Diaries of the Family Dracul - The Covenant with the Vampire Part 3

And so I left, feeling much calmer than when I had arrived. But driving home in the caleche, I pa.s.sed by the family tomb. Though the darkness hid the unspeakable horror there, the grief and rage and sense of violation all struck me once again.

How can I bear to live among these people, knowing the atrocities of which they are capable?

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh7 April, (later entry) This afternoon I attempted once again to engage my chambermaid, Dunya, in conversation.

Like most of the peasant women here she is small of build but strong. Like them, she wears the white double ap.r.o.n and beneath it a rather immodest coa.r.s.e linen dress that fails to cover her ankles and is altogether revealing when the light catches it the right way. The peasants here seem to have a cavalier att.i.tude towards the wearing of undergarments.

Dunya's colouring is fair and her dark, almost black hair has a reddish cast when the sunlight catches it. This, and her name, makes me believe she is at least partly Russian. She cannot be more than sixteen, but seems intelligent and thoughtful, although she displays the same reluctance as the other servants to meet my gaze. Even so, I perceive a certain innate boldness in her, so when I wanted to determine whether the servants' fearful att.i.tude was a Transylvanian characteristic or whether it was inspired by something else, I chose to confront Dunya as she was tidying the bedroom. She jumped slightly as I called her name; I had to hide my amus.e.m.e.nt.

She speaks a little German, and so do I, and so I said, "Dunya, it is my custom to have a friendly relationship with my domestics. Please... Do not be so afraid of me." My uncertainty with German required that I be brief and direct.

To this, she curtsied and replied, "Thank you, doamna." (I have learned this is Roumanian for "mistress.") "But I am not afraid of you."

"Good," I replied. "But clearly you are afraid of someone. Who?"

She blanched a little at that, and glanced over her shoulder as if afraid someone were spying on us. And then she neared-a little too near for English manners, but I have learned from watching my husband and his family that Transylvanians prefer to be physically much closer to each other when speaking than we British do- and whispered: "Vlad. The voievod, the prince."

I felt I knew the answer to my own question, but I asked it nevertheless, lowering my voice to the same volume. "Why?"

In reply, she crossed herself, and breathed into my ear, "He is strigoi."

"Strigoi?""tt was clearly a Roumanian word, but one I had never heard. "What is this?"

She seemed surprised at my ignorance and would not answer, only pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head. When I repeated my question, she hurried from the room.

Zsuzsanna Tsepesh's Diary 8 April.

I am evil, evil!-a wicked woman with wicked thoughts. Sweet Papa is scarcely cold and laid to rest, and already P have had the most shameful dream.

I do not even know how to properly pray. Papa so despised the Church, he would never permit his children to learn its rituals. Perhaps he and Kasha are right that there is no G.o.d.

They are both so intelligent, but I am not (sometimes I think my poor brain is as twisted as my spine) and I desperately need the comfort of the Divine.

And so this morning I knelt at the foot of my bed, as I have seen peasants do at roadside shrines, and tried to ask forgiveness. I do not know whether I was successful -the very act of kneeling made me dizzy; I have felt so weak the past few days, drained no doubt by sorrow- but I felt I could not face Kasha and good, strong Mary without first easing my conscience in some manner.

When I rose (so light-headed that I had to clutch the poster to keep from dropping again to my knees), I felt an overpowering urge to write everything down-to make confession, as it were. I have no priest; this diary shall serve as my confessor, even though my cheeks flame at the thought of recording such wickedness.

The night before last we celebrated Papa's pomana. It was the first time in weeks I had seen Uncle, and the experience of his kindness and loving attention doubtless triggered the dream. I have been so lonely in the years since Kasha left. Papa had been so miserable, too, and then so sick, and always too preoccupied with the dealings at the castle, that I have felt very, very alone; were it not for Kasha's letters and Uncle's occasional visits, I feel I should have gone mad.

