#Ordog
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Nem mindenki lehet olyan szerencsés, hogy egy bonyolult nővel lehet!
A nehéz nők, nem nyugszanak meg, olyan kegyetlenek tudnak lenni, mint az ördög és imádnivalók, mint a legszebb angyalok.Nehéz, mert okosak, nagyon okosak, irányíthatatlanok. Szemük szinte mindig szomorú, szinte mindig boldog, szinte mindig mindkettő. Egy ilyen nő mellett lenni, annyi mint eladni a lelked az ördögnek. Aztán visszanézel, és arra gondolsz, hogy talán nélküle jobb lett volna, nyugodtabb, derűsebb, talán igen, talán nem.. De vele érezni fogod az életet és utána nélküle megakarsz halni. Vannak akik elhagyják az ilyen nőket, de biztosithatlak, senki sem felejti el őket.. Mert rettenetesen szépek, bonyolultak és pótolhatatlanok. Azt mondanám, hogy limitált kiadásúak.
#gondolatok#idezetek#idézetekmindennapra#magyar tumblisok#magyar idézetek#magyar tumblr#magyar idezet#gondolataim#élet#elet#Ördög#Ordog#Pokol#Lucifer#Szerelem#Nő#erős nő#igazi nő
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❗️
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Lehetsz angyal vagy ördög,
Lehetsz barát vagy ellenség,
Lehetsz valaki szerelme vagy a szeretője,
Lehetsz sovány vagy kövér,
Lehetsz szép vagy csúnya,
Lehetsz kedves vagy bunkó,
Lehetsz vidám vagy komor,
Lehet hosszú vagy rövid hajad,
Lehet színes vagy fekete ruhád,
Lehet a bőrszíned is bármilyen egy a lényeg mindig légy önmagad... 🙏
#ordog#angyal#barat#ellenseg#szerelem#szereto#kover#sovany#csunya#szep#bőrszín#kedves#bunko#vidam#komor#magyar tumblisok#magyar#magyar tumblr#magyar lany#magyar gondolat#erzesek#gondolataim
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tho' my favorite part of today's dracula is
I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "Ordog"—Satan, "pokol"—hell, "stregoica"—witch...
I love the image of jonathan flipping back and forth through his dictionary trying to keep up with the crowd and the new words he hears
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Maybe if he knew about the Demeter he'd wish to be there to let them know that the crew isn't just disappearing out of thin air, and to unseal the coffins and grab every shovel avail.
Jonathan: *crab-climbing out of the sea* Entshuldigung, ich heisse -
Captain: kakogo khrena
Jonathan: Es tut mir leid, aber es gibt ein, wie sagt man... ordog? No that's not it dammit. Vrolok. Es gibt ein grosses vrolok ins schiff.
First Mate: Ți-am spus la naiba!!
Captain: ...English?
Jonathan: oh my god, yes, thank you, English! I represent Herr Leutner of Varna, I'm here to do an emergency dirt inspection on your cargo
Captain: We do inspection already. Pay baksheesh.
Captain: how you come to my ship? You take my men?
First Mate: vezi ce crede despre chotki-ul tău
Jonathan: nonono, I'm just a humble solicitor. But I really do need to see inside those boxes right now. *glanced at horizon* Before the sun goes down if you please
Captain and First Mate: *significant glance*
~later~
*sounds of box lid being pried open*
Dracula: *looking up at one very angry solicitor* Ah lads not again...
#dracula daily#I used google translate for the Romanian so if it sucks I apologize#I figure the Captain must speak some English if he's doing business in Whitby#log of the demeter
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Everyone: "Man, how does Van Helsing know so much about Dracula and vampires?? Must be a personal connection between him and the Count."
Me: *pulling my hair out trying to rewrite the September 30 meeting scene* "IF YOU ACTUALLY FUCKING READ HIS MONOLOGUE TWENTY TIMES OVER YOU WOULD KNOW HE KNEW NONE OF THIS INFORMATION PRIOR TO THE STORY."
Maybe not none. But. Let me just. Most of the shit he says is filler. "Let me tell you, it's gonna be fucking spooky" is what he says like fifty times over in twenty words or more each time.
"Alas! Had I known at the first what now I know—nay, had I even guess at him—one so precious life had been spared to many of us who did love her."
