Balint lifted his hat in greeting but the boy did not respond. He only watched in silence, hatred and distrust in his eyes.
‘He’s a foolish boy, very foolish,’ said the priest Timbus, apologizing for the rudeness of his son in not returning the master’s salute. ‘He’s not like other people and causes me much trouble! He’s very, very sick …’
They had to walk round the church to find the entrance which, since the Orthodox custom demanded it should be on the west, was situated on a narrow shelf that faced the steep abyss below.
They stepped in through a small doorway. The little church was built of wood, and inside the walls had been plastered and were covered from floor to ceiling with mural paintings; scenes from the Old Testament on the right and from the New on the left. The colours were faded but clear. The paintings were naïve and primitively executed in the old Byzantine style by a travelling painter who had come to Gyurkuca some eighty years before. The first thing Balint noticed was the story of Elijah on the right. The prophet was shown ascending to heaven in a Transylvanian peasant’s cart surrounded by vivid orange flames; and every detail of the vehicle, even down to the carved cart-pole and the masterpins that held the harness were lovingly and faithfully represented. Turning, Balint saw that the whole wall above the entrance, facing the iconostasis and the altar, was covered by a Last Judgement in which huge devils with fearsome faces were busy swallowing mouthfuls of sinners, ten or twenty at a time. Balint was cynically amused to note that the sinners were all Hungarians and clearly distinguished as such by their large moustaches, boots and clothes decorated with elaborate braiding. On the other hand, the saved, who were being transported by angels to the Land of the Just, were dressed in the traditional Romanian belted shirts that hung to their knees.
Balint would have liked more time to examine the paintings but Popa Timbus, anxious for the master’s aid, drew him away and started to explain what he wanted. The building was too small, the congregation had doubled in size and there wasn’t room for half of them in the church as it was. They wanted to build an extension on the western front. Only forty beams would be needed; forty beams and twenty rafters, no more; but the community had no funds, no money at all, so if these beams could be found …?
‘What will happen to the Last Judgement if you enlarge the church? Will it be destroyed?’
The light ironic smile with which Balint had looked at the damnation of the Hungarians had not escaped the popa’s notice.
‘Oh, that! Never mind that! It’s a bad painting anyway, bad, very bad!’ And taking Balint by the coat sleeve he led him outside to continue his explanation. ‘Here, on the new front, we’ll carve an inscription on the wood that the enlargement of the church was made possible by the generous gift of Count Abady. Everyone will see it! It will last for ever!’ he said, thinking that this would clinch the matter and be for Balint an irresistible inducement. He smiled slyly, congratulating himself on his own cunning when Balint promised him the wood, little realizing that this is what the Count had already decided to do and had only delayed giving an answer until he was himself at Gyurkuca, and could do it himself without the good offices of the notary.
On their way down the hill they again passed the priest’s house where the tubercular youth lay on his cushioned bed. This time the popa admonished the boy and told him to greet the Count, who had just given the wood for the church. The boy nodded but did not speak. In his look burned the same hatred as before and his eyes followed Abady as he passed.
Below, at the bridge across the frozen river, Balint took his leave of the popa and the two grey-haired elders and, looking back up at the priest’s house he saw the sick boy still staring intently at him.
From Gyurkuca the road followed the river Szamos down to Toszerat where Balint owned a sawmill. Krisan Gyorgye lived nearby. From there they continued on their way uphill to the next watershed, but before they arrived at the top they decided to turn off and make a detour to see the famous waterfall.
The valley was narrow but so thickly wooded that no view of the other side was possible from the road until they came to a place where the strong winds had cut a wide swathe in the forest. On the opposite side of the valley a few small peasants’ houses could be seen and, about a quarter of a mile above them, a square stone house with a roof of tiles rather than the stone shingles usual in the mountains. The windows were heavily barred and the plot of land on which the house stood was surrounded by high stone walls now almost submerged by snowdrifts. Even from across the valley Balint could hear the barking of three ferocious guard-dogs.
‘What on earth is that strange building?’ asked Balint.
Zutor replied: ‘It belongs to a man called Rusz Pantyilimon. He decided to move out here.’
Balint remembered the name and looked at the house with renewed interest. ‘Why did he build such a fortress?’
‘Well, your Lordship, I can’t really say. Perhaps he is afraid …’
‘Afraid? Why?’
‘Why? Because … well, he’s afraid, that’s all.’
Balint would have none of these evasions and ordered Zutor to tell the truth. The story was that Rusz, a Romanian, had been a school teacher somewhere in Erdohat and there had been some trouble which cost him his job. Some people said he had tried to corrupt small boys. To get away he had come up here to the mountains in the Retyicel country where his mother had been born. Soon he had set up as a money-lender, and now he was a rich man.
‘How did he start if he had no money?’
‘People say it was the popa who provided the money, and they split the profits!’
‘And the popa? Where did he get the money?’
Zutor hesitated again. Then he replied: ‘Well, your Lordship, it’s said that he’s an agent of the Unita Bank and funded by them.’
Balint tried to remember the snatches of conversation he had heard round the campfire. ‘Does Notary Simo have anything to do with all this?’
Honey Zutor looked around to see if they were overheard. Krisan Gyorgye and young Stefan were some way ahead clearing the way of fallen branches and the others were still far behind them with the pack horses. When sure that no one could hear what he was saying, the forester went on: ‘People do say that he writes the loan contracts, and that what he reads out to them is not what is written on the paper! That’s what they say, but, your Lordship, you can’t believe everything you hear. These are ignorant, foolish people!’ He seemed to regret that he had gone so far because he quickly added: ‘Your Lordship ordered me to relate what people say … it’s not me who says all this. I don’t believe a word of it.’
Balint understood Honey’s fears and, shaking his head at him, said reassuringly:
‘Don’t worry! Nothing you have said will go any further!’
It was already dusk by the time they arrived in the Valea Arsza under the high peak of Egett kö — the Burnt Stone — where they were to make their last camp.