Chapter 6: Light and Shadow
"If a man wishes to be sure of the road he's traveling on, then he must close his eyes and travel in the dark."
-Saint John of the Cross
Lisa raised her eyes from her book half amused, half exasperated.
"Even Herophilus?" She couldn't disguise her disbelief.
Țepeș restlessly tapped his fingers on the chair's arm.
"His efforts as an anatomist were remarkable, but there are blatant imprecisions in his work."
She blinked at him a few times before shaking her head and placing the large tome back on the respectable pile they had built over the course of a few evenings.
"What do you wish me to tell you, Lisa? Herophilus made mistakes. And worse: his reputation was such that no one questioned his findings, and as a result, his mistakes have become medical dogma."
"But apart from that, we can laud what he did accurately identify and explain. It served a noble purpose: to advance the field. We cannot discount his contribution—"
He shifted in the chair, his annoyance evident. He reached over the table abruptly and began stacking books in a careless, haphazard way. Lisa finally sat back, her expression of bewilderment eventually giving way to one of resignation.
"Here." He indicated the unsteady tower of books he had assembled. He stared at her intently as he tossed the final volume on top. She tentatively raised a hand toward the teetering pile in anticipation of the impending catastrophe. The tower collapsed thunderously: books tumbled over the tabletop and onto the floor.
"Would you trust anything built upon a faulty foundation?" he provoked.
"I see your point."
She pushed away from the table and bent down to collect some of the fallen books. As she placed one of them back on the table with a heavy thud, she looked at him pointedly.
"What is it?" he finally asked.
"This metaphor isn't going to pick itself up. Come," she beckoned, indicating the books nearest to him.
He remained seated for a moment, irked, until her persistent stares ruffled him. Wordlessly, he bent down and gathered the tomes by his feet.
"Is there any thinker or scholar still unscathed by your contempt?" she wondered, tucking a wayward lock behind her ear.
"Galen—" he began.
"Finally!" Lisa interjected.
"You did not allow me to finish!" He leaned forward and rested his elbows on table. "Galen of Pergamum, canonical as he may be in the field of medicine, is responsible for propagating Herophilus' erroneous observation: humans have no rete mirabilis."
Lisa remained on the ground, her legs folded beneath her, a soft leather-bound book clasped against her chest.
"You judge their mistakes too harshly— they are worthy of some indulgence, no? After all, they dared to chart the uncharted and their mistakes were honest. Their efforts should be admired, not condemned. Even faulty foundations can be repaired, reinforced, even rebuilt!"
He smirked, holding his tongue.
In my searches, in my exploits, there was no room for mistakes, for miscalculations, or taking chances. Had I faltered, I would have been vanquished. I have little sympathy for the bumbling trial-and-error of mortals.
Still, he couldn't help being drawn to her persistence, to the many ways she was not discouraged by imperfection or defeat. He loved the way she adapted to challenges and often marveled at how their minds sought similar paths and solutions. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, clasping the book to herself: a shield, her armor. She sat on the floor, her gaze faraway, lost in thought as she gently rubbed her cheek against the top edge of the book. It was a candid, unguarded gesture, so true to her nature. He averted his eyes, his longing threatening to overpower him.
"Why do you think these mistakes, these misconceptions endure for so long?" she asked him at last.
"Papal bulls like the 'Detestande feritatis' are partially to blame," Țepeș announced, seizing another tome off the floor and seeking its home on one of the bookshelves.
"But does the bull extend to the healing arts?" she questioned. She handed the book she had been clasping to him. "I understand that it is gruesome that soldiers dismember their fallen comrades to transport them back home. I can't deny how disturbing the practice of boiling the flesh off a corpse's bones for the purpose of travel is. But…all of those are matters concerning burial. It has more to do with all that…pageantry…surrounding death. Physicians can still conduct dissections. I was told that in Bologna, Montpellier, and Salerno, scholars have been given dispensations to study cadavers."
He perused the shelf, his long nails grazing the spines of old books.
"And where do you find yourself right now, Lisa?"
She huffed softly.
"Not in Bologna or Montpellier." She couldn't even bring herself to mention Salerno again—it had been the focus of so many dreams, as it was one of the only schools that would train women in medicine.
Țepeș halted his inspection and turned around to eye her shrewdly.
"Ah. Do I disappoint so much?"
"That's not what I meant!" she protested, quick to placate him. She never wanted him to think she was not dedicated to her studies, that she did not appreciate his taking her on as an apprentice. "I was lamenting the fact that opportunities to study are so limited!"