Van Helsing says that if he knew all the info he's about to dump on us about vampires, they could have saved Lucy. Meaning he didn't know jack shit. He most certainly didn't know who Dracula was.
"Even friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never! He throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his hand—witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help him from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he create—that noble ship's captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust—as again Jonathan saw those sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small—we ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the tomb door."
Then finally he starts saying things that he may have already known since he cites no specific examples: night vision, requiring invitation, no power in the daytime, the sunrise and sunset bit, etc.. He does cite an example of what "unhallowed ground" vampires can enter uninvited, but that's just to illustrate his point. But then he talks about his friend Arminius.
"I have asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to make his record; and, from all the means that are, he tell me of what he has been. He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of Turkey-land. If it be so, then was he no common man; for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the 'land beyond the forest.' That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are such words as 'stregoica'—witch, 'ordog,' and 'pokol'—Satan and hell; and in one manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as 'wampyr,' which we all understand too well."
Van Helsing is really just like me for real oh my god. He sounds like me after just having gone on a Wikipedia binge. He knew absolutely nothing about Dracula before, and he really wants to capitalize on all the new shit he just learned.
"We know from the inquiry of Jonathan that from the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which were delivered at Carfax; we also know that at least some of these boxes have been removed. It seems to me, that our first step should be to ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond that wall where we look to-day; or whether any more have been removed. If the latter, we must trace——"
*gunshots* Anyway.
More fucking fuel for the stop fucking painting him and Dracula as mortal enemies fire. He's literally just an old man who reads a lot, he's not a badass vampire hunter, Dracula didn't kill his gf or some shit, and he's probably never successfully dealt with a vampire before. Also, more ammo for my if you deny Jonathan's importance to the story one more time-- gun.
#picturing Jonathan trying to dissociate during Van Helsing's monologue and jumping each time VH says his name#Jonathan: yeayeayea we know we all know my trauma so intimately can we not#VH: of course. one more thing--#dracula#dracula daily#rant???#who knows#abraham van helsing#van helsing#also just??#VH: Dracula is super smart he's a tactician-- he's also a baby with a widdle baby brain bc only the mentally handicapped commit crimes#which one is it abe
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I decided to go back to the May 8 journal entry regarding the shaving mirror incident and re-read it in light of how Jonathan expressing annoyance at not being able to shave properly after Dracula went into beast mode right in front of him gets read by some people as a moment of extreme obliviousness on Jonathan's part, but this is literally the first paragraph of the update that immediately precedes his account of what happened:
I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had never come. It may be that this strange night-existence is telling on me; but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with, and he!—I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place. Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say at once how I stand—or seem to.
The epistolary format can be tricky to parse sometimes in terms of chronology, but the paragraph above, though appearing before the account in the text, would be Jonathan's thoughts after the incident had occurred and the lens through which he is later recording what had happened, so he is very much aware that Dracula's behaviour was fucked up and not normal at all, and that he is in danger - but what can he really do in his circumstances but focus on an immediate mundane, yet pragmatic concern where his daily routine, one that affords him a sense of normalcy even, is disrupted?
Also, while he hasn't identified Dracula as a vampire yet, which is understandable, he's perceptive and open-minded enough to consider the idea that Dracula is not a living being or even of this world; only three days ago on May 5, he had written down the following after listening to the locals:
I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "Ordog"—Satan, "pokol"—hell, "stregoica"—witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire.
So far from oblivious and dismissive, not only is he very aware that he's in a dangerous situation, but he already suspects there's something supernatural going on, even if he struggles to believe it - and honestly, who wouldn't? This is a major paradigm-shifting realization that would completely upend and destroy his understanding of the world as he has always known it.
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Jonathan on May 5:
so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were “Ordog”—Satan, “pokol”—hell, “stregoica”—witch, “vrolok” and “vlkoslak”—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions)
He says those words aren't cheering to him, he's more or less saying that all of this is a bit too spooky for him. But he's committed to learning as much as he can about the land and people as possible, and asking the local Count is better than his self-study at the British Museum. Jonathan doesn't believe in those superstitions and he very much doesn't wish they're true.
