Covenant With the Vampire (10 page)

He was quite taken by the excellent condition of the antique furniture, and
the splendour of the brocade tapestries, some of them threaded with gold. As
we turned to the larger-than-life-sized portrait that dominated the vast wall
above the fire-place, he drew in a breath and turned to me in surprise. “Why - it
is you!”

I smiled thinly as his words echoed against the high vaulted ceiling. “Hardly.
This was painted in the fifteenth century.”

“But look,” Jeffries insisted with enthusiasm. “He has your nose” - and here
he pointed to the subject's long, aquiline feature - “your moustache, your lips” -
here he indicated the drooping black moustache (in all fairness, much fuller
than mine) above a generous ruby lower lip - “your dark hair…” Here he trailed
off, for he had come to the eyes.

“As you can see,” said I, still smiling, “his hair was curled and shoulder
length, whereas mine is cut quite short, in the modern style.”

He laughed. “Yes, but with a proper haircut - ”

“And there is the matter of the eyes. His are dark green; mine, hazel.”

He glanced at me to verify this, and agreed: “Yes, you’re right. The eyes are
quite different; his are rather vengeful and cold, don’t you think? But as to
colour, yours do have quite a bit of green in them. And the resemblance is still
remarkable.”

“It is nothing compared to his resemblance to Uncle. Of course, Uncle's eyes
are kind.”

“Then I shall memorise every aspect of his face!” Jeffries exclaimed. “And
when I meet your uncle, I shall recall it from memory and compare the two!”
He lifted his pen above his notepad and squinted at the brass plaque beneath
the portrait. “Vlad Tepes?” He pronounced it “Teh-pehs.”

“Tsepesh,” I corrected him. “Do you not see the fittfe hook, the cedilla there
beneath the’t and the’s? It changes the pronunciation.”

“Tsepesh,” Jeffries repeated, writing upon the notepad. “He seems an important
fellow.”

I straightened with pride. “Prince Vlad Tsepesh. Born December 1431, first
seized power in 1456, died 1476. My uncle's namesake.”

“Namesake?” The furious writing ceased; the pen froze above the paper. Jeffries
blinked up at me in confusion. “Perhaps… perhaps there is something I misunderstand
about Roumanian names.”

“What is it that presents difficulty for you? The spelling - ?”

“No, no, I understand that all right. But…” And he retrieved another piece
of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to me. “Which name shall
I properly call him by?”

The note I had translated had been signed in Uncle's cautious, delicate hand;
when I saw the signature, I was struck speechless. I do not know whether Jeffries
noted my shock, for I recovered quickly and handed the note back to him with
a forced smile. “Uncle has a propensity for practical jokes,” I lied, “and so
he tongue-in-cheek used this nickname given him by the peasants.”

In truth, it was a nickname, though not Uncle’s. It had been bestowed by fearful
rumini
upon the man in the portrait. “If this nickname pleases my generous
host,” said Jeffries, “then that is what I shall call him. But pray explain…”

“Dracula.” I pronounced the hated name with distaste, then pointed. “Do you
see, at the bottom right of the portrait, the dragon?”

Jeffries peered nearsightedly at Vlad's shield, whereupon rested a winged dragon,
its forked tail curling about the emblem of a
double cross.

“Vlad's father, Vlad the Second, was a ruler inducted by the Hungarian emperor
into a secret chivalrous fraternity known as the Order of the Dragon,” I continued.
“He used this emblem on his shields and coins. Because of this, the
boiers
- the
nobles - began to refer to him as
dracul,
the dragon, though Vlad the
Second never so referred to himself, except in jest. Unfortunately, in Roumanian,
the word
dracul
also has the meaning ”the Devil‘; hearing that name,
the superstitious peasants believed that Vlad, who was known as a fearsomely
cruel tyrant, came to power because he allied himself with Satan, and that the
Order of the Dragon was in fact a society devoted to mastery of the black arts.
His son, Vlad the Third - whose portrait you see before you - was even more bloodthirsty,
even more feared. The common folk referred to him as
Dracula,
the son
of the Devil, as the suffix
-a
means “son of.” To this day, the peasants
fear our family for this reason, and persist in calling us Dracul. They mean
it as an insult, not an honor.“

“My deepest apologies if I have offended you,” Jeffries said, his tone somberly
sincere; but still he took it all down. “I can see that this attitude has caused
your family no small amount of grief. Yet your uncle clearly has maintained
an admirable sense of humour about it, to be able to jokingly sign this name
because of the nature of the article I am writing.”

