The Snow Vampire (8 page)

“Hendrik,” I whispered, my eyes still welded shut, my fist a blur, my mind reeling with him, my sense drunk with the memories and emotions of the time we spent together here. I could feel his fingers on mine, his mouth on my neck; “Hendrik,” I whispered again as my passions stirred ever higher, “Hendrik, Hendrik, Hendrik….”

“Ferenc….”

It was a whisper, nothing more, but the sound instantly caused me to open my eyes, to fumble my aching prick into my pants as best I could. For a moment I believed my father or someone else had found me, but my eyes, still adjusting to the light, saw no one. Nothing at all. Just the snow, starting to fall now, lazy flakes of fluffy white snow raining down upon me. Just the snow and nothing more. But the voice—or was it a voice? Had it been just my imagination, my intense longing for Hendrik playing tricks with my senses? Or rather—there—near the entrance to the courtyard—was someone there? I narrowed my eyes and thought, perhaps, I could make out a dim, dark figure, just the hazy shape and form of a man, nothing more. Was he truly there? I called to the man, waved, and for one imperceptible moment I thought I saw the form pause and turn as if to stare at me. It turned its face to me, only it had no face, no flesh, no eyes, just bone, a glimmering, gleaming white skull set against the white of the snow, a grinning, leering skull that now bounded toward me, leaving the darkness behind and merging with the white, the white of the snow, the white of the bone, the white-hot sound of my own voice rending the air. I screamed. I closed my eyes and screamed, waiting awfully, expectantly for that thing—for something—to grab me.

But nothing did.

I opened my eyes, rubbed them, and looked again. I saw nothing, nothing but the snow. I breathed deep—inhale, exhale. My mind again. Tricks of the mind. This place—this place, so amazing and so terrible to me all at the same time. I focused on Hendrik, determined to see only what he would see now, to look at this place through his eyes. And through his eyes, even when this world was covered with inches of white, bright snow, I could see wispy grass peeping up through the baked brown dirt of the courtyard floor. I could see the stray white wildflowers that grew in the corner of the yard. I could see us, him and me, naked, limbs entwined, in the first throes of happiness, ecstasy, and love. I could see us holding hands. I could see our vows. I could see everything there before me, the courtyard, the grass, the flowers, the memories, the wolf.

A wolf.

There, by the entrance of the courtyard, stood one lone wolf. It was emaciated with hunger and eyeing me ravenously. Its ears were back against its skull, a threatening posture, but it made no sound. Nor did it advance but stood there, silent and menacing, blocking the only exit from this place. My hands shook; I felt fear. It must have been a wolf I heard all along. But there are no wolves left in the pass. Not this time of year. Are there? There is no game for them here, except…. I looked around frantically. Wolves hunt in packs, but if this creature came with companions, I did not see or hear them. Sometimes wolves became loners, thrust from their pack through violence or circumstance. When that happened, they lost all fear, all sense of reason, and were truly dangerous. I looked around for a weapon, for a stout stick to cudgel the beast with, or a rock, but the courtyard was empty, empty of anything save for me and the wolf and the dizzying white of the snow. The creature had yellow eyes, and its muzzle was stained with red, as if had just been feasting. Well, soon it would have meat aplenty.

I backed myself against the cold stone wall of the courtyard and crouched in order to best defend myself. The wolf began to advance. Its muzzle juddered, but still I could not hear it, could hear nothing at all except the heavy silence that hung in the air and the desperate panting of my own ragged breaths. The wolf grew closer. Closer. I lowered my head and raised my arms. My only hope was to grab it when it came close enough, and to hope I did not lose too much blood before I could find its throat. I waited to feel the heat of its breath, smell the stench emanating from its mullet, but I could feel or smell nothing. Cautiously, I opened one eye. There was no wolf. There was nothing there. Slowly, I moved back to a standing position. Hesitantly I made my way toward the entrance of the courtyard. I looked at the ground. I saw no tracks save my own, nothing to suggest any disturbance in the snow whatsoever, save for a small circular depression some ten feet from where I had been crouched. I rubbed my eyes. Was the snow playing tricks on me again? Or was this some other form of bedevilment? I made my way out of the courtyard and back through the stone entrance arch. It was then—and only then—that I heard noise, the small blowing of the gentle mountain wind and a yelp, the sound of an animal being hurt, but muffled, as if far away. Was it the wolf? Had he caught some other prey? Deciding discretion was indeed the better part of valor, I hastily made my way down the mountain, determined that the wolf—if, indeed, he had been there at all—should find me long gone if he came to look for me again.

