The Snow Vampire (7 page)

It was late one afternoon, still early on in winter, that I heard a choking sob coming from somewhere upstairs in our home. Upon entering the house I had thought it deserted, and I reveled in the rare solitude. But I soon discovered that I was not alone; Alona was there, hovering on one side of her small bed, the throw that Grandmamma and Mamma had quilted for her last year wrapped around her like an embracing cocoon of blue stitching and familial comfort. I was unaccustomed to seeing my sister this way; Alona was always a happy, bright child, girlish and gleeful. I had not heard her cry like this since Grandfather had died many years prior.

I was wary of approaching her, since there seemed little I could do to assuage her dark spirits, but leaving her alone in this state seemed too cruel, even for a brother. I walked into her room as quietly as I could before sitting on the opposite end of her bed. The sudden movement in her mattress caused her to sit up with a quick start and a small exclamation of “Oh!” Seeing that it was her elder brother who sat uncomfortably near her, she hurried to dry her eyes. I took a small white handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to her wordlessly. Alona had just turned fifteen. She was becoming a woman. She was taller, and her body more ably filled out the blouses she and Mamma sewed from muslin and calico. Unlike me, she favored our father. Her dark hair framed even darker eyes, though they were pretty eyes, a shade of indigo not unusual in the village.

“Ferenc,” she said as she dotted her eyes and wiped her sniveling nose. “I did not hear you come in.”

“Had I known it so important to be heard, I would have stomped around more loudly,” I said. It was a lame attempt at humor, but the small smile that parted Alona’s countenance showed that, if nothing else, the effort was appreciated. I moved to place a consoling hand on Alona’s back, but I could not quite come to complete the action. Biting my lip, I chose a different tactic. “What is wrong?” I asked, uncomfortable with the question but knowing it to be the only one to ask. I was more used to defending my sister outside, amongst the other children in the village. If someone were to insult her or hurt her in any way, there was her big brother, his own temper flared and his fists raised in threat, though seldom, if ever, in actual use. That was how I was used to dealing with Alona’s heartaches, with a sharp word for those who had caused it. And truth to be told, such instances were inconstant; Alona was pretty, and merry, and kind, and childhood scraps never held sway for long.

Alona was still dabbing at her eyes. “Oh, it is nothing,” she said. “Really, it is a happiness. I do not know why I am carrying on so.”

“Well, if it is a happiness,” I said, utterly confounded as to what Alona could be referring to, “then you should rejoice, and make cheer, and not cry.” The advice sounded as absurd as I felt in giving it, but it was the best I could do.

Still, Alona smiled at me through her tears. “You are right, of course, only… only I didn’t really notice him when he was here. Not in that way. Of course, I saw him as one would see any boy—any man—but really, I didn’t quite notice him. Not as a wife should notice her husband, anyway.”

At the word “wife” I felt every nerve ending in my body go instantly numb; my hands shook, my lower lip trembled, and my stomach raced to the bottomless pit now forming in my guts. I suddenly felt an urge to cry myself, though I would never do so in front of my sister. “Alona,” I said, quite deliberately, choosing each word carefully, “what are you referring to?”

“Hendrik,” she said. “We are to be married, he and I.” She said this casually, as if it was a simple matter of fact, as if she and he were the only two people in the world, and their union was simply the logical outcome of such a deprived population. She said his name without passion, without ardor. “I know it is silly of me to go on like this,” she said, a small laugh now replacing her tears. “I only found out this morning. Mamma and Grandmamma told me, after you and Poppa had left for the mine, and after the dowry was received. I wonder what it was? I never thought to ask….” She trailed off. “I was so excited when they told me. Imagine, me, a bride. I’ve been picturing my dress all day. White, of course, and with Mamma’s veil. And flowers in my hair. Do you think it too decadent to have flowers in my hair?”

