Ah, such a sweet memory!
I can see it vividly in my mind. I close my eyes, willing myself to submerge fully into the past. I yearn to exist solely in my recollection of that day. I ruminate on the sensation of the sun on my skin, the heaviness of the basket in my small hand, and the smell of the forest after a light rain. Gradually, the pain of the stake through my body fades as the memory takes hold and sweeps me back through the centuries to a point in time too dear to ever forget.
I open my eyes to peer up at my sister.
“Agy, tell me a story,” I ask.
My voice is small and musical. I clamber over tree roots as I follow her. She is a gifted storyteller and loves to recount details with great flair and verbosity. The stories are rife with court intrigue and speak of a land far from our small cottage in the Black Forest. I love her stories. Besides, my feet hurt in my new shoes. A small break from our task among the tall trees would be rather nice.
Twirling about, my sister says, “I should tell you about when you were born.”
I seat myself upon a gnarled root and set my basket at my side. I pluck a wild berry from the basket and crush it between my teeth. The juice is sweet and tangy, so I reach for another.
“Mama says I was born when she was sad and I made her happy again.”
“That is very, very true!” Ágota tosses her basket on the ground in front of me. A few truffles fall out and roll on the ground. She does not seem to notice. “Mama was heartbroken and full of deepest despair.”
“Why?” I eat another berry.
“Well, it is a very long story. Very dramatic. And tragic. Very tragic.”
I nod solemnly, understanding. Most of Ágota’s stories are tragic.
“Viorica,” she starts.
“Mama,” I correct her.
“For the story, I shall call her by her name,” Ágota says. “It is much more melodramatic that way.”
Frowning, I nod. That my mother should have two names, ‘Mama’ and ‘Viorica,’ is quite confusing to my young mind. Yet, I feel the power in the name my sister says with both delight and solemnity.
“It all begins long—well, actually about eight years ago—when a voivode, a prince in Moldavia, sought out our mother when he heard rumors there was a witch who lived at the edge of a nearby pond.”
“We live near a pond now,” I say.
“Yes, but it was a different, much more mysterious pond. Ghosts used to dance in the mist that floated across the darkest water,” Ágota replies. “Sometimes, I would join them, my toes skimming across the surface as light as a water bug.”
I am suspicious of her boast but hold my tongue. I have seen my mother floating like a feather upon the wind, so perhaps Ágota can as well.
“Was the prince handsome?” I ask.
“Oh, no! Dragoș was dreadful. He had a thick mustache and very black hair. His face was like this,” Ágota scrunches up her face, lowering her eyebrows into a straight line “and he always talked like he was shouting. But when he saw our mother, he loved her.”
“She is very beautiful,” I say, my tiny fingers drawing a nut from the depths of the basket. I crack it open against the tree trunk.
“Dragoș loved her. He gave her a fancy house next to the river. There were even servants! Mama wore the finest dresses and her hair was piled on top of her head. Every day we ate the best food! It was all very nice. But when Dragoș visited, it was very grand. I even had to dress up and wear my hair up! Even though I thought Dragoș was very loud, I liked him. He made Mama laugh and gave her many presents. Sometimes,” she says leaning toward me with a wink, “he brought me presents, too. Like this!”
I admire the simple gold bracelet around her wrist and this pleases her.
“Mama had lots of pretty jewelry, but she had to leave it all behind when we had to run away in the middle of the night!”
Ágota smiles with satisfaction as I gasp.
“When Dragoș died in battle, his son came to find Mama and me. To kill us!”
My eyes widen with horror.
With a shrug of one shoulder she says, “Of course, he failed because we are still alive.”
“Where was I?”
“In Mama’s belly. That was why his son and his men came to our house. If you were a boy, then you could cause problems.”
“How?”
In the memory, I cannot grasp what she means, but my adult mind fully understands. If I had been a boy, I would have been a threat. A potential usurper to Dragoș’ throne.
Ágota shrugs. “That’s what Mama said when she grabbed me and flew away. They chased us! Even fired arrows at us! But they could not touch us because we were up so high in the sky!”
My mouth forms an “O,” and I wish to see Mama fly that high again. She only flies around when the moon is dark and no one can see. And never higher than the treetops.
“Soon, she had to land, because her powers were waning. For days we were alone. One day, we encountered a caravan. Mama paid them with the jewelry she was wearing for one of the wagons, but she let me keep my bracelet. She had me hide it under my sleeve and never reveal it. We rode with them for a long time. Through the Carpathian Mountains and into the world beyond! Mama would tell fortunes and sometimes make potions to pay our way. I know she was sad, but I liked playing with the other children living in the caravan. And her tummy got bigger and bigger because of you. But none of the men cared. They would knock on our wagon door in the middle of the night and she would send them away. But sometimes they gave us food and other gifts.”
“Because Mama was so beautiful,” I say.
Ágota laughs and threads long strands of grass between her toes. “Oh, yes. But then one night we had to run away again. One of the men got mad at her because she did not want his kisses. She grabbed me and we flew away again. This time we did not find a caravan. We were alone. When I was scared, Mama called wolves to walk with us through their territory. At night they would protect us and keep us warm. Ravens would bring us food. Deer would guide us to water.”
