone walls, a twist too tight to see your destination. The air smelled of dust from the stones. At sixty steps I lost count. Dim lanterns cast eerie red light as we descended farther and farther, our breathing and echoing footfalls the only noises.
At the bottom Arthur lifted a lantern from a wall hook and shone it on the door, another solid oak barrier with a speakeasy window and a stout iron locking mechanism. He produced a key from his pocket, a large old-fashioned iron one, and turned it in the opening. I heard two clicks and a loud clunk, and the door eased open with a hiss and a rush of cool air.
Arthur entered the room first and felt the wall for a switch. Sconce lights on three walls clicked on and only grudgingly lit the room, revealing several large wooden picnic-style tables covered with dusty tarps. They had detached bench seats. A couple smaller chambers, both doorless, occupied the left side. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the right side wall appeared to be solid rock. Underfoot it felt like compacted dirt. There was a certain feel to the room I could not place immediately, but I had felt it before.
“Come, this might be of interest to you,” Arthur said.
He showed me to the two smaller rooms along the left side, the first one used as storage for chairs and such. They did not have wood where you might expect door frames. Perhaps they had barred entrances at one time.
“This,” he said, holding his lantern up, “this is where Vlad the Third slept when he was . . . a guest in the castle.”
I looked inside. “Vlad the Impaler.”
“Yes.” A table leaned along one wall, and an empty bed frame along another.
It dawned on me that I was in the foundation of the castle, the part of the structure built from the rock itself, and the temperature and air felt like a cave. The sound from the walls failed to reflect—dead air.
We stepped out of the guest room, and he pointed toward the dark fourth wall. “Back there is the old wine cellar.”
“Which you plan on converting to display the
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