Count Rothchild

by Michael W. Huard

  This made her feel good. Teevas Isle, she thought to herself, a place for art and music and dance; it had a piece of her heart already.

  On approaching the isle late the following afternoon, the sun shone down upon a tall Gothic castle above a visible, high and rocky coastline. Gaylen and everyone else looked up to see its splendid grandeur.

  Soon her ship had reached the far-off island and, as instructed, wearing a light green dress, her hair tied back in a darker green ribbon, she grabbed her traveling bags and took her first step on dry land in days. The sand slipped about her light brown boots, yet she welcomed such footing.

  There were several ships in the harbor and a road veered up and around, heading to what looked to be a villa of sprawling buildings. She began to walk up the slope, looking about, eventually reaching a level of cobblestone turf.

  The entire place had a rustic feel to it.

  The area was one of stone structures, many with high peaks, and intricate designs; a tall theater was the largest of them. All, on this secluded island she stood upon, possessed a Gothic feel.

  Mere moments later, a bulky carriage driven by four black as coal horses pulled up before her.

  The dark-caped carriage driver had a huge, wide-brimmed black hat on and a dark hanging beard below such. He looked down at the small woman below him and smiled, revealing a jagged set of pearly white teeth. He seemed a bit perplexed at first, yet did not say why.

  He then in a deep gruff voice announced, “I bid you welcome. The count is eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

  Hopefully this strange man was who he appeared to be. What choice did she have? He, the count, was gracious in sending such a rider and wagon and she would simply take him up on his offer. A good bard was not afraid to carry on; she kept telling herself such repeatedly.

  Before she entered this covered carriage, an old woman appeared on the side of the road adjacent to the stone theater. She was an elderly gypsy-like lady wearing layered clothing in hues of brown, orange, and yellow. Gaylen watched her, as this woman seemed interested in her arrival. She then looked up at the theater and noticed two looming gargoyles staring down at her. What in the world had she gotten herself into?

  Oh, wonderful, she thought, I don’t even know if those were there a minute ago. My mind is already playing tricks on me.

  She returned her attention to the woman across the way, she who was standing between two small stone cottages. The elder lady, maybe in her sixties, had a brown kerchief around her short black and gray hair.

  She made the sign of the cross towards Gaylen, calling forth, “I beg you not to go, miss, for there’s darkness where you are headed; it is not safe.”

  Gaylen’s eyes widened. The woman appeared serious in making such a statement.

  The old woman went on. “You would be best to turn around and go right back on that ship you came from; be it to never return to this island again.”

  Gaylen swallowed at her warning, but she had not become who she was by suffering fear of the unknown.

  She found herself thinking out loud. “The oddest of things in life are definitely the most interesting, and sometimes the hidden tend to reveal the most fascinating.”

  The old woman puckered her lips, not agreeing, calling out, “Beware, I say, beware!”

  The woman rushed across the road to the newly arrived petite blonde and placed an old wooden and bronze rosary about her neck. She nodded as if nervous, but hoping such would help, and turned to go.

  Before Gaylen could stop her from leaving, and ask questions, the carriage driver stowed her bags, touching her on the shoulder as to leave, and guiding her upon a set of dropped stairs leading up into the coach.

  Gaylen glanced out her window, seeing the old woman once again make the sign of the cross down the street as the wagon went on its way.

  The horses moved quickly and sped uphill, heading west far from the theater and villa.

  The journey took her through rough and slop-ridden terrain as it made way, eventually curving more north. It felt as if they were riding for hours when the sun finally started to lower.

  The howling of wolves snapped Gaylen out of her unplanned nap; she glanced about to see what the night-lit lanterns hanging on the wagon would reveal, but to her surprise it was completely dark in the front of the wagon. She had to adjust her thinking that something was lighting their way onward. The rider used no such light source to guide his travels. In fact, the lanterns appeared dirty and not lit as of late.

  The driver came to a stop at that very moment, yet she could not see much of him either. The wolves sounded closer, almost upon them. He, as she now heard, had leaped from the wagon to confront them.

  Oh, Lord, she thought, what if he dies out here in the middle of nowhere? She would be left for the wolves to eat. She found herself uneasy if not frightened seconds later.

  There was a muttering of words from in front, and soon the animals stopped their wailing. The rider was back on board and they sped off without issue.

  How strange, she thought. What had occurred?

  She again fell asleep along the way and little did she know she slept for many more hours before the wagon came to another stop. The sea made one tired was her conclusion when she snapped out of yet another slumber.

  Gaylen then saw an old caretaker’s house on the edge of the ocean cliffs. They had reached a road along the sea border. The driver let her out, helping her down the stairs. He kept his wide hat low, hiding his eyes.

  “Take a quick stretch before we continue, my lady.”

  She rolled her neck and arched her back from the stiffness of such a long ride.

  “We have but a high steep pathway to travel upon and we will be close,” the driver pointed out, insisting a few minutes later she board back on.

  They then, led by the black horses, climbed awhile up a hill and around a bend before coming to level surface.

  Both stepped off the carriage for another break.

  There, to her right, a graveyard stood, and a small chapel sat further up on a rise.

