Dracula: Hearts of Stone

DRACULA WALKED THROUGH the cemetery with a lonely heart. It was around five, and the temperature was cold for the time of year, just above sixty degrees Fahrenheit. Even up here in New Brunswick, Canada, it was usually warmer in July. His black Armani suit and tie gave him the appearance of a business person, and his stylish haircut reaffirmed that notion. But nothing could be further from reality. He roamed aimlessly through the graveyard, and envied each and every one of the dead. Dracula neither appreciated the peacefulness of it all, nor the greenery of summer. He had had such an extended life that he was weary of it. Living to a hundred was one thing, but being so ancient was becoming unbearable. It had been so long since he had enjoyed a day to its fullest. He felt like a flower that had withered but couldn’t die.

Dracula crossed his powerful arms and observed three black-capped chickadees in flight; they sang their familiar song, and one stopped to rest on his shoulder. The bird didn’t surprise him as he had called to it in his mind. He knew the birds usually lived to be less than two years of age, but occasionally endured to be twice that. Dracula thought that if he knew he would be dead in that period that it would be most satisfactory; he could be happy in that knowledge and endure until then. The bird departed his shoulder, and the other two followed close behind.

Dracula watched a burial in the distance; he started to move and then stopped and stared into himself, transported back in time to a happier day when he had enjoyed the company of another vampire named Margaret. They had taken a ride through the streets of New York in a Landau horse-drawn carriage, and he remembered the sound of the hooves clopping along and her perfect face. She had been so beautiful and such a kind disposition. He so liked to bathe in her presence. They had passed by Broadway at 42nd Street, and he recalled that Lyceum had a production of The Moth and the Flame on that 1880 day. Or was the year 1898? The years had a way of blending into one another. It annoyed him that the particular year failed him. A week after that beautiful ride she had been killed by two biters that he had later tracked down and tortured, but that was the end of that reverie.

Dracula lay on a trail between the tombstones and gazed up at the puffy white clouds. A vampire not being able to tolerate the sun was a myth, although they did prefer to do their dirty work at night. A large raven flew over and ignored him. He could hear the traffic on Elmwood Drive but couldn’t see it. Dracula was wealthy beyond imagining, and yet it meant little to him. Any enjoyment that life had held in the past had dissipated like so much smoke. The workings of such an old mind were as complicated as nature itself. Depression had grabbed him and refused to let go. Perhaps his brain was so old that it was perishing, but of that, he couldn’t be sure.

“Are you okay Mister? You were trying to go to sleep?” The four-year-old boy stared down at him. Kevin had momentarily escaped his family as they were placing flowers on his grandmother’s grave. The boy thought it an unusual place to take a nap.

“Fine, unfortunately.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Going crazy.”

“Whatcha doing that for?”

“Something to do.”

“Tell me if you see a ghost. I’ll be over there.”

“I’ll send the ghost over to get you if I see one.”

Kevin ran as fast as his little legs would take him to inform his parents that the cemetery did indeed have ghosts, and that they should hurry and get out of there before one got all of them. He jumped around, but his parents ignored the child.

That was how Dracula spent the anniversary day of the passing of his dear friend, Hubert Walter; Archbishop of Canterbury had died on July 13th in the year 1205. July 13th, 2011 was simply another day for tedious recollection. Had he a pill that would make him sleep for a century, he would gladly consume it. The walks that he had taken with the Archbishop and had so thoroughly enjoyed were now painful. How was it that a pleasant memory could be so unpleasant?

Dracula closed his eyes and when he opened them night had fallen. Hours had raced by as if it had been mere seconds. It seemed that the only time that was worth anything was unconscious time. The distinctive sound of two cats fighting somewhere in the distance brought a smile to his face. He assumed that they were battling over a mate and that the fur was flying. At least, nature was somewhat amusing. As he sat up, the cats ran through the graveyard, with one in pursuit of the other. Both cats were white, and one bloodied. The female would go to the victor unless she departed the area not wanting to put up with more of their foolishness.