[Excerpt] Ancient Amber [Words: 2032]
Real Gone Daddy
crystal source into my glass had at last crested at flood stage in my
head to refract and scatter any possibility of bringing to full focus
a coherent sense of what I'd been told over the past hour; so
submerged was I, that to get a steady gaze set upon anything in the
room swimming by was futile, just so funny as this most singular host
of mine, one Mircea Basarab (so represented), who stood rooted and
waving like sea-weed just to the side of me toward the hearth. And
speaking in the general direction of him after some semblance of
thought, I was moved to say, "Why, my god! If I should take you at
your word, then just as you stand here before my eyes, you are dead as
a duck, my dear fellow."
"Mr. Parker," his voice boomed throughout the chamber, as I tried in
vain to get the sight of him to stop washing back and forth, "that is
hardly the most tactful way to put it."
Oh my! So true, and I determined to apologize, but since I couldn't
make out the features of him, I moved, unsteadily, to pull myself up
somewhat from the chair until my eyes had closed to within a foot of
his face, wherein I was able to detect but the tiniest mite of a smile
wryly playing about his lips while with narrowed eye he regarded me,
as then with his hand, he pressed me back down to my seat saying,
"Jonathan, there is far more to this than may at first be apparent, as
for example, an eternal truth, to wit: a man is a man and a duck is a
duck."
"Oh dear. Please, forgive me the duck, if you . . ."
"Certainly."
"Thank you. But, ah, do please just feel free to correct me if I err,
kind sir, but it sounds like your claim to be the son of a man who you
say is none other than . . . why . . . this well-known figure of--for
godsakes--medieval royalty . . . this ah . . . ah, Vlad Drac . . ."
"Dracul. Go on, Jonathan, you can say it." He made a graceful
arabesque with his fingers from his lips. "Roll it off the tongue
like a tart, green olive: Drah-cule.'
"Draaah-cuuule."
"Very good."
"Oh no. Not good, because, here am I not two feet away from one who
claims to be a brother . . . no! Not just that: the undead brother of
utterly the most infamous, blood-thirsty, not to mention fiendish
fellow known to man, namely that . . . that . . ."
"Yes?" His face had zoomed in so close to mine that when he jerked
his bushy brows upward to say, "Go on: 'fiendish fellow known to man'
as . . .?" I was struck nearly speechless:
"V-v-vlah . . ." My front teeth kept bouncing off my lower lip like it
was made of India rubber. I finally managed, "Vlad, the . . . the ah,
Imp . . ."
"Yes?"
"Vlad, the Second?"
He was shaking his head.
"Okay, the Third . . . no, the Fourth. Vlad, the . . ."
"No." He cleared his throat. "The second time you had it: Vlad the
Third is my brother, he who is popularly known as . . . yes, Tsepesh,
'the Impaler', 'Dracula'. Say it after me: Drah-cule-lah."
"Draaaaah-cuuu-lah!"
"Yes!" He made his eyebrows jump again. "Now, Dracula is Vlad the
Third, while Vlad the Second, 'Dracul' is my father. You see? We
don't count our cousin, Vladislav."
"I see." Then I thought about it, realizing that I didn't see a
thing. "Oh? And why not?"
"Because my father chopped off his head, just as I told you."
"Oh." But wait. Did that make sense? "So, now without his head he
doesn't count?"
"Without his head? No, he is of no account."
"But why? I mean, he should lose his head, for what?"
"He was selling us out to the Turks! What do you think?"
"Is that all?"
"No. He thought he was better than we, or that is, more specifically,
my father, simply because he was not a bastard."
"Who was not a bastard?"
"Vladislav Danejsti! Our snooty little cousin on the throne. But, my
father was . . ."
"Was . . . a . . ."
"Yes!"
"Your father was . . ."
"Of course."
"Now both, you see, Vlad and Vladislav were the grandsons of Basarab,
who had two sons, Mircea . . ."
"Oh jeez."
"It's not that hard. Just listen: There was Mircea, 'the Good', my
namesake, my grandfather; and there was his brother Dan."
"Okay, and their father was . . . who?"
"Basarab, the Great."
"Right. Okay!"
"Good. Now his son, Mircea, my grandfather, you see, was the eldest
and it was he who took the throne, and it was he who was the father of
my father by a concubine. Even so, Vlad, my father, had by right of
succession, the greater claim--bastard or no bastard."
"Bastard or no bastard. Good. Then what happened?"
"The King of Hungary supported my uncle, Vladislav against the bastard
my father."
"I thought you called him a cousin."
"I think of his son, Alexandru who was my cousin. Nevermind. The
point is that the whole lot of them thought they were better than we
simply because they were not bastards."
"How picky can they get?"
"Exactly!"
"It wasn't fair."
"Of course not, and therefore, Vladislav deserved to lose his head."
"I see."