  The driver pointed towards the cemetery, explaining, “There beyond such, the mist will take us to the count’s castle.”

  Gaylen saw no fog or mist that way. She then found herself taking a deep breath of the fresh ocean air nearby, while trying to gather her wits. It was about time she asked a few questions.

  “Can you tell me about Master Rothchild?”

  The man gave a wicked laugh. He answered her not, as he climbed back on the wagon and gestured to her to board. Soon they were on their way once more.

  That was rude, she thought. Again she felt uneasy.

  A blue mist appeared, which the four horses galloped towards, entering what appeared to be another older and much smaller cemetery. The ride was slightly downhill, as Gaylen slid forward from her seat.

  Not so long after, they suddenly appeared on a different road, one with more open terrain, be it still foggy. They rode on. At first she saw mounds of dirt where skeletal forms were digging their way up and out in the shadows, yet the wagon was too quick and passed such by.

  What in the world was that? She was ready to ask her odd escort, yet decided otherwise.

  The wagon made way along a rocky ridge and turned left, going uphill. Gaylen noticed a circle of wagons cresting the rise. She then realized it was not as dark here; it was lighter now, yet gloomy and a bit rainy at that.

  It was as if they had changed worlds.

  She found herself removing her hair ribbon and pushing about her long hair. Her belly became upset at such a thought.

  Am I irrational? she thought. Here I am, this little fair-haired girl all by myself in a strange, foreign land. What I have I done? I have no idea where we are now.

  She fiddled with a few strands of her hair, those loose from her picking at such away from her face. She had to gather herself together. Everything was going to be fine.

  This is what bards do; we explore and dig deep for the most interesting stori
es in all the realms.

  The wagons before them were gypsy dwellings as it appeared; they rode closer to the caravan now. A few of the people out and about chasing a barking dog looked over, yet the big wagon and its horses rode on by. Several hounds chased them for a while, barking and yelping, yet soon they, too, were left behind.

  Not too long later her carriage passed by a dark forest and made way to a higher ridge. They came to a steep and dreadful road and slowly moved forward.

  Gaylen looked out and then down; she felt sick to her stomach for a moment, nearly throwing up. The drop was as sheer as could be, maybe five hundred feet down. The driver paid no heed to the danger and actually began to ride swiftly along and around such a span, soon finding more level ground.

  A long cobblestoned road with stone-like barricades came next as they rode on. Later, darkness arrived. The moon was out almost full, and its light revealed in the distance, upon a high plateau, a massive, multi-level castle.

  Thank the Lord, she thought. Finally; I cannot take any more riding.

  She was sore in the rear and her back was aching as well. This had to be it.

  Dropped off before the great structure, she stood looking up at such before walking over its lowered drawbridge. The moat appeared murky in the moonlight. She kept on walking.

  Chapter 3

  The keep had the tallest of roof peaks and fortress-like toppings. It loomed like a massive shadow staring down to the courtyard below, thus urging its new guest to feel its might.

  Gaylen wasted no time coming right up before two gigantic, iron-bound doors, each with a monster-like demon-headed knocker and ring upon them.

  She was about to bang on one, when suddenly both doors swung open of their own accord and a tall, dark-haired, top hat wearing man with a beard of matching color, stood before her. He was intimidating with piecing brown eyes. His face was mature and handsome.

  He tipped his hat. “I bid you welcome.” He paused for a slight moment, studying the not expected attractive woman before him. “Pardon me; welcome, Miss Warden.”

  He was surprised, she thought.

  He then extended his hand and, when Gaylen touched it, she found it to be ice cold. She also noticed his teeth, those which were pearly, big, and bright white.

  Giving her a sly grin, he kissed her hand. “I have taken the liberty of having dinner prepared for you.”

  He pointed to an open archway and urged his new guest to walk with him into a dining hall where plentiful food waited on a long table, warm and ready. The man himself possessed a heavy accent, one she was not sure of its originating locale.

  Gaylen tried to smile as she found a chair to sit in, looking over at the count. He sat at the far end of the a table staring back at her. She gulped, hardly wanting to eat or drink at this moment.

  Her nerves were getting the best of her.

  What if this man attacked her; what if he was a killer? She breathed out unexpectedly loud, trying to keep her composure. The story of Vlad Tepes was not a kind one, and this man was part of that family. She found herself more timid than she might have thought she would be.

  It was too late now; she had to remain calm.

  The count looked at her without blinking for close to a minute. “You are brave to undertake this journey alone; I plan to make such worth your while, so you know.”

  Gaylen wanted to run. She fidgeted some, not sure what to say. She prodded a crack in one of her back teeth with her tongue; it was a nervous habit of hers whenever her thoughts were scrambled. She really needed to get that tooth fixed.

  The count sat there staring at her. He was a good-looking middle-aged man, yet rather spooky.

  He then stood; seeing her shakiness and sensing her uneasiness, he came over to her side. “I have already dined,” he made note of. “Please, do help yourself. I shall return in a while to see you to your private quarters.”

  Rothchild then touched a strand of her blonde hair, sliding such from her face.

  “I love your hair,” he made mention.