B
Y
THE
time I reached home, I had decided that I must have imagined the wolf. There were no wolves in the pass, especially this time of year. They needed deer or other large game to sustain them, and the deer always moved down the mountain in winter. What I had seen was caused by my anger, hurt, and imagination, and nothing more.

There was a letter awaiting my return, another missive from Hendrik, and all my irrational fears were forgotten as I raced upstairs to open his note in privacy.
My dear Ferenc,
his note began,
I am, as always, enclosing all my love to you in these pages, and hope that this little note finds you as happy and as well as the day I left you. I must tell you that I am quite in earnest on that last desire, perhaps more so today than before, because of the very strange dream I had two nights ago. I dreamt of you—then again, I always dream of you, dear Ferenc—but this dream was different. In my dream you were there, in our special place, but it wasn’t the grass-strewn courtyard of my waking dreams. No, this was different. It was cold, and snow covered the ruins, a great blanket of white that made austere what our love had once painted so beautiful to me. I was nervous for you in my dream, though I did not know why initially. It seemed that as you entered the courtyard you were not alone. But it was not I who was with you, but rather someone else, or perhaps something else, something I could not see, located just beyond the tree line.

I was afraid for you, and I tried to reach you as desperately as I could, but I was rooted to the spot, and could make no forward progression. Instead I could only watch as I saw a lone, ravaging wolf skulk into the courtyard behind you. “Ferenc!” I tried to shout, but my voice caught fast in my throat, and I could utter no sound above a whisper. I feared for you gravely, as I could hear the wolf howl with a savagery that chilled me to my soul. Then, suddenly, I heard a terrible noise, a cry of absolute pain and fear—and then nothing. I swear in my dream I was weeping for you, Ferenc, and calling out your name, but no one could hear me. Then, quite happily, you emerged, unscathed and alive, and made your way hastily back down the mountain.

When I awoke I was in quite the cold sweat! How I wished you had a telephone somewhere in your tiny village so I could hear your voice and know you are well! But I soon realized that it was only a dream, just a silly dream, perhaps brought on by thoughts of how much I missed you. Still, it lingered with me for much of the day, so please, dear Ferenc, do write to me as quickly as possible and let me know you are quite well, and that you still love me and only me, so that my timid heart will only swell once more with happy thoughts of you and our time on the mountain.

There was more to Hendrik’s letter, but I could not finish it, not now, at least, not after what I had read. Hendrik’s dream sounded exactly like what had happened to me on the mountain. But that was not possible! And the letter—I checked the date on it. It had been written well over a week ago! How could that be? I felt the familiar misapprehension begin to course through me, feeling anxious and scared, feeling, for the life of me, that I was back there, alone on the mountain, with the wolf before me. For a moment I sat on the edge of my bed and trembled, nervous and unsure of what to do. But then I took a deep breath and did my best to shake the feeling off me. There was a reasonable explanation. It made sense that both Hendrik and I would dream of this place, this place that meant so much to both of us. The wolf could simply have been a symbol of our longing, of our intense desire to be together. It was merely a coincidence—an amazing coincidence to be sure, but nothing more than that. What more could it possibly be?

My thoughts were interrupted by Poppa coming home from the mine and loudly calling out my name. Poppa was furious I had spent much of the day away from the village and away from the mine. His fury came with a stern lecture about responsibility and a smart cuff on my cheek. But he was right—about being responsible, about striking me, about all of it. And, I supposed, Hendrik must be right as well, about the position men such as we face and the way of the world. My own ideas of our possible life together, my own silly dreams of he and I were just that… dreams. How I had longed for Hendrik to be wrong, but as my father shook his fist and raged at me about “finally growing up,” I realized, indeed, and with a breaking heart, that he and Hendrik were right.

