The Incarnate

Dracula

Perfect silence was suspended by an instant.

Hope, expectations, restlessness�all were gone in a moment.  Anticipation vanquished in a single night; lifetimes vanquished in a single night.  They had condensed themselves, manifested in tangible form.  The somber eyes, the firmly shut mouth, the hands curled into tiny fists�I glanced at them once, twice, repeatedly.  They had come into existence.  He had come into existence.  I swept into the next room, where I knew the gypsy had retreated.  The relief she had felt upon completing her task quickly waxed into fear.  I opened her jugular; her strangled gasp came as something of an afterthought, for all my attention was riveted on the diminutive form balanced within the crook of my arm.  Her knees gave out and she fell forward; I propped her against a low stool near the fireplace, the perfect perversion of hospitality, and eased the infant into her limp, unresponsive embrace.

�Drink,� I urged him, lapsing back into my own language.  �Drink, Mihail, deeply and fully.�

She was not yet dead: the blood trickled down her neck steadily, staining the infant�s lips, yet they remained pressed together.  I placed his face against the open vein, but he turned away sharply, raising his curled fists in defense.  Still I persisted, stubbornly, and still he refused, resting his head against her shoulder and avoiding the wound.  Her hair was tied back in a long, thick braid, and he reached for it, his eyes open wide with curiosity.  His lips parted, and I pressed him closer to the wound, obliging him to taste the blood at last.

He cried for the first time: loud, noisy wails that shattered the stillness and rent the night in two.

Realizations are treacherous things, particularly when they develop gradually, allowing the fullness to settle with docile, sickening ease.

In another instant I was in my own room, incomplete thoughts rushing through my mind.  The curtains were easily drawn; the door was soon locked.  I lit the candles; I cast the Circle; I waited as the thick smell of incense filled the room with cloudlike vapor.

�So help me,� I murmured inarticulately, unsure if I spoke the words or merely thought them.  �So help me, you will wake because I so choose, and you will come because I call you! This I swear, in the name of Inanna, on the blood that binds me, on all that exists in heaven and earth, if you have broken the covenant you shall feel it.�

He was waiting.  Waiting for me to say the words I held back.

I paused before pronouncing them; I inwardly rejoiced over their delicious effect.  �With yours broken, there is nothing to hold me to mine.�

The window was thrown open, an impetuous mountain gale sweeping through the room, extinguishing the candles in its wake.  I shut it, locking the wind out and leaving myself in the darkness.

And then I heard it: slow, steady, rhythmic, the unmistakably warm pulse of a heart.  Its regulated, subtle beats were deafening.  There was no other in the castle; the gypsy was dead.

The Incarnate.  It was the only name I had known him by, the name the Dark Lord had given him even before the passing of the Gift.  The incarnation of what, I had wanted to ask, but He had not answered, continuing as though He had not read my thoughts, had not seen the mortal confusion.  The Incarnate will be born within the first year of her bonding, when the Gift has not fully eradicated her humanity.  He will reclaim the night. 

Returning to the room, I found Mihail deeply asleep, curled in the corpse�s lap and shivering from the cold.  He would need a nurse, I thought, a statement so responsive and natural, it was terrifying.

The Incarnate was mortal.

There is only one word that describes Mihail�s childhood in four syllables: astonishment.  There was much astonishment on his part: in Mihail�s eyes, all the world was an enigma, one that must be solved.  His observations became experiments.  He examined every book within his grasp, studying each page with determination.  He especially enjoyed being read to, a preference that was infrequently indulged.  He soon outgrew the use of his nurse: an illiterate, ignorant thing who seemed half-frightened of him.  Though he was a very quiet, patient child, there were few things that held such charms for him as his books, and being denied this was unpardonable.  He was not given to screams or fits; he would merely sit down, open the book himself, and seek to make sense of the strange black and white characters that flooded the page.  He knew the answers to his constant queries: Nurse must not be asked to look at books.  Nurse could not understand them.  You must not bother your parents with it, either�they are very busy and cannot see you until tonight.  Still he asked, in his own way, as if it would change.  When it did not, he would not withdraw moodily.  He waited until the next night and asked again.  Mihail awaited our nightly appearances delightedly, though it was rare he ever passed time with both of us simultaneously.  It was a curious system, but a successful one: Kelantha and I alternately stayed in with him and hunted.  Of the necessary excursions, Mihail had no knowledge.  His normalcy was defined by our abnormal practices.

There was the question of language�which would be primary, which would he speak and write with fluency?  In his earliest years I spoke to him strictly in Romanian, knowing his mother spoke to him in English, that consistency was beneficial, but unable to pass on a language I had no love for.  His eyes were wide and attentive as he listened, catching every word and memorizing it.  He understood both languages equally, but when he spoke, it was in a mixture of the two.  Eventually the English won out; the language Kelantha and I used to communicate with each other, the language of the books that rapidly built up in stacks, an unsteady fortress, around his chamber.  I continued to speak to him in my own language, determined he should know the mother tongue, but it was English words that filled the pages on which he practiced his penmanship.  In this fashion, he was soon writing with irreproachable accuracy.  With his newly acquired faculty, he sought further conquests.  Ever observant, he would select his tasks by watching various diversions.

