Persephone Falls

Dracula

The harvest that year was abundant, a spectacle: each day reaped more than that before it, a succession of colors and crops that surpassed expectation.  It ensured not only comfort in the winter months ahead, but the ability for Bistrita to open its arms and its doors to the delights of autumn.  It was the month we call octombrie, the tenth on the calender, which brought with it a seasonal singularity�the common, the vulgar, the ever reoccurring traveling fair.  Mihail had known of it long before the slow-moving, wooden wheels of the various wagons reached the town limits; he had already petitioned for a short holiday, a day free from lessons, that he and his governess might wander through the exhibits at leisure.  In the end, he was granted half a holiday; the morning was to be spent in his studies, but the afternoon remained free for his diversions.  His anticipation was evident as he laid aside the small, tailored Viennese suit he commonly wore�for no one would be wearing such a thing, he declared, with all the assurance of his five years� experience�in favor of a simple tunic and trousers, complete with a fur hat covering his aristocratic brow.  He looked unpretentious and plain, a remark he accepted with gracious gratitude.  When he set off with Mireille, who wore the coat her father hated, I did not expect their return until nightfall.  Merely one hour had passed before her small hand rapped anxiously at the door, the other hand locked firmly around Mihail�s wrist.  She was trembling, visibly shaken, but she guided him resolutely inside, seating his languid, distracted frame in front of the fire before she allowed herself one breath.  The holiday had been a mistake, she asserted, her voice quavering.  Would that Bistrita would close its gates upon such exhibitions.  Mihail emitted one dejected sniff, and suddenly she was fussing over him again, asking him if he were warm enough or wanted a cup of tea.  He nodded quietly, and it was all the encouragement she needed.  I watched Mihail�s emotionless countenance, his fingers numb with cold, his continued silence. 

�Blood child,� he said unexpectedly, his eyes fastened on the flames before him.  �She called me a blood child. The woman at the fair.�

�Who was this woman?� I prodded in low tones, glad that Mireille was not here, that Kelantha was not here, that, in his daze, Mihail hardly seemed conscious of what he was saying.

�She stood at the end of a long line of exhibits. Even though she was so far, I saw her first. She did not look at anyone else, only at me. And when she saw that I would not look away, that her stare did not make me shudder, she started shouting many things. Everyone began to look. That was when she called me a blood child, and told me I was to come back at moon dark.�

�What did you say to her?�

�At first I could not understand her shouting, only her last words. Mireille was very upset and scolded the woman for saying such things to her child � �

�Mireille said this?�

�Yes, but then the woman quieted down, and said very calmly, �You are not the boy�s mother.��

Mireille re-entered the room with Mihail�s tea, urging him gently to drink it, and he complied.  I withdrew slightly, waiting until she emerged again with the empty cup.

�You must have been frightened.�

Mireille started faintly.  �Did he tell you, sir?�  She threw one lingering glance at the door behind us, which remained shut, keeping its solitary inhabitant out of audible range.

�Of course.�  My voice lowered to a concerned whisper.  �I should hope one in my paid services would tell me herself.�

Her eyes sank.  �Yes, sir, and I would have, only I could not think what to say.�

�You told the woman you were Mihail�s mother.�

Her cheeks flushed with shame.  �That woman was so foul, and so coarse��  Her voice trailed off, unsteady and embarrassed, before she drew herself up again.  �I was very flustered, sir, and very angry with her. I did not mean to affront Madame la Comtesse.�

�No, certainly not,� I said soothingly.  �You are a good girl, and you have done all I could wish for my son.�  She looked up at me in surprise, her eyes bright and almost doubtful.  �If you see the countess,� I continued, turning toward the door, �kindly tell her that I have taken Mihail, and we will be back well before morning.�

�You will not take him back,� she said dubiously, her brow knit with worry.  �Surely you will not go back there.�

�And what lesson would he learn, mademoiselle,� I asked with clipped patience.  �To allow paltry oracles to run him off his own land?�

Mihail was still seated at the fireplace, but rose expectantly when I came to him.  Clutching the fur hat between his fingers, he followed me out into the cold.  He had not been told where to return, but large bonfires glowed in the distance, and he had memorized the path.  The woman had said very little, for I had searched his mind for any further discourse, but it was the one phrase that I found disconerting.  Moon dark.  It was not openly malicious; if anything, it sounded quaint and incorrect.  It was Medieval, used when the world was caught in the middle ages, between the fall of Rome and its imperial protection and the enlightenment of the Renaissance.  It was obsolete; archaic; too cryptic to be significant to a small child.