"We are beyond the scrutiny of the Church here; my will is the law of the land here."
He extended his hand, inviting her off the hard floor. She clasped it, pulling herself up. Their hands lingered longer than necessary.
Țepeș finally stepped away, leaning his shoulder against the bookshelf, his brow furrowing.
"You must be careful. People are ignorant and fearful; they will judge a woman's pursuit of knowledge differently than a man's. The papal bull, the spirit of the law, and those who interpret it are often distinct from each other. And when it comes to mortal remains…Blood, especially…Any handling of such properties is shrouded in ritual—"
"In superstition, you mean." She clasped her hands behind her .
He was tempted to reveal more.
"Do not dismiss it so blithely. There is more to the veneration of blood than vulgar credulity. The reverence has existed since time immemorial. Blood is the primordial elixir that binds life itself. Think—it is true in every culture, every religion, Lisa: blood consecrates, seals pacts, initiates rites—it is upheld as the axis mundi between body and spirit. It is deemed the only suitable offering to the gods." She peered at him curiously, seriously. "And it is the currency exchanged for power, protection, and knowledge."
It is at the core of immortality.
He stopped, wary that he had revealed too much.
"It is strange to hear you speak about such a topic."
Yes, and a dangerous topic, at that. Merely speaking of it stoked his craving for her. Even from where he stood, he easily honed in on the pulsing of her heart, on the almost imperceptible throb beneath the skin of her neck. His nostrils flared.
"Why do you say that?"
"It reminds me of alchemy." She gave him an uneasy smile.
"And what do you know of alchemy?" he teased.
"Very little." She stepped toward the fire, bracing herself. "I am interested in the true science, you see," she retorted.
He chuckled at her barb.
"So much disdain for such a vast field. And yet, it is a venerable ancestor, the first science. You may think it applies only to those seeking to transmute base metals into gold—and I won't deny that such pursuits are the sole goal of many…But it also concerns itself with… much more."
She rubbed her arms vigorously.
"I don't begrudge alchemists for their pursuits. I believe anyone should be allowed to search for the answers they seek. But another part of me has little patience for such…whimsy? It seems wasteful. Even selfish."
"Al-kimiya…Do you know what it means?"
She shook her head, her eyes trained on the fire.
"The word is Arabic by way of the Greeks: khemia. Literally, from the black earth—another name for ancient Egypt—the Egypt of the Nile Valley, not the red desert. But alchemy is older than that...And hails from lands even farther and more ancient."
"I'm sorry: the field doesn't appeal to me."
"Good," he concluded, deciding to say nothing further.
They remained in silence, the fire splintering the wood in the hearth.
"But your interest in it interests me," she issued cautiously. Her eyes gazed over the shelves of books throughout the room. "You have a great many number of books on the subject of religion."
He lowered his head, his gaze veiled from her scrutiny. The fire cast long dancing shadows around the room.
"And why shouldn't I? I have many interests. You didn't voice such concern over my interests in different scientific disciplines."
"It strikes me as curious."
"Why is that?"
"I can't imagine more disparate fields. My understanding is that science concerns itself with what is tangible, measurable, observable…replicable! No believers are required for it to be truth: it simply is…Compared to religion, something that has always seemed to me like…A form of fear…A desire for reassurance and control in the face of life's uncertainties. It binds one to follow it through guilt and requires an unquestioning docility in the face of the improbable."
It was definitely a dangerous conversation: a crossroads. He had to decide which course he wished to take. Should he keep everything as it was, as if under a spell, continuing to play his role as her solicitous master, the unfathomably wise man whose vast knowledge excused all manner of incongruence?…He could leave everything as it was and return, night after night, like in the Ottomans' tales of the Sassanid Shahryār, the king who night after night, for more than a thousand nights, was told stories by his clever bride.
Except in my castle, I must be the storyteller.
And his stories were his revelations about science, about the natural world, and they would be as numerous as the stars if it meant keeping her always there by his side.
The toppled tower of books caught his attention, still scattered across the table.
Would you trust anything built upon a faulty foundation? he'd asked her.
He was growing tired of concealing all his facets.
She should see. She should know...and decide.
If he was going to inspire any feelings in her, they had to be based on truth, he decided.
Esse quam videri.
To be, rather than be seen.
Even if that 'to be' meant she would flee from him.
"I am curious about a great many things, Lisa." He paced alongside the shelves slowly.
