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The Endless Night Kelantha's Diary
Winter had come upon the mountains though summer still lingered in the valleys below, slowly transforming into autumn with the coming of the harvest moon. The gypsies remained encamped in the wood, their fires burning fearlessly against the impending darkness of Transylvania. I found it curious that they alone held no fear, when I had sensed it rampant in the township, even my companion in the coach those many months ago, clutching his crucifix as though his very life had depended on it. It had done him ill good, I mused as I stood at the window, the scented breeze flowing through my unbound hair. He�d died with it in his embrace. Whether God had condemned him for folly or welcomed him into the heavens was not my decision to make, but I felt bitterness for his unhappy plight�and also mine, destined to return to London and the shabby life of convention that made me the butt of many cruel slanders. I longed to be as the gypsies, fearless of opinion or criticism, a world enslaved of their own, who dared encamp in the dark wood and did the bidding of the master. The count had a peculiar power over them because of their supernatural fascinations. Logic was unknown to these thieves and schemers who poured over open palms with overt interest and predicted dark tidings for those who ventured too near the encampment. They were not eager to speak with me and I did not disturb them in the hours of my afternoon walk, breathing the purity of the air and seeking the solace of the wood. I had lingered longer than usual in the gardens and my foot was hardly across the threshold when twilight came, awakening the majesty of the old house and drawing near to the hour when the count would come for me. It was to be our last evening, a thought that had haunted me throughout the torturous hours of daylight. I would make it a memorable evening. He was indeed remarkable, more fascinating than any mortal I had ever encountered. Dracula�s words made my father�s predictions and musings seem unknowledgeable, the prejudices of the Church foolish. He was a man of magnificent parallels, an enigma to which there was no conclusion, wonderment beyond my youthful musings. Leaving the window open, I drew from my trunk the little mirror I used to tame the great mass of dark waves back from my shapely features. It was remarkable that there were no reflective surfaces in the castle, but oddly fitting given the nature of the architecture. The house was such that to detract from its beauty by observation of one�s own seemed shameful. Propping up the mirror against the vanity, I stepped back to observe more carefully my appearance. The dress had not been one of my choosing, but mother had given it to me on my eighteenth birthday. Compulsion had led me to pack the cumbersome skirts, raven as the night and in remarkable satin, against the bodice of scarlet. Since my arrival I had not worn any garment lower than the neck and it felt odd but strangely significant to don such a gown now. My neck and shoulders were shapely, I admitted with a twinge of pleasure; I wondered if he would think so. The ornament he�d granted me still lay upon the dresser and I lifted it expectantly, watching the dragon twirl amidst a glimmer of gold. Then I hesitated. More than anything I desired to slip it around my neck, to feel the cold metal against my skin, but restraint held me in an everlasting embrace. I felt as though this deed would lead to my downfall, yet I did not desire to resist. The ornament was fastened about my neck and I reached for the numerous pins that would tame my rambunctious curls into obedience. Just as the brush gave a sweep through the radiant curls, there came a knock at the door. My eyes lifted without sight, darting to the window to evaluate the last faint streams of daylight in a crimson sky. He was early, much earlier than normal, yet I could not keep him waiting. Dry lips bid him enter and I arose as he stepped into my room, a shadow of black against the brilliant candlelight. He was much altered in subtle ways; I could not determine the reason or source, merely the effect. His movements were covert and lithe, like those of a cat crouched on a mantle. He took pleasure in my appearance, for his magnificent green eyes gleamed as he came forward with one hand outstretched. This time I did not hesitate, my fingers falling into his without a shudder. �You are early, Count,� I admonished without true condemnation, and he smiled, revealing white teeth. �I could not waste a single instant of our last evening together,� said he, and my spirits fell slightly. �But let us not think of such things, for they may never come to pass. The night may be endless, my fair Spanish maiden, and there is much to speak of while the shadows grow long. Come, sit with me and we will talk of many things.� He indicated the chair nearest the empty fireplace and I joined him. We spoke of many things in the all-consuming enthrallment of that night; I transfixed by his eyes, which never seemed to leave mine and were delicately probing. They issued an invitation that wisely I did not reciprocate, however much I desired to make my feelings known. I found myself speaking of my family at length, pouring out the innermost nature of my heart; anger at their narrow-mindedness, the sorrow over the loss of my grandfather, those who supported me in none of my ventures, but warned me against such pursuits. He truly appeared to listen, now and again offering reassurances in his low, soothing tone, and strangely his hand never left mine. I was growing used to its embrace, the touch of his fingers. He had remarkable poise and efficiency, the caress of a pianist or an artist whose meticulous notes and dashes led men to a remarkable place of self-discovery. The night was indeed endless, and we lost in it as the candles burned low and the air turned cold. When the briskness created a shiver, the count
gracefully arose to close the windowpane. He stood a moment in the
moonlight, gazing at his far country, and I was drawn to both, standing
at his side utterly enthralled. I did not look at the mountain range in
the silver haze or the flickering fires through the trees of the gypsy
camp, but at him. Longing for reassurance, for acceptance, for
protection and love radiated from me as I committed those features to
memory. I would not suffer the return to London like some poor fool,
broken-hearted in loss of love, but nor would it be easy to leave this
place. He must have sensed my melancholy train of thought, for he turned
to me and for the first time in a long, sober silence, spoke.
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