"Now therefore, he did verily lose his head when my father had made it
clear to the King of Hungary, who just happened to be Sigismund of
Luxembourg, the Holy Roman Emperor, that he, my father, would defend
the throne of Wallachia, and Transylvania, of which he had already
been appointed governor, you see, all this he would valiantly defend
against the Invader Turk!"
"And so he was knighted."
"So, he was, into the Order of the Dragon, but only upon a promise,
his sacred vow to defend Holy Rome to the death. And upon that, he
was given leave to go and . . ."
"Lop off the other guy's head!"
"Precisely."
Suddenly, I realized that I'd been listening to all this as if I
hadn't the faintest doubt about it, or leastway as to the claims of
this man who was relating it! I determined to hear no more of his
absurd nonsense, and to put it to him point blank that I wanted to go
home! But just then when I looked up, he was gone. "Alas," I whispered
to myself, "where did he go?" I looked all about, until I heard his
footfall come echoing from across the room as he returned.
When he, with the large quarto-sized volume he bore in both hands, was
close enough to merge into less than three images, but for my damnable
curiosity, I was about to speak, but didn't, as I watched him push the
decanter and my empty glass aside. Then, upon wiping the surface with
a napkin from the silver tray, he set down and opened the volume, to
begin turning, with extreme care, the ancient pages of the book, one
whose text was printed in large, Gothic type in a language I did not
recognize, but upon pages I did recognize, from my college experience
of working with rare books, for parchment of a vintage nearly so old
as the Guttenberg press.
"See here?" He was raising his hand from the last turned page. I
looked down, and though it took a while to get my perception fixed to
the point of his finger, I had an entirely sobering start; one that
took hold by a shock of recognition, for right there in a portrait of
oil, an original, just here at my hand in this book and taking up a
full page in exquisite color was the aspect of the man who stood over
me. Why, it was the very image of him, yet of all things, in
ecclesiastical garb of black robe, and pleated black beret. Beneath
the portrait in Roman numerals were the dates of his birth and--God
forbid--death, which figures, given my condition, were Greek to me--if
such an obvious cliché may be pardoned by the heart of a merciful
reader--and heaven forefend there should ever be any!
He turned the page, and there was the infamous portrait of Vlad
Dracula, 'The Impaler'. I looked up at him, seeking to catch the
glint of his eyes. "And what's become of him?" I asked.
"Vlad Tsepesh?"
"Yes! Count Dracula."
"Prince Dracula, if you please, but that's neither here nor there, he
is not so fussy." He winked. "But yes, since you ask, he's at San
Francisco, or that is a bit north of there, up in Sonoma county,
Sebastopol to be exact, waiting upon your arrival to finalize the
business of the estate."
"What?" I cleared my throat. "Waiting for . . . Excuse me? For whom
did you say?"
"You."
"Oh no, I'm afraid that would be impossible. For you see, I absolutely
require the authorization of the bank for any alteration of the
itinerary, and aside from that, all matters are already finalized; you
signed the documents, there is no more business." I opened my hands.
"See? I have no more documents."
He bent toward me, smiling somewhat, "The authorization has already
been arranged, in your behalf, with your supervisor, by cellphone."
When, like a butler, he had straightened himself, a shudder went up my
spine:
"Oh dear. Oh my." I wondered if this was some trick and decided to
test the matter. "Which one, pray tell, or that is, to whom did you
speak?"
"Why, with Mr. Breedlove, of course."
Breedlove! Oh, that was the right officer all right, and now I knew I
was in the grip of some unshakeable nightmare, deep in some
temporarily unwakeable trance. While he continued vaguely to grin at
me, my instinct toward self preservation moved me to realize that
since this must be a dream, then I had full leave to resist, to speak
my mind, have my say: "And what do you mean by telling me that this .
. . this undead person is already there at the estate?"
He shrugged. "He is there, and waiting. What more can I tell you, my
dear friend?"
"Oh, just please omit the 'my dear friend' niceties for once, my dear
fellow!" I jabbed my bandaged finger toward the portrait, "For truly,
if this person, this . . . this infamous impaler of human flesh, this
Vlad Drah-cule-lah brother of yours, of all people, is he who is there
at the estate then, do tell me: did he by any chance remember to
bring his head -- or is he perhaps traveling light?"
With great trepidation, I watched as he arched his brows to shake his
head with the all-so-familiar "And what are we to do with you" sort of
attitude. This exercised me the more; I shot up from my chair and
brought my fist down on the table: "Truly, sir, this is highly
irregular!"
He laughed. "What is?"
"Oh come, come, come! Let's do be realistic. Observe the situation
that you present, that we should have a . . . headless vam . . . why,
a . . . a vamp . . . my god . . . who but Dracula himself roaming
about a premises being handled by the . . . the Wells Fargo Company?"
I stood back from him by a full pace. "I daresay, sir that I am moved
to protest!"
The darkness of his smile was purely in the range of the ultra-violet,
as the suave quietude of his tone was enough to polish silver: "But
now, what if I were to tell you that my brother is no longer
headless--would that improve matters for the Wells Fargo Company, my
dear Mr. Parker?"
