A Father's Legacy

Dracula's Account

Warmth. Movement. The kiss of the sun�s rays as it sunk below the earth in ribbons. The clamor of hoof beats striking the road with rapidity. The sway of the carriage keeping in time with my mother�s arms, rocking me by a double rhythm as I looked out over the sun-drenched fields. It was late September, after the nightly hours had lengthened and exceeded the period of daylight. Far past the time when traveling was common, for though the mountain regions held countless dangers throughout the year, no precaution could be taken against an unknown peril hidden in shadow. No one had approved of the decision made by the boyar�s young wife, who so differed from them with her Orthodox beliefs, sufficiently unlike the widespread Catholicism to deem her light hair and icy blue eyes further omens of her ill fortune. She had not been in her adopted country long before being summoned to the deathbed of her father in Russia, nor would she make the journey without taking along Transylvania�s only heir and her parent�s only grandchild.  Murmurs and protests were useless, though so sudden an illness in the family could mean nothing but bad luck.  Nothing prospered when the sign of the scorpion ruled the heavens, especially not during the year when the crops yielded nothing, the livestock equally barren.

In Russia there had been nothing but death; leaving behind relatives I had no love for and returning home was a welcome outcome. The attention and service that should have been waiting as the carriage stopped in the silent courtyard was quite absent. A tragedy, they would say, so very sudden how the large wolf attacked the horses, leaving the driver with his throat ripped and pressing his bloodied muzzle against the carriage. The fear in my mother�s voice as she cried out deafened me; she clutched at me wildly as I struggled to reach the door, her hands bearing into me but not deterring my progress. That was no wolf outside, it was my own Josephus, the dog who was part wolf but had lived among the household peacefully. He finally succeeded in breaking through the door, and I reached out my arms to him, despite the bared fangs and low growl he had never before displayed, signs of danger that were swiftly dispelled when my father pulled him out fiercely by the scruff of his neck and drove the merciless blade through the powerful muscle.

The servants said I did not, could not possibly remember such a thing. I had barely reached my second year, and my mother was concerned the horrible vision that haunted her restless nights would assail me as well. There was naught to worry about the young master, they assured her, he can have no memory of it. But I remember perfectly standing over the lifeless Josephus, straining toward him and being held back firmly by my father, still retaining the blade that was bathed in crimson, the same blood splattered over the matted gray fur.

�Do not touch him,� he ordered sharply. �There is no grieving for the errant, no loss in betrayal. There is only justice for the faithful.�

Eighteen years later, the same blade tapped both my shoulders and the back of my neck as I knelt before my father, who spoke the very words.

Justice for the faithful.

All Christendom celebrated the glorious victory that rang from the far corners of the earth.  With the completion of the crusades came the reward that justified battles so wantonly excessive�a relic preserved by St. James the Apostle, first Bishop of Jerusalem. For centuries it had passed through the hands of infidels, and now the Turks were within my borders, on their knees before me, imploring my mercy with the relic few could fail to recognize. It was a lance they placed at my feet, described by St. John as having struck the side of the Christ at His crucifixion. They would have offered me the crown of thorns had I not ordered silence, for though the lance had keenly sparked my interest, I would have been a great fool to believe any Muslim would have kept so brazenly Christian a relic, without any practical use.

�A triumph, my lord,� rasped my attendant, a Magyar I saw fit to keep for his subservient loyalty, although I read deceit more strongly each day in his dark, lowered eyes. �For the Church. At last, something has come of the holy wars to retain.�

�There was nothing holy about the wars, Dushku. Virtue is its own vice, cleverly masked. Just as the Turks have cleverly passed off their exhausted spear as the holy lance, thinking to bribe me.� I turned to smile at them, relishing the looks of utter panic that crossed their faces, as the eldest stammered, �N-n-no, I swear it�it is the lance, the lance of S-St. John.�

�I thank you, and I accept your gift.� Bowing gravely, I swiftly left the room, informing the guard waiting in the corridor he would execute them all by morning.  The Magyar�s expression of horror was so comic, I might have laughed, had I not needed him to rely on my complete sincerity at the moment.

�My good Dushku, a vow to an infidel has as much weight as dust in the wind. Do not imagine their promise held any more truth. Whether or not this is the holy lance is beyond my purpose.�

�It is the pope�s purpose,� he answered, understanding.

�Precisely.�

I observed him as he sat quietly, his eyes never daring to meet mine but contemplating the floor before him. 

