How cruel of my own mind to besiege me with memories of our love. It renders this prison even more unbearable for it stirs a tiny flame of hope that Vlad will release me from my tomb without attempting to subjugate my will. I struggle to banish those thoughts from my mind. There is no value in ruminating on my present situation and hoping for a better future. It only increases my suffering.
Only in my past can I find some measure of escape in this terrible existence. Some memories are precious and I cling to them until they dissipate. But others are sheer torment, and oftentimes, those are the ones that relentlessly pursue me through my waking hours. Yet, even this task is difficult. I search for memories where he does not fill my mind’s eye with his cunning smile and smoldering gaze.
Vlad haunts nearly every aspect of my past.
The only exception is my childhood with Ágota and the span of my mortal life.
Ágota...
I seize upon my recollections of my sister, unfurling them like beloved tapestries. I plunge backward in time, following each intricate stitch in the fabric of my life until I settle upon one lovely memory.
The day Ágota told me about my father.
I do not recall the year of my birth, let alone the month or day. Too many centuries have passed for me to concern myself with such trivial mortal dealings, yet I remember very well the details of that day when I was four and she was thirteen.
It was morning and I toddled along behind her, clutching my basket filled with a variety of plants and berries. We were collecting ingredients in the forest for either dinner or one of our mother’s concoctions. We wore simple homemade white blouses tucked into embroidered skirts. I was wearing new shoes made of the softest leather which my mother had purchased from the village shoemaker. As I walked, I stared at them with great pride.
Even young, I was vain.
I recall Ágota strolling in front of me, swinging her basket, and the sound of the forest floor crunching under her bare feet. She refused to wear her shoes, so the pair was tucked into the bottom of her basket. As always, her long dark hair was unruly and her blouse hung over the waist of her skirt, the hem fluttering in the fresh breeze.
Ah, such a sweet memory!
I can see it vividly in my mind. I close my eyes, willing myself to submerge fully into the past. I yearn to exist solely in my recollection of that day. I ruminate on the sensation of the sun on my skin, the heaviness of the basket in my small hand, and the smell of the forest after a light rain. Gradually, the pain of the stake through my body fades as the memory takes hold and sweeps me back through the centuries to a point in time too dear to ever forget.
I open my eyes to peer up at my sister.
“Agy, tell me a story,” I ask.
My voice is small and musical. I clamber over tree roots as I follow her. She is a gifted storyteller and loves to recount details with great flair and verbosity. The stories are rife with court intrigue and speak of a land far from our small cottage in the Black Forest. I love her stories. Besides, my feet hurt in my new shoes. A small break from our task among the tall trees would be rather nice.
Twirling about, my sister says, “I should tell you about when you were born.”
I seat myself upon a gnarled root and set my basket at my side. I pluck a wild berry from the basket and crush it between my teeth. The juice is sweet and tangy, so I reach for another.
“Mama says I was born when she was sad and I made her happy again.”
“That is very, very true!” Ágota tosses her basket on the ground in front of me. A few truffles fall out and roll on the ground. She does not seem to notice. “Mama was heartbroken and full of deepest despair.”
“Why?” I eat another berry.
“Well, it is a very long story. Very dramatic. And tragic. Very tragic.”
I nod solemnly, understanding. Most of Ágota’s stories are tragic.
“Viorica,” she starts.
“Mama,” I correct her.
“For the story, I shall call her by her name,” Ágota says. “It is much more melodramatic that way.”
Frowning, I nod. That my mother should have two names, ‘Mama’ and ‘Viorica,’ is quite confusing to my young mind. Yet, I feel the power in the name my sister says with both delight and solemnity.
“It all begins long—well, actually about eight years ago—when a voivode, a prince in Moldavia, sought out our mother when he heard rumors there was a witch who lived at the edge of a nearby pond.”
“We live near a pond now,” I say.
“Yes, but it was a different, much more mysterious pond. Ghosts used to dance in the mist that floated across the darkest water,” Ágota replies. “Sometimes, I would join them, my toes skimming across the surface as light as a water bug.”