Act IV: Under the Mask (Part 11)
eleven
It took Yubi a while to realize what was happening—this was no longer the time to worry about Schumacher; any one of them could become the next Schumacher.
He followed Yakov and Pascal, tirelessly informing everyone in the monastery of the situation. Everyone stopped what they were doing; the nuns ceased their care, the soldiers stopped their guard duty, the half-cooked mutton feast in the kitchen was put on hold, and even the lepers resting in their beds struggled to their feet to pack their belongings and armor. Sister Gianda climbed onto a stool onto the pulpit in the prayer hall, took down the painting of the Virgin Mary and Child hanging from the rafters, and placed it in her bosom, wrapping it securely in fine linen. "Why?" Yubi asked, puzzled and sorrowful, "Why must we leave?"
“Child, this is not a castle. We have no strong walls, nor watchtowers,” Mother Gianda patiently explained to him. “The only thing we have is faith in God and virtue. When facing enemies who do not understand these things, we must preserve the flame to survive.”
"Why not hope for miracles and divine intervention?" Yubi asked defiantly. "You said that God would look after us."
“God has his own plans,” the old woman said with a smile. “Our decisions are also part of His plans.”
Yubi lowered his head and said nothing more. He thought he couldn't understand this god.
“We don’t have many men,” Pascal counted the available soldiers before him. They prepared their chainmail and weapons, and brought all the horses from the stables. “Tell the horses to carry more food and water…and warm clothing.”
"Can we take our sheep with us?" Granny Gianda pleaded.
“They’ll make noise, Mother,” Pascal advised helplessly. “We can only take quiet animals.”
Yubi stood in the courtyard. Everyone was rushing about in a panic under the bright afternoon sun, their expressions blank. "It's as if they've never heard of the Tatars coming before," Yakov said coldly, taking his wrist. "Let's go get our horses."
"And what about Schumeer's donkey?" Yubi asked, looking down.
“...It makes a sound,” Yakov said.
Dusk had fallen, and the bells of Christmas Eve rang. A magnificent crimson hue appeared on the mountainside, making the snow on the ground appear as if it were burning. Men and women gathered on the east side of the courtyard—the entire monastery was built on the mountainside, surrounded by dense forest, and the eastern slope was the most steep and difficult to climb.
Yubi and Sister Gianda stood side by side, turning back to look at the dilapidated, low-lying chapel. "All the preparations we made for the festival have been in vain," Yubi said dejectedly.
“My child, there will be Christmas every year.” Mother Gianda gently stroked his back and sighed.
Pascal divided his eight soldiers into two teams, one vanguard and one rearguard, protecting the rest in the center, while he and Yakov led the way to scout ahead. All those carrying swords drew them from their sheaths; even the nuns and lepers had farm tools and sticks stuffed into their hands. They silently led their horses, and the entire column plunged into the dark winter forest as night approached. Everyone was silent, holding their breath, the only sounds the crunch of their shoes on the snow and the wet clatter of their horses' hooves. They helped each other traverse ravines, climb slopes, and cross shallow streams.
Yubi recalled the story of Moses in the Bible. The increasingly dark forest before them resembled a terrifying sea, threatening to engulf the group like a lone boat, leaving them lost and disoriented. Fear gripped them, and they refused to light torches; cold and terror permeated the air. Soon, they climbed the hillside, gaining a commanding view of the small monastery. Under the clear moonlight, the cottage church was clearly visible. Yakov and Pascal decided to stay and rest there. The nuns and the sick, having walked for a long time, felt a sense of relief. They quietly comforted each other, singing the Christmas carol they had rehearsed for days—"...we should have been in church by the fire, enjoying delicious lamb and wine, listening to this song." Yubi, still defiant, complained, "We shouldn't have run away."
“Look,” Yakov said, pointing to the distant mountain road.