Perhaps I have, a little. For a time after Kasha first left, I used to speak to him as if he were still there (always, out of earshot of the servants! They are too frightened of us to be trusted as confidantes; and they always find enough to gossip about). As of late, I have begun to speak to little Stefan. Sometimes I imagine he walks alongside Brutus and me through the halls, and sits beside me, Brutus curled at our feet, as I embroider. (If anyone overhears, I can always maintain I was speaking to the dog.) Sometimes I pretend he is the child I shall never have.

Oh, it is difficult enough to have a misshapen, sickly body! But the worst pain it inflicts is the knowledge that I shall always be denied the love of a husband, and children. I am forced to lead a solitary life and depend on the platonic affections of my brother and uncle for comfort. And I am crippled by jealousy-of the happiness my brother and his new wife clearly share, even of the small attentions Uncle paid Mary at the pomana.

G.o.d save me from my own evil heart!

Brutus kept up the barking the night before, and last night began only minutes after I had drifted off to sleep -and so, off to the kitchen with him! I was so tired that when I returned alone to my bed, I fell at once into a dream.

And was awakened by a thrumming at my bedroom window. Or rather, in the dream I was awakened by such a sound-soft but insistent, as if a bird were beating its wings against the pane. The night air had grown exceptionally cold, and I had closed the window before retiring. In the dream, I rose, and went over to the source of the sound, not at all frightened by it, nor even curious, as if I knew exactly what, or who, awaited me there; as if I were irrevocably drawn.

I threw back the shutters and opened the window. And saw nothing save a shaft of moonlight, which streamed in, forming a golden-white pool of light on the floor. In that circle of light, flecks of glittering dust floated-lazily at first, then faster, faster, until they swirled, merged, and coalesced into a form.

The motion made me dizzy; I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Uncle stood in the cone of light. I remembered at once that this was the same dream I had had the previous night, and the night before that-always seeing Uncle's face at the window. But now, with Brutus gone, he was free to enter.

He seemed somehow younger, handsomer; again, this evoked no surprise. I felt no shock, no fright, no sense of impropriety to see him standing in my boudoir in the middle of the night. No; wicked woman that I am, I stepped forward, boldly threw my arms about him, and whispered, "Uncle! I am so glad that you have come!"

He stood perfectly still and straight, as if reluctant to move. Beneath my hands, his muscles-so strong he is, for a man of any age!-tensed, rigid and firm as stone. For a moment, neither of us spoke, only gazed into each other's eyes (his eyes are beautiful enough to make a woman envious! deep, rich evergreen, large and heavy-lidded). In the moonlight, his skin glowed as though infused with radiant white fire.

And then he said, "Zsuzsa, I fear this is a grave mistake. I shall go-"

"No!" I begged, and held him more tightly, fearing he would disintegrate into glittering dust in my arms. "It is what I want! Don't you see? I have drawn you here, night after night!

Only kiss me... !"

Beneath the fine silk of his cloak, his muscles shuddered, then relaxed, and he lifted a night- chilled hand to my cheek and stroked it. As I stared into his eyes, mesmerised, I saw his pupils redden, as if the forest therein had been abruptly consumed by flame.

"Please," I whispered, and he leaned forward and pressed his lips to my cheek. Oh, those lips were cold, but it was a cold that burned, and I fell back and let myself be supported by an arm as unyielding as steel.

"I am so hungry, Zsuzsa," he sighed. "I can no longer resist..."

He brushed his lips against my skin, so that I felt his breath hot upon me, and drew them down, down, across the line of my jaw, over the soft curve there to the tender flesh of my neck. I trembled in sheer ecstasy as he lingered there; then he reached with his free hand and pulled the ribbon that secured my nightgown at the collar. It came undone, and the gauzy white fabric fell down around my waist. I am fair; my skin has never seen the sun, but his was fairer and, when the moon broke through the clouds, shimmered with flecks of gold and pink and blue fire like an opal.