Mina on July 24:
At the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this;
Mina wants to ask the old Swales about the ghostly legends like Jonathan wanted to ask the Count about the superstitions. But the ways she's been describing those morbid stories show that she's enjoying the topic. She calls those haunted places "noble" and "romantic". Mr Swales incorrectly assumes she's asking that she's spooked (like Jonathan was) by the superstitions, but not only does she want to learn about those for her own pleasure, it seems she wishes those were true:
He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady at the abbey he said very brusquely
Ironically, Mina isn't a fan of being too sceptical about the dark old powers, while Jonathan had been living haunted and hunted by them for months.
And like those lost ghost ships at the sea Mina is musing about, his fate is unknown.
#once again thinking about their similarities and differences#dracula daily#mina murray#jonathan harker#dracula#re: dracula
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I’m as excited as everyone else that Quincey is the first person to be like “Man. This reminds me of vampires,” but he’s not the first one to say the word. That distinction goes to the townsfolk of Bistritz on May 5th:
I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "Ordog"—Satan, "pokol"—hell, "stregoica"—witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions)
I mean, its been 4 months and Jonathan was just like “huh. Weird. The superstitious townsfolk sure are acting up” and never connects that directly to Dracula. But we’ve seen vampire already.
#dracula daily#idk theres just so many posts about Quincey saying it first when we saw the word on like Day 3#also is townsfolk right? i dont know how big Bistritz was. maybe cityfolk? villagers? town feels most accurate
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I miss Jonathan Harker and who knows when he'll come back from the war so I've compiled a list of his funniest, most iconic lines
May 3rd- "I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem., get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl,""
"I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty."
May 5th- "so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "Ordog"—Satan, "pokol"—hell, "stregoica"—witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions)" Okay look I think the overlooked thing in this passage is that he had a polyglot dictionary to begin with and was just quietly flipping through it in the background.
Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor! This is in my opinion the best and funniest thing Jonathan has ever said not only the first sentence which is in itself perfection but the fact that when recounting this freaky fucking wolf infested carriage ride to Dracula's haunted castle he does a full stop to ponder his new promotion and Mina's opinions on it.
May 8th- It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.
It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this diary seems horribly like the beginning of the "Arabian Nights," for everything has to break off at cockcrow—or like the ghost of Hamlet's father. So true bestie, you really do forget how poetical and rambling he used to be before the trauma set in
May 12th- I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall. What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear —and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of... ->May 15th- Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion. -> June 29th- As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him
May 15th- Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere "modernity" cannot kill. Bestie you are literally a prisoner in Dracula's castle and you think you're gonna die here
May 16th- "Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say:—"My tablets! quick, my tablets 'Tis meet that I put it down," etc.," This is why he's my boy I too would immediately quote Hamlet in a major crisis
May 19- "I am surely in the toils."
June 24th- What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear? We would all like to know
June 25th- No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be." Not funny but I feel strongly about highlighting the resilience of Jonathan Harker at all times
#dracula daily#jonathan harker#literally he is the most fun to get stuck at dracula's trauma castle with
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Valaki egyszer azt mondta nekem: Légy óvatos! Az ördög is hallja az imádat. Nem mindig szarvakkal és vasvillával jön.. Néha abban rejtőzik, amit mindenáron akartál.
#gondolatok#idezetek#idézetekmindennapra#magyar tumblisok#magyar idézetek#magyar tumblr#magyar idezet#gondolataim#élet#elet#ordog#Ördög#jó isten#isten#vágy#vágyakozás#motivacio#motiváció#tanács#tanít
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“I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were ‘Ordog’-Satan,
‘pokol’-hell, ‘stregoica’-witch, ‘vrolok’ and
‘vlkoslak’-both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either werewolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions).”
yeah… ask the count about it, for sure…
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Cornwall, 2023
Az Ordog mindig a reszletekben van... :)
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Fascinating backstory for the idea of the “Scholomance” in today’s Dracula Daily:
They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are such words as 'stregoica'—witch, 'ordog,' and 'pokol'—Satan and hell; and in one manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as 'wampyr,' which we all understand too well. There have been from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good; in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest.
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May 5 - Dracula 2023
The morning’s mist has faded, and despite the sun being high in the sky, I can’t tell whether the jagged spires on the horizon are built of mountain peaks or trees. It’s so distant that it just melds into a distant faded blue. I won’t be called upon until I wake, so I will write until I’m finally sleepy. It’s been a very strange day, and it wasn’t like the other day where I can point to paprika as the culprit of any strange imaginings. The evening before I left, I had frigărui, Romanian-style kebabs with beef, bacon, onion, and capsicum, so it wasn’t anything too rich or spicy.
