Part 14 (2/2)

I must not think such things. I am not sure I am physically or emotionally strong to do what would have to be done.

To-day, for the first time, she spoke.

She was sitting at the kitchen table while I stood over the stove, stirring pea soup. It was the hour before dusk, when the sun was low in the clouded sky, filling it with a reddish glow.

My back was to her, but I was as usual talking away, about the women in the church and how kind they were to have brought us food. She was freshly washed, and I had sprinkled her with talc.u.m and dressed her in a pretty frock in hopes of raising her spirits and mine, then brushed out her long, lovely hair. It lay in dark waves upon her thin shoulders, catching the red glow of the dying sun, while she stared dully ahead.

I was in mid-sentence when she interrupted with a loud shriek. It startled me so that I dropped the spoon; it clattered loudly against the floor as I whirled round to see her on her feet, eyes wide and wild, mouth a perfect O, the chair overturned behind her.

She stood for only a breath; then sank at once to her knees, still screaming. I rushed to her side, clutched her elbows, tried to lift her up.

”Gerda! Gerda, darling, what is it? What's wrong?”

The sound chilled me to the core, for it was the same terrible cry that had been wrung from her the night Jan and Stefan were taken from us. But she would not answer me, would not hear, but closed her eyes and abandoned herself to sorrow and such wild, tortured sobbing that I could not restrain my own tears as I knelt down and held her.

”Gerda, please. What's wrong?”

To my astonishment, she drew in a hitching breath and wailed: ”Stefan! Stefan! They have killed him. Killed him!”

My heart froze in my breast. For one tortured moment I grasped vainly at hope-to tell myself that this was simply another symptom of her madness, all illusion, untrue. My son could not be dead.

But I knew her mind was tied, however faintly, to Zsuzsanna's; and I knew, also, with a mother's instinct, that what she said was true.

I collapsed myself with grief, and for several moments, we two wept, kneeling together, I embracing her. In the midst of it, I could not resist clutching her arms and begging: ”How did it happen? Did he suffer? And what of Jan, and Arkady?”

But she only shook her head and would say no more; would not eat, or drink, or sleep when led to bed.

I left her there, her gaze once again dull and empty, though her eyes are now red and swollen from so many tears. And I came here to mourn alone and write down my confession.

My son, my son! I tell myself it is not true, that it is Gerda's wild imaginings, but my heart knows otherwise. . . .

I am twice a murderess; for it was I who killed Stefan, as surely as I fired the bullet that pierced my first husband's heart. I know not how he died, but I know why.

Because of the fear that haunted me my first year in Amsterdam. I saw that my little son resembled me rather than his father, Arkady. But I was still terribly frightened: What if I were mistaken, and Arkady had not died? What if Vlad had somehow survived? What if he someday hunted us down and took my child from me?

The fear gave me no rest. And so I thought: If I changed Stefan's first name and married Jan, took his surname, then we would be safer. In all honesty, Jan had wanted for some time to marry me; but I did not love him. I still loved-and love to this day-Arkady.

But Jan was a gentle man, and kind. He convinced me we would be safer wed, and my little boy better off with a father. For my baby's sake, it was done.

Then one day soon after, an infant boy was discovered abandoned in the city and was brought by a kindly soul to Jan's office. The little orphan was deathly sick, and we kept him many days in the house, caring for him, certain he would not survive.

I took care of him myself and was struck by his dark colouring and eyes, so similar to my dear Arkady's. And I began to think wicked thoughts: What if we adopted this child, took him into our family? Gave him the name Stefan-and if Vlad ever threatened, he would surely mistake this child for Arkady's.

I told myself that if G.o.d permitted this dying child to survive, I would take it as a sign He had sent the boy to protect my son. Miraculously, the child lived-and we took him as our own.

And I named him Stefan.

It was a cruel, selfish thing to do, a heartless one, but I could only think then of my own baby, whom I had re-named Abraham. Jan indulged me in this, for he understood my terror, but he felt that both children were perfectly safe, that no harm could come from this change of name.

So when I gave that innocent child Stefan's name, and in turn named my son for Jan's father Abraham, hoping his fair hair and eyes would fool the world into thinking he was a Van Helsing rather than a Tsepesh, I felt great relief.

But it was no solution at all; for I quickly came to love this second Stefan as my own son and grew just as fearful that harm would come to him. But over the years, my terror began to ease. And Jan rea.s.sured me that my nightmares would never come to pa.s.s. So I saw no reason to frighten my children with stories from a b.l.o.o.d.y, horrific past; nor did I see any cause to change their names again, for it began to seem fitting that my natural son was called Abraham, and my adopted boy Stefan.