Beneath my white breast, he cupped his whiter hand (G.o.d forgive me! but as I write these words, I am overcome; shame wars with rapture. If he were here now, I would guide his hand myself!) and brushed his cold red lips over my skin, past the hollow of my collarbone, down between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. For a moment he lingered there, and I buried my fingers in his thick hair and pressed him hard against me. He straightened suddenly, trembling as though he could bear to be denied no longer, and fastened his lips upon my neck. I felt his tongue sweep lightly, languidly against my skin, and then the pressure of his teeth.

He poised, waiting.

I am a sheltered woman. I know nothing of life and love, and so the details of my dream beyond this were vague. I know only that I felt a sharp pain, and then a flood of rapturous warmth, as if I were melting like wax in the presence of such animal heat. I felt that he and I were one, that the very essence of my being swelled like a wave and flowed out towards him as it crested and broke. I cried out and struggled altogether free of the nightgown, then twined my arms and legs about him and held on so tightly that not a millimeter of s.p.a.ce remained between our bodies.

How long this ecstasy continued, I cannot say, but I know I lay overwhelmed in his arms, aware of nothing but a languid pleasure that pulsated to the rhythm of my beating heart.

When at last he withdrew, I sensed he did so unsatiated, for my sake, choosing instead only to dim his longing rather than appease it.

My cheeks burn now like a new bride recalling her wedding night! The event had such an air of reality that even now I grow confused whether it actually happened or not; I woke shivering this morning to find myself entirely indecent and unclothed upon the bed, with the sheets thrown back and the nightgown lying in a heap on the floor near the window.

I feel closer to Uncle than ever, as if he and I truly share this wicked, marvelous secret.Writing this, I feel bold as a harlot. Did I say I wanted forgiveness? No more! My life has been so barren and sad; whether it be the worst sort of evil or not, whether it be sickness, madness, delusion, I will not deny myself the brightest joy I have ever known. The risk of h.e.l.l is worth such happiness. Brutus shall remain in the kitchen tonight, and I shall sleep with the windows open, "perchance to dream."

If he goes to England, I shall die!

Chapter 3.

Letter to Matthew P. Jeffries [dictated and translated from the Roumanian]

7 April My Friend, Welcome to the Carpathians. I was keenly disappointed to receive news of your postponed arrival, but all things work for good; there has been illness in the castle and it is just as well your visit was delayed.

However, now the timing could not be better! I received your letter from Vienna saying that you would arrive in Bistritz the evening of the eighth. This letter shall await you-as I do most anxiously. Sleep well tonight, for tomorrow morning, 9 April, the diligence for Bucovina will depart at eight. My coachman will meet you at the Borgo Pa.s.s and will bring you to me.

Your proposed Times article sounds most intriguing. I would be happy to provide whatever useful information I can and look forward to our conversations on the subject.

May you meet with no further travel difficulties, and may you enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.

Your friend, Vlad Dracula * * *

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh 8 April.

Dear G.o.d, what shall I say to my husband?

I sense that something terrible has happened recently, something to add to his grief over his father's death. I believe he and Vlad have had an argument, or that he has made some shocking discovery at the castle.

Certainly, it can be no more shocking than the one I have made.

I had divined at once that Zsuzsanna was infatuated with her uncle, and that he did nothing to discourage her -to the contrary, he fanned the flames. But I had no idea-!

Poor Arkady was so distraught last night that he stayed reading in the drawing-room and did not come to bed until a few hours before dawn; and I am so accustomed now to the sounds of his breathing and the feel of a warm body beside me in the bed that I became restless myself. I considered lighting the lamp and writing another journal entry, but my eyes were tired after hours of reading and writing yesterday, and so in the dark I wandered over to the bay window, thinking to crack it, that fresh air might help me sleep. While there, I was taken by the sight of the near-full moon drifting through the clouds, and I sat on the velvet cushion in the little alcove window-seat. The moon was so bright that the landscape was lit up almost like the day.