When I went to meet the bus, the driver was outside, speaking to some of the hotel staff. They kept glancing toward me, so I can only assume that they were talking about me. The others waiting for it got into the talk, as well. It was mostly the older members of the group – the few young people didn’t seem to have much interest in the conversation. If I’m not mistaken, I spotted a few eye rolls.
I didn’t catch everything that was said, but a quick translate search turned up some less than comforting responses. Among other words were “ordog” and “pokol” – “devil” and “hell” in Hungarian, and “vlkoslak” – “werewolf” in Serbian, Slovak, and Slovenian. Their manner was one of utmost seriousness, which is troubling to say the least. The young people didn’t seem to believe it from their mannerisms, but it did make me wonder if something is happening out here to make the elders think in terms of werewolves so apparently sincerely. I will have to ask the Count about the situation.
As I got onto the bus the group, that had swelled more than expected, crossed themselves and pointed two fingers for me. I asked what they were doing, and after a bit of prodding and finding out I was English and totally unfamiliar with the gesture, and it was explained that it was a guard against the evil eye. I think they were trying to guard me from it, since their expressions ranged from fear to genuine sympathy and sorrow. Given I was going to be going to an unknown place to meet an unknown man, it drained my confidence about the trip even further. I couldn’t help but be touched by their concern, though. I will never forget the last sight I had of them, sitting in the bus and looking out at the group, set against a backdrop of the oleander and orange trees near the hotel’s entrance.
The dark implications were quickly wiped from my mind as we took off, though. I still noticed a few glances my way, and if I had known the languages those around me spoke quietly in, I likely wouldn’t have been able to shake off the mood so easily if I could have understood what I was hearing. We were heading into the foothills, and it was emerald green and covered in forests and fields. Some of the hills were topped with little farmhouses or clusters of trees, and there were so many fruit blossoms I couldn’t identify all of them as we passed. The grass under the trees looked like it was covered in little snow drifts of petals that ranged from pure white to nearly electric pink.
The road was winding and seemed to disappear around every hill and dip in and out of the pine forests that ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame. After the wildfires that seem to have become more and more common as the years have gone on, I can only hope they won’t eventually become literal tongues of flame.
Photo by Andrei Calin from Pixabay (https://pixabay.com/photos/mountain-sunset-tihuta-nature-2791233/)
The road was rough, but that didn’t seem to slow down the driver, who took us along the winding curves with all haste to get to Prundu Bârgăului. There were even a few curves that made me nervous with the height of the bus and the forces as we went around, as well as the road that hadn’t been fixed up since this year’s snow. I’ve been told this road is normally excellent. There was a time in history, I read, where they wouldn’t keep the roads through the Carpathians in order, as a peacekeeping method. Fixing up the road might make the very nearby at the time Ottoman Empire think that they were preparing an offensive. I suppose, with the tradition in place, that really would have been the reason.
Just outside of the little towns and isolated farms, as you look up, forests begin to fill the land as they climb up toward the peaks of the mountains. The afternoon sun lit them up in all their colors – green and brown on the hillsides, blue and purple where the crags hid the mountain faces from the sun. the snowy peaks rose further above that in the distance, almost looking like especially stark clouds from the way the mountains faded into a paler blue in the distance. Every once in a while the sun lit on the reflection of running water where a stream of melted snow cut through the rock with the arrival of spring.
Photo by Vitaliy UA from Unsplash (https://unsplash.com/photos/zhtvE8s2Hxo)
One of the other passengers got my attention and pointed to an unusual flat formation that rose high among the mountains. “Look! Isten széke!” He said. Connection was well lost by then, so I’m not sure what it meant, but he crossed himself when he said it, so there must be some connection to religion.
Photo by Kántor Lajos in Wikimedia Commons (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Isten_sz%C3%A9ke.jpg)
We had headed out quite late, and as the hour wore on, it seemed like twilight came early. The sun dipped below the peaks, its rays lighting up the snow that still capped the mountains in a delicate pink, link the fruit blossoms before. In the low light, I could see sights that were new to me – hay bales lifted into trees, and copses of weeping birch, their silvery bark seeming to shin in the low light between the leaves that hung about them, bright green in their newness. There were a few small religious shrines on the side of the road, which seemed almost always occupied with a person. The people at each one didn’t even look up when vehicles passed, seeming lost in their devotion. I mentioned to another passenger how I wish I had the opportunity between my work to take a walk through the hills, and the man turned to me and gave the least smile-like smile I had seen on a person, an upturn of the lips that didn’t meet the eyes paired with a voice that bore grim finality. “No… you must not walk here. The dogs are too fierce… and you may have enough of such matters before you sleep.
