The Child's Gift

Kelantha's Diary

His assumption that I intended to peruse the library in my nocturnal wanderings was not entirely without basis but strangely devoid of truth. While the bound volumes held fascination for me, of far greater interest was the room we�d so briefly entered and the painting of the woman who had so forcefully arrested my imagination. There was something wholly odd about her that I could not place, an internal lure to which I was drawn like a moth fluttering at a lamp. The marvels of his laboratory astound me but I loathed experimenting, feeling incapable of impressing him on such short notice. My studies at the university were not in depth on the nature of chemistry and it had been some time since I nimbly blended chemicals and explored their reactions. The artwork and readings of Nicholas Flamel intrigued me. I had a case of his theories in my valise, its pages careworn from handling.

My fascination with his strive for immortality was a blend of many things. Natural human fear of death, fearing what damnation might lay before me in my explorations of natural science. My parents had imparted the teachings of scripture in which the younger was to respect the older. We had not parted well, or in good standing where faith was concerned. Mine had wavered to such an extent that while I regarded holy relics as interesting, they carried no significance to me. Then too was the desire to sustain life, to flout mortal ties and prove one could achieve eternal awakening without providential intervention. I sensed that the count, while guarded in his comments, did not feel so vastly different from myself in this sense; and this drew us together, two conspirators in darkness.

When he left me at the door of my rooms, long shadows were creeping across the corridor. He was polished and elegant, his features composed but also joyful, as though the night brought him excitement and relief. He bid me farewell and vanished. I allowed more than a quarter hour to pass before stirring from my room. Taking not a lamp, for the moonlight was full through the windows, I returned to the room in which the painting stood. It was eerie, gripping the knob and turning within, for I sensed I was not meant to be here without him. The room was peaceful in darkness, quiet like a saint�s grave. The draperies had been left ajar and silver light flooded into every corner, illuminating the woman�s beautifully painted features. I came near and stared at her, attempting to discern what nobility drew me hence. There was a familiarity to her features, an accurate line of the brow and snap of the eyes that reminded me faintly of my host.

My hand lifted and stretched toward the canvas, not quite daring to caress its roughened surface but lingering in moonlight. I was transfixed with the illusion, my eyes remaining on the outstretched fingers, as though I were being transported through the silvery remnants. Coming to my senses, I left the room and fell into the one opposite, for it had begun, a spark of suspicion in my mind, that the woman in the painting was the count�s departed mother, and his father�s rooms would also be in close proximity. I was correct in my assumptions, for the room apart was distinctly masculine and carried a very different air. It was oppressive and hearty, like that of a tomb long undisturbed. Rich fabrics surrounded the high bed and fell in a puddle onto the polished floorboards. There were many paintings, all of them distinctive for style, as if the same hand had cultivated each to life. Hunting scenes, portraits, all blended together into perpetual atmosphere.

I was growing increasingly more ill at ease and turned suddenly as I caught sight of something lurking in the shadows. It was nothing but my reflection, caught in a silver urn atop the set of drawers. My hand fell to my breast, attempting to quiet the furious pounding of my heart, and I approached the window, keeping in the shadows. The valley was illuminated in darkness, giving the illusion of maligned sunlight. Craggy cliffs arose into the night sky with majesty, their outline fierce against the sheer drop-off and cloudless domain. Waters below glimmered and the wood beckoned with terrifying allure, but it was the figure that most puzzled me. At first I thought it was an abnormally large bird fluttering on the sheer wall, but then realized the movements were human but animalistic. He was making his way down to the ground with light, teasing accuracy from a high window, as if he barely touched the surface of stone. I watched his full descent before he melted into the shadows around the corner of the house, and then returned to bed.

My host was not an early riser by nature, I soon learned, and I perceived his nocturnal habits were the cause. I was wholly convinced it had been the count that scaled the treacherous incline as though it were no more than a garden wall. I�d gone out the following morning to look and found the climb impossible even for a man, whose hands would be stronger and swifter than mine. For nearly a week, we explored one another�s mental powers, finding ourselves equally matched. I did not tamper with experiments in depth but did take my hand to one or two, which impressed him. I was coming to like him, curious as he may have been, and my time spent in London was feeling more and more distant. It was as if the castle lay beneath an eerie spell into which time had no bearing on life. It could have been mere days or months that I remained with Count Dracula.

A fortnight after my arrival at the castle, I went for a long walk in the early morning along the road. I�d not ventured far prior to this, being occupied with the library�s many shelves and arduous journaling. But the sweetness of the air drew me forth and I followed the lane as far as it would go. There was nothing for miles but as I drew nearer the outskirts of the local village, I began to encounter people. Most glanced at me curiously but perceived me as a traveler and did not speak. A cart was being driven along the road and as it passed, the driver soberly nodding at me, I caught sight of the soles of a pair of shoes. The body was covered with a blanket, but black mud was ground deep into the heels and one bare hand was left to the sunlight. It was a peculiar death. I�d seen many bodies in morgues since entering the university. They�d become a natural part of my studies. All turned an odd shade of blue, but none bore the yellowish hue that the hand did, its fingers cupped slightly as if in a violent fit.

Having come into town, I thought it unfitting not to enter the general shop and went in to purchase writing paper. Here I was granted interest, both from the clerk behind the counter and the few figures within. They did not question but fulfilled my order silently, exchanging glances. I perceived it was unnatural for the count to entertain guests. As I was leaving, a little girl gripped me by the hand. I turned to find an innocent face surrounded in soft golden curls. Beckoning for me to bend down, the child pressed a crucifix into my palm. I attempted to return it but by this time her mother had snatched up the girl�s hand and hastened her along the path. Puzzled by this curious event, I pocketed the religious symbol and returned down the lane.

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