Immortal Heart

Dracula

There was a memory foremost in his mind; Mihail reviewed it repeatedly, mentally reliving the moments, oblivious to my presence until I spoke his name.  I could see it in his eyes, brightly animated, as he focused them on me.  In an instant of unhoped for bliss, his mother had lifted him into her arms and carried him down the entire corridor.  He did not connect it with any merit or fault of his own, but with one thing only: Kelantha�s disapproval of Mireille.  He savored this realization, curious as it was, for though he adored his governess, the poor creature came nowhere near his estimation of his mother. 

�Where is it you go every night?� he asked me primly, folding his hands as he awaited my answer.

In response, I held my hand out to him; he gave me his own eagerly, thinking I would take him out to the frozen forest.  I led him to my own chamber, to the grand casement that stood higher that his diminutive stature; he balanced himself on the back of his heels, straining forward for a better view.  Abruptly I flung open the window; the icy wind rushed into the room directly, stinging his face and causing him to gasp for breath.  In another moment he was laughing softly at his own reaction, holding his hands out to the wind as if he would catch it, obliging it to carry him away.  The wind was the only sound that night, and he listened to it as it swept over the mountains, an peculiar echo that sounded at once mournful and exultant.  I helped him stand within the open frame, twining my arm around him securely, enabling him to lean forward fearlessly.  He murmured then, a sound that transcended all languages, that did not need words to exist.  In that moment, he was not a token, an heir, an endowment.  He was only a small child, one that still marveled at the stars and their immeasurable distance; one who thought the wind magically knew his name and was calling out only to him.

I knew what I wanted for him as I watched him that night.  I wanted my son to have every advantage: mortal circumstances and an immortal heart.  The two cannot be mixed, but I did not care.  I wanted him to know how life flowed, not only in Bistrita but in the world beyond.  He would know that Istanbul was the capital of Turkey; he would know of the rebirth of Florence, the Renaissance that changed the modern world; of the Greek ideals that shaped cognitive thoughts and the Roman principles that reinstated them.  He would identify every colored shape on the globe with the confidence of one who, like Caesar, can say, vini, vidi, vici�I came, I saw, I conquered.  He would learn these things, but I could not tell him of the character he possessed.  How to know your limitations and how to suspend them.  How to hear instructions and listen to the intention beneath.  How to refrain from showing your thoughts, to hide your emotion behind your face to assess the concealed opportunities.  How there are some forces of greater value than life.  Why it is better to be feared than loved: how respect is the nucleus of love, how the latter cannot exist without the former; and why, if you cannot be loved, you must yet be respected.  If he could know this, he would know the things not worth pursuing are the easiest; that you must polish your worth and know it for what it is without brandishing it; that those who need jewels to shine gain cheap victories, as cheap as they are.  These were the things I desired him to know above all else; the things that could not be copied neatly into his daily lessons. 

He would assert mastery of each trait, for they existed within him.  Time alone was needed to draw them out.

Mihail had forgotten his question, but I had not.  I whispered to him how the mountains were the guardians of our beautiful land; how they had kept our people safe, allowing us to grow as the world had but not lose our traditions.  In the old days, I told him, the mountains were bridges, connecting the earth with the heavens, and how only the pure in heart could use them to communicate with the gods, venturing out into the wilderness for weeks at a time.  In that sense they walked among us, deities and mortals together.  Although those days were past, the mountains remained, and so did our protection.  They enabled us to pass on our stories, our way of life.

�Will anyone come over the mountains one day?� he asked me.  �Someone who will hear our stories and write them down for us? Then the world will know, too.�

�Those who would steal our heritage would affect to misunderstand it,� I answered severely.  �We would not allow such a travesty.�

�But then the gods might speak to us again,� he persisted, his voice childishly small.  �And not remain silent, as they are now.�

I turned him so that he faced me directly.  �Why do you say that? How could my son say such a thing? What comprises deity, Mihail? Tell me that, but do not answer right away. Wait until the answer is clear to you.�

He waited very obediently, his large blue eyes fastened on me in silence, until the only clear response was his tremulous breathing.  I sighed and turned him toward the window again, that he might still look at the sky.

�Our family has long defended these borders and sought the wishes of the gods. We are divine, Mihail.�

For a long while he remained at the window, surveying the great expanse, staring at stars that blinked and stared back.

He was gone the following morning.

It was customary for Kelantha and I to make our earliest appearance in the late afternoon, but there was great unease as the day dawned, and I could not rest.  I entered the parlor where warm bread and strong coffee sat untouched on a silver tray.  Near to the breakfast sat Mireille, her eyes offset by dark circles, as though she had been crying.  Before I had even taken the seat across from her, she began pouring forth a flood of apologies, saying she was heedless and unthinking, and this is what came from being such a thoughtless girl.  She had misplaced her shawl that morning, the one given her as a parting gift from her aunt.  Coincidentally, Mihail had not been in their schoolroom for lessons.  She had checked the nursery, and his bed was perfectly made, his books stacked by the door, yet he himself was nowhere to be found.  She made a needless gesture to push her hair back, but it was already pinned in place.  I began to say that she should not trouble herself, that Mihail had taken similar excursions before, but Kelantha appeared in the doorway, and Mireille began to cry again.  It was a pity we had not thought to supply ourselves with handkerchiefs before Mireille�s arrival, but I had not anticipated a governess who would carry on so when I had not even said a single word.  Nor did Kelantha say anything, but stood with perfect composure, her immaculate silence only enhanced by the utterly expressionless look on her face.  For Mireille�s benefit�or perhaps he had simply chosen to return, oblivious to the disturbance he had nearly caused�Mihail entered the room directly, clutching a worn, faded volume and seating himself as though nothing unusual had occurred.

Mireille was flooded with relief but checked it, sighing only once in gratitude.  Mihail took no notice of any of us and was instead wholly absorbed in his book, humming softly under his breath as he turned the pages carefully.  I asked him where he had found it.

�In the village,� he explained complacently.  �I described what I needed and the bookseller gave it to me. You were right, Father.�  He looked at me brightly, with renewed respect.  �Our family�s name is mentioned many times in our nation�s history. The bookseller promised that I should have no trouble finding it.�

�You gave him your name?� Kelantha asked, quietly incredulous.

�Oh, yes.�  He nodded assuredly.  �I told him my name and he gave me this book. I have only to give my name, Mama, and they are all very attentive.�

�You know Mademoiselle Chantal has lost her shawl this morning,� I told him wryly, watching his reaction.

He turned toward her for the first time.  �I am very sorry to hear that, mademoiselle.�

She smiled at him with her still-wet eyes, reaching out to pat his small shoulders affectionately.  �Merci bon, ma petit.�

I knew then what he had used as compensation for the book.  I knew it and I did not say anything.  In Kelantha I saw mirrored my own blank expression, for she was watching as Mihail approached his governess and asked her why she had not breakfasted.  Kelantha knew, as I did, and still we did not acknowledge it.  Not even to each other.

>> on to next chapter

This fan fiction is for enjoyment purposes only. You may not reproduce, duplicate, or otherwise quote the written text without written permission.