Chapter 42

The Creation of Vampires

‘O

nce upon a time—’

‘Start it properly, Tătic,’ Claudiu begged, ‘Please.’

‘Very well.’

It was once, like never before, that if it hadn’t been, it wouldn’t be told anymore.

There was a man and his wife, and they had three daughters—Minte, Graţios, and Dornicie.

Minte, the eldest, was wise, with hair like the sunlight in the morning, and eyes the colour of a summer sky.

Graţios, the second, was winsome, with hair like the sunlight in autumn, and eyes the colour of the last leaves before the frost.

Dornicie, the youngest, was wistful, with hair like sun upon the snow, and eyes as bleak as winter.

All three daughters were dutiful to their mother, who was a cripple, and could not keep the house; yet God had blessed her still with three hale and dutiful daughters, so her pains were not so great.

The three girls were so dutiful, in fact, that they did not marry, for none wished to leave their mother’s house; and it came to pass that their father began to worry about what would happen in his old age, when he could no longer provide for them and his wife.

The years passed, and passed, and though he prayed and saved what he could, and though his daughters were not vain, still it was not enough.

One day in summer, after a hot day of work with not even a breeze to comfort him, the man met an old woman on the road.

‘How do you like the weather?’ said the old woman, and the man frowned.

‘It is not to me to judge God, but as I worked outside today, I wished often I could call down storms, just to cool the earth when it is so hot, and even the poor plants, who after all cannot go indoors, are withering in the sun.’

‘Ah yes?’ said the old woman, ‘I wonder what you think that gift is worth?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the man, ‘but if I had any gifts so valuable, I would bequeath them to my daughters.’ And he bid the old woman good day, and went home. When he told his wife and daughters of the old woman, Dornicie sighed.

‘Oh, Father, that I could tell the sun to shine in winter, when the world seems the worst, and the cold seeps into mother’s poor bones.’

‘If I could do that,’ said her father, ‘I would give it to you when I am gone, as it would be the only inheritance I could leave you.’

One day in autumn, after the harvest, the man was walking home and it was a crisp day, and he met a child on the road.

‘How do you like the weather, old father?’ the child asked.

‘It is not to me to judge God, but as I worked outside today, I wished often I could preserve such beautiful colours forever, that they might decorate my home and bring me joy.’

‘Ah yes?’ said the child. ‘I wonder what you think that would be worth?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the man, ‘but if I had any gifts so valuable, I would bequeath them to my daughters.’ And he bid the child good day, and went home. When he told his wife and daughters of the child, Graţios clapped her hands merrily.

‘Oh, but father, I would adore such a thing! It is often I find such beautiful things outside, and yet when I try to bring them in to see them, they wither away and die, taking their beauty with them.’

‘If I could do that,’ said her father, ‘I would give it to you when I am gone, as it would be the only inheritance I could leave you.’

One day in winter, when the cold had made everyone quarrelsome and unpleasant, the man met a beautiful woman on the road.

‘How do you like the weather?’ she asked.

‘It is not to me to judge God, but on days like this I wish I could have the wisdom to know how to soothe tempers without words.’

‘Ah yes?’ said the beautiful woman, ‘I wonder what you think that would be worth?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the man, ‘but if I had any gifts so valuable, I would bequeath them to my daughters.’ And he bid the woman good day and went home. When he told his wife and daughters of the beautiful woman, Minte said,

‘Oh, but father, I would adore such a thing, for I have often wished I could speak with the animals, and have them as my companions.’

‘If I could do that,’ said her father, ‘I would give it to you when I am gone, as it would be the only inheritance I could leave you.’

One day in spring, when the weather was kindly and the work had been full of songs, the man met a nobleman on the road.

‘How do you like this weather?’ said the nobleman.

‘It is not for me to judge God,’ said the man, ‘but that it is a wonderful day for children to play in, and for weddings, and I wish I could have such things for my daughters, who are so deserving of such joys.’

‘Surely,’ said the nobleman, ‘they have husbands?’

‘Alas, they have no husbands, for they have made themselves busy with caring for my wife and keeping the house. It is a fine house, none finer in all the land than theirs, and they care for us so well, and they deserve much more than even princesses are given, for I believe God gave me little angels when they were born.’

‘Surely they cannot be as good as all that?’ said the nobleman, sceptical. ‘If they were, I would marry them all three, so all of you could move into my house, and not have to be separated.’

‘Would you?’ asked the man, for he had heard from the bible that there had been long ago times and far away places where men took as many wives as they could keep. ‘You must be very rich, indeed, to be able to keep three wives at once, and their mother and father.’

‘Tell me more of these daughters.’

And so, as they walked along the road, the man told the nobleman of his three daughters, and went on as proud fathers are wont to do, for some time. Presently, the nobleman laughed merrily, stopping him.

‘Well, I believe you now!’ he said, ‘Surely I am rich enough for three wives and their mother and father, so much so that I will only ask a small dowry, for the daughters you have described are gift enough to me, but I would not wish to break with tradition.’

‘I have little enough,’ said the man, who could not believe his luck, ‘if I have it, and if you promise that my daughters shall prosper, and have something to inherit that is theirs alone forever and always, I will give it to you.’

‘Very well,’ said the nobleman. ‘I shall give them gifts that none may ever take from them, not even me. Let us go and meet them, and see what they think of their new husband.’