And Stefan was by nature more emotional than Bram, more temperamental, more artistic- all traits he shared with Arkady, so that it became easy even for me to think of him as Arkady's son. And while Bram for the most part inherited my calm nature, at times he displayed Arkady's scepticism and determination. But to this I turned a blind eye, afraid even to admit the past to myself, lest it return to torment us.

Now it has. When Stefan was rescued from Brussels and returned to us, I told him the entire truth and begged him to forgive me. I wanted to tell Bram, too, and warn him and Arkady. But Stefan would not let me, insisting, ”This is my name now, and my fate: I must do what you chose me to do so long ago-protect my brother. The fewer who know his secret, the safer he shall be.”

After hearing Gerda's tortured confession, I might have thought he had insisted out of guilt, because he wished to make amends for his adultery. But I know him as well as my own blood son; his heart was good and brave. He loved Bram. Guilt or no, he would have done anything to save his brother.

Stefan, Stefan! My brave child! Forgive me! I would rather have died myself rather than let evil befall you. I can only pray you sleep sweetly in G.o.d's arms, untainted by the wicked forces to which you so willingly sacrificed yourself.

Chapter 17.

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing, Cont'd.

Even now I am uncertain of my intent in urging the horses to the southwest, towards the Borgo Pa.s.s and the way I had come. Certainly at least a part of me desired death; another, help. But I felt no fear. My overwhelming desire was not to flee from Vlad but simply to escape pain, regardless of the method; to drown in the white oblivion surrounding me; to forever blot out the images of my brother's and father's dying eyes, of my little boy's undead ones. Without Arkady's help, I had no hope.

That the horses did not lose their footing and slip off the narrow winding pa.s.s down the mountainside, dragging me and the carriage with them, I consider a bona fide miracle. For the night had turned blinding white, snow blowing sideways, covering the poor animals, covering the blanket so that it lay sodden in my lap. My damp feet and legs began to ache from the cold, then went blessedly numb as the chill ascended to my hips and then my chest, where it inflicted burning pain.

It distracted and troubled me not at all, for mere physical inconvenience could not compare with the heartache I endured. As a physician, I realised with clinical detachment the imminence of frostbite; yet this, too, seemed quite unimportant, as meaningless as the fact that the horses had slowed and laboured with great difficulty in the mounting drifts, or that the rational remnant of my mind knew we were lost in both a literal and a metaphoric sense.

Yet the horses struggled onwards, and I wiped my spectacles with my gloved hand and s.h.i.+elded my eyes from the stinging onslaught of snow as I turned to peer at the forest, to see whether I was nearing the place where Arkady had taken me: Yakov's hidden glade.

Abruptly, the horses' forward momentum ceased, though I urged them on; the carriage rolled back half a foot, then stopped. With great care, I coaxed the animals to reverse their steps, hoping to free the wheels, two-thirds of which had disappeared in snow. It was no use; we were hopelessly stuck.

I felt sorry to know that I should be responsible for the deaths of the innocent beasts, but for myself I could not mourn. I could only pray that death was what I had always believed it to be-mindlessness, nonexistence, oblivion. But I could no longer be certain of anything; not now, when reality had become so utterly different from the logical scientific world in which I had put my faith-so much more dangerous and evil. If a creature such as Vlad existed, how then could I be sure there was no Heaven or h.e.l.l?

I huddled beneath the wet blanket and closed my eyes, ready to welcome my fate. For some moments I sat, thinking of my wife, so far removed from me by emotional and geographical distance, and of my little boy, whose future had been stolen from him, and of Arkady-and of Stefan, the most fortunate Van Helsing, for he at least had been released from suffering.

Then I remembered my mother, whose heart would surely break were she to lose both sons. In the midst of my surrender to the elements and despair, her image bade me take action. I opened my eyes, the lashes heavy with melting flakes, and climbed down from the carriage-staggering, s...o...b..ind, into hip-deep drifts.

I could scarce move, but some force beyond me propelled me sidelong into the silent forest, beneath heavy-laden pine branches that released small avalanches when I clambered beneath them. With all my strength, I shouted Arminius' name; the swirling snow swallowed the sound, permitting not even the faintest echo.

Still I screamed-a cry that was neither a summons nor a demand, but the most heartfelt prayer, though I could have explained neither its contents nor the hoped-for reply. I screamed-Arminius, Arminius!- until my numbed feet and legs would carry me no further, until I pitched forward and, gasping, rested my bearded cheek against the snow.

Never in my life had I been so defeated, never in my life so willing to embrace death.

Exhausted, I let go a sigh and with it let go all hope, all fear, all desire, even the tormented remembrance of my loved ones. The snow rained down softly, steadily, until it buried me; beneath it, I shuddered a final time, then yielded to stillness and darkness.

And from the midst of the darkness, Arkady came to me-alive, a mortal man, with silver gilding his jet mustache, his hair, and sorrow in his gentle eyes.

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