He glanced at those nearby and received similarly humorless chuckles in turn.
As the sun dipped further, the driver accelerated, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the speed we were going was legal on roads like these. The bus lurched stressfully around curves, and the older riders seemed to lack any concern for it, glancing out the window and urging the driver faster, it seemed like, if anything. I gripped the seat ahead of me, my teeth clenched as I gave a silent prayer that the bus didn’t overbalance entirely around the next tight curve. As we went, despite the lack of stability, some of the passengers offered me a variety of strange gifts… or rather, they gave them to me, since the offer seemed to include no room for argument. Always with a ward against the evil eye, like at the hotel before.
The clouds had gathered thick and fast as we traveled, which may be why it seemed that night came so quickly – it was like midnight not long after dusk, and only the headlights of the bus lit the darkness. Many of the riders seemed to peer out intently into the darkness as if expecting something, but I couldn’t see much of anything in the deep shadow.
Finally, the headlights lit upon a pale track and the bus rolled to a stop, but the driver didn’t turn off the engine. The driver muttered something in Romanian and checked his phone and the clock on the front console of the bus. He turned toward me, as I was sitting at the very front, just to his side. “It seems that your vehicle isn’t here. It is fine, I will be happy to take you on to Bucovina-”
His statement was interrupted by the appearance of a calèche – an actual honest-to-goodness horse-drawn carriage like you might see carrying tourists around London, but with four horses instead of one, a lantern hanging from a hook on it. The passengers gasped, some crossed themselves, and some seemed as confused as I was. The bus driver sucked in a breath through his teeth that I could hear from my seat and tensed as though bracing himself for the unmoving bus to ram into the thing. The horses, where they waited in the headlights, were deep black and elegant creatures, and would have blended into the darkness if not for the bus. The carriage was driven by a man with a long brown beard and a wide-brimmed black hat that concealed his face. I only got a brief glance at his eyes, bright and the sort of unusual shade of brown that looks red in the right light.
He rapped on the door of the bus and the driver opened it, moving down the short stairs with trepidation. I could hear their conversation, as close as I was to the door, and see them as they stood in the night.
The tall man who drove the coach spoke first. “You’re early tonight, my friend.”
“Th-the Englishman was i-in a hurry,” the driver replied, body even more stiff than when he braced on the bus, now looking like a rabbit ready to bolt at the sound of a wolf.
“That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bucovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift.” He grinned, or bared teeth, at least. And what teeth. Deeply white enough to gleam even in the darkness, the light reflection almost making them look sharp, set in a mouth with deep red lips.
Across from me, I heard an older man murmur a line from Burger’s “Lenore”:
“-denn die Todten reiten schnell.”
“For the dead travel fast.”
The carriage driver seemed to overhear him, because he looked up, straight at the passenger, and smiled. The man shrank back in his seat and went silent. He turned back to his conversation with the bus driver, instructing him to give him my luggage.
As the bus driver opened the underbelly of the bus and took out my bags, I disembarked from the vehicle and stepped up the to carriage, which had gotten surprisingly close to the bus. It was a little awkward, since I had only ever seen one of these, and never ridden in one. The driver reached down with a grip like a tempered steel band.
The bus shifted into gear nearby once I was settled and returned to its route through the night. I could briefly see the faces of some of the passengers backlit in the windows as they rode away before the interior lights turned off. A few of them did the sign warding against the evil eye one last time before it disappeared into the night. When it did, a lonely feeling came over me, intensified by the fact that I couldn’t help but be struck by the enormous kindness of the people here.
A chill came over me with their disappearance, but the driver draped a cloak over my shoulder on top of my coat and a warm blanket over my lap. “The night is chill, sir, and my master the Count bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz underneath the seat, if you should require it.” Slivovitz is a plum brandy of the country, and while I had hoped to try it at some point during my trip, it seemed wise to keep as much heat internal rather than external as I could. Besides, with the tension and such a strange situation, a clear head seemed the wiser course. Fear held onto me, and I wondered what would have happened if I really had simply continued on the bus to Bucovina… But who knows what would have happened then.
