The Tragedy of 1856

Garlic, garlic, garlic

Tall, green firs with a big layer of snow on top stand close to each other like a big wall, a gate trying to warn him from passing through, blocking the sight of what lays behind.

The snow lashes in his face. Freezing and fierce.

"Fuckin' predictable that I am lost in the middle of a Transylvanian forest." Harold sighs, teeth shattering because of the whipping wind which blows through his wavy hair. He lets go of the bags— the light one his own and the heavy one, how could it be different, Professor Hallewell's — and rubs over his knuckles, trying to not let them freeze.

"Where are you, Professor?" His voice echoes through the thick border of trees. A wolf howls somewhere. Harold fixes his cap and stands straighter, he probably lost the way because he was deep in thought or wrote an observation into his notebook. Whenever he writes into it, he is in his own world. He's a smart one. Harold however is the complete opposite. Rather a shy, sensible assistant who doesn't like much of adventures, but here he is. In the Transylvanian wilderness, alone, in search of his travel companion. Harold remembers well enough when he was assigned to Hallewell. The Professor probably thought it was a good idea to have a clumsy, not so clever clown with him to keep the fun.

"Just a sign, Professor!"

What if something really terrible happened?

"If only he is not dead!" He muttered.

Maybe he got eaten by the wolves or maybe he froze to death. It would be all over the newspaper. 'Scientist found dead: Professor Hallewell killed in Transylvania'. No one would read about him. No one would read about Harry.

Then he sees the tip of an umbrella. "Professor!"

Harold runs as fast as he can through the snow to Hallewell, who's frozen stiff, lifts him over the shoulders and picks their bags up again.

Squinting through the thick snowflakes that whirl around in the cold wind, he can make out a faint light and a smal hut.

:

"I need help—" The sentence gets swallowed by the loud bawl and the snow which gets whipped in behind him from the gust of wind.

You could say that Harry is surprised. As he opens the door to the inn, all he sees was people dancing ungainly and sitting at tables drinking, eating and smoking their pipes. It looks cozy, all this old paintings on the wall, but with this whole mess Harry couldn't imagine staying here for a while. He notices white balls in strings hanging down the posts holding the ceiling, frames of family portraits, decoration on the tables and around each person's neck.

Garlic?

Harold scrunches his nose in disgust. "Hello?!"

The people turn around, chatter dying down, and everyone is mustering the assistant with the frozen red face, packed with suitcases and a man on his shoulders.

"Who's that?" A stranger calls out of the corner.

"A stranger!" The other corner.

"No two!" The woman in front of him.

"What happened?"

"He's frozen!"

"Stiff!"

Curious people in the room questioning him.

A small, rounded man lumps towards him, "Welcome, welcome!" Harold lets the Professor slide off his shoulders. "I welcome you to the best hotel around —Becca, bring the chair here quick! — comfortable and very fairly priced... Hot water, be quick! It will ease the cramps."