Taste of Legacy

Kelantha

It was unfathomable and yet true that a life beat within my body, a creature with a pulse stronger than mine had ever been; it rushed blood through my veins, and caused a tender throbbing in the very darkest of night that caused me to awaken. I was restless, my thoughts scattered between the winds, and the Transylvanian countryside welcomed me, unfurling its cloudless skies in the moonlight and encouraging me to walk the grounds. I wandered at length, for months did I wander, never feeding, only living off what feeble moonlight could be found. Then came a time when weakness descended and I had not the energy to compel my feet into action. I became too weak to go out on nightly hunts and relied on the count to nourish me. He did so without complaint and a gentle tenderness, caressing my hair with lithe fingers as he rested his wrist to my lips.

But the creature within me was changing me. My skin took on a healthy glow rather than the sickly pallor that Dracula found so beautiful. My vampire sensitivity faded until I was little more than human. I could no longer stomach the taste of blood. How it survived within me while I wasted away, I will never know, only that while I starved, it flourished, living off me and growing stronger by the day. For months, I languished in bed against the pillows, and he remained my constant companion, lurking in the darkened corners and reading from the rich volumes of his country in a soft, velvety voice that induced me to sleep. In those long nights, only his touch on my arm reassured me that I was not dwelling in an eternal death from which there was no awakening. I doubted my own existence; I doubted that which had come upon me; I doubted my sanity, and his presence.

I do not remember those hours of labor or the screaming, even the presence of the terrified gypsy woman who assisted me. Nor do I remember the moonlight falling through the open verandah door, or the shadow of my husband lingering on the verandah, his features pained as though he too experienced my agony. My hand clutched the pillow as I convulsed against it, going limp as the agony passed and a child was borne into the world. The gypsy drew him from me, staring at him in wonderment, for his eyes were enormous and blue, fixed upon her with such profound intelligence that she uttered a hasty prayer and crossed herself.

Dracula had entered the room and at this movement, took the child from her, cuffing her across the face. �He is silent,� uttered the gypsy in terror, for many bad omens accompanied a quiet babe. Dracula commanded her to depart and wrapped our child tenderly in a blanket. I could just see him in silhouette, through the pain and exhaustion that clouded my reasoning. The expression that came over his face was remarkable. It was if the fulfillment of endless agony had come to pass, leaving him with an overwhelming hope for the future. That alone made my long term of despondency worthwhile, and my hand stretched out toward them. Dracula drew near enough to grasp it, holding the baby in his arms, and only once did his gaze stray from the little cherub to my flushed countenance. �He is beautiful,� he remarked, and I nodded, my fingertips slipping from his and falling to the coverlet.

In the hours that followed, I experienced an extraordinary array of emotions. I was so weak that I could barely stand, and yet the humanity that had dulled my senses and granted me temporary compassion for mankind was wholly eradicated. It was as if I had come out of a restless dream, awakening to a world changed from the bleak observances of my tower room. My husband did not attempt to halt me as I arose and went out into the night, melting into the shadows that beckoned from the grasping trees. The air was sharp and cold, my pace increasing in the moonlight as I approached the roadway. The townspeople did not journey once darkness fell, knowing the perils too well, but I could sense a stirring in the clearing. Nomads, traveling into the mountains, unaware of the dangers of encamping so near the castle grounds.

Through the trees and rippling with the faint wind that fell from the cold mountains above came a little girl, skipping along the path to fetch water from the stream that ran nearby. She lowered on the bank and dipped the bucket into the water, humming a little tune that played hauntingly in the wood behind her, originating from her brother�s fiddle. I came up behind her, so pale and thin in the moonlight that when she turned there was no fear in her face, only astonishment. We looked at one another, and I hesitated. It had been too long, was too foreign a thing to me, her presence repulsive. I could not force myself to comply with the feeble urgings of my subconscious. She looked on me as though I were a phantom, shifting the bucket to her other hand and vanishing into the darkness.

I was angry with myself for weakness.

Her brother�s music halted that night forevermore. He felt no pain and I was strengthened through his passing, taking care to rest him against the base of the tree as though he�d fallen asleep, his beloved fiddle tucked in the crook of one arm. I returned then to the castle and beheld my son for the first time, a pale but healthy baby boy with dark locks and enormous eyes. Mihail, or �Michael� as my mother would have insisted on calling him, was remarkable. He was as healthy as any human boy, and as the months passed, I became greatly concerned. I did not quite know what to do with him, for I had never before experienced motherhood, and he was like no other child I had ever known. His intelligence was beyond that of his peers, and although he could not yet speak, I knew that he understood what I told him. It was eerie, but then, as I regarded our situation with a platonic smile of amusement, nothing about our situation was akin to normality.

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