“I like ravens,” I say, smiling.
“Probably because they took such good care of us. And then, one night, Mama could not walk anymore because you wanted to be born. So we made a fire and we waited. You were born during the New Moon when the night is dark and full of stars. Our mother was very weak afterward, and it was I who named you. As I cradled you in my arms close to our campfire, I peered into your golden eyes and saw your name written in their depths. Mama, weakened by your birth, was pleased with my very first portent, and your name was set in the stars.” Ágota leans toward me, grinning. “And that is when I knew I was a witch, too.”
“Am I a witch?” I dig around in the basket, looking for more to eat.
“We do not know yet. We have to wait and see. You might be. If not, I will take care of you.” Ágota hands me a pear from her basket.
Pears are my favorite.
I take it, staring at her curiously. I cannot imagine where she found it. I bite into it and my mouth is filled with sweet fruit. As I eat, Ágota makes a little girl out of twigs. She gives her hair made of grass and a dress made of leaves. I giggle as Ágota brings her to life, making her twirl about on the forest floor. The little twig girl dances around until a strong wind comes and she scatters into pieces.
Disappointed, I start to cry.
Ágota attempts to soothe me, but I am saddened by the demise of the little twig girl.
“Make another, Agy,” I sob.
“I do not have enough magic to make another,” she says. “In a little bit the magic will return to my hands and I will make you a new one.”
It is then my mother appears. The basket on her hip is filled with wildflowers. Like Ágota, her black hair is long and unfettered. As she walks toward us, her embroidered skirt ripples on the wind. Gazing at her, I know that no other woman is as beautiful as my mother. Green-eyes flecked with gold regard me from beneath long, dark lashes.
I rub my nose and stifle
my tears. I do not want to upset her.
“Erjy, why do you cry?” she asks.
“The little twig girl died,” I say, sniffling.
“I made a poppet,” Ágota explains. “And the wind carried it away.”
Our mother tilts her head and nods solemnly. “I see.”
“The wind is cruel. It killed her,” I complain bitterly.
I am upset at the injustice of the little twig girl being taken away.
“The wind is merely doing what the wind does.” Mama points to the leaves skittering across the ground.
I do not grasp what she’s trying to say and continue to cry.
Setting the basket down on the ground before me, my mother flexes her fingers. I immediately lift my eyes to watch, understanding that she’s about to do something wondrous. With a smile on her lips, she starts to twist and turn her hands, her fingers forming intricate designs. The flowers within the basket shiver beneath her hands. As I watch with delight, the flowers rise slowly into the air, their petals forming skirts and long trousers, their stems and leaves twisting into green-limbed people. Laughing, my mother raises her arms, and the flower people spiral into the air, dancing on the wind. They spin higher and higher into a colorful arc.
“Oh, Mama! They are beautiful!” I clap with joy.
My mother grabs Ágota and my hands to draw us into a merry dance.
When my feet leave the forest floor, I am dancing among the flower people in the wind and with my mother and elder sister.
It is glorious...
The iron door to the mausoleum crashes open. The pain from the iron stake returns with brutal intensity, shattering my concentration and returning me to this atrocious reality. I grip the stake with both hands and scream not only with the agony caused by my wound but the loss of the vision.
“Do not say I do not care for you!” Vlad roars.
He is already in the midst of an argument with me.
I gape at him in surprise.
Is this the same night? Or another?
I cannot tell.
But that he has returned so soon is a sign of his misery.
“Leave me to my agony!” I screech at him. “Do not torture me with your declarations of love while I lay here your prisoner!”
With the flick of his hand, a torch awakens, revealing his tall form. Again, he wears a dark overcoat, but the top hat is gone. His thick auburn hair rests against his wide shoulders in long coils. Dangling from his hand is a terrified man with white hair and sideburns. Choking in the fierce grip, the elderly gentleman—for that is what his clothes reveal him to be—flounders as he attempts to free himself.
“You are here of your own hand! You made me do this to you!” Vlad heaves his prisoner onto the end of my bier. The fear flowing off the man like warm smoke is intoxicating.
I am famished. My teeth tear into my bottom lip as I stare at the veins in his neck straining beneath his skin as he struggles for breath. Vlad releases the man and he clings to the platform, gasping for air.
Ignoring him, Vlad prowls about the small room like a great wolf. “Admit it, Erzsébet! Admit this is of your doing and I will take mercy on you.”
“Never!”
In German the old man cries out, “Where is my daughter? Where did you take her?”
Vlad does not answer.
The mortal man appears to gradually become aware of me. It is my legs upon which he lays, yet his gaze remains riveted to the furiously pacing vampire. Only when Vlad steps close to the head of the bier to glower at me does the man become aware of the iron stake piercing my body. He recoils in shock.
“You drove me to this!” Vlad grips the iron rod and leans over me. “Why will you not confess your sin and beg for my forgiveness!”
I snap my teeth at him.
“I love you, Erzsébet! I love you so fiercely it is as if hell itself was consuming me!”
“Hell will consume you for what you did!”