D
AYS
passed; weeks, then months. I existed between two alternating realms of misery and acquiescence. I learned the business of mining, really setting myself to it. There was no more sneaking off or going home early for me. I did not know what I would find if I did. As for the ruins—I made a decision to stay off the mountain. I vowed to let the monastery hold the secret of our love as best it could on its own. It would receive no other visits from me. At least, not for now.

Hendrik’s letters still came, and mine were sent off, dutifully if no longer fanatically. It was not that my love for Hendrik had changed—indeed, I knew my love for him would never change—but it was simply that resignation to my fate, to our fate, had hardened the youthful zeal that had once encircled my heart. I still had a heart, and it still belonged wholly to Hendrik, but now my heart was that of a man, and no longer a boy, and made of sterner stuff as a result.

But soon the holidays were upon us, a time of celebration that threatened to coax even me out of my doldrums. Mamma made a Dobos cake, my favorite, and I half-fancied that I received an extra-large slice and a secret smile as well. But it was Alona who found the ring hidden inside, ensuring her of good fortune throughout the coming year.

Packages came from Budapest, an exchange of gifts between the families. Uncle Sandor had spent lavishly: perfumes and silks for the women, cufflinks made of gold and onyx for Poppa and me. We had earlier sent homemade cakes and trinkets made from the tin of the mine, small shapes hammered into stars and orbs for their family Christmas tree. For myself, I had precious little money with which to purchase anything for Hendrik. But I scraped together enough to buy a thick woolen scarf from a local woman. The craftsmanship was fine, and I thought the red color would match the season against Hendrik’s eyes. His letter back to me told me he would wear it and treasure it. His gift to me was something far greater: photographic books, stuffed with exquisite black-and-white snapshots of the many far-flung places I longed to visit with him: Italy, France, Spain. There were even shots of Egypt. Sitting there in my room, a blizzard’s wind buffeting the lone window and sending a chill through my bones, I marveled at the sight of far-off Egypt, with its vast dry deserts and endless miles of sun and light.

He had also sent a package to Alona: a bracelet hammered out of gold, with an exquisite blue sapphire attached to its center. All the women in my family gasped when they saw it; even Poppa, who never cared for such trifling things as women’s fashions, was impressed. To me, the beautiful bracelet was a poniard stabbing into my heart, though, thankfully or otherwise, I was slowly getting used to such stings.

Still, by far the best news came in a letter sent along with Hendrik’s package.
We will be visiting as soon as the snows recede
, he wrote.
Soon I will have my beloved in my arms again
. I clutched this news to my heart, letting its hope radiate over me. I knew, of course, that the true intent of Hendrik’s visit was to formalize his betrothal to my sister. But still, none of that mattered now. Hendrik was coming, my Hendrik. Before long I would have him in my arms again. It was the only Christmas wish I had, and happily, it would soon come true.

F
ORTUNE
, for once, seemed to smile on me that winter. It was, by the standards of the villagers in the pass, a mild one, and soon spring was on its way. As thick patches of snow melted and gave way to tufts of new growth, any hardness in my heart toward Hendrik melted along with it. Soon, the long-wished-for news came: Hendrik and his family were on their way.

Anticipation made the moment of his return both unbearable and all the more sweet. When one is young, and in love, time never marches swiftly enough. Days passed like eternities. But eventually the familiar motorcoach made its way through the pass and drove into the center of town. This time, the two families celebrated a reunion of sorts. Uncle Sandor was the first to alight the car. He had hugs for everyone, especially little Alona, whom he already called his daughter. I could see his great relief over the impending nuptials.

As he vigorously shook my hand, he said to me, “Eh, Ferenc, soon we will have to get you married as well, no?” I wanted to shout “no” back at him, but I only smiled and muttered some noncommittal words under my breath.

Kateryna came next, her beautiful face ever marred by a familiar sulky and livid expression. News of her own upcoming marriage was quickly shared: “He is a good man, a viscount, no less, an officer in the military!” Uncle Sandor said. I could tell that the title meant more to him than anything else. Judging from Kateryna’s face as Uncle Sandor spoke of her “beloved,” that was all that was appealing about him. “He is away at the moment, for the war.” Uncle Sandor was still talking. “But when he comes back, we will celebrate the wedding in style. You must all come!” he added, though there was something in the tone of his voice that made me think our invitation would somehow not arrive on time.