The driver went hard on the horses and we rode relatively rapidly along the dirt track that headed out into the hills. It went a long way in one way, then we turned along another long track and continued. There’s an old joke that two wrongs don’t make a right, but three lefts do. I made note of a landmark, a vividly red peony, standing out to me and reminding me of the coachman’s eyes as it caught the light. In a while, we did indeed come by it again, confirming my suspicions. We were going in circles.
We must have been doing it for hours, as it was close to midnight when I finally risked running down the battery to check my phone for the time. I tucked it away and looked around, waiting in the rattling, bouncing conveyance with trepidation. Perhaps the days events were clinging to my mind.
Soon, a dog in the distance sent up a howl. Then another joined it. One by one, more howls joined until the land itself seemed to be raising a wail to the heavens. The horses began to strain and rear in a panic but the driver seemed to be able to quiet them down. I couldn’t help but notice their trembling, though. Then another howl picked up, sharper and different somehow. Is this what wolves sounded like? I had never heard a wolf howl before, and it seemed a wholly different thing from a mere dog’s howl. It awakened a primordial fear ion me, and I felt as ready as the horses to bolt. They seemed to panic, and the driver did everything he could to keep them from bolting. Keeping them under control was a feat of effort that needed the kind of strength I’d felt in his hand.
He managed it, and then got down to pet and soothe them once they were relatively still. Once they were still, we took off again once more, this time taking a much smaller track sharply to the right off the dirt road – or series of roads – we had traversed until now. We had to be heading up into the mountains, because those forests I had seen in the distance were now hemming in all around us, creating a tunnel of wood and occasionally great rocks on either side of the coach. The wind grew as it does up a mountain, and a fine snow soon began to fall, making me pull the cloak tighter around me. Whether it was from fear or cold more I’m not sure, because the sound of the wolves now grew louder while the howling of the dogs faded away behind us.
Suddenly, I saw a blue flame off to the left, and the driver suddenly stopped us and hopped out onto the road, disappearing into the darkness almost immediately. I heard the wolves coming closer and wondered for a moment what he was thinking just leaving the horses and myself behind, but he soon reappeared and we were off again. I wonder if I fell asleep at that point, because it seemed like it happened many more times, over and over, as if in a loop.
One time he stopped at one close enough that I could see what was going on somewhat by the lamplight. He built a small caern at the location where the flame appeared and… I think they must be some sort of optical illusion, because at one time he was standing before the flame and I could see it through him. I suspect the night had gone on too long and frayed my nerves too thin at that point.
Of course, that is not to say they could not be shaken further. At one point, he went much farther away, and the horses became much more alarmed than before. They reared and screamed, and I didn’t know why until the moon emerged from behind a tall, jagged rock, illuminating the surroundings. The wolves, which had gone silent when I was paying more attention to the coachman’s strange activities, now surrounded us. They were graceful, moving silently in the night, all the more frightening for their silence.
As the moon lit on their fur, it almost seemed to have an effect on them – they let out a long howl. It was a beautiful, mournful sound that froze my heart to ice in terror. We were surrounded – the horses clearly wanted to bolt but could not. Their rearing and rattling of the calèche broke me out of my frozen state, at least, and I shouted into the woods for the coachman, and beat on the side of the vehicle to perhaps scare the wolves into backing away a little to give them a way in.
It seemed my efforts were unneeded, however. He appeared down the road and spoke to the wolves in an imperious tone, making a sweeping gesture before him. The wolves seemed to be cowed and backed away farther and farther. The wind obscured the moon behind heavy cloud cover again, and I was left in blackness again. The driver soon climbed into the calèche again and the horses were driven forward again without incident, the wolves apparently gone.
We went up and up, only dipping briefly in deference to the natural shape of mountains, interminably to the point where I lost track of time. It seemed to me like it should have been dawn long before, but stress and the strange choice of conveyance had clearly made the trip seem much longer than it was. I was starting to understand why it was a calèche. I doubt many motorized vehicles could have gone the way we were.
Eventually, I came out of the fog of endless rattling, rising terrain, and into the realization that the coachman was pulling us into the courtyard of an ancient, ruined castle. We were above the clouds now, it seemed, but even with the shine of the moon, the castle was dark. No light shined from its windows, and its crumbling towers stretched into the sky, as spire to match the grand and terrifying peaks that surrounded it.