The old man attempts to dart toward the door, but Vlad vanishes from my side to reappear before him. He backhands the man, knocking him across the room and into my arms. I do not hesitate. I drive my long teeth into the man’s throat and feed.
The taste of hot blood overwhelms all my senses. The rapture of feeding on a living, breathing man is transcendent. Nothing compares to the pleasure I feel when I drink the blood of the living. It swirls through my veins to restore my life and power.
I am renewed.
Born once again.
When the man’s heart fades, I drop him to the floor. I am sated and my body flushes with pleasure. I lick the blood from my lips while resting my hands against the curve of my cheeks. They are rounded and soft again. My beauty is fully restored. Should I be free of this place and among mortals, I would appear as a living, breathing woman full of life.
Vlad drags the body to a corner and drops it with disdain. “He was a liar and a cheat. Presented his daughter as a princess and himself as a man of means. All he wanted was to marry her off and empty the coffers of her new husband.”
I ignore his muttering. I am in agony after feeding so well. My body attempts to heal the wound beneath my ribs, but the silver-coated stake resists. The pain compels me to writhe. I grip the stake, seeking relief, but find none. My body refuses to acknowledge the stake driven through me and attempts to heal my flesh only to have it ripped apart once more. I do not care about Vlad’s domestic problems. I desire for him to leave me to my memories. How like him to destroy my blissful reminiscing.
“Do you not see, Erzsébet?”
Vlad stares down at the dead man who inquired where his daughter was just scant minutes ago. Ironically, his body now leans against her tomb.
“See that you have destroyed yet another woman and her family?”
In an instant he is stooping over me, green eyes glimmering with coal fires. “Do you not see how much I love you? I could have killed him and been done with him back at the castle. But no, you haunt my every thought, so I brought him to you. I cannot bear for your beauty to fade.”
“Yet you can bear to witness me suffering. How loving you are, dearest husband.”
He slams his fist against the bier. The stone cracks, but does not crumble. “I love you to my detriment!”
“Kill me and be done with it,” I retort. “Release me from this hell.”
“Beg for my forgiveness and it will be yours!”
“Never!”
He smothers my lips with kisses. I bite at his thick lips, but he ignores the wounds I inflict on him. Blood streams from our mouths, and for one voluptuous moment, I respond to his kiss. His tongue in my mouth reminds me of the soft flesh of a pear. I remember Ágota and what he did to her.
I savagely bite down.
Recoiling from me, he wipes away the blood with the back of his hand while chuckling bitterly. “You will return to me, Erzsébet. One night, you will say the words and I will release you.”
“Never.”
“You once kneeled before me and you will again.”
“Only to give you pleasure. Never in subjugation.”
I only bowed to one man when I was young and nearly died for my naiveté.
Vlad snatches the torch from the wall and throws it on the body in the corner. He knows I despise the smell of burning flesh after all I endured when mortal.
“You will kneel,” Vlad vows, his gaze holding mine.
And then he is gone.
As the acrid reek of the fire fills the small chamber, I shudder with despair. Vlad is cruel and he has inflicted upon me the cruelest of all memories.
The night my mother burned.
Chapter 3
As I lay here assaulted by the repugnant scent of burning flesh, I am tormented by recollections of my mother’s final day on this earth. How such a lovely day could end so terribly still haunts me. I was only eight years of age when my life was shattered and I was robbed of the mother I adored.
I press my hand over my nose, attempting to stave off t
he reek of burning flesh. I wish to remember my mother’s beauty and love, not her terrible demise. Though I have lost names, faces, and important moments to history, my mother stands out vibrantly in the grey mists of time.
In my mind, she is an otherworldly beauty set against the drabness of a peasant life. I remember her black hair that glimmered with shades of blue and purple, her unusual blue eyes that were ringed with green and gold, and her pale skin that flushed bright pink when she laughed or cried. Though I witnessed her fantastical magic every day, I enjoyed the more mundane moments in our life together. When she tended to our home, I was always in her wake. She performed everyday tasks with the same flair she brought to her spells. I suspect she infused magic into all she did.
My mother was beautiful, but not perfect. Like me, her hands appeared too large for her body. When she cast her magic, the intricate designs she created with her long slender fingers were grotesquely beautiful, though the magic that flowed from them was breathtaking. Those same hands wiped away my tears, held me close, and tickled me relentlessly.
I loved her hands.
Perhaps that is why one memory of intense clarity is her knuckles, reddened from washing, as she mended my dress on the last day of her life.
Strange how the smallest details remain after all this time.
I long to feel her hand hold mine, hear her voice whispering my name, and see the beauty of her magic once more.
But she was taken from me.
The pain rippling through my body as I lay here in this mausoleum does not measure against the agony I experienced so long ago. That Vlad should thrust upon me such a hideous memory is not a surprise. He wishes to punish me and has found an exquisite way in which to do so.
Weeping, I cover my face with hands which resemble hers.
Even though I know that in the end there will be despair, I want to relive those precious moments that are lost. My mind untethers from my brutalized body and drifts backward in time. I seek refuge once more in my memories...
The Impaled Bride Page 2