�In the morning I must ride to meet my father in Rome ,� I began. �You will make the journey with me and see to it the horses are prepared.�

Dushku arrived in Rome without impediment, where I immediately answered my summons. He carried the lance as far as required to dazzle the Holy Father, who blessed the relic and accepted it as the very same spoken of in the Gospel of John. But the victory did not extend to the stealthy Magyar, and as the lance required no further escort, he never again rose from his humble kneeling position; his furtive eyes witness to nothing more, the rasping voice forever silenced.  

In the name of God and St. George, the holy lance was received into Rome �s embrace and stirred the masses across Europe . The faithful made the lengthy pilgrimage for the relic, which traveled from Paris to Constantinople that all might have the opportunity of paying homage. For the defense and protection of the relic, the Order of the Holy Lance came into being. Tradition decreed that my ancestors would have a history of service to the Church, prompting the pope to offer leadership of the order to me. It pleased my father at a time when he asserted my other actions to be iniquitous.

�Ten thousand men, Vladislaus!� was his greeting as I walked briskly past his chamber to my own. �You would send ten thousand men into a battle only to abandon them?�

�A counter attack, sire, would require an invasion from the opposite angle.�

�You ordered soldiers to fight for you, yet you will not even stand alongside them! They will be slaughtered while you return to plan a counter attack.�

�What good are people without a leader?� I rejoined sharply, my tone low enough to conceal the withering contempt I felt for the semblance of a man my father had become. �Of what use are peasants with no guidance? If I welcome defeat with open arms on the battlefield, what hope do my men have of ever achieving their end? What hope does Transylvania have?�

�As much as anyone can hope for: a noble end.�

There was no reasoning with him; he did not understand that in death there is no nobility, no glory in martyrdom that can surpass the actual triumph only a leader can assure. I had returned to collect my countering army and review the strategy; not to let more of my men die as my father chose to question my ethics.

�Vladislaus,� he repeated, his tone no longer accusing but wretched. �Please, for Antonia�s sake��

His plea did not have the desired effect: the name only increased my anger.  It had been years since my mother�s name was mentioned, and not since consumption had claimed her life more than a decade ago had my father seen fit to speak of her at all.  He married again five months later, and I acknowledged neither his wife nor the willful, ill-tempered child who resided in the house and anxiously avoided my presence.  

My mother was too young, too beautiful to suffer such a fate, to have her life drained away in a steady stream of red, seized by coughs that shook her entire frame. There was nothing the healing powers of science and medicine could do. The saints had not seen the candles I had lit, and I feared my prayers were too chilled to fly to God�s ear. I was twenty-seven when she died, before ascending the knighthood and preserving the Church�s boundaries as well as my own. The signum sacri of the Holy Order depicted a dragon, in honor of my family�s crest, but also as a tribute to the patron of chivalry. It was also with a lance that St. George slew the dragon. The image appeared not only within the household but on the ring given the Grand Cross Knight of the Order. Inscribed on the silver band were the words Probitas et  fidelitas�justice and faithfulness.

I glanced at the ring, lifting my left hand slightly and thinking how little had been done for the sake of Antonia. Though my father was often absent while she lived, he did not hesitate to allow me to control all military efforts that he might reside amicably after his lengthy service to the country. 

Wordlessly, I paused to give my father a single glance, then took the maps and left the house.

The war ended in yet another victory for my country.

When the Hungarians firmly retreated across the Danube, the return to Transylvania was as a celebration of nectar and ambrosia. The festivities lasted for days, spilling out of houses like warm candlelight and involving the village as a whole. All this I observed from the battlements of my own home, with no inclination to venture out. Yes, it was a triumph, but how long would it last?  Where would they be fifty years hence, when the duration of my reign ended and they were left at the mercy of another? It was vanity, all of it�bereft of meaning, purpose, significance.  In ten years no one would remember what they had celebrated.

The secrets of science were lacking. There was a time I had devoted myself to its study, intrigued by the alchemists that had revolutionized the field; but by my fortieth year, it was painstakingly clear that the power to heal and preserve belonged only to the supernatural. As heaven was quite deaf to my invocations, other options were reviewed. There were other ways of gaining what I sought for�if God would not grant my petition, then I would call out to One who would.

I did not leave the castle for months and refused all visitors, instead locking myself in rooms where I knew no one would disturb me: the library and my personal chambers. There I conducted my solitary search, seeking the key that eluded me, and that led to Him.  

I felt certain I would take my eternity the night He appeared to me, but when I willed myself to be still and accept the kiss that was both life and death, I was again mistaken. He had not come to give me the Gift yet, the Dark One said, not with my purpose here incomplete. A mortal death would be my passage to an immortal life.