“No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“Just a few,” she said, not listening to anything I would have to say anyway. “White flowers to match my dress. And this is what I thought of all day, until, just suddenly, it occurred to me that I am to be married.” She stopped to gaze at me with a look that spoke of both amusement and dread. “It is odd, perhaps, but when they told me, I thought only of me, of what I would wear and how it would all be for me. I never thought of him.” She hugged the quilt close to her body now, and one of her slender fingers traced the blue stitching absently as she continued. “Of course, he is handsome. A bit short, perhaps, but nice to look at. And smart. He likes to read. And Mamma says he will be kind. Do you think he’ll be kind?” She did not pause for an answer. “He isn’t much like Poppa,” she mused. “Then, he isn’t like his own father either. Do you think he’ll become stout, like Uncle Sandor?” I could not imagine my Hendrik in any other way but the perfect picture I saw every time I closed my eyes, but I knew that Alona’s words were more monologue than conversation, and since my own heart was shattering into a million infinitesimal pieces as she spoke, I felt it best to just keep quiet. “I could not abide a stout husband. Poppa isn’t stout. He isn’t quite thin, either, but he certainly isn’t stout.” Her brow wrinkled in thought. “I am not sure how to describe him.” She reached underneath her pillow and pulled out a stiff piece of paper. A letter, inscribed in an all-too-familiar hand. “He wrote me, though, with the dowry Uncle Sandor sent. Isn’t that sweet?” She was not holding out the letter for me to take, but I reached for it anyway. “Ferenc!” she gasped, pulling her hand back. “You cannot read this! It is private!”

“Of course,” I murmured, marveling at the fact that she and I hid Hendrik’s letters in the same space. I cleared my throat. “Many happinesses to you both, my sister,” I croaked, using the honored language all village brides were accustomed to hearing upon the revelation of such happy news. “I hope that your union brings you much joy.”

“Thank you, big brother,” she said. She could not hear the pain tripping off every blessing I uttered on her, nor could she read the rage in my heart or my hands. “I know it is silly of me to cry like this at such happy news,” she added, “but I suddenly realized that I could not remember the color of Hendrik’s eyes. And then I had a difficult time remembering the exact shape of his nose. Is his face round, or oval?” She was smiling brightly now, now that she was over her childish fears of marrying a man she did not know. “Silly, isn’t it? He was here for many weeks. But I simply cannot remember what he looks like. Not well, anyway.” With an impish sigh she wrapped her arms around my neck and firmly squeezed. I held her as tightly as she held me. Now that my face was clear from her gaze, my tears could flow freely, and they did, down my cheeks and dripping onto the sleeve of my shirt. She moved to break our embrace but I refused to let her go, wiping my eyes in desperation so that she could not see the anguish in there. Laughing, she tapped the side of my head with her open palm, thinking my grip was nothing more than a silly extension of one of our childish games. Finally, when my face was clear, when it was safe, I let her go.

“Thank you, Ferenc,” she said as she leapt off her bed and began to fold her quilt neatly. “Truly, I do not know what came over me.” She stopped, looking at me as if suddenly realizing I was in the room. “Why is it you came home from the mine so early?” she asked me. “Is there something you need?”

I shook my head, still choking back one last sob, and stood to go. “Green,” I said as I turned to leave her small, cramped room.

“What was that?” she asked. “What did you say, big brother?”

I turned to look at her. “Green,” I repeated. “Hendrik’s eyes are green.”

T
HAT
night, I poured all my feelings into a letter to Hendrik, pages and pages of hurt and betrayal and rage. And my love, yes, always my undying love. I did not need wait for his reply to know what he would say.
Dearest
, he would write,
I ache to learn I have caused you such pain. But we both knew of this inevitability. This day was coming. It will come for you too, sooner than you imagine. It is safer this way. Two men, alone, might arouse suspicion. And besides, the empire is gripped with the fervor of war. You and I would be swept up, separated, and perhaps killed. I could not bear to imagine you in harm’s way. This way is safer. Please, my dear beautiful boy, it must be this way with men like us
. I knew what he would write because he wrote variations on these same words with every letter he sent.

Still, I spilled my heart into what I wrote. I spoke of us, our glorious past, our unbearable present, and what, perhaps, could still be between us. When I was done, I read my letter over carefully, poring over every single word. It spoke achingly of our love, of a way for he and I to be together.
My Hendrik, my sweet Hendrik
, I wrote,
I would give up everything for you. My life, my honor… I could live in a small cottage at the edge of a great wood, and cut clear timber every day, and eat the meager scraps of whatever food we could find, if only it meant I did not have to share you with a world that will never love you as I
. I meant every word of what I wrote; never, in fact, had I been more sincere. When I finished the letter, I addressed it, sealed it, and, saying a silent prayer of hope, held it to my heart.