His manner was so kind that I managed a small, rueful smile. “I fear I do not
share Uncle's sense of humour about such matters.” I did not tell him the entire
truth: that the surname used for the rest of the family was Dracul, without
the
-a.
By the peasants’ logic, then, Uncle should have jokingly signed
his name Vlad Dracul. For
only
the son of the Devil - only the man in
the portrait, born four centuries before - could claim the right to the name “Dracula.”

“Might I inquire as to the other symbol - there, on the bottom left, opposite
the dragon's shield?” He gestured at the wolf's head atop the body of a coiled
serpent.

“That is our family crest. It is very ancient. The dragon was the symbol of
Vlad's reign, but the wolf represents our bloodline. The Dacians, who inhabited
this country before the Romans conquered it, referred to themselves as ”wolf-men‘.“

“Ah, yes…” His pale eyes lit up with interest as he continued scribbling. “The
old Dacians. And there were legends, were there not, of their having the ability
to actually transform themselves into other creatures, such as the wolf… ?”

“All ridiculous superstition, of course.”

“Of course.” Jeffries’ smile was bright. “It is all superstition. But it is
fascinating, is it not, to see how the legends developed from the truth… ?”

I had to allow the point.

“And the serpent… ?” he prompted. “Do you think that perhaps the peasants saw
this and were provoked to think once again of the Devil?”

“Perhaps. But only an ignorant person would do so. In pre-Christian times,
snakes were revered as creatures who possessed the secret of immortality, for
when they shed their old skins, they ‘die’ and are ‘born’ anew. I have always
taken this to symbolise the fervent desire that the family line continue unbroken
forever.”

The tour continued, and our conversation turned to other topics. I told him
of our family's history, and of the original Vlad Tsepesh's reign and victories
over the Turks, and of the many notable Tsepesh family members scattered throughout
eastern Europe. He was quite impressed and took careful note of all details.
I feel hopeful that the article will be both accurate and intriguing, and asked
whether he would be so kind as to send me a copy of the finished product, that
I might translate it into Roumanian and educate my fellow Transylvanians - though,
unfortunately, those who most need to see the article are those who cannot read.
He agreed to do so.

We fell then to talking about the peasants and their superstitions once again.
Jeffries confessed to me that, immediately after his arrival, one of the chambermaids
- “a blond, stocky, middle-aged woman,” so I knew he meant Masika Ivanovna - had
taken the crucifix from around her own neck and given it to him, pleading for
him to wear it. He had humoured her by putting it on, but once she had left
his chambers, he removed it. “I am Church of England, and this would never do,”
he said, though he made it clear that he followed the practice only out of custom
and deference to family, not belief. We ended the discussion about the locals
by agreeing that public education was the only solution.

His company was so delightful that I insisted he return with me to the manor
for an early dinner (luring him with promises of a tour of the family chapel
and tomb). I left a note in Uncle's drawing-room to that effect, and promised
to return his guest by nine o’clock.

And so he came with me to the manor, and Mary and I spent an enjoyable evening
in his company, with the result that I did not take him back to the castle until
very late.

But it is nearly dawn, and I have been writing for hours, and am exhausted.
To bed now. More to follow.

* * *

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh

9 April.

I write this, having retired early while Arkady enjoys the charming company
of our visitor, Mister Matthew Jeffries. I left them laughing in the dining-room
to enjoy after-dinner cordials and cigars. I am glad Arkady has found some small
joy in the man's companionship; he needs it, poor dear, just as I need the opportunity
to privately unburden my heart by writing.

After witnessing the tryst between Zsuzsanna and Vlad yesterday night, I have
been most troubled; but I have said nothing to Arkady yet, for he has seemed
more troubled than I. I decided to delicately broach the subject with Zsuzsanna
first, for I feared that, being an innocent, she has been led astray by her
more worldly great-uncle and perhaps does not even realise that what she is
doing is improper. Vlad is older and wiser and therefore to blame.