  He then swept his long and tailored black coat about and left the dining hall.

  The entire castle was gothic and old. In this room the lighting was illumined via various sconces along the wall, and a huge statue of a raven on a pedestal decorated one corner. Above were murals of Dragon Knights battling goblins from the far west. The furniture and decorations were relics, and masterful to say the least. A chandelier caught her attention. It was golden and beautifully put together with tips shaped in the form of angels.

  The food before her looked good - plates of corned beef, cabbage, onions and pears - but she could not eat. The feeling in her stomach would not allow such.

  Maybe fifteen minutes later, the count appeared again. He had changed from his black clothing into a long, flowing red robe. Its sleeves were oversized and its collar was a furry black in style, wrapping all the way around his neck area.

  He bowed, stating, “The young lady must be tired; you should take rest now. I will be away until later tomorrow and we shall speak then. Follow the stairway to your left all the way up to your room, be it the third door down on your left. I bid you a good night.”

  Backing away, he then disappeared into the far hallway shadows.

  Gaylen waited a few moments; she simply sat listening to her own breathing. A few minutes after, she made her way to the great hall, looking about his castle more. Everything was rare; the woodwork exquisite, the ceilings high.

  She then ascended the long, brown, lacquered stairway, noticing portraits of perhaps relatives from long ago as she stepped upward on each stair. She came to the higher second story hallway, and quickly walked to her guest room, shutting the door and locking it behind her.

  Daring not to remove her dress, or even unpack anything, she curled up on her draped in ivory silk curtains, four posts, canopied, and white-sheeted bed. She was hoping the time would pass quickly so a new day would be before her.

  Suddenly he appeared in the shadows almost as if he was transparent. He simply stood there, watching her.

  She jumped on the bed, and muttered, “I didn't realize you were still about. How did you get into my room?”

  The count grinned. “I will tell you that I am not anywhere near like my brother Dracula. He was what you call a chip off the old block, one like my father, and that is why my story is so very different.” He then brought both his hands together, rubbing such.

  Gaylen, trying to focus up from lying on the bed somewhat dozing, felt vulnerable with this tall, strange man looking down on her. The door had been locked and she could not fathom how he appeared inside her private quarters.

  He then oddly licked his lips, moving a little closer to her. “I will begin to tell you tomorrow evening everything, but now I will take my leave. I am sorry to have surprised you with my sudden appearance. I was confirming your welfare.”

  The very thought that this man could appear before her without a sound, chilled her. Yet she kept her composure. “Oh,” she sighed, “well, thank you.”

  He then left her to be alone.

  Luckily she was travel-weary enough to fall asleep even when she thought she would not sleep at all.

  When she woke, she had no idea what time it was. She rose and looked about in the upper hallway and quietly visited a few other areas where the doors were all locked; even inside her own room the window was barred, she noticed upon returning to her own quarters.

  She once more began to feel uneasy about this old castle - this trip in general - but kept thinking, I am Gaylen Van Warden, I am strong, and I am fearless.

  Her host seemed cordial, if not inviting, though much older. It felt so creepy here.

  She decided still in her green dress to go downstairs and, when entering the dining hall, noticed that again food was prepared, yet the count was nowhere to be seen.

  After a brief meal, perhaps lunch, or early dinner, she was not sure, the vegetables, chicken and rice made her feel more energetic. After she made her w
ay back to her room to dress and clean up for the rest of the late day and soon for an evening, she recalled Count Rothchild saying they would talk tonight in more detail.

  What was his family’s true story? Was this man any different than his brother or father?

  Gaylen was about to undress when she felt someone watching her. She went closer to what appeared to be a peep-hole. It was near a high table upon which sat a purple vase and red roses; behind such, a candelabra-like hanging was upon the wall and she investigated for a hole. It was nothing more than a nail; her apparent paranoia was getting the best of her.

  She proceeded to undress and freshen up. She chose a nice Victorian ensemble for today’s attire, one with a white shirt, light gray vest, red skirt and high black boots.

  Once bathed and dressed she went about downstairs, looking in the study for objects of interest.

  The count entered to find her reading a leather-bound tome.

  “Do you find it to your liking?” he asked.

  Gaylen nodded. “Yes, I’ve always had a fascination with wolves.”

  The count smiled. “Then it’s yours to keep.”

  “I can’t,” she replied. “It’s a precious edition, looks to be hundreds of years old.”

  The count laughed some. “Keep it as a welcoming gift. I, too, enjoy such a tale of the forest and red-cloaked girls and, of course, as you say, wolves in the night.” He then mentioned, “You have told me little about yourself. Tonight is not about me; it will be about you. You’re a writer, that I know, yet there has to be more to you, young lady.”

  Gaylen was hoping to discuss his background, not hers. She wanted to change the subject; however, he insisted.

  “Tell me, Gaylen Van Warden, what is it that you like to do?”

  This was a journey that definitely was not about her, yet she did not want to be antisocial and felt it necessary to tell her host at least a little about her own world.

  “Well, thank you for asking. My family has always been scribes. It has been handed down through the generations. I mean, give any of us paper, an inkwell and a quill, and you’ll have a story, poem, or court document ready in no time.”