The picture that hung in Antoine Dourmet’s room was exquisite in its detail.  Neither famous nor expensive but of a quality unsurpassed by today’s artists.  Perhaps ninety years old, it portrayed a man of, perhaps, twenty, wearing a purple cloak of the most vivid, yet somehow sombre, hue.

It was a picture he had bought some years ago while still a student in Berlin.  A picture which reminded him, for no apparently obvious reason, of his grandmother’s home, where he had spent so much of his younger life.  Or, rather, it reminded him of the romantic ideal which was portrayed in place of the society in which she lived.

For, you see, Grandmere Dourmet was a gypsy.  Not the bedraggled folk of today’s age but of the supposedly vibrant, wild and colourful stock around which legends are weaved.  Antoine Dourmet’s story is such a legend, but all the more exhilarating and frightening because every word is true.

He, too, as a youngster, had nodded and smiled inwardly at his grandmother’s superstitions, much as I suspect, you, Dear Reader, are doing now, anticipating dire warnings of ‘Evil Which Walks The Night’ or expecting Furtive Glances at ‘The Castle On The Hill’ where no-one lives yet strange things occur at night…

All these things are the stuff of classic myth, yet, like all folk lore, there remains, hidden beneath the poetic licence, a certain and timeless truth.  A truth which, when known and realised, sets the hairs of the back of the neck on end and causes even the most stoic character to feel unease while waiting for the lamp wick to brighten and fully eradicate the shadows of a darkened room.

Yes, this is such a tale.

But to return to the picture.

The man stands, staring out from the gilded frame, both hands resting on the silver cap of his ebon cane.  Shoulder length, thick black hair frames a stern face, the black eyes seemingly looking into the very room, if not the very soul, of the viewer.  A cruel, sneering smile sits on his lips, yet the image is of beauty and strength.

We cannot see on what he stands, but in the background there seems to be a valley and, in the distance, yes, a castle, it's silhouette stark and bold against the darkening sky.  It is a picture of blacks, blues and purples, only the occasional highlight providing contrast, but such detail!  It is a picture which, if there are any that can be said to, lives and draws the viewer to that desolate place so high and far away.  It is a picture of a different time.  It is a picture of a man, not so much within his surroundings, but a master of them.  It is a picture one would expect to see in a great house; of some famous, or perhaps infamous, ancestor – a picture which, in one image, portrays a life!

Antoine Dourmet sat by the fire, a glass of his favourite brandy in one hand, a fine cigar freshly bought from the town in the other, looking up at the picture which hung above his mantel piece.  As a bachelor he had the peace and quiet to sit, pleasantly thinking and reading.  As a medical doctor, much of that time was interrupted with requests from the townsfolk to attend to some new emergency or other.

As it was today.

There was a soft tap on the door of his rented apartment, and, with some annoyance, he rose to open it, preparing to give some excuse to avoid the call.  The words died unspoken in his throat as he opened the door and looked up into the face of the man from the painting!

---x---

He must have fainted, for he had only vague recollections of being helped into the chair by the fire, and, when he fully regained his senses, the stranger was sitting in the other chair opposite him, quietly studying the portrait.  His fingers steepled in front of his chin, shadow from the chair wings playing over his face, he seemed to be the very duplicate of the man in purple.

‘Ah, Doctor, you have returned to me.  How kind.’

Antoine Dourmet sat up, his mind still reeling from the shock of seeing this man made flesh.

‘No doubt you are surprised,’ he continued, ‘that much was obvious from your reaction. But allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Salvatoré Bey, and that picture is not as old as you would imagine.’

Intrigued, now, more than shocked, but still too amazed to speak himself, Antoine Dourmet gestured for the stranger, this Salvatoré Bey, to continue.

‘The picture was painted as a gift for me but, however, it was stolen some years ago when my home was burgled.  It has taken me some time to locate it, but now I have found you and my painting.  I have come, therefore, to ask if you would return it to me?  I shall, of course, pay you for any expenses your acquisition cost you.’

Thinking there to be something amiss, certainly knowing that Salvatoré Bey’s story was false, Antoine Dourmet having checked the painting when he purchased it and knowing there to be a date some ninety years prior etched onto the back of the canvas, he asked the man if he could, due to the effect of the sudden surprise to his nerves, have some time to think over the proposition, to let him know in some short time.

Not quite concealing a smile when Antoine Dourmet arranged a second appointment, Salvatoré Bey took his leave promising to return when they had arranged.

There was something about Salvatoré Bey’s manner that Antoine Dourmet could not place.  Something which his gypsy grandmother, had she been present at that meeting, would have defined as menacing or, perhaps, brooding – certainly suspicious.  Definitely suspicious, surely the man was an impostor – an incredibly accurate and similar likeness but an impostor nonetheless, for the painting was dated well before this man could possible have been born.

---x---

‘It was good fortune, or perhaps fate, that this picture, the only image of myself that exists, should happen to come into your possession.  As a Doctor and a man of science perhaps you may be in a position to help me with a strange and unsettling family trait.  I shall tell you the truth of the matter then, a truth you will no doubt scoff at initially but one which, to a man such as yourself, will become a problem to be solved and mastered.  One which, if successful in treating, will make you a rich and famous man.