That was the beginning of an almost constant conflict.

Kelantha was adamant: Mihail should know nothing of our habits or our need.  There was to be no mention of the feedings, the hunts, the transformations.  I saw no purpose in sheltering him from it entirely; it was as much a part of his heritage as the ancestral home he had been born in, and more so, for it was his future.  She was always mindful of what he read, what he wrote, and how he passed his time; who he had seen and with whom he spoke.  Mihail was very fond of disappearing during the daylight hours to explore the forest, especially if he chanced to come across someone, anyone.  It was a habit Kelantha abhorred�she could not stand the thought of anyone stumbling upon him alone in the day, and more than once did she frighten the nurse out of her wits for allowing such a catastrophic error.  I never shared her view; the same circumstances had a very different effect on me.  Let him walk through the forest if he wished; let him speak with whomever he chose and say his name proudly.  He belonged to the land just as it belonged to him.  If ever Kelantha expressed her displeasure at his disappearances, as she often did, he would very calmly and meekly offer his excuses before slipping away, hiding behind a book with a secret smile.

At three years of age, Mihail was an accomplished little gentleman.  He could read, write, and speak English flawlessly; his manners were excellently polished; and his disposition was assiduous.  A governess became highly necessary.  The nurse was cannily disposed of, and though she had been a fixed presence in his life, Mihail never expressed any grief at her sudden loss.  He had been promised a governess, one who was infinitely more clever than Nurse had been; he waited for her arrival tenaciously.  And so Mireille Chantal joined the household.

I doubt Mademoiselle Chantal had any notion what she was involving herself in, leaving her native France to cross the many interminable miles.  She arrived at the castle, a wide-eyed, white-clad girl in a dark corridor, standing in the foyer with suitcases surrounding her in a small circle, staring up at the high-vaulted ceilings with unabashed wonder.  Mihail hastened to make his introductions in the polite, schoolbook French he had grasped, whereupon she broke into merry, skittish laughter.  For one full moment I paused completely on the staircase, my hand frozen on the banister.  She proceeded to tell Mihail he was un enfant adorable, leaning down to his level.  She asked him confidentially if the forest was haunted, but Mihail shook his dark head firmly, with equal skepticism and poise.  If, she proceeded, he was a good pupil and finished his lessons early, she would regale him with the stories the carriage driver had told her on the way here.

I silently cursed the driver�s abominable generosity, noting never to employ such meager skills in future, then moved forward with a smile.  She bobbed a hasty curtsy, exclaiming,  �Ah, Monsieur le Comte! I am sorry for arriving so late�and my appearance, so dusty. My father always hated this coat; he said, Mireille, tu ressembles � un sac de patates.�

Mihail paused a moment to process the French.  �Your father told you that you look like a sack of potatoes?�  I glanced at him quickly to detect any affront in his expression, but there was none; rather, he was gazing up at her with eager curiosity, as if he had gained a novelty and was intent on watching it progress. 

She broke out into her laughter again.  �Oui, ma petit ange, and soon you shall be able to say these words in French, in Latin�so many times that your maman will think you eat nothing but potatoes, yes?�  Mireille looked about her.  �Et la comtesse, is she here?�

I took her coat, despite the numerous objections and apologies she offered, and was about to give the accepted excuse�the countess had gone to village to pay her respects, for one of the eldest inhabitants had recently died�when Mihail interjected, �How do you say necklace in French, mademoiselle?�

�Le collier,� she responded instantly, touching the delicate silver chain she wore.  �Do you like it?�

�I have never seen one like it. What is it?�  He peered at it intently.  �Is it the crossroads?�

My mind cried out a warning, but I could not respond to it, watching the scene unfold before me in silent horror.  No, not this conversation, not so soon.  Mihail looked at me suddenly, inquisitively.  The crossroads, I wanted to tell him.  I had to tell him.

�It is the cross, the one which bore our Lord Jesus,� Mireille explained sweetly, bending forward so he could finger the smooth silver charm.  �It is from Lille, where I am from, and I have carried it with me this long way.�

�May I have one?� Mihail asked, his eyes leaving the chain long enough to look at me questioningly.

�You may have mine, ma petit,� Mireille said quickly, unsnapping the clasp and draping it around his own neck.  Mihail thanked her very politely, admiring his new acquisition before abruptly asking if she would read to him.  When she assured him she would read to him whenever he liked, he gave her a look of such devoted love, it might have been comical.  He took her hand and led her away, his incessant chatter occasionally interrupted by the sound of her distinctive laughter.  The entire discourse had carried itself out, and I had not spoken one word.  Usurped, certainly, but by whom?  Mihail had conducted a very successful introduction and Mireille had given him a crucifix; but he was so pleased, he did not notice me, nor would anything I could have said mattered.  Usurped by the governess, usurped by a child�for either way it did not matter; each was hopelessly tragic in its way.  And when Kelantha returned that evening, inquiring after the governess, I could only answer her with an ironical laugh.

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