But Zsuzsanna did not present herself for breakfast or luncheon. Arkady was
so distracted by some unspoken concern that he did not even remark upon it,
but after what I had seen, I grew worried, and so I knocked upon her bedroom
door in the early afternoon.

She called out feebly for me to enter, and I opened the door to find her still
in her nightgown in bed, propped up with her long, dark hair fanned against
the pillows. Her eyes are large, like Arkady’s, but unlike his, very dark, and
today they were underscored by shadow that emphasised her pallour. Indeed, she
seemed distressingly pale and drawn; her lips and cheeks had lost their former
hint of rosiness.

“Zsuzsanna, dear,” I said, and hurried to her side. “I missed your company
today and came to see how you were doing. Are you unwell?”

“Sweet Mary! Only tired. I did not sleep well last night.”

Her answer made me blush, but I do not think she noticed. She smiled at the
sight of me, and clasped my hand; hers was cold. I assume her wanness was caused
by some feminine complaint and so did not press to know its cause, but I fear
it is also at least partly due to lovesickness and guilt. She looked so small
and frail there against the pillows that it was impossible to think of her as
a responsible adult; even her voice and expression were those of a child.

“Have you eaten?” I asked. “May I bring you anything?”

“Oh, yes! I have been ravenous. Dunya brought me two trays, and I ate everything.”
She nudged the dog, who lay contented across the foot of her bed and thumped
his tail at the sound of his name. “It is all Brutus’ fault! He has been barking
at night and won’t let me sleep. I had to put him in the kitchen, and he will
stay there again tonight!”

“Perhaps it is wisest to let him stay.” I watched her keenly for a reaction.
“He only barks in order to protect you.

She laughed; her eyes were wide and innocent. “Protect me? From what? Field
mice?”

“From wolves,” I said darkly. “I thought I saw one near your window last night.
You must take care.”

There followed an awkward pause; her eyes narrowed, and she shot a swift, telling
glance at me before turning away and pretending to focus her attention on the
dog at her feet. She stroked him for several seconds in silence.

All of a sudden she burst into tears, and raised her contorted face to mine
as she clutched my arm with both hands. “Please - you must not return to England!
Tell him - please! If all of you leave me, I shall die! You must none of you leave
me - !” She wept with the single-minded desperation of a child.

I was taken aback more than I can say by the unexpected and emotional reaction,
but I took it as a clear admission of guilt and a confession of love. It does
not matter to her so much if Arkady and I were to leave; but it would kill her
should her great-uncle do so.

“But, my darling,” I soothed, “we would never leave you. You must not even
think such things.”

“Tell
him.
Tell
him!”
she repeated in a choked voice, clutching
my arm so desperately that I had to promise at once: yes, yes, I would tell
him, and quite soon.

I know she did not refer to her brother. I know who “he” is, all too well.

From her reaction, I fear her guilt has driven her to nervous exhaustion. I
sat with her awhile and calmed her - saying nothing more of what I had seen,
lest I provoke her to another outburst. She has suffered enough, poor dear,
and there is nothing I can do now except take the matter up with my husband - or
Vlad himself.

But I am a newcomer to the family; it is hardly my place to take the patriarch
to task. I know I must speak to Arkady, and soon. Yet, although my husband did
not depart for the castle until mid-afternoon, I could not bring myself to speak
to him, could not find the words.

At the same time, I cannot bear to see poor confused Zsuzsanna further taken
advantage of. And so I determined that I would wait for Arkady to return home
later that evening and speak to him, and I spent the afternoon hours carefully
choosing the phrases that would surely break his heart.

To my dismay and relief, my husband returned home only a few hours later, with
an Englishman who was visiting the castle, a Mister Jeffries. Arkady was so
cheered by having a visitor - and I must admit, despite my misery, I too enjoyed
his company, and found it a pleasant distraction from my worries - that I could
not consider spoiling his good mood. We had an early dinner with our guest.
As I expected, Zsuzsanna did not come down for it and sent a message via Dunya
that she was still indisposed.