Our bedroom is in the wing directly across from Zsuzsanna's; only a gra.s.sy stretch of ground separates us, and I could easily hurl a stone into her room from ours. Each bedroom features a large picture window that affords a lovely view, but we have complete privacy behind our heavy curtains, and Zsuzsanna behind her shutters.

Yet last night, I pulled the edge of the curtain aside to better see the moon-and when I did, my eye caught sight of something running across the stretch of ground towards Zsuzsanna's room. Thinking it was one of the wolves Arkady so often warns me about, I pressed close to the gla.s.s to better see. I was not afraid, since the curtain hid me quite well and I doubted the animal could leap two floors, but I was very curious, as being a city-dweller I had never before seen a wolf except in picture-books.

But before I could focus on the object of my interest, I was distracted by movement at Zsuzsanna's window. I watched as she flung the shutters back and pushed open the window, letting in the streaming moonlight.

This gave me a fright, and I almost thought to call a warning about the wolf when I noticed a figure beside her in the little alcove by the window-seat. How it arrived there, I cannot say, but I can say who it was: Vlad.

As I watched, horrified, they embraced; and then he reached for the ribbon at her throat, and when it came undone and her nightgown fell away- To write further sickens me. I turned away, unable to bear the sight, and pulled the curtains shut.

I scarcely slept last night. I am torn. Arkady is already troubled enough by some secret sorrow, and all I would be doing would be transferring my dilemma onto his overburdened shoulders. Yet I cannot decide whether it is more appropriate to confront Vlad or Zsuzsanna- or to remain silent altogether.

My poor darling; you have suffered so much recently. Is this what torments you? Do you already know?

The Diary of Arkady Tsepesh 9 April.

I am beginning to think that everyone in the castle is slightly mad.

I went there early yesterday to familiarise myself with Uncle's affairs. Most certainly I did not speak to either Zsuzsanna or Mary of the monstrosity I had witnessed in the family tomb; they could not have borne the shock. Nor did I feel that I could have borne it again, but on the way to Uncle's I found myself compelled to drive the caleche past Father's resting place, and go inside.

What I saw inside the tomb soothed my heart. The casket had been rebolted, the roses lovingly replaced, and the marble floor cleaned; the horrible saw and mallet had been removed as well, and all looked as it had before the desecration. I felt a deep grat.i.tude towards Uncle, who had overcome his own grief to deal with this horrible matter, thus easing mine, and protecting the rest of the family.

When I arrived at the castle, my melancholy was rekindled by the sight of Father's desk, which lay just as he had left it, in a small room in the east wing with a magnificent view of the Carpathians. Everything was tidy and well organised; I easily found all of Uncle's financial information, and soon forgot my sadness as I involved myself in work.

In all honesty, I was startled by the extent of V."s wealth. Considering the degree of it, there are fewer servants than one might expect: only three chambermaids, one cook, one stablehand, a gardener, and the steward- and of course, the unpleasant coachman, Laszlo.

After speaking with the overseer of Uncle's fields, I made a most unsettling discovery: our family's land is worked by rumini, actual serfs, over whom Uncle still possesses the ancient droits du seigneur! Feudalism is usually an unjust system in favour of the lord, who owns the land; the serfs pay him a t.i.the to farm it, then another ten percent of the proceeds, in addition to paying the bir, a sizable personal tax for "protection." But in V."s case, the rumini paid no t.i.the, only five percent of the proceeds from sale of harvest, and a yearly bir of only pennies (as though we still feared Turkish marauders and, for such a minuscule sum, would offer to all the wartime shelter of the Tsepesh castle walls). Another surprise: Uncle owns most of the village, yet receives no rent. Only one arrangement seemed to his advantage: the serfs are required to do whatever work V. bids, whenever he bids it. Today one of them was at the castle, remortaring some stone which had come loose near the entrance. He bowed politely as I neared, but as I pa.s.sed by, I could hear him grumbling under his breath about ignoring his own pressing work in the fields in favour of the voievod"s, the prince's. He worked with a languor born of reluctance, which I resented in the light of V."s generosity.