JPDavid jpd...@hotmail.com
John's Joint:: http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
"It takes a long evolutionary process to arrive at objectivity, that
is, to acquire the faculty to see the world, nature, and other persons
and oneself as they are, and not distorted by desires and fears. The
more man develops this objectivity, the more he is in touch with
reality, the more he matures, the better can he be to create a human
world in which he is at home." -- Erich Fromm in *The Sane Society*
"And it don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing." -- Irving
Mills, Duke Ellington.
Wind River
I'll read it before I'd be accused of not liking it. :-)
Using the dialogue to get the history across worked for me. It's not as
detailed, but it was easier for the reader. A couple of comments below:
Real Gone Daddy wrote:
> The ancient amber brook of Napoleonic Cognac, sparkling from its
> crystal source into my glass had at last crested at flood stage in my
> head to refract and scatter any possibility of bringing to full focus
> a coherent sense of what I'd been told over the past hour; so
> submerged was I, that to get a steady gaze set upon anything in the
> room swimming by was futile, just so funny as this most singular host
> of mine, one Mircea Basarab (so represented), who stood rooted and
> waving like sea-weed just to the side of me toward the hearth. And
The length of the first sentence tripped me up a bit. Perhaps, break it up
some? I like "waving like sea-weed" -- very descriptive.
> When he, with the large quarto-sized volume he bore in both hands, was
> close enough to merge into less than three images, but for my damnable
> curiosity, I was about to speak, but didn't, as I watched him push the
> decanter and my empty glass aside. Then, upon wiping the surface with
> a napkin from the silver tray, he set down and opened the volume, to
> begin turning, with extreme care, the ancient pages of the book, one
> whose text was printed in large, Gothic type in a language I did not
> recognize, but upon pages I did recognize, from my college experience
> of working with rare books, for parchment of a vintage nearly so old
> as the Guttenberg press.
You did your homework here with the Vlad/Guttenburg press dates. After the
press was invented, parchment (vellum) started being replaced by rag
paper.
> "See here?" He was raising his hand from the last turned page. I
> looked down, and though it took a while to get my perception fixed to
> the point of his finger, I had an entirely sobering start; one that
> took hold by a shock of recognition, for right there in a portrait of
> oil, an original, just here at my hand in this book and taking up a
> full page in exquisite color was the aspect of the man who stood over
> me. Why, it was the very image of him, yet of all things, in
> ecclesiastical garb of black robe, and pleated black beret. Beneath
> the portrait in Roman numerals were the dates of his birth and--God
> forbid--death, which figures, given my condition, were Greek to me--if
> such an obvious cliché may be pardoned by the heart of a merciful
> reader--and heaven forefend there should ever be any!
Amazing the work that went into those ancient books with paintings,
illuminations, and ornate calligraphy! Even the bindings often have
embossed intricate patterns. Don't know why I'm rambling about it, but I
appreciate old books.
I'm continuing to enjoy the excerpts. The hints at the end of what's to
come are intriguing. Thanks for posting.
Sue
Alaric McDermott
Hi, John.
I often wonder about exposition by dialogue. Does the revelatory
character have a good reason for giving the information he imparts?
Dunno. It isn't clear here. And I also often wonder if it's better for
the reader that the revelations should appear in bite size chunks.
Still with it. Still interested.
long_go...@nobodyfeelsanypain.com (Real Gone Daddy) wrote in message news:<e156f08c.02092...@posting.google.com>...
Amanda Tarr
"Real Gone Daddy" <long_go...@nobodyfeelsanypain.com> wrote in message
news:e156f08c.02092...@posting.google.com...
> The ancient amber brook of Napoleonic Cognac, sparkling from its
> crystal source into my glass had at last crested at flood stage in my
> head to refract and scatter any possibility of bringing to full focus
> a coherent sense of what I'd been told over the past hour; so
> submerged was I, that to get a steady gaze set upon anything in the
> room swimming by was futile, just so funny as this most singular host
> of mine, one Mircea Basarab (so represented), who stood rooted and
> waving like sea-weed just to the side of me toward the hearth.
Great installment. Different in character, I think. The dialog *really*
helped me follow the history. There was also quite a bit of comedy... maybe
ever so slightly incongruous, but I wouldn't suggest taking it out. Nope no,
it lends a nice freshness to this excerpt. A breather, really.
And, it seems, we've reached a turning point in the plot. Exciting!
Keep them coming!
Amanda
Longden
Gone Daddy) wrote:
...............
Parker seems to have got pissed all of a sudden, if we're taking
off from where we were in the last episode. But I suppose it happens that
way sometimes (especially with spirits). It is a superb evocation of
inebriation though.
Still not sure you've entirely solved the problem with the history
and genealogy. Presumably you need this stuff for the later development of
the story. It's effective in a way, having Parker flounder and get confused
and need correcting. The question I suppose is why Mircea needs to ram it
all home to Parker right there and then. (You're best sticking to the
certainties with drunks, like 'A duck is a duck'.)