Chapter 2
II
A Guest
“Now, by two-headed Janus,
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.”
From here on out my story gets even stranger. I can only beseech you, dear reader, not to write it off as pure fantasy. I assure you the following events are too fantastical for even my wandering imagination to conjure.
It was a beautiful summer night, and my father asked me to walk with him through the grounds, as he often did on evenings such as that. As lovely as the night was, he had some equally unpleasant news to divulge. The General, an old friend of my father’s and sometimes visitor to our little hamlet, would be unable to appear for his scheduled visit.
“I bear the burden, my dear daughter, of being the unhappy messenger tonight. General Gregorovich will not be able to pay his long anticipated visit as we hoped - at least not for the time being.”
I am unsure how to express to you the depth of my despair. I have mentioned already that my existence up to this point had been quite a solitary one, and the General, who in himself had always made for pleasant company, had been intending to bring his own niece, a Ms. Greengrass, up from the country. A recent tragedy in her family estate had placed her in the general’s care - for this reason, we had never met. But I had heard her described as a perfectly charming person, and regardless I was so starved for companionship that even a taciturn or truculent young woman would have suited me fine. As it was, the expectation of a sociable and interesting young woman of my age felt too good to be true – as, in fact, turned out to be the case.
“Will they come still, father?” My voice was a soap bubble, delicate but hopeful.
“He will try.” My father’s use of a singular pronoun was not lost on me.
“But Miss Greengrass will not.”
“You will have to excuse the poor girl, my darling. It appears she is very recently dead.”
I was rather taken aback, as you might imagine. In his previous letter, the General had written a line or two about how his niece seemed to be having trouble adjusting to the thinner air and higher altitude, but there was nothing to suggest her mortality might be in question.
Knowing well my inquisitive mind, my father produced the General’s letter without further ado. “See for yourself what you make of his correspondence – I daresay it was not written in his usual presence of mind.”
Together we found a little alcove situated with a natural little bench of felled pine, more than big enough for the two of us. The sunset shining red in its later stages created an atmosphere of brilliant melancholy where it streamed through the trees. The light reflecting off the stream blazed crimson as I began to read; first to myself, and then again aloud to my father, because it was our habit, and because I hoped that sharing in it with another person may help me to make sense of what was undoubtedly produced in an outpouring of grief. It read:
“I have lost my darling Daphne, for as such I loved her. I knew not even that there was cause for concern, until it was very quickly much too late. I have lost her, and now all is coming to light that has lain shrouded in darkness all this time. It is a comfort that she went swiftly and in the peace of her innocence, although the reasons and mechanisms behind her untimely demise are, in all regards, unconscionable. The depravity to which I played unwitting host has been exposed too late, and here is a thing which will pain me forever which I thought to cause nothing but delight. What a fool is man in light of a fresh young facade!
I can thank the good lord only that my dear Daphne has died without becoming aware of the depraved truth of it. She has passed without the slightest idea of her own suffering, the deviant passions of creatures too fiendish to be borne – hardly to be believed! The time remaining to my life shall be devoted to the removal, by any means, of this monster. From what I have learned, there is yet hope in my solemn task and in doing so, I may call myself yet a righteous man. However at present, I find myself lost in the dark which such fiendish natures prefer, cursing my own blindness towards that which presents itself as beauty and nobility. But for what?
No matter. This is no time for extended correspondence. I shall write again once I have recovered, at least somewhat, which hopefully will coincide with the uncovering of something altogether more sinister. Sometime in the winter, perhaps, if the Lord lights my way and protects me from the demon I stalk, I will pay my belated visit; and then, if you’ll permit it, I will tell you the whole melancholy tale.
Until then, may I be in your prayers,
My dear Friend.
Signed
Thus ended the General’s cryptic letter. My eyes were suddenly filled with tears for the unknown Ms. Daphne Greengrass, who I felt, in that moment, would surely have made the finest of companions. My disappointment threatened to overwhelm me as the sun fell at last below the trees. Sedately, I returned the letter to my father, and we began to make our way back towards the schloss in the gathering darkness.
By the time we had reached the drive, the moon was on full display, and with it our enchanting surroundings. There was a particular beauty about that night which I will always remember: half-shrouded in the mists, the deep colors of the forests seemed brought into greater vibrance by the cool, clear light of the moon.
The nursemaid and the serving girl had come out to enjoy the evening’s glow as well, and that strange beauty transformed even their good natured babbling into sheer eloquence on celestial beauty.