To think that feudalism is still alive, in this day and age... ! Clearly, V. collects only a fraction of that to which he is ent.i.tled. This is no way to make a profit; it would be far more businesslike to release the serfs from their obligations and rehire them as labourers at a lower, more reasonable wage, and pocket the profits made from the selling of crops himself.

His extravagant kindness has, I fear, led the serfs to take advantage of him.

But that does not trouble me as much as the notion of feudalism itself, which suggests that V. "owns" the peasants and their homes outright. No man has the right to so control another. Far more just for all would be the system of a fair wage for a fair day's work.

I was surprised also by the high wages-far more than a trained domestic might receive in England-paid the domestic servants, which certainly fails to explain their cool, though polite, behaviour towards me. The undercurrent of hostility was there, again, although I still cannot decide whether they despise or fear me, or both. Masika Ivanovna alone is good- natured; this is fortunate, since she serves as chambermaid for the east wing (where my office is located) and the west (where Uncle dwells). The other two chambermaids, Ana and Helga, share Laszlo's cold, sour disposition despite their youth.

Yet I begin to question Masika Ivanovna's sanity. There is a strange air of unpleasantness in this castle, no doubt due to the resentment of the servants and Uncle's odd habits, and I suspect that decades of service here would work on a peasant's superst.i.tious mentality.

After I introduced myself to the servants in the main wing and retired to Father's office to work for some time, Masika Ivanovna appeared-to perform her daily tasks, I a.s.sumed.

She made a show of dusting all the furniture, then lingered uneasily, for so long that finally I interrupted my work to ask whether she had something to say.

At that, she paused and her expression became troubled, as though she was struggling to make a difficult decision. Finally she lowered her dust-rag, went over to the half-open door, and peered nervously down the gloomy corridor as if expecting to find someone hiding in the shadows. She then repeated the process by peering out the windows-! When she felt rea.s.sured, she stepped so close our faces were not a hand's width apart, and whispered: "I must talk to you, young sir! But you must swear that you will never reveal to anyone what I tell you, or it will cost me and my son our lives!"

"Your lives?" I asked, utterly taken aback by her strange behaviour. "What ever are you talking about?"

I spoke in a normal tone of voice; this alarmed her, and with a distressed expression, she raised a finger to her lips for silence. "First, swear! Swear before G.o.d!"

"I do not believe in G.o.d," I replied, somewhat coolly. "But I can give you my word as a gentleman that I will tell no one what you reveal to me."

She studied my face intently, her brow furrowed with anxiety. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, for at last she nodded, then said in a low voice, "You must leave at once, young sir!"

"Leave?" I asked, indignant.

"Yes! Leave and return to England! Today, before the sun sets!"

"Why ever should I want to do that?"

She did not answer immediately, but seemed unable to find the proper words, and so I took advantage of her silence to continue.

"At any rate, I cannot. My wife is less than three months from giving birth; I fear the recent trip has already distressed her."

The determination in my voice seemed to frighten her so that her eyes filled with tears.

Distraught, she sank to her knees in front of my chair, her hands clasped in a beseeching gesture, Christ praying at Gethsemane. "Please-for love of your father, then! Go quickly!"

"Why?" I demanded, catching her by the elbow and attempting to pull her to her feet. "Why must I leave?"

"Because if you do not, it will be too late; and you and your wife and child will be in terrible danger. Because of the covenant..."

It made no sense; nevertheless, her words caused something in my memory to flicker.

Masika Ivanovna's countenance faded. Again I saw through the eyes of a five-year-old, gazing up trustingly at my father as the knife came down in a gleaming silver arc.

At once invisible steel fingers gripped my skull, blotting out the image. I raised a hand to my temple and thought, I am going mad...