Vampires at the Opera

His face. That face. The young boy huddled in the wagon, his monstrous features separating him from humanity for as long as he could remember. Though it was summer, he still wore a cloth mask covering his face. The material extended downward, falling against the tattered remains of his clothing. Keep it covered. Always covered. That had been drilled into him from a very young age. Now on the verge of puberty, the boy could not decide whether he could recall his parents or not. Sitting in the swaying gypsy wagon, he gazed upward toward the ceiling and tried to concentrate on their faces. A man and a woman, shadowy and indistinct, floated on the outskirts of his consciousness. Sometimes he thought he could see them. Other times, like now, he knew he could not.
The young boy sighed and gazed through the separated flaps of the tent-like wagon. He did know his name though. ‘Erik.’ A strange name for a strange face since the boy felt somewhere deep down in his being, that he was not from Paris, nor anywhere near France. But Erik had lived in this country for as much of his life as he could remember and so it had become his nation by adoption–though the people of his adopted country had been cruel. The boy suffered in the care of several orphanages during the course of his life, some darker than others, some dirtier than others, some more rank than others. All had been evil.
Because of his horrific features, Erik remained an outcast and the target for abuse and injury in orphanage after orphanage. The boy feared moving to the next place because it could be worse, the torture more painful. But, he had found that he was blessed or cursed with several gifts that forced those in charge to transfer him to another place. And so, a year or two after he had arrived, the young boy packed his bags again. He hoped those at the next place would torture him to death. Then, all the pain and suffering he endured in his young life would be over forever.
While Erik’s face was scarred and misshapen, his mind remained sharp, his intelligence one that most average men would envy. The boy had a photographic memory and could memorize facts, seemingly without end. He learned concepts quickly, new languages even faster. In one orphanage, he met several young children of different nationalities. Within the three years that he stayed there, Erik picked up no less than four languages. All his knowledge of these tongues was verbal. Erik had learned the basics of reading and writing here and there, but had no formal schooling. Therefore, the complexities of most written languages had confounded him and he had not picked up the richness of their expressiveness on the printed page.
Because of his disfigured face, others in charge of his care assumed that he might possess supernatural gifts. For example, Erik was often accused of being able to read minds or of collaborating with the Devil. Though the boy knew that this was far from true, he found that more and more he could look at a person and know what they were thinking. Small, subtle clues gave it away. A shift of the brow, a twitch in the corner of the mouth. Yes reading these humans, for he had ceased to think of himself as a human for quite some time now, was really not too difficult if one knew what to look for. Why, most of their thoughts were too easy, too transparent to hide from him.
And though the boy was an excellent ventriloquist, he was an even better singer. Erik thought that the adults in charge of his care feared his voice even more than his face. Soft, light and ethereal, it floated through the air. A natural. A perfect boy soprano.
Over and over again, people would ask the same question. How could this boy’s face be so flawed and yet his voice be that of an angel? Because of his voice, Erik lasted less than three weeks at an orphanage run by the Sisters of Charity of Paris. Allowed to attend Mass as long as he kept his face covered, Erik remained in the background, watching more than participating. Seeing the evil done to him and to those around him, Erik had become an atheist long ago, though he loved attending mass for the singing. And for the music, the beautiful, magical melodies that made his inner spirit soar and for a short time, just for a moment, allow him to feel like a normal human boy.
“You’re a demon…a demon disguised as a mere boy,” Sister Bernadette had hissed to the young disfigured boy after he sang “Ave Maria” at the previous Mass.
“Why?” Erik looked up at the frightened nun, his clothed face still somehow possessing a child’s innocence.
“Because, your voice…It—it made me feel things that are unholy—wrong.”
“I am sorry.” Erik tried to apologize to the young nun, shrinking from her gaze, expecting to be rewarded with a sharp slap. However, after hearing him sing, Sister Bernadette was too afraid of him to even bring herself to touch him. Three weeks later, the boy was transferred to yet another Parisian orphanage.
Perhaps it was Erik’s age but it seemed to him that the last orphanage was the dirtiest and most disgusting that he had ever known. The place was foul and the people—fouler. For once, the young boy was glad that they didn’t give him much to eat. He would rather feel hunger pains than suffer bouts of nausea. It took him some time, but Erik escaped one night into the Parisian streets. Life on the streets was difficult but the young boy was quick and therefore a good thief. He ate little, gained muscle and sifted through garbage bins for discarded paper to practice reading. No, life on the street was no harder than the hellish orphanages.
But then the gypsies found him and they had taken him with them. The gypsies convinced Erik that life with them would be better than life on the streets in the harsh winter. For a time, it had been. The boy enjoyed learning their language and discovering their use of the occult.
Being gypsies, they were nomadic and traveled—a lot. Since it was summer now, they made money traveling from town to town. Performing tricks, dancing and telling fortunes. And showing off attractions such as himself. He really didn’t have many places left to go and so was not chained or visibly restrained during his time with the gypsies. However, Erik’s face, when shown to the Romanian populace did command a hefty fee. The boy was not naive enough to think that they would not hunt him down if he escaped. But, he did not provoke them, doing what they asked, putting himself on display. For his efforts the gypsies treated him to decent food and a place to sleep. And no one beat him. Not a bad bargain, just a lonely one.