Madame Pomfrey was a single woman with a romantic heart, and she sighed wistfully at the lonesome splendor of the evening. Ms. Trelawney, whose father had been a metaphysical man, declared knowledgeably that such a bright moon was surely a sign of some preternatural or occult activity. The effects of the full moon were well-known, she went on. It had an effect on sanity, on subconscious, and even physiological yearnings. Her cousin, she said, and merchant sailor, had awoken to such a moon on one night after having dreamt of a beautiful woman who enticed him beneath the waves before her face contorted horribly and she clawed at him. When he awoke, his own face had contorted terribly, and his visage had never quite regained itself.
“This moon,” she waxed poetically, “is the hunter’s moon – magnetic and seductive, but full of peril. Look how it reflects off the windows of the castle, giving them a sparkling and bewitching appearance, as if awaiting some mystical guest.”
In my present mood I was feeling rather taciturn, and as such I was quite satisfied to let their domestic wisdom wash over me while I stared off into the darkness of the forest beyond.
“You and I are both in a desultory sort of mood this evening,” my father’s voice sounded quietly behind me.
“In truth I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me; I see it wearies you.
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff ;tis made of, whereof ‘tis born,
I am to learn.”
“The Merchant of Venice?”
“Very good, my girl. I forget the rest. But there is a foreshadowing in the air tonight, as if some twist of fate is hiding just unseen amidst the darkness of the trees. But then of course, it is likely the poor General’s letter which has given me this sense of foreboding.”
Before his words had died out completely, the nicker of horses and the stomp of their hooves could be heard pulling something of considerable weight along the seldom-used forest road. We watched the West road, and soon were able to discern the source of the commotion. Four horsemen framed a caleche – no common vehicle in those parts – and it became quickly clear as they turned the downhill slope that one of the horses had been spooked and the drivers were having quite a time trying to keep it on the track.
The whole team soon broke into a panic and was plummeting down the slope towards our own little bridge. Within the carriage, a feminine voice could be heard caterwauling in distress. Our party drew near the bridge in terror and excitement, to watch the turn in the road that would bring the caleche and it’s chaos into sight. At the same juncture, there is on one side a large, stone cross, remnant of the days when Gaunt was still a bustling and pious little village. Upon seeing this statue, as it careened around the curve and into sight, the foremost horse on the right turned sharply to avoid crashing into the stone, and as a result the left wheel of the caleche collided spectacularly with the root of an enormous beech.
The resounding crack echoed through the mists as the carriage was upturned, and I averted my eyes, incapable of witnessing the carnage that was surely to follow. When I had the heart to look again, it was upon chaos.
Horses and carriage had been upturned, although none appeared damaged beyond reckoning. Two of the footmen were busy trying to right the caleche, while another helped a venerable looking woman out from the spillage. As soon as she had been extricated, the woman directed the man back into the carriage. When he appeared again, it was with a pale, limp young woman in his arms.
My father was beside the woman immediately, offering to provide whatsoever assistance might be of use, but she did not seem to see him: she had eyes only for the motionless girl, who was being laid gently on the lawn. Something drew me unthinkingly forward but I was impeded in my view by the older woman, who had realized my father’s presence at last and was now moving to address him as he bent over the unconscious figure.
“She appears to be in fine condition.” My father always wanted to be a physician like his elder brother had been.
“She is pale, and cool to the touch, but there is a steady pulse beating in her wrist. We should get her someplace warm as soon as possible.”
The woman sighed in gratitude and I was able to regard her somewhat, although it was wuite dark by now, and the distance prevented me from studying her face. My suspicion about her being a person of no little means increased substantially as I took note of her fine, dark features, her noble gait, and her commanding eyes. There was something domineering in her aura that prevented me from moving to take a closer look at the young woman on the ground. She wore a dark velvet gown with gold fastenings, and her voice was deep and commanding as she replied: “Wise council, I’m certain, but there is no time. I have urgent matters to attend to, and here is Carmilla who cannot go on. Tell me Ser, how far is the nearest village that I might solicit a proper caretaker until I’m able to return?”
I would not for the world have let her go on without making an attempt.
“Oh father, do let her stay here with us. She is in need of care and I of companionship, do let her fill the hole left by Ms. Greengrass.”
So it was all my fault, really.
My father assented enthusiastically and conveyed his formal offer of hospitality to the woman in black. I suspect her noble bearing occasioned him to make his offer with a bit more pomp and eloquence than he was used to using. It took only a very little of his wheedling to get the Lady to consent, just as the final wheel was being fitted back onto the carriage.
She whispered a hurried word to my father, and then one to her daughter, who it seemed was slowly coming to in her bed on the lawn. After giving her a rather perfunctory kiss, she was back in the carriage with almost superhuman speed and shouting at the horseman not to tarry a moment longer. Without a backward glance, she and the caleche were gone, and left in her wake was Carmilla.