Effortless

Dracula

Leaves fluttered to the ground, golden showers of asymmetrical patterns broken by the small hands that caught them and tossed them into the air again.  She was smiling up at him and he was turning; reaching for the leaves, then scattering them, like one hundred secrets too precious to keep, borne away on the wind.  Mireille sat with her skirts neatly arrayed on the leaf-strewn field, twisting the flowers Mihail had picked into a fragile chain which she arranged carefully about his neck.  He was not wearing her previous gift, nor did she inquire after it.  Nothing existed for them except that moment: the sun sinking in the horizon, the end of the summer as it melted into autumn, the glow of their laughter.  From where I stood, gazing down at them behind a shield of glass, not influenced by the soft wind or flame colored leaves, the idyll was flawed.

He had posed no questions as to the curious nature of his new gift, nor the reaction of his mother that would have alarmed any child.  I had promised Kelantha to remove it, and I kept that promise: Mihail never wore it again.  What I did not tell her was that he kept it in a velvet pouch beneath his pillow.  He accepted my instructions to leave it there, but he liked to look at it, to finger the beads in the silent moments before he fell asleep.  He had only partially believed me, I knew, when I had told him the symbol represented the common crossroads, but he would never expressly contradict me.  After all, Mireille had a similar strand she prayed by; and it was not upon the goddess of the crossroads she meditated.  He kept his beads and I kept his secret.  That was how betrayal started, in small secrets without a breath of deception. 

It was betrayal that held me fast to the window, watching the interloper who possessed all of my son�s worshipful adoration, who established a claim on him effortlessly.  It was her teaching that expanded his mind; her voice that spoke soothingly to him; her smile that encouraged his endeavors.  I knew this.  And yet I was not angry with either of them�it was something akin to fascination that led me to watch silently.  Mihail�s progressive development was momentous; no longer was he the painfully quiet child whose large eyes peered inquisitively over the pages of a book.  At that moment his smile outshone hers, for he released the low tree branch he had been clutching so tightly, confident that she would break his fall; that her hands, which were hardly larger than his, would secure him safely.  He was correct�of course.

�Do you suppose your maman would want us to bring her some flowers?� Mireille asked him cheerily, her bright expression unchanged by his hushed but decisive refusal.

�Mama does not like flowers,� Mihail said softly.  He idly plucked at one between his fingers until it was bereft of petals, a bare and useless stem he threw on the ground.

Mireille sighed and averted her eyes, a peculiarly uncharacteristic gesture.  That is not all your maman dislikes, she seemed to say wordlessly, for her shoulders drooped slightly, as if bearing a weighty burden.  �You must tell me what she does like. Sometimes I cannot find the words to speak to her.�  Her head lifted again suddenly, her eyes dancing with a new idea.  �You must teach me Romanian!�

�Why?� Mihail asked vaguely, burying the broken stem in the earth.

�So I will know what to say, of course�to your maman and the count.�

There was an oddity: I, who had extended warmth and hospitality, was kept at an unreachable distance by my exalted title.  Kelantha, whose uninviting, distrustful reception had only deepened, was given the endearment. 

�But you can speak to them, mademoiselle,� Mihail was saying very seriously. �They speak English.�

She laughed at him and threw a handful of leaves in his lap.  �Why did they learn it, Mihail? Why am I here pouring enough French and Latin into your head to make you float away on a sea of words? I should very much like to learn. What is the first thing I ought to know? What will you teach me?�

�S�nt din Franţa,� he complied, waiting patiently as she stumbled through the unfamiliar vowels.  �Now,� he continued somberly, �Say, De ce r�deţi? Vorbes aşa de prost rom�neşte?�

�What does this mean?� Mireille inquired after successfully slaughtering the phrase.

Mihail leaned forward to hug his knees to his chest, biting his lips in amusement.  ��Why are you laughing? Is my Romanian so bad?��

�How do you say, �I am sorry, Monsieur le Comte, your son is a very naughty boy and leaves stains of flowers and grass on my good gown�?�

�I do not!� he protested, drawing himself up with righteous indignation.  Mireille indicated one of a series of purplish-greenish stains, then laughed at his childish embarrassment as he realized his own garments were covered with similar marks.  I did not wait to see his eyes brighten as she pushed the dark hair away from the pale brow, or to hear her gently scold that he would look like a common foundling if he was not careful.  Mihail was blissfully, wondrously happy.  The entire winter could be an endless succession of mild reproaches and outdoor linguistic lessons, and he would be content.  One year would bleed into the next, threaded by a benevolent neglect of potential, idyllic mediocrity and sweet consistency.  He would never surpass it, never know the heights for which he was destined, never �

I halted suddenly, pausing to light various candles to give some sort of impression that life existed within these walls.  Perhaps I would always think of him as the Incarnate, but he was a child.  He was owed a childhood, weightless and effortless. 

Time was not so generous in its allowances; the years that separate that period so immutably have not served to convince me that I was right in my assertions, that Kelantha was right, that either of us had been correct in guarding our secrets from each other to the end.  There is no absolving forgetfulness; only the prodding, provocative possibility.  It might have been.  It might have been prevented; it might have been spared.  Countless combinations of the four stark words that always end precisely as they began.  They are stark.  They are immutable.

And in the distance, she is there.  I see Kelantha in the interval, her features undimmed by time and space.  Her idea is not a memory, a pitiable remembrance that wanes and fades.  It is intrinsic, an imprint on my very being.  The vibrant eyes that always looked but did not express; the voice that whispered in the night yet would not speak�she is Kelantha, unchangeable.  Indomitable.

The things I know to be true are stark, immutable, but there is one element above possibility and circumstance, beyond the polar opposites of fate and choice.  It is the simplicity with which a stone falls toward the earth.  Effortless.

That night I had looked across pools of candlelight and saw her.  The dark eyes never looked away as she drew nearer, unflinching as I lightly traced the base of her throat, where the scar had been and where her skin had renewed itself.  My hand fell to the curve of her bodice, where the satin of her dress met the smoothness of her skin, and where I chose between them, folding the material away from her shoulders, my eyes holding her gaze but penetrating further.  Lose yourself, free yourself, find yourself in me.  It is effortless.  My hands on her waist drew her closer; her arms bound me to her, flesh and blood bondage molded into an intricate rhythm.  She turned her head gracefully as I guided her, clasping her ankles and pulling her legs forward, so that she leaned into me and never touched the ground.  I thought to stop the flood with my lips.  This is beauty.  You.  I kissed her closed eyelids, her ebony hair.  We.  She hid her face against the hollow of my neck, her nails inching into my flesh as her hands tightened.  With every searing kiss I bound her closer to me.  We are eternal.  Untouched by time.

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