"Don't misconstrue my remarks: I am not judging you—I only want to understand."
"Understand what? That I hunger for…knowledge? Can you decide what is worth knowing and what isn't?"
She bristled at his prickliness.
"If you think you can, you won't be too different from the Church, with its endless decrees on what can and can't be studied, read, written, and even thought," he warned.
"I saw no harm in asking and thought I could share my thoughts freely with you. All I am saying is that I find this particular interest of yours intriguing. Perhaps even surprising. I never would have thought it of you," she insisted.
"You presume to know me well." He turned away from her, his cloak swishing softly in the wake of his footsteps.
"Now who is being presumptuous!" She approached him. "I presumed no such thing! It was an observation, not a crime!"
"An observation that one would verify, confirm, or dispel through experimentation?" he taunted.
"No! You are not an experiment!" she cried, stepping around him, planting herself firmly in his path. Her eyes sparked with indignation. "But perhaps you are correct: I may very well be presumptuous, as you say!"
He raised an eyebrow.
"I did presume…Presumed we were…" She paused.
That heady rush of heat flushed over her skin and all he wanted was to reach out for her, bring her close to him and finally claim the desire he aroused in her, that belonged to him.
"I thought we could speak freely to each other. I thought that we could dispense with all contrivances."
"Why should I make an exception for you? Because your aim to help wretched humanity is so noble?" He couldn't help the sardonic tone in his voice.
Her lips parted and for a moment she was speechless; his words had hurt her, he could tell.
"No. Not at all." She shook her head. "I thought…You and I: we are… friends." She spoke decisively to him, but her voice quavered slightly when she uttered "friends."
He briefly closed his eyes at her words, touched deeply by the delicate, sincere emotion behind them.
"I am no one's friend, Lisa." He circled slowly around her. "And I cannot be what you think I am."
She remained still, deeply pained at his words, at that unfamiliar facet of his.
Why is he doing this? Why is he acting like this?
"Look around you." He extended both hands, indicating his laboratory, his castle. "Perhaps I haven't taught you as well as I thought I had."
Her eyes widened.
He continued to pace about. "To question, to seek—those are all qualities of a thinker, of a scientist." He halted in front of her. "Look," he invited her.
How they had reached that strange point from an innocent, unguarded comment, she couldn't understand. The evening had begun as it always had, but veered off into something that felt almost threatening for reasons she couldn't quite grasp.
"See what I am," he challenged. The expression on his face was almost grim.
"You are my teacher, my master," she replied simply.
"Is that all?"
She was still upended by his earlier provocations.
"It is more than sufficient: I would not expect more." She rubbed her arms, the fire suddenly not sufficiently warm.
He smirked. For all her talk of egalitarianism, she wouldn't expect "more" from him...Nor that he would seek it. She had, after all, sought him out to learn how to become a doctor. The "more" he'd perceived was what she couldn't hide, couldn't help betraying.
And he wanted it.
My will.
"I must instruct you further."
He brought his face close, his eyes searching hers, their gleam vivid, bright that evening. She lowered her gaze, blinking rapidly.
"Look at me," he ordered her in a low voice, urgency in his tone.
She took a deep breath and faced him, taking in the deep red of his pupils.
It's unusual…a medical condition— the eye's blood vessels—and a lack of pigmentation. The ears…they taper off —a hereditary defect —as well as the sharp canines…she tried to persuade herself.
He was agitated, but not angry. Through it all, she distinguished a familiar echo: a melancholy, a deep-rooted anguish.
Sometimes I think I can read you better than I can read your old books, she realized, meeting and holding his gaze unflinchingly.
"I see…" She could not deflect the scrutiny of his intense gaze. He demanded a reply. "Behind the knowledge and wisdom, an insatiable desire to unveil the unknown, the ability to understand the laws of nature, an uncanny knack for imagining beyond what is now to what could be."
She squeezed her fist tight.
"That's what you think, not what you see," he chided her. "Be objective…"
"I don't know what you expect me to say!"
"It's very simple: the truth."
"Then tell me which one!"
"Oschi, oschi, Scaraoschi!" he whispered.
His words had the effect of a sharp gust of wind, chilling her to the marrow. Her brow furrowed at his quoting the opening line of the old vrajă to ward off the devil. What was he trying to tell her? Visions of the pikes lining the road to the castle, scraps of sun-bleached fabric flapping in the breeze, an eerie forest of death and bone, an image straight out of a gruesome folktale, an account she would have never believed unless she'd seen it for herself came to her mind. His name, Țepeș—impaler. It was likely he was warning her about his past, about his violent deeds as a ruthless, sanguinary warlord.
