Slow Burn

Dracula

�May I sit up with you?�

Mihail peered at me expectantly, lingering near the fireplace and casting an elongated shadow.  He shivered slightly and wrapped his kimono closer about him.  I assented, and in a moment he was resting contently beside me, curled within the arm I extended toward him, watching drowsily as I shuffled the cards and divided them neatly into three packs.  I asked if anything was wrong, but he shook his head, citing an inability to fall asleep and a desire to wait for his mother�s return.  I glanced at him, at his half closed eyelids that threatened mutiny, and smiled to myself.  I put aside the two smaller decks and continued shuffling the third, lulling him into further drowsiness with the rhythmic motion.  He was asleep by the time the last card was arranged on the table.  I pushed the remaining cards aside, intent on the scene that surfaced in his subconscious.  It was fresh, having occurred only hours before.  My fingers hovered over the first card as I sorted through his memory, viewing it through his eyes.  Mireille had thrown a bedraggled tangle of clothes in a heap before him, an ultimatum.  The clothes were soiled beyond repair, and her arms were crossed in resolve.

�You see, ma petite,� she had told him, evenly, �I found these in your closet, and they are ruined. I wonder how you did it. Were you, perhaps, digging in your garden?�

Mihail stiffened.  He paused uncomfortably, then sat up straighter.  �Yes.�

My fingers flipped the card before me swiftly.  It revealed the High Priestess, representing intuition, insight, the strong sense of presentiment.  I looked at it pensively as the scene played itself out.

Hurt.  It was betrayed in Mireille�s eyes.  She drew herself up; she would try again.  �Were you in your garden, Mihail? Is that why your clothes are ruined?�

His voice took on a tone of infinite patience.  �Yes, mademoiselle. I was in my garden�our garden, the little plot we have worked so hard on.�  His confidence was renewed; in his reasoning, he was right.  The forest contains soil, much as the garden does.  Both belong to him.  Why should one be so different from the other?

Mireille lowered her head as she contemplated.  For a moment she appeared older�tired, wan, and very thin.  Mihail sensed the pain his statement caused; concern flared within him, but he suppressed it.  He waited for her next words, which she pronounced with halting clarity.  �I will not tell your mother, if that is what you fear, but you must be honest.�

The Empress.  It was the next card drawn, the second portrait that gazed back at me, seated upon her velvet in all her finery.

�What difference does it make,� Mihail said offhandedly, leaning back comfortably, �if you tell my mother?�

�You unburied him!� Mireille cried, her anger at his behavior overcoming her distaste for the reality of the situation.  �You went to the edge of the woods, where that poor man was laid to rest, and you unearthed him like a weed.�  She saw his expression and continued hastily.  �And you know very well which man I mean.�

�I wanted to see,� he explained softly.

Her breath caught.  �What?�

�I wanted to see what happened to him.�  He lifted his eyes to her face, something of defiance within them.  He did not expect her to understand.  She sank into the seat beside his, oblivious to the hand that grasped hers.  He was comforting her in his quiet, childish way; but in his mind their roles had reversed.  I turned the next card; it was the Chariot, the symbol of triumph.

�Because of what I told you,� Mireille said unquestioningly.  She nodded as if to assure herself, her words flowing rapidly.  �Because of what I said about Heaven and Hell.�  Mihail said nothing.  He lowered his gaze placidly, inwardly rejoicing that she had somehow found the connection on her own.  Perhaps she could understand.

�Listen to me, Mihail,� she told him, seizing his hand and holding it fast.  �This must not go on; I cannot bear it, and my heart will break.�

He panicked slightly at this unexpected avowal, the gravity of her words filling him with dread.  He had been wrong.  Again.  �But why?� he asked, overwhelmed.  Why is everything wrong?  His free hand came down in frustration upon the cushion beside him.

�There are things I can not associate with you. No governess in the world has such a charge as mine, and none could be as proud, but my little one, this is not what I have taught you!�  He tried to free himself from her grasp, to protest, but she pressed on.  �The laudanum, Mihail? I could have been discharged that night. When I awoke your parents would not even speak to me, and now a man whose family grieves him has been dug up for your own curiosity? I dare not think what occurs when you disappear for hours at a time � �

�If my father does not fault me, mademoiselle, you have no place to.�  Mihail sat motionlessly, distancing himself from her with his icy tone.  She was too taken aback to reply immediately.  The scene itself seemed to pause as I turned over the next card.  It was the Hanged Man.  The sacrifice, the willing victim, the atonement for a greater end.  It was so grossly unaligned with the others that I turned away from it.  Mihail had fallen asleep with his hand beneath his cheek, as if exhausted from play.  But there was no rosy glow in his countenance; I knew no healthy exertion had tired him.

�Please,� Mireille had begun pitifully, taking both his hands beseechingly.  �Please, ma petite, my Mihail. This�this is not what I have taught you. I have been your governess for two years, and I adore you. You are my heart. But what sort of character are you developing? How has it come to this, and what will become of you? How shall I bear it?�

�If I go to Hell?� he exclaimed fervently, throwing himself off the chair and away from her in a single movement.  �That is what you mean. You think I will die and go to Hell.�  His entire face was flushed; his voice shook; but he took some delight in the affect his words had on her.  Mireille�s brow was knit with grief and worry.  Good.  It was what she meant, so why not say it?  He glared at her, both hurt and stunned that she could actually think such a fate was in store for him.  It was selfish of her!  How could she expect he would suspend his curiosity, his right to learn, merely because it contradicted her quaint values?  Did she not know, after all this time?  He was different.  They stared at each other in silence, hurting and conscious of the hurt they had caused, knowing they withstood it and were capable of dealing more.

There was still a card left unturned.  Whatever image lay waiting was in the reversed position, an ominous, incorrigible omen.  Death.  It would be Death, surpassed only by the Devil.  The collection of cards already unturned all battled and repelled each other silently; creating a formless, shapeless enigma.  I rested my fingertips against it but did not turn it.  The memory ended with Mireille�s anguish, cut abruptly when she ran from the room.  There was something Mihail had said to her, something that was buried further down, that he wanted to forget.  The card turned and I looked down at it.  Lightning and flames jaggedly broke the black background while two people were tumbling head-first to the rocks below.  The Tower, the symbol of shattered illusions, false assumptions, destruction.  His words flooded me suddenly, clearly and lucidly.

�If Hell meant getting away from you,� Mihail had said cruelly, �then I would.�

The deck was thrown into the fire recklessly, the cards twisting as they were reduced to cinders.  The painted flames on the Tower card were engulfed; the card was singed from the edges inward, until the hapless souls falling from the windowless, doorless tower were no longer recognizable.

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