Daughters of the dragon

Daughters of the dragon


From where I sat I could see the old mansion stood near. Beyond the majestic birches and oaks, there its pinnacle could be seen, towering heavenward. I never knew how old the mansion was. It was already there ever since I knew the world. I did not even know why we live there as the place was not exactly similar with other homes of my friends. The structure, it seemed, did not belong to this country, and it was strange and so mysterious that not all its spaces I have journeyed in.

I was sitting under the shade of an old oak tree at the centre of the garden, where I found myself isolated from the outer world. It eased me to sit in such silence even though I was sitting idly on a chilly stone that was almost all-covered with lichens. The stone that I was talking about is a quarter half of our dining table in the dining room. It was so huge that even father would be able to lie on it like a bed. I always do so sometimes. The stone according to my grandmother was an empty sarcophagus, an isolated tomb that existed for hundred years, during the days of our ancestors. Only the moment she said it I realized the strange letters carved on it, that I can’t even read. One might avoid such an eerie place. But, instead of feeling afraid to be there, it made me feel close to my dear grandmother that I missed most.

By and by, I saw the soothing image of hers coming towards me like apparitions. With a smile she greeted me who was then but a nine-year-old girl.

“What book are you reading my dear child?” she asked sitting down beside me on the sarcophagus. I showed her a copy of Bram Stoker in my hand. 

“It is the story of Dracula, grandmother. The creature that drinks blood, that sleeps by day and roam by night!” I said excitedly, unconsciously uttering along some classic phrases from the old book and looking fully drown in my own imagination. Listening to my answer grandmother looked rather astonished. Then again, she smiled.

“Is that what the book says about him?” she asked again.

“Em…” I nodded and she gently stroked my rich black hair.

“Will you hear the story of Dracula, my princess, about what men call the ‘pricolici’?”

“Pricolici?”

“It means vampire in English,” she said. I turned at her instantly, looking with great sense of wonder and she smiled again as her lovely hand unceasingly caressed my silky hair and face. 

Thus, she told me the story of the brave Walachian who fights with all his life to protect his land, far in the land and times that I could not imagined. His name is Vlad Tepes son of Dracul, the dragon. 

To save his land the prince sought the friendship of Hungary and with a sacred marriage the camaraderie was sealed. The princess of Hungary was then brought to Romania, the weeping land of his husband. She was never allowed to go outside, only to walk and feel the blessed sunlight upon the walls of their tower. Her husband was a great Ruler like her Fathers, thus she kept faith in her little heart. But, the truth she never knew that a tyrant he was. He expressed a different way in loving his land by letting no outlaw to linger on her blessed soil. Therefore, every criminal and petty little thief was impaled and beheaded. Their blood, the tidings said, was drunk by him so that every sin of wrongdoers was buried in him forever.

But, one day the innocent queen of Romania sneaked out from the palace to buy a present for her beloved husband. She would buy the present herself and bid the servants to keep silent on her deed. On the route back home she noticed things that were unexpected; a price for a wrong turn. She could not say a word nor cry out a breath of suffering voice. She kept cursing herself for being too eager for the shop of presents, for being too ignorant to notice things around her, for being too wretched to discover the truth. Bodies lain around her had suffered a crude death. Some were beheaded and were left on the ground. Some were half-rotten with maggots eating up their melting flesh. There were bodies embedded to the stakes and the pointed sharp spikes came out of their cheeks. The smell of death lingered as if it was the realm of death itself. She fell on both her knees and her heavy mantel kissed the ground and the rich drapery of her gown stained as if with blood and the sin of The Ruler. At that very moment, there were tears coming down her eyes and she wept till she could not anymore, like stone.

That night she left her son with the servant and went to see him in his chamber. There he was, standing at the fire deep in thoughts like a young slender birch tree. He gave her a smile once she entered. Yet, her smile had long gone. She stood before him, then, still like a stone staring only at the viewless point on his face. Though she touched him like herself and served his tea and all, she never answered his asking. He had asked her about her health and with all the sight she had seen that day, how could she answer.

At last he asked her about his son. There was a sudden tremor in her heart like spirit coming back to it. She looked straight into his dark eyes and spoke.

“Your son, what is your hope for him?”

“My son is my descendant. He must rule after me and continue my reign,” he said.

“And let him see things that you forbid me to see. And let him do the same. How I wish you would care for him,” she whispered and turned away to the door.

“You say it as if you had cursed me, my love.” He stared at her from behind rather menacingly and she could feel his blazing eyes devouring her, burning her, a helpless little candle. “If only a bird would realise how little the bird is when it perched upon my bough.” There was a claw clutching her heart as she listened to his words. With such heart-quailing authority, she stood there breathless, unable to breathe even a breath of sigh. Well, he was a king after all.

“If a bird could alter a bough, then let it prays for the season to change. Yet, it dares not.” The young queen finally said. She turned back to him, neared him, one step after another, and put the pendant that she had been clasping in her hands around his proud magnificent neck. She fix it right on his chest and looked rather solemnly at her present. The fierce winged creature flew with its wings stretched out while looping for its own tail. There was a splendid ruby at the centre of the dragon.

“The symbol of immortality for our love, for our children. My only wish is my sons and daughters to be protected. The lingering sins of their ancestors shall never touch my flesh and blood as long as my line shall last. That is my hope, and you, my Lordship, will you protect them?”

“Even after my life has strained away, my shadow shall stay, for you my love.” With that he kissed her and she smiled to him then, eyes flowing with tears. Even after she had left up for her chamber the tyrant himself stood alone cherishing but not regretting the promise he had made for her. On the same night she threw herself out of the window and was left hanging till early in the morning right next to the window of the king’s chamber.

“Therefore, Dracula roam on earth still to protect his descendants, to fulfil his promise,” my Grandmother said ending her story. She took off her necklace that she had been wearing for long and put it around my neck. It had a strange locket with a circle of a dragon and a red stone at the centre of it. “Keep that well, princess, and may you be protected forever,” she said and I looked at her, confused. 

“If they are not English, in what language do they speak, grandmother?”

“It is the language of the Walachians.”

“Do you know the language, grandmother? Can you teach me?”

“My dear princess, I can teach you ‘ma numesc…’ (My name is in Romanian).”

In the blink of an eye, everything disappeared. The image of grandmother had faded, she was no longer there. A gust of wind suddenly blew and I clutched the dragon necklace that I wore around my neck for so many years. I closed my eyes and whispered slowly under my breath “Ma numesc Sophia Dracul.”