Erik leaned back in the wagon, hoping that the swaying of it would lull him to sleep. At least until they reached the next town. Then, there, he would be put on display again for all to see. Though Erik knew he was not technically free, life with the gypsies had been the best he had known so far.
“We shouldn’t stop here,” Erik heard the leader of the caravan, Stefan, call out to the others.
“Why not?” the voice of another older, impatient male gypsy asked Stefan.
“It’s too close to nightfall and we are too near to the Borgo Pass.”
“Ah,” said the second gypsy, now understanding something that went unspoken between the two men. “Yes, you are correct. Perhaps we should not camp here tonight.”
Erik could almost feel the touch of fear in the gypsy’s voice. What, or who were they afraid of?
“But the horses need rest,” the second gypsy complained. “We need to stop here tonight or we might find ourselves with lame horses.”
The caravan stopped when the elder gypsy men gathered, talking in low, hushed voices. Erik could not make out much, just that they were concerned about a perceived threat in the area. The young boy had lived through his share of Hell back in Paris. Nothing in France nor in this country served to frighten the boy any longer. Oh, certainly, he could die; though at this point in his life, Erik found the idea of his death a comforting rather than a frightening thought.
Erik felt the wagon jostle as the gypsies unloaded their goods. They were staying for the night. But what about the looming potential threat? Would it come tonight? Would it kill them all? And what would it do to him, to Erik? Would it kill him too?
Let it come, the young, deformed boy thought to himself, shivering in the fading light as if he had just issued an invitation to some unknown, nameless entity. Erik had been labeled a demon all his life. He was pleased, if not a tad eager, to possibly come face to face with a real one.
Magda, a wise, old woman and the fortune teller for the group, led Erik to his cage-like enclosure outside.
“I know how you enjoy sleeping out in the countryside.” Magda gazed at the child through deep set, appraising eyes, “Here, tonight, sleeping outdoors is unwise.”
“Why? What are you all afraid of?”
“It is just—oh, I don’t know if I should even speak of it.” Magda looked down at the ground. Then, as if more to herself than to the boy, she added, “but he usually chooses a woman to spend time with so I am almost certain you will be safe.”
“Safe from who?” Erik asked again, his voice stretched, nearing exasperation.
“Safe from the vrolok,” Magda answered him at last, giving the boy a pitying look, “safe from them—safe from him.”
“But that word, I think, means a vampire, a blood-sucking creature. Surely, you cannot believe in such fairytales.”
“No, young man, you are wrong. For you see, some fairytales are very much alive here in this country. Tell me that since joining us, you haven’t already seen strange things that you thought were only fairy tales?”
“I haven’t seen anything that could not be explained rationally,” Erik replied, standing straight up to his full height. “Well,” he continued, after a little thought, “I am still amazed how the townspeople pay good money to hear the idiotic fortunes you tell them. Now that is something amazing indeed.”
“Think what you will, but know that we—particularly the women, are under a constant threat. Dracula, for that is the monster’s name, preys on us and we are helpless to defend ourselves.”
“And there is nothing you can do? No way to stop the threat— kill him?”
“No,” Magda answered, though there was something in her voice that convinced Erik she did not really want the vampire dead. “There is nothing we can do. He—Dracula is too powerful for us to slay. However, there is something, something small that works.”
“And that is?”
Erik opened the door to the small cage after the gypsy woman unlocked it. He found a blanket laid out for his use in the cage and the adolescent found some pleasure in knowing he would soon be left alone to contemplate the night and a possible future with the gypsies.
“Crosses. Crosses repel the vampire.”
“Really? You mean to tell me that these—monsters are just as superstitious as all of you are?” The boy laughed and the coldness it contained chilled the gypsy woman to the depth of her bones.
“Well, they are from the Devil.” A hint of indignation colored Magda’s voice. “So it is not surprising that crosses will repel them. Here.” The gypsy woman took a silver cross out of her voluminous pocket. “Take this. It will keep you safe, at least for a time. Though you may have more in common with the monster than with us.”
Erik accepted the cross from the woman. “I’m certain you’re correct with that assumption, Magda, though I dislike the idea of being someone’s food. However, it will be interesting if I get a chance to see a being with whom society has the same distaste for, as with me.”
“Then, Erik, I bid you a good rest.”
Magda locked the door, the sound harsh in the dark, silent woods. The young boy settled down for the night, waking up several times. Once or twice he thought that he might have heard or felt something move—or fly—past his cage, but he saw nothing there. Each night, after the acts and tricks were over and the gypsies had made their money, Erik lay in the darkness, excited, anticipatory. But each night, nothing extraordinary took place. It would be three more days before he would meet the vrolok, the vampire known as Dracula.