Yubi craned his neck and saw twinkling lights swirling from the winding mountain path. The people behind him stopped singing, rose silently, and looked in that direction with him; some were already weeping. The Tatar army, like a fiery serpent, quickly broke through the reinforced wooden gate, stormed into the monastery, and surged into the church. Yubi frowned, clutching his cloak, a chill running through him—a mournful, terrifying whistle drifted from afar, low and high, long and sharp. But this time it was different; the whistle was continuous, as if it had distinct intonations—and then Yubi realized. The small, iron-plectrum-like instrument, the one placed in his lips and played, wasn't a whistle, but a musical instrument.
"The wind of the grassland carries away my longing."
The traveler on his journey, his heart follows the horse's hooves and cannot be found;
My eyes welled with tears, and I gazed into the distance, my journey home ending.
We long for his early return, we long for his early return.
Suddenly, Yakov, who was beside him, clutched his left chest, cried out in pain, curled up, and fell to the ground. Pascal and Sister Gianda rushed over and helped him up. "What's wrong?" Pascal asked. "What can I do to help you?"
"...How many horses and how many people do you have?" Yakov asked, his teeth chattering as he struggled to his feet, his gloves gripping the snow and mud on the ground. "How many days' worth of food do you have?"
"Why are you asking this now?" Pascal asked, bewildered and surprised. "There are eight horses in total, and with you and me, there are thirty-six of us. As for food..." He paused for a moment, "it should be enough for three or four days."
"Do you know how to hunt?" Yakov asked.
"Hunting?" Pascal's eyes widened. "The game in the mountains belongs to Lord von Brunel; no one can hunt it at will!"
“Listen, Pascal. I have to go down the mountain and talk to the Tatars.” Yakov took a deep breath to ease his pain. “If they leave and don’t come back in a day, you go back to the monastery; if they don’t leave, you head north to Brasov. It will take more than ten days to get there. If you don’t have enough food, you will hunt. If you can’t hunt, you will kill your horses to eat.”
"Why?" the Frenchman urgently stopped him. "What good would it do you go?"
“I don’t need to explain this to you.” Yakov pulled on the reins, endured the pain, mounted his horse, and put on his helmet.
Yubi stared in shock at everything, feeling the familiar blood slaves become utterly alien, as if they had retreated into their shells, hidden behind their masks, reverting to the fragile yet resilient state they had first met. The sounds of terrifying instruments echoed endlessly in the air, silencing all birds and beasts, silencing the chirping of insects, like a hunting eagle, a hungry wolf, like a noose tightly around Yakov's neck, dragging him back to that place.
“I’ll go with you.” He grabbed the reins of his horse, his movements as he stepped into the stirrups were still a bit clumsy.
The cross-shaped helmet turned slightly in this direction, remaining silent. The iron boots clamped down gently, and the horse immediately reared up and galloped away into the woods.
The two did not turn back the way they had come. Their hooves pounded on the gravel and snow, and to the horrifying sound of metal clappers, they circled back to the winding mountain path from which they had first come to the monastery. “Take off your ring,” Yakov suddenly said.
“I took it.” Yubi chased after him, her eyes fixed on the flag-like red cross cloak. “Can you tell me why you came back?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Yakov’s voice came in a muffled tone from behind his helmet.
The firelight flickered at the monastery gates, and the closer they got, the warm, candle-like glow resembled a burning sea of fire, blindingly swaying in their vision. Many figures waited there on horseback, dark and menacing, like undying demons in ashes, like nightmares born of shadows. Yubi strained his neck to see; he could discern the heartbeats and breaths of everyone, see their blood surging like a tide. Among them was a familiar figure, held captive to one side, two small braids hanging down on either side of his face, looking at them with terror. In the center of the figures, a Tatar wore an iron mask, his expression a half-smile, his two curved mustaches held high. The commander looked at them and laughed, then suddenly coughed. He raised his hand, and the chilling music finally stopped.
Yakov stopped, took off his helmet, and revealed his face. Yubi stopped with him.
The iron mask was rotated upwards, revealing a weathered and frail face. The Tatar had black braids that framing his face from under his fur hat.
“It’s been twenty years,” the Tatar said. “Do you remember me, Yakov?”
Tbc.
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