Had I known how quickly the prophecy would come to pass, I should not have remonstrated; but as I was, forsaken by God and benevolently ignored by the Dark One, the quest had ended just as all other things do�meaninglessly. Seven months passed during which I took no notice of the summons arriving more urgently from Rome. I could not imagine what anyone could possibly require of me�I, who commanded nations, who led them to victory in the name of God and the Church, who defended the land of my ancestors and saw to it that science would achieve something greater than theories on a page. I had given everything, and still I was begrudged my one desire. Was it not enough? Was there anything I would not do to allow our proud line to thrive?

The venerable Valerious Dracula found infinite ways to exhaust the subject. �You know what we are. You know what is expected. And still you would disgrace the name of Dracula for all the world to see and hear?�

�You are displeased.�

He started at my surprisingly dispassionate response. �My father�s vision for this country surpassed what anyone could hope for Transylvania. It was worth nothing in the end. He failed in the worst way he could, for the darker powers swallowed his existence. Did you think he had been abducted? It was no accident that his body was never found�once it was over, there was nothing left to bury. It pains me to speak of him in such a manner, and God forbid I should one day find myself saying the same of my son. Abandon this mission; there is nothing for you down that path.�

�There is everything: all that you fear and God denies.�

Disgusted, he turned to leave and exclaimed, �I know nothing of you!�

�Perhaps,� I drew myself up slowly, turning to face my father, �You never endeavored to look.�

�If I had,� he answered, pausing in the doorway, �all I�d seen would have made me thoroughly ashamed of you.�

My window was extravagantly shattered that evening, showers of glass spraying over the chamber as the ruthless wind destroyed what the blow had not. A figure I recognized made his unceremonious entrance, his face a mask of perfect calm. Never did that countenance bear a look of pain or worry; it reminded me of the porcelain noh masks I had seen in the Orient, if marking such a parallel was not blasphemous. I rose from my seat near the fireplace; I attempted to speak, but all that came from my embittered core was a heartless cackle. My joyless laughter subsided before I could herald, �A vision. I shall ascend the sainthood for this!�

The noh mask changed slightly�oh!  Was that confusion at last? After all, why should one such as I ascend the glorious sainthood?

�I might ask you a similar question,� I continued, though he had made no comment.  �Why has one such as yourself come to me now?�

�You have given no answer to the Holy Father�s summons,� was the simple answer.

�So you have come all this way to inquire after my health. I thank you, but it was very unnecessary, Gabriel.�

His eyes fastened on mine suddenly, in that peculiar expression that always crossed his features briefly when addressed. This, among other things, had caused quite a collection of speculations to flourish regarding the singular knight of the Holy Order. Nearly all of the nations of the Holy Roman Empire had sent a representative to join the Order and defend the Church from her enemies, a vast majority aristocrats or members of the privileged class. Gabriel had defied categorization. There was the question of his having no surname.  He had come from Jerusalem, the holy city where Our Lord exercised His ministry here on earth. The white robes he wore retained the simplicity of Middle Eastern attire while giving an aura of sanctity, like the grave clothes of the holy sepulchre. The pope had greeted him as one anointed, accepting a man with no history into one of the most coveted positions of service. There were those who were convinced he was the prophet Elijah; but as he bore the name of the mighty archangel, a good percentage remained convinced he was none other than the Left Hand of God Himself.

I glanced down indifferently at the broken glass. �The door was locked, I do admit, but you had only to knock.�

�I bear a message from Rome,� he returned promptly. �You have been relieved of your duties in the Order, and are required to resign the title of Grand Cross Knight immediately. We will also require the ring of St. George.�

I stood, rooted to my place at the hearth. �Such glad tidings. May I ask to what I owe this honor?�

I waited to see if my inquiry would vex him�no, he seemed quite prepared for this.  No judge could have been graver as he replied, �Your dealings with the Enemy have rendered you unfit for such an august position.�

�Good news travels quickly.� I smiled grimly. �My father must be in constant communication with Rome. This is very auspicious for you, is it not, Gabriel? One wonders what will become of you once I have been effectively removed.�

Already he attained the level of commander in the Order; there was none better suited to take my place.  I resumed my seat and crossed my legs languidly, offering my answer with forced composure. �You may contrive whatever response for the Holy Father that you wish, Gabriel, but I am not about to relinquish my position. It was God�s will I should find the holy lance and bring it to its proper place. I intend to adhere to that.�

�God grant it may be so!� he said with sudden zeal, the change in his voice causing me to look up.  He had formed the sign of the cross and was gazing at me with curious intensity.  My hands lowered to grip the armrests�if he thought to challenge me in my own home, I would welcome it fully.  Let him assume the arrogance that would be his downfall; I was still the most successful warrior of the entire Order.