The man thanked God for bringing him the nobleman, and apologised to the nobleman, for he knew he had little enough to offer guests, let alone guests so fine as a future son-in-law of such means.

When they came to his home, the man’s wife and daughters loved the nobleman immediately, and after some surprise, all three daughters were very happy to marry him and not have to live away from one another.

By and by all was made ready for a very grand wedding celebration, and the bridegroom gave to his new father three fine golden rings, one for each sister.

One ring was set with a sapphire the deep blue of a violet, one with a ruby the colour of blood, and one with a fine opal with every colour of the rainbow inside it. The nobleman cautioned the man to tell his daughters, in his will, to choose carefully, as the rings would never leave the possession of the first person to put them on.

Now as happens, there came a time when Death came to take the old man at the end of his days; by then he had lived many more years with his daughters happily married.

‘Have you any regrets?’ Death asked, when she came for him.

‘Only that I will never meet any of my grandchildren,’ said the man, for his daughters still had none. ‘But I have had a good life for all that, and I would thank God for bringing me the husband of my daughters, who has been a dutiful son to me and my wife since we met so long ago on the road, and a dutiful husband to my daughters, who have grown fat and happy as his wives.’

‘Is that so?’ said Death. ‘What fine luck you have had.’

‘It is not for me to judge God,’ said the man, ‘but I have been pleased by all He has given me. Please, let me say farewell to my daughters, and give them their inheritance.’

‘I can spare that much time,’ Death said, and the man called forth his wife and daughters, to say farewell to them.

‘For my wife, I am sorry I cannot die after you, and spare you the loss,’ he said.

‘Ah but God could not have given me a better husband,’ said she, and kissed him.

‘For my daughters, I have a ring for each of you,’ he said. ‘But you must not put them on until you are sure which one shall be yours, for they will never come off.’

There was some sisterly bickering, but it had no bite, and soon the three sisters had decided which stones went best with each sister.

It was decided that Minte should have the sapphire ring, for violets had always been her favourite flower.

And it was decided that Graţios should have the ruby, for red had been her favourite colour since she had been a child.

And it was decided that Dornicie should have the opal, for rainbows had always cheered her more than any other thing in the world.

‘Please, please, let me see them, before I die,’ said the man, and so the daughters put the rings on, and showed him, and he was satisfied, and finally went away with Death to Heaven.

After the funeral was done and all the tears wept, the nobleman came to his wives one night, and told them the rings were magic, each containing a special power.

Minte was able to speak to animals and people alike without words, and to even speak to objects, and have them do her bidding.

Graţios was able to change the shapes of all things forever, and to preserve whatever beauty she wished.

Dornicie was able to call sun and rain both as she pleased.

‘But there is a price for magic,’ said the nobleman. ‘There is always a price. Your good mother and father asked often why I could not give you children, though I can give you everything else. That is the price for my great fortune and the magic I learned. So too, every time you use your new gifts, know they come with an equal price, though I do not know what it will be. Be wise.’

All three of his wives assured him they would be, and so they thought they would be; but even though they only used their gifts to help others, a price was a price all the same, and when Death came for them, she said,

‘Now it is time to pay for your great gifts. You have much debt, and shall now work for me, doing my bidding, for the rest of time.’

As Minte was the eldest, she died first, and Death said to her: ‘You shall still retain your powers, and will be a keeper of the crypts, and cause men to lose their way, and hold the doors closed to grave-robbers. What do you think of that?’

‘I think it is a noble thing,’ said Minte. ‘Thank you, Grandmother, I shall do as you command and happily.’

‘See that you do,’ said Death.

As Graţios was the second, she died next, and Death said to her: ‘You shall still retain your powers, and will be a keeper of the dead not buried properly, and will enact terrible vengeance upon those responsible. What do you think of that?’

‘I think it is a necessary thing,’ said Graţios. ‘Thank you, Grandmother, I shall do as you command and happily.’

‘See that you do,’ said Death.

As Dornicie was the youngest, she died last of all, and Death said to her: ‘You shall still retain your powers, and will be a keeper of the mournfulness, and will cause the weather to ease the pain of the grieving. What do you think of that?’

‘I think it is a beautiful thing,’ said Dornicie. ‘Thank you, Grandmother, I shall do as  you command and happily.’

‘See that you do,’ said Death, and then she gathered all the sisters together, and said to them: ‘If you ever see any soul disturbing a grave, or murdering another before their time, or again trying to swindle the grieving, you must fall upon them swiftly, for I cannot be where I am not meant to be.’

And as three hundred and more years passed, and the sisters were good and dutiful servants of Death, Death again gathered them together, and said to them.

‘Now you have paid for your gifts, and I shall give you each one wish to be shared with your sisters.’

‘I wish to walk among the living,’ said Minte, ‘so that I may speak to them again.’

‘Very well,’ said Death, ‘but you may not speak to them of what you are, and will never be a welcome guest.’

‘I wish to know what it is that the animals do and see and hear,’ said Graţios, ‘so that I may know for myself and not only through their thoughts.’

‘Very well,’ said Death, ‘but you will not be able to abide the noise or the light of day, only the gentle night.’

‘I wish to taste of food and drink again,’ said Dornicie, ‘so that I may appreciate it again, as I did not before.’

‘Very well,’ said Death, ‘but you will find no sustenance in it, only in the blood of the evil and wicked.’

And so it came to be that the sisters were the first vampires.

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