The Snow Vampire (10 page)

“Alona!” I yelled. I knocked louder. “Alona!” I heard her scream, but then I heard no more.

I did not know what I was going to say. I could not conceive of any words that would make this pain better, that would make this moment go away. I only knew that I was her brother, and the source of her pain. I had to say—I had to
do
—something.

Hendrik was there, running past me, running down the stair. I followed. Hendrik was dressed in all his clothes, putting on his coat as frantically as possible. “Where are you going?” I asked him. He ignored me, instead reaching for his scarf, my scarf, the one I had sent him. To see it now broke my heart anew. “Where are you going?” I asked again. But he said nothing. “Hendrik!” I grabbed his arm.

“It’s over now,” he whispered to me.

I did not know what he was referring to. I was too afraid to ask. “Hendrik, please. Let us go together.”

His eyes, his beautiful green eyes, were wild and scared. He looked past me and up the stairs. I could still faintly hear the wrenching sobs coming from the room. “You should tend to your sister,” he said flatly before heading out the door.

I was torn. My world had come cascading down around me, and I did not know which pieces to pick up first. My heart was conflicted, to follow Hendrik or to comfort Alona, to try and explain. I did not know what to do. I did not know where we could go. There was nowhere, there was only Pilsden, tiny Pilsden. This was the only life I had ever known. There was no other, none I could conceive of, anyway. Not now. Not anymore.

I turned and went up the stair.

Alona would not answer my pleas. I could break in her door—it was easy, I had learned to do it long ago, chasing her down the hall as youngsters and pushing my way in, past the shallow lock that held it in place—but I was loath to do so now, to breach this wall between us without her permission. I begged her forgiveness, her understanding, but I had no words to make up for what she had seen. It occurred to me, and just now for the first time, that she had loved Hendrik too. Not as I had, but in her own way. And I had killed that love. Cursing myself, I sat heavily down on the floor of the hallway, slumped against her bedroom door, and allowed my own tears to begin to flow.

I was only there a few moments before I heard the front door open again. I collected myself as best I could as I heard heavy steps on the stair. It was Grandmamma. She could hear Alona, and saw my face, and, for a long moment, for the longest moment I have ever felt in my life, she said nothing. Finally, she spoke. “Leave,” she said, her voice a hissing, hateful whisper. “Leave now and never return.”

I threw some clothes and other effects into a small bag. I moved as quickly as possible, all the while working under Grandmamma’s baleful stare. Money. I would need some if Hendrik and I were to leave. But I had precious little of my own. I knew that Mamma kept some pin money in a small jar in the kitchen cupboard—not much, of course, but enough pay for passage out of town for both of us, with a little more beside. But how to get it with Grandmamma watching so closely? Do I just take it, and damn what Grandmamma would say? Or do I leave it and hope that Hendrik has enough to pay our way?

I felt wizened skin caress my own. Grandmamma. For a moment, the briefest of moments, I thought this a conciliatory gesture, a symbol of forgiveness or an act of compassion and understanding. But then I saw the hard glint in Grandmamma’s eyes and felt the cool metal cross my palm. Grandmamma was pressing coin into my hand, enough for passage out of Pilsden, and no more. My heart shattered; already in pieces in my chest, it broke yet again. I wanted to speak with her, to tell her how much I loved her. I wanted to hear her say it back. And I wanted to tell her I was sorry. But I knew that was not true. Oh, I was sorry that it had to be this way, that Alona had to be hurt as she was, that I had disgraced the family. But I knew also in my heart that this was how it did have to be, and I was not sorry for loving Hendrik. To have been so would have despoiled all the memories of him I held in my heart, and the meaning of what had passed between us. But I knew these explanations would fall on deaf ears, and I did not have the words to express what was in my heart. So without another word I left, stepping into the late afternoon sun and cold, an outcast now in my own little world.

I only thought of Hendrik, of finding Hendrik and leaving the town. Now that the pass was clear of snow, a coach came through twice a week. It would come again in two days time. We could hide until then, and then take the coach all the way to Salgótarjan if we liked. There we could find work. We could be together. But where was Hendrik? He knew no one in town but my family. I looked up the mountain. There was only one place he would go.

I would not have tried to take Hendrik to the ruins so early in the pleasant season. While the town was largely cleared of snow, higher up the storms still came, and the wind still breathed bitter cold at night. Sure enough, I had traveled less than thirty minutes’ time before I saw the first fulsome advent of snow and, there, Hendrik’s tracks heading up. I could tell by his many stumbles that he was not used to walking in conditions as these, and I muttered a silent prayer under my breath that I would not find him higher up with a broken leg, or worse. I traveled as swiftly as I dared to catch up to him, but try as I might, he always stayed ahead of me. It was approaching nightfall when I finally caught glimpse of the ruins, but there was no sign of Hendrik anywhere, not even a flash of red from his scarf. There were only his tracks in the snow, fumbling and rushed, as he made his way toward the stone entry of the monastery.

I followed his tracks to the front entrance, but as I passed through the arch, I noticed that they disappeared. Which way did he go? “Hendrik!” I called out, the first words I dared speak in some time. “Hendrik!” I yelled again, but I heard no reply. Or did I? There was a sound, a small whimper, a sound that reminded me of the last time I was here. Wolves! Had Hendrik met up with…? I pushed the thought from my mind and raced through to the courtyard.