There were no weapons concealed beneath the flowing robes of ivory.  Gabriel spread out his arm as if to push away the tide, and instantly the room filled with searing light.  I recoiled in spite of myself, for the heat that accompanied the brightness was unbearable.  My senses began to terminate slowly, overwrought by the flood of pain, but my mind remained impeccably alert.  I knew what was happening to me, though I could no longer feel, and hastened to turn my face away as much as I could.  It was impossible; I was drowning in it, enveloped completely.  I knew then why God had only shown His back to Moses while passing by anything more would have been the death of him, as I was now being chastised for sins far more unpardonable.  I could hear Gabriel speaking, his voice carrying over the pain to make my misery complete. 

�Probitas et  fidelitas�neither justice nor faithfulness has been served.�

I could not feel the loss of my ring or hear the sound of his exit; my mind was consumed with one thought.  This stupor of the supernatural was a force no mortal could contend with.  I lay dying but not vanquished, and with the last of my consciousness I focused on my immortality, challenging the exclusive level of deity.

There was only a void.

I had no awareness of time as my eyes opened, finding myself pressed against the fireplace as I was in my last throes of mortality. I looked at the mantle, and could see. Not merely the wood and stonework that formed the chamber, but innate intricacies I'd never known existed. Prisms of color surrounded each piece of furniture, giving off an aura that lent singular illumination to the room.  My hand reached out to touch one of the chairs, but was hastily withdrawn. My hand was mutilated; the finger where the ring had been removed entirely. I glanced hesitantly toward the mirror, where my reflection was disintegrating, fading into nothing. I knew then the Dark Lord had kept His promise, that I had attained what had cost my life to gain.

The Change may have gone unnoticed indefinitely, for even my hand was restored to normality, had not my father intervened yet again. He was close to raving when he died, beseechingly begging the pardon of the intolerable waif parading as my half-brother. There could be no hope for us now, he asserted, and begged the imp to complete what he, my father, could not. I knew the only rest awaiting him was purgatory, unless his rash oath to God and the Church was fulfilled, but how was it to be helped?

�You may gather your things and vacate immediately,� I told the urchin, who had been sniveling quietly by the bedside. �I will be gracious and give you the remainder of the hour.�

�And this house?� the boy asked, returning my gaze for the first time.

�My father had no right to oblige me to leave it. I looked after his responsibilities as well as my own for years.�

�It was his last responsibility that killed him,� came the dour reply.

I lowered my voice to a concerned whisper. �Did I harm him? Have I assaulted him in any way? What have I ever done but what he required of me, and pay constantly for the grand iniquity of wanting?�

The large watery eyes were fixated on me, taking in my every word. I realized, for the first time, I had never been told his name.

�What do they call you?�

He came to himself directly, pronouncing the syllables proudly. �Justinian.�

�Well, Justinian,� I said patiently, as if addressing a very slow child, �take all that you need and go. I will extend grace so long as we never cross paths and my authority is never usurped.�

He was so pitifully young, and his eyes so abnormally intent, I paused momentarily to let the words take effect. �You do understand you have no claims to property or position; I must require you disconnect all association with the family name.�

The eyes snapped shut before opening widely again. �My name? It was given me by my father�it is his name I carry.�

My smile gradually widened. �Very well. If it is your father�s name you must carry, then your father�s name you shall bear. Let the legacy and responsibility he has passed to you forever be your bane. You shall relinquish the family surname of Dracula and be Justinian Valerious henceforth.�

The mention of such a bane must have reminded him of the task his father had left to him, for a strange gleam crossed his eyes.  Within an instant I sprang to his side, pinning his arms sharply behind his back and forcing his head down by his unruly hair.

�Do not flatter yourself,� I hissed. �You would not live to attempt it.�

Noticing I held him in apt position for feeding, I released him with an abrupt push, dimissing him silently as I turned to collectedly face the window.

�Don�t worry,� Justinian assured me bitterly, �I wouldn�t want to be associated with your family.�

He left to create only despair, while I went on to create legend.  

Still only daylight, I mused to myself, approaching the very same window and observing the unchanging view. I had little desire for sleep and knew the moment Kelantha wakened would repeat her request of curiosity. It was strangely like living one�s life again, reviewing the hackneyed scenes and conversations. Only there were none of the emotions that accompanied the experiences in life.  None of the wrath, yearning, or sorrow. I relived them all in memory and failed to take great interest in doing so. 

I moved toward the writing desk, taking up the quill and guiding the ink artistically. Words came easily as I inscribed on paper what was expected to be delivered audibly, but this notion I eschewed when once the first image of my mother shrinking from Josephus rose from the vaults of my mind. Kelantha was entitled to know precisely what she asked for, and a letter would answer only that.

Upon its completion, I placed it near the bookcase and retreated downstairs.

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