And then, rising, I threw it in the fire.

I
DID
not sleep that night. At first light I stole out of the house. I would not go to the mine today. Instead, I made my way up the mountain.

Never had Hendrik felt so distant, so remote from me! Never had I felt him slipping from my grasp more than now, at this moment. I needed to commune with him, to feel his arms around me, and if I could not have him here with me bodily, I could at least go to where his spirit most resided in these ancient hills.

The day was crisp and cold, but not uncomfortable. The night before had been silent and calm, and only a dusting of snow embraced the ground as I made my way up the steep mountain path. Still, even the slightest hint of snow made the path treacherous, and only because I had traversed it every night in my heart did I make my way safely up the rise. As I mounted, the snow grew deeper, and the going slower. Nonetheless, I was determined.

I was almost to the ruins when I first heard the howling. Wolves? But there was only the one sound, a singular howl, and it did not sound like a wolf. A wolf bayed, a call that started low and peaked before ending low again. This sound was sudden, violent, a screech that rent the air in twain, like a great unseen knife. To hear it cooled my ardor, halting me in my tracks. I had heard this sound before, on nights when Grandmamma had kept me up with tales of the bogeymen and demons that lived up in these hills. I shook my head. That was childish nonsense. This was not the
snagov vrolok
. The noise was likely some large bird or other such creature. The raven’s harsh caw was a sound disturbing to those who had never heard it, but the animal who made it was small and harmless. This was likely the same. And I needed to get inside the monastery. I needed to be with Hendrik—as with him as I could.

I pressed on.

The sounds grew louder as I made my way toward the monastery. Whatever creature it was would surely be found inside or at least nearby. I was frightened now, truly, but I had come this far, and the need for Hendrik was so great. I began to run toward the ruins as fast as I could through the ever-increasing depths of snow. The sounds felt closer, as if upon me. There was another sound as well, a great movement amongst the trees. Something was in them, something large, high above me. These were no playful mountain squirrels. I searched the tree limbs frantically, but saw nothing, no disturbance, just the blowing of branches in a sudden wind. Snow dropped from the branch heights in a drifting, dazzling display, almost blinding me. But I saw nothing. I heard more sounds, a great rushing of air, the crashing of branches, and yes, that unearthly howl, that ghastly screeching that threatened to tear the very fiber of my sanity from me. I ran, ran forward not back, thinking of nothing now, thinking only of Hendrik, only his face, as I hurriedly passed through the great stone arch that marked the entrance of the monastery ruins.

Nothing.

Silence.

I stood there, bent over at the waist, panting desperately into the snow. There were no sounds, not even the gentle whistle of the wind. The day was still and calm, as still a day as I had ever known. It had all been in my mind, in my imagination. I chided myself for such foolishness. Still, I was uneasy here. I made my way quickly into the courtyard.

The courtyard.
Our
courtyard. For that is how I thought of it, as if it belonged to me and to him. I stood there surrounded by silence and immediately felt a sense of calm, of ease, wash over me. The familiar ache, the pain that had encircled my heart since the day he left, lifted. Despite the cold, despite the white that covered every familiar surface in the place, I felt warmth and peace and love.
Our
love. I was home. That was how I felt here now and for the first time. There was no apprehension now, no fear, no sense of foreboding. There was only Hendrik, Hendrik so far and yet so near, and my memories of him.

I walked over to the small mound, to the place where we first made love. Using a gloved hand, I cleared away the snow from a small patch of land, exposing the still-green grass underneath. I sat in the cold and closed my eyes. Instantly I was transported back to him in my mind, to the moment we first kissed, to our eyes first seeing each other as we truly wished to be seen. I felt the cool silk of Hendrik’s skin against mine, felt the sharpness of Hendrik’s bones, felt the familiar, comforting pressure of my prick pushing into him. I started to harden, a warm feeling spreading from my groin to the rest of my body, a flushed sense I allowed to wash over me. I reached my hand down, into my breeches, wrapped my cold skin around the heat of my ardor.