Dracula—son of Drac: 'dragon'. It is likely a title given by a military order, some "secret" society nobles make such a spectacle of belonging to.
Drac: 'devil', came the unbidden reminder.
Perhaps it was something darker, larger than she could fathom.
The discarnate whispers, shadows that stir out of the corner of the eye but disappear when confronted… Țepeș moves as if he could dissolve into air. Her mind reeled. Saints, faith, alchemy… A castle that has no servants but never appears to need any…
"Look at me." His voice was now steely. The air grew colder, the darkness around them encroaching, menacing. Țepeș was simultaneously light and dark, swathed in his cape, sleek black hair framing his pale, aristocratic features. What inner tumult was causing him to behave in such a manner?
And still…
I see a man who despite his jadedness, pride, and wealth is not above offering me aid. He has been nothing but generous and solicitous. I don't know what manner of horrors he has perpetrated during his life, but I know that for him to be so tormented by his conscience, so burdened, means that he cannot be completely devoid of any goodness.
She wished she could convey her thoughts to him, but a surge of emotion overcame her. She did not curb the instinct to raise her hand and gently cup his cold cheek. He stiffened at her unexpected touch, but did not recoil from it. Emboldened, her expression eased and she caressed his face, his hair.
He seized her hand roughly, bringing her knuckles to his lips.
"Your lack of fear is a problem," he said softly, almost pained.
His lips felt cool but his breath was warm and the hairs of his mustache tickled her skin. He kissed her hand with a respectful affection she found endearing, but when he peered again into her eyes, there was an unguarded depth to his gaze that ignited all the feelings she had tried so carefully to hide away. In his expression, an unmistakable invitation: a summons she was unwilling to resist.
"What do I have to fear?" she asked. He turned her hand over, kissing her palm. Her breath hitched. His lips brushed over her skin, halting over her wrist to place another kiss, inhaling deeply. He glanced at her to gauge her reaction, his eyes pulling her in like the tide. His caresses, his kisses, quickened her pulse until her whole body throbbed with heat and need all at once.
"More than not accepting what I am, you might not forgive me for what I am—or that I even exist," he continued in that enticing low voice, a half-whisper that was as tantalizing as his caresses. She was jolted out of that pleasant haze when he suddenly released her hand.
"What's wro—"
Before she could finish, his strong arm wrapped around her and pulled her against him. He gazed at her with hooded eyes as his hand brushed strands of hair off her cheek, her forehead. His long fingers trailed down her face with a feathery touch, grazing over her lips, tracing the fullness of her lower lip with his thumb. They traveled down her chin, her neck. His lips were but a tilt away from hers, so close she could feel their breaths mingle.
"Once we are welcomed, those of my ilk no longer acknowledge any boundaries. I should warn you now, before it is too late: is this what you want?"
"Yes," she whispered, certain.
His lips grazed against hers.
"Lisa, Lisa…You wander into this with your eyes closed. But I can't stop you. I do not want to." He kissed her again: once, twice— soft, tender kisses. He kissed her with seductive restraint, languorously: he was savoring her and the moment completely—their closeness, how she fit in his arms, her scent, her taste.
"With my eyes closed, perhaps—but in certain matters, the heart sees far more clearly," she replied, following his lips, aching for his touch.
A/N: Yes, this is a love story: not just between Lisa and Dracula, but also between an unrepentant nerd and medieval history. Thank you for indulging all my raging fascination with obscure details.
* The "Detestande feritatis" was a papal bull issued by Pope Boniface the VIII in 1299. It denounced the morbid custom people had of chopping up deceased European nobles and boiling their flesh off bones whenever aforementioned nobles died far away from home—as they had taken a habit of doing, courtesy of the Crusades. The bull concerns itself with the handling of mortal remains and interpretation ended up being extended to how physicians and surgeons were trained. Some authorities argued that dissecting cadavers violated the papal bull and there was a lot of confusion and argument that spilled over into the medical field.
*"Oschi, oschi, Scaraoschi" is from an old Romanian vrajă, or spell/incantation, to ward off the devil.
* Someone asked me about the accents on "Țepeș": it indicates that the pronunciation is more like "Tsepesh". (Between you and me, I keep them because they look like fangs.)