The snow was heavy here, up to my knees as it had blown around and drifted against the stone walls. I pressed through it as best I could, wading through the thick morass like a man pursued. I burst into the courtyard and saw… nothing. No Hendrik, no wolves, nothing. The snow wasn’t even disturbed, not a whit out of place, just a perfectly smooth sheen that glowed in the twilight sun. But then, I saw it. A flash of red, there, in the northwest corner by our mound. My heart sank as I thought of Grandmamma’s stories of the
snagov vrolok
and the evil that befell the men here. But wait… the red was flowing, blowing in the breeze. It wasn’t blood—it was a scarf, Hendrik’s scarf. I ran over to it, stepping through feet of snow each time. I got there, grasped the scarf in my hands, and pulled. It did not yield. It was stuck, still attached to something below, something underneath the snow. Was it Hendrik? Was this some sort of trick, a joke on his part? If so, it was not funny.

“Hendrik!” I said sharply, pulling even harder on the scarf. Still it would not dislodge. I heaved with all my might, and finally, the scarf came hurtling out of the snow. Nothing. It had been attached to nothing. But there was something still there, something in the snow where the scarf had been. A small corner of the scarf had been left behind, thick strands of red thread that had been torn off when it was attached to the branch, or rock, or whatever it had been fastened to. But the strands were growing bigger, slowly but indeed larger, as if swelling, or engorging. Suddenly I realized that it was not thread at all, not thread but liquid, liquid that came up from underneath the snow in small drops,
drip drip drip
. I knew this was impossible, that drops could not come up from below, but that is what my eyes were seeing, a slow
drip drip drip
of some thick red liquid coming up from somewhere underneath the snow. I watched in fascinated revulsion as the red began to pool, first slowly, and then quicker, and then suddenly it came gushing forth in a torrent, engulfing me in a sticky, warm red spray. I fell back in terror and amazement, but quickly scrambled to my feet. I watched in more horror as the red, which only moments ago had gushed forth to create a large pool, now receded, as if being drained off once again. I was frantic. I began to paw at the snow, digging through it to find him, to find any trace of him, to save the one I loved. But there was nothing. No red, no blood, no Hendrik. I looked around and through my awe and agony I noticed that even the snow itself was no longer disturbed, not where I had come crashing through, not where I had dug around in it, frantically searching for Hendrik. It was as if nothing had ever been there at all. It was as if Hendrik and I—and our love—had never existed.

Speckled with the blood of the man I so desperately loved, I sank to my knees in the snow. I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands and burrowing my entire body under the thick white powder. If Hendrik was gone, then so was I. I had no desire to be anywhere but with him. I sighed in reconciliation and took one last large breath. Then I settled in, slid my head under the snow, and waited for the snow vampire to come for me as well.

T
HE
village where I grew up no longer exists.

It died, buried beneath a mountain of snow some time during the waning days of the first war to end all wars.

But I did not die with it.

I waited all night for the
snagov
vrolok
to return and take me. I waited calmly and prayed only that I may be reunited with Hendrik in some way soon. But it never came. By dawn I shivered numbly in the snow. I had lost all feeling in my feet and hands.

But still it would not come for me.

I knew that if I stayed there long enough, death would come. Whether from the cold, or starvation, or wolves, I would not be long for this world. But I got up. I made my way back down the mountain. I stole some food and whiskey. I made a fire and got drunk. I cried. And the next day, I took the coach out of Pilsden forever.

I made my way to Salgótarjan and signed up for the army. I spent the better part of the next four years fighting. I volunteered for many a reckless mission, as many as I could, and saw countless men die beside me. I did my job and even without Uncle Sandor’s help I earned a full commission and became an officer. But I did not die. Try as hard I could, I did not die.

I left Hungary after the war. Hendrik was dead. Pilsden was dead. The empire was dead. There was nothing left for me. And so I left, and I never returned.

And even now, some fifty years later, I wait for death to take me. But it does not come. As an old man, I wheeze; I had been gassed in the war, and my lungs are scarred and burnt. My eyes blur over, and I cannot see well at all. As for my heart… well, it has not worked well for a long time. And yet, I do not die. I cough, I sputter—each breath is a torture in my chest—and yet I do not die. My eyes have clouded over, my hands shake terribly, and my heart beats slow, so slow, and yet I simply do not die. And only now, only after all these years have passed, do I understand why. For you see, what was inside me that was good, and true, what was inside me that felt, or cared, or was human, what was inside me that loved, all died on that mountain that day, in those ruins, with Hendrik. That all died the moment I held his scarf in my hands.

And that is the true triumph of the
snagov vrolok
. That is its true evil. Not that I live, but that I do not live.

And, of course, that I do not die. 

About the Author

M
ICHAEL
G. C
ORNELIUS
is the author of five books of fiction. His work has been nominated for an American Library Association Award and an Independent Press Award, and he was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Prize in 2002. In addition, he has published dozens of stories in journals and magazines and has won several grants and awards for his writing. He has been with his partner for thirteen years, his dog for two, and he can’t imagine life without either of them.

Find Michael online at michaelgcornelius.blogspot.com.

Bittersweet Dreams, stories of M/M romance with nontraditional endings. It's an unfortunate truth: love doesn't always conquer all. Regardless of its strength, sometimes fate intervenes, tragedy strikes, or forces conspire against it. These stories of romance do not offer a traditional happy ending, but the strong and enduring love will still touch your heart and maybe move you to tears.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

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REAMSPINNER
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