Vision of the Maiden

Kelantha

It was the maiden who beheld all, a serene statuette with her hands folded across her breast, head lowered demurely as she beheld all within her domain. She graced the near arch of the catacombs, and had she been human, would have witnessed the two figures who did not slip secretively from the crypts but walked boldly, her hand clutched in his, leaving a wake of blood behind them. It dripped from the arches and gathered in the low places of the crypt, where a body lay untouched since its brutalization. The hour was early yet, the crime not yet discovered as the glimmer of dawn danced through the trees to illuminate the scarlet footprint upon the chipped granite step.

Father Torquemada was a devout soul, and never before had he missed the early prayers. Those who shuffled into the cold room with its high stone pillars, hands folded and eyes cast on the floor beneath hoods rapidly lowered, to bear their shaved crowns to the heavens and lift their voices in mutual worship, noted his presence but made no reference to it; nor did the archbishop, who administered over all with a calm sense of complacency. There was rising concern in his breast once he quitted their presence, moving rapidly through the monastery courtyard and approaching the pathway to the church. He was called out after by a member of the order, but made no effort to halt, driven by a growing sense of unease. The iron gate opened beneath his lean fingers, his weathered footsteps falling amidst the grass damp with dew.

The city had not yet begun to stir, nor the birds to sing, for all lay in quite reverence for the scene upon which he intruded. It was the blood that drew his attention, the single handprint on the near crypt that lead his eyes to witness a sight of such magnitude that he prayed never to observe it again. The horror that flooded through him upon the observance of the raw organ lain so prominently in the statue�s palm was all-consuming as he stumbled into the crypt and nearly tripped over the body sprayed among the shadows, one hand outstretched as though in a plea for eternal acceptance. Covering his mouth and drawing his robes aside lest they become bloodstained, the archbishop beheld the magnificent ruin my husband had left, and crossed himself when thought became coherent once more.

The news came to us in our weakest hour, when the sunlight was shifting through the trees and threatening to intrude upon our domain. Such was my exhilaration over the downfall of my mortal enemy that I could not contain my nervous excitement, leading me to pace the length of the darkened room while my husband reposed in his chair, watching with what might be perceived as a feeble kind of amusement. I had never known him to be so deliciously barbaric, but he had carried out my wishes with a dramatic flair that left me speechless. Indeed, I had not spoken since our return more than to say his name in astonished wonder. My thoughts were such that I had begun to wonder at the nature of the creature I had married, to even in a sense slightly fear his potential. He must have sensed the nature of my thoughts, for he arose and took up my hands, smoothing a raven lock back from my eyes.

My lips parted as if to speak, but without a word of warning the door opened and the slender figure of my brother�s wife intruded, her enormous eyes bright with anguish. �Father Torquemada is dead,� she professed. �He was found in a ghastly state in the crypts, his heart torn out!�

Dracula released my hand and moved slightly behind me, as if to conceal the twitch that began at the corner of his mouth. She was trembling as she came to me, aghast that anyone could do such a thing, and was offended with my response that perhaps the pious prior had done something to offend higher powers. Gazing at me with disbelief, she professed, �God would never do such a thing!� before fleeing back into the reaches of the sunlit house.

Few wept over the unfortunate death of the local priest, for most had despised him and even my mother failed to show anything but a mild form of satisfaction. The manner of his death, the brutality of it, the callous state in which we had left him, the defilement of the crypts, arose such a fury in the locals that we knew once the shock and reverence wore off, there would be an outcry to follow us unto the ends of the earth. We did not grant them that opportunity to allow suspicion to grow, to behold us with anything but indifference, but made some formal excuse to my relieved parents and prepared to leave the following day. There was no need to draw the blinds over the coach windows, for the day dawned with the threat of rain and the sun never appeared to hasten our journey.

Kissing each of my family members in turn, I gave a silent sigh of relief on stepping into the coach, my gloved hand abandoning that of my husband as he settled in beside me. We started off with a clatter, packing cases swinging precariously atop behind the driver, who took us down the primary street so that I might have one last glimpse of the church. It was early enough that there were few individuals about, but even at a distance, I would have recognized the tall figure of my former mentor as he moved among the graves. His eyes were drawn to us as we passed, and for a lingering instant, met mine. There was such profound disappointment in their depths that I understood immediately that he knew. He might have cried out, for there was a constable prowling the local streets, and halted us. His voice could have rendered my soul to destruction with a single pious exclamation.

But his mouth remained closed, his hand still at his side. He allowed us to escape without a word of condemnation, apart from the lingering remembrance of his sad eyes.

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