Night Visions

Dracula

She was hiding from the screams.

Every day they haunted her, following her into her unconscious state and stealing her breath away.  They always found her: she was never free of them, plagued with visions during both the daylight hours and nightly activity.  She was dreaming.  Like a human.  She would fall asleep and the dream would begin, for she trembled violently and often harmed herself in attempt to block out the vision.  The scream was the climax that every dream led to, but she always awoke just before it, her lips parting to form a silent cry she could not give voice to. 

It grew worse as the days slowly progressed, each bringing fresh renewals of the brutal recollections.  She had not expressly indicated a desire to leave her homeland, but I sensed it, the increasing need to leave behind the memories of her past life.  Nor could I delicately take leave of her parents, for both remonstrated at any thought of leaving and marveled that I could suggest such a thing.  There could be no talk of leaving until after the twelfth of July.

�The feast day of Saint Veronica,� Enrique had politely explained, �Kelantha�s patron saint. It is a grand event every year; she cannot possibly miss it.�

�I had not realized Veronica was her patron saint,� I replied in my defense.

He smiled then, a sort of knowing, forbearing expression of patience.  �No. We did not expect you to. I understand how your creed views the blessed saints.�

I found Kelantha in her chamber, where I returned.  �Your father thinks I am Protestant,� I said abruptly, crossing my arms.  She peered up from the pages of an old, thick volume.

�Now,� I continued, softly, �why am I taken with the notion that you put that idea in his mind?�

~

Kelantha generally flinched whenever her mother spoke to her, a subtle reaction that Mercedes never failed to notice�or heed.  �This is exactly what you need: to be surrounded by your family.�  The handsome house behind the cathedral was brimming with people and bathed in light.  The continuous hum of voices gathered collectively, echoing down the corridors.

Kelantha glanced about dubiously.  �I would rather not be, if you don�t mind.�

�Mind? A good Catholic mother mind her daughter missing her own feast day? Yes, I mind very much.�

�Archbishop de Vivero said that I should not be expected to attend Mass or anything that tires me.�

�Why are you so tired, Kelantha?� Mercedes asked, suddenly interested.  �Your illness is not so progressed. Perhaps now you regret your impetuous haste and poor choices. And where is the Archbishop? He said he would come, which is more than I can say for Father Torquemada. He will not even come near the house after that irrational display of your husband�s.�

She moved away before her daughter could argue, greeting one of the guests and leaving Kelantha alone.  For a moment she seemed almost smaller, so solitary and exposed, standing in the middle of the large room without the faintest notion of what to do next.  I began moving toward her.  At that moment she turned, and found herself facing the very guest her mother had ushered in.  Pain reflected in her eyes.  It was not the realization of her visionary horrors, yet the man standing before her stirred agonizing memories as he took her hand, called her by her exalted title, and ardently avowed his fervent delight in beholding her once more.  He ignored utterly her escalating anguish, venturing to hope she would not withhold the pleasure of her company, that for the sake of past memories, they might yet be friends.  She turned�and ran.

You ask for too much, you always have.  Words spoken years ago, returning to me now over lifetimes of distance at the sight of a calm sneer passing between the former fianc� and the youngest brother once their mutual connection ran out of the room.  I remembered my response, its searing defiance, and how it had infuriated the one to whom it was directed.  Is it really �too much,� or merely the fullness of what you fear to master?

That there are boundaries existing is proof that the world still contains portions of gifts from the gods.  They are just, they are necessary; I do not scruple their existence.  Yet suddenly it did not matter, any of it�the false pretenses, the restraint, the careful attentions.  They maintained a charade no better than a farce.  Human nature remains as unchanged as it is unchangeable: nothing would sway them, any of them, from their stinting persuasion.  That form of life which is different must surely be wrong.  Equivocado, as these Spaniards would say.  Perhaps I had asked for too much in presuming two species so wholly alienated from each other could co-exist, for that was all we had become to them.  Decorum, deportment, it none of it signified.  I left the house directly, indifferent to anyone noticing yet conscious they did not, turning my steps to the western quarter of the city.  I knew what I would find in the modest house, ivy climbing the dark walls, most of the flowers in what served as the garden choked by various weeds.  I stole into the second floor, betraying my presence only by the mist gathering near the open window lit by a single candle.

She, too, was dreaming, the solitary occupant of the room; only her night visions were peaceful, a belief of better things to come.  I would steal into her dreams and speak without her waking.

Nothing, I murmured, retaining my intangible shape, is as devastating as good intentions.  Do you realize that?  I did not mask the tinge of bitterness, and consequently she stirred uncomfortably, her brow furrowed, her peaceful visions replaced with my inner voice.

No, little Marisol, do not fret.  I shall not wake you.  I came to your country with only the very best of intentions.  I am sure the Cabreras would say the same.  Yet is it not odd?  Does it not follow�we are hopelessly mismatched!  My wife�the pure child!�never deserved this.  A true Christian and a mortally ill Jewess should never unite.  And there are those who would wed the Church without purpose.  Are we not a tragic lot?

Her breathing was rapid; I could feel it as I bent over her, watching as her fingers curled and she turned restlessly, fruitlessly attempting to block me out.  Tears formed under her closed eyelids and spilled over cheeks, yet she did not turn her face away, but remained attentive to each mesmerizing tone.

This, I drew closer, my accents sharp, was not my intention.  You do not deserve this.  I have not deserved such censure.  And, I must confess, I fear Manuel does not deserve you.

Marisol opened her eyes at last.  Sitting up, she sought her candle, but the wick dropped out and left her in darkness.  Blindly, she reached for her nightstand once again.  I stretched an inhuman hand toward her, whispering vague reassurances until she was reclining once again, exhausted but fearfully alert.  Sleep, I urged her, and she obeyed, overcome with a force more powerful than her physical weariness.  Her breathing slowed, growing more and more faint; her tears dried and her face not was wet afresh; her thoughts cleared until she was conscious of nothing else.  Still she clung to life, her heart stubbornly continuing to beat despite the painful difficulty it experienced in doing so.  She resisted death, her childish frame unaccustomed to the frozen severity of its touch.  One tiny hand raised to gingerly touch her heart, but it never completed the task.  The moment her heart gave out, her hand fell to the side of the bed limply, causing the item in its grasp to fall to the floor noisely.

I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, my own hand, glancing at the cover that was worn and faded from overuse.  The work was Milton�s, the title at once familiar.

Paradise Lost.

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