Only one of the displays was open at this hour: a makeshift stage rose in prominence, lit with torches and surrounded by people.  I drew the collar of my cloak upward and I kept Mihail close to me.  I lowered his hat to conceal his features, that we might pass unnoticed through the crowd.  Still I told him, imperiously, to face the woman without reserve should he chance to find her.

�But I do not think she will be here,� he countered rather despairingly. �She said only that I must be here.�

A man stood on stage draped in a long tunic; behind him, a huddled group holding masks before their faces waited motionlessly.  He delayed his speech until the crowd quieted, at length announcing, �In honor of your hospitality, Bistrita, and the season, we present Persephone.�

A play.  A Greek play.  The paltry oracle had publicly affronted my son that he might attend a reenactment.  A tragedy from the ancient islands so near our own coast.  I scanned the crowd quickly but found no aged, embittered face.  Mihail watched attentively as one masked actress crossed the wooden boards, a bouquet in her hands, bending toward the ground to gather more, her youthful, fluid movements interpreted by the likewise masked members of the chorus.

�He came to Demeter�s daughter

In the dusk twilight unseen

And carried off, by force,

That child of sunlight and gleam.�

There was Hades, his pomp and his might reduced to a theatrical mask, which he held securely as he led the unwilling Persephone to the terror-inducing chariot of fire.  The audience murmured disapprovingly.  Mihail was rapt.

�It is a farce, nothing more,� I told him tersely.  I looked at the actor again and could hardly repress my distaste.  How little people knew of the legends they flung about with ease; of the true identities the paper masks poorly concealed.  Persephone had been carried off to the underworld; she held the ominous pomegranate in her hand, the first fateful bite binding her irrevocably to the unholy realm. 

�She had a choice,� I whispered again to Mihail.  �They always forget she could have chosen not to eat or drink.�  He made no sign that he had heard me, entirely intent on the drama.

The stage shuddered beneath the weight of the scurrying actors; the punishment of Hades was at hand, for while her daughter languished below, Demeter would allow no life on earth to thrive.  Winter set in.  And then it was spring once more, for she had entered the scene�known by many names, but still unmistakable: the keeper of the dark arts, the guardian of the crossroads.  I duly noticed it was the same actress who had been Persephone, only her mask had changed.  She negotiated on behalf of the dark lord and lady; she appeased the gods and returned the world to its rightful balance.  Yet the balance was not perfect.  Persephone returned to her world of light, passing only half her time with her husband.

�Possessing her in time of want

Keeping her only in time of need

He knew not his captive spouse

Or owned his dreadful deed.�

�She falls,� Mihail whispered to me at the play�s conclusion, his eyes wide and solemn.

�Persephone does not fall,� I contradicted, steering him away from the stage.  I was eager to return, eager to distance myself from the sham.  �The goddess interferes. The goddess sets everything to rights.�

�But it is not right � � he began, only to fall quiet as I impatiently interrupted.  �You were not attentive. Think of it: you have a governess who teaches you everyday, an entire library at your disposal, and even an oracle who tells you to watch; yet you misunderstand entirely. This is what comes from misinterpreting the legends.�

Mihail used his hands to make large, sweeping gestures.  �She is neither light nor dark, but continuously falling between the two. That is what it means, what she meant.�  He stopped walking and looked at me directly.  His lips were dark, nearly blue from the cold, but he waited, vividly hoping he would validate his assertion.  I paused.  I gazed at him.  Yet all I could see was a latch, lucidly undone, and a casement opening as she leans forward, waiting to fall, the wind rustling her plaited hair.

�Yes,� I said, whispering again.  �You are right, Mihail. The dark lady falls.�

He nodded.  �And that is what the oracle wanted me to know.�  Because we are different, his expression seemed to add, repeating words I had told him in the past.  I lifted him close to me, regretting every shiver his small body gave in futile hopes of gaining warmth, wrapping my cloak around him.  I counted every beat of his heart, matching it with my steps, grateful for the strength and consistency that flowed within his mortal frame.  I set him down at the threshold of our home, looking down at the eyes that were so inquisitive and still so trusting.  He wanted confirmation; he would wait all night for it.

I reassured him at last, pronouncing the words he wanted so much to hear.  �Because we are divine.�

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