The man in the painting is my grandfather.  I have already apologised to you for my earlier deception.  You will note that the resemblance is striking.  My father looked the same, as, of course, do I.  There is, however, another strange fact – my father and grandfather looked as I do now when they died – old men by normal standards, yet the ravages of Time seem to pass us by.  

As such, strange and fanciful rumours surround my family, the local folk of my homeland believing and perpetuating tales of the unnatural and ‘evil’ behaviour of their masters.  Indeed, reports of my death have been greatly under-exaggerated, to the point that now they believe I am immortal, undying and they choose not to believe the strange yet simple truth I have explained, instead believing a far more absurd tale.

So, I must know now – will you accept my invitation and join me?  In my land?  For I leave tonight, I have been too long away from home and grow lonely for its familiar walls.’

Salvatoré Bey, his petition over, sat back into the deeply cushioned chair, intently studying the face of Antoine Dourmet as he made his decision.

That the man had lied regarding the picture when they first met was understandable, considering his situation in this new light, and to Antoine Dourmet the matter was resolved.  The chance to study some new and extremely strange medical condition was, surely, too good an opportunity to miss.  That the man wished him to travel to his homeland, wherever that may be, was an inconvenience but one which would lead to great things.  The draw and lure of such promised renown and fame was too strong for Antoine Dourmet and, as such, he did not see the look of triumph on the face of Salvatoré Bey when he finally accepted the commission or, if he did, he saw it as nothing more than the thankful smile of his new benefactor.

---x---

The woman’s hand left a reddening mark on the face of the child, the slap being harder than she originally intended, the hand being roughened and calloused from years of hard physical work.  The child began to cry as she harshly berated him for his carelessness and lack of respect for her old customs and traditions.  She told the boy to clean his face and mouth to wash away the blood – not from the blow, but that which was the reason for it.

It was not safe in these parts to allow blood to run freely and the child’s action following the cut to his hand – that of licking the wound to stop the bleeding – had filled her with anger and, she admitted, for it was certain the child had seen it in her eyes, a certain fear that evil forces throughout the land might notice her precious grandson.

Antoine Dourmet woke suddenly from the dreamed memory, wondering why that incident from his childhood should come now, unbidden, to his mind.

He calmed his nerves and tried to fall asleep again, not wishing to appear tired during his meeting with Salvatoré Bey the following evening, at which he would question him about the lies he had told concerning the painting hanging above the mantel piece.

---x---

‘I accept.’

Weak, impetuous fool!  Salvatoré Bey smiled and stood up, taking Antoine Dourmet by the hand, noticing the momentary pause when their hands touched.

‘Good.  I am glad, my friend, that you have chosen this path.  If you succeed, I shall immortalise you myself – my eternal thanks will be yours forever.’

They left that evening, Antoine Dourmet collecting his medical apparatus, a few personal effects and, of course, the painting from his apartment before meeting Salvatoré Bey at the coach house.  The hour being late and the journey monotonous, Antoine Dourmet dozed intermittently, each time awaking to find the purple cloaked form of Salvatoré Bey watching him.  After several hours, feeling refreshed and alert, he woke again, this time to find his host pouring two glasses of wine.  A rich, deep red country wine – ‘a full bodied vintage’ being, perhaps, a poor turn of phrase on Antoine Dourmet’s part.  Talking eased the boredom of the journey and they spent a great deal of time discussing the lands through which they sped, Salvatoré Bey providing an excellent history of each region, its peoples and traditions, only becoming heated when the subject of a book, obviously to his disliking was raised.  That book being the widely publicised first edition of Stoker’s Dracula.

‘Pure fantasy!  The dreamings of an over imaginative troublemaker.  Had he really visited this land he would not have returned to publish such lies.’

The ambiguity of the statement sent a chill to Antoine Dourmet’s very soul, lent even more weight by the coincidental clouding of the moon, plunging the land into darkness save for the solitary lamp at the front of the coach.

Antoine Dourmet thought back remembering his grandmother’s comical reaction to that book.  The very essence of the gypsy folk detailed within its pages, she crossed herself muttering of the truth of such things.  Indeed, to Antoine Dourmet, it was truly an epic story.  One which, though chilling, he had thoroughly enjoyed, but he did not press the subject with his host who definitely did not share his enthusiasm.

They travelled through the night and next day, stopping at hostels and inns only to change horses and acquire some supplies, arriving at the town of Borvosk at some time on the third day.  Here they stopped for a short time at an inn where Salvatoré Bey went to talk with a man, obviously arranging for his return to home for when they, a few hours later, arrived at the house of Salvatoré Bey lights were already lit and the gates  open.

Antoine Dourmet had smiled to himself when he saw the ‘house’ for it was, in reality, a castle.  No wonder, then, Salvatoré Bey had reacted so violently to Stoker’s story, for here he was, Lord of the Manor, in this exceedingly superstitious land, where the people already thought him strange due to his disorder – and then for that story to have been published.  It was no wonder that he had left to find a physician.  But still, there were many things to come that would seem odd to Antoine Dourmet, things which, had he but taken proper notice of them earlier, would perhaps have spared him the horrible fate which awaited him.