I suspect what I thought was mere mental fog must have been sleep from physical and mental exhaustion, because otherwise I certainly would have seen a place like this approach. Or perhaps I did, and I simply mistook it from one of the grand formations of rock around us, a monument to the forces of the earth. Even the courtyard seemed large, with many exits that went under round archways. It was difficult to tell the size in the darkness.
The coachman helped me down – and once again, I noticed the unyielding strength of his hand that could have crushed mine whenever he wishes – and took my bags down. Once again, he alighted on the calèche and drove it away, leaving me before the door to the castle.
The door itself was massive and of ancient wood, with iron nails driven into it. A massive stone frame ensconced it that looked like it had once been elaborately carved, but time and the cutting wind of the mountains had worn it down. The whole thing was built on a scale that suggested something much larger than a mere human, an entrance for some titan.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do – there was no bell or knocker, my voice wouldn’t likely penetrate the thick stone walls, and I doubted I could move the heavy wood and iron door myself. I was left only with the cold, the silence except for the wind, and my own thoughts.
What had I gotten myself into, and with whom? Was this some right of passage for a solicitor’s clerk – strange ordeals to see strange clients for what should be a mundane legal matter?
Clerk… No, I was a full solicitor now. Mina wouldn’t want me to sell myself short. And Mina… what I wouldn’t have given at that moment to be able to call and hear her voice. But this adventure had left me truly alone up here – more alone than I realized I had ever been. I’ve been surrounded by connections my entire life, held them in my hand. And now… nothing. Just me, the mountains, and a dark castle, as though the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist.
I thought for a moment I was having a terrible nightmare, but a pinch didn’t lead me to wake up at home. All I could do was wait.
Just as the thought came upon me, I picked up the sound of movement. Heavy footsteps – and light! That had come to feel like a precious resources tonight. The clanking of heavy chains and the scrape of stubborn iron bolts sounded behind the heavy door. Something creaked and then there was a sharp clack as an old lock finally gave. The ancient timber groaned as it moved in what sounded like the first time in ages.
Revealed as the door swung back was a tall man, old, his long, white mustache his only facial hair. He was dressed from head to toe in black. There was not a single spot of color on his entire outfit. He was wholly monochrome, the ancient silver lantern in his hand the only hint at anything about him not wholly black or white. When he spoke it was in English, in an odd tone.
“Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!” He stood entirely still after he spoke, as if he had turned to stone. It was eerie, much like the odd specificity of his statement. It wasn’t easing my mind further, to be sure.
Once I stepped over the threshold, he became more animate, reaching out to take my hand once I had put down my bags. The stone analogy only seemed more apropos when he did – his hand was enormously strong and very cold. He seemed like a man made of marble. When I type that out here, I can’t shake off the memory of a story in a horror anthology about a lily being turned to marble.
“Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!” he said again, and his handshake brought to mind the coachman and the strength in his hands. I had to confirm, and asked, “Count Dracula?”
He nodded. “I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in; the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest,” he said as he put his lamp in a bracket on the wall and picked up my luggage. I didn’t have time to stop him, but he clearly noticed what I meant by stepping forward and holding my hand out. His words brushed off my aborted effort, though. “Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available. Let me see to your comfort myself.”
I wanted to protest further, but it seemed rude past that insistence. I followed along behind him through a passage, then up a winding staircase upward, and down a long passage again. Our footsteps echoed on the stone all around wherever we went with nothing to soften the sound of our passing. He pushed open a heavy door, and behind it was what felt like the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.
A warm, well-lit room, with dinner set out and cheerily burning logs within the fireplace. After everything else that has gone on tonight, I could have cried to see it.
He inclined his head courteously to me. “You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by changing. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared.”
I was so relieved by everything here that my fears were dispelled for the moment, and I changed quickly and went to the room he’d indicated. When I arrived, dinner was already laid out, and the Count stood to one side of the fireplace. He gestured to the tabled. “Please, have a seat and dine as you please. I have already eaten, so you will forgive me if I do not join you.”
I didn’t sit down just yet – instead, I brought out the letter Mr. Hawkins had entrusted me to deliver. The count read it solemnly, then smiled and handed it back for me to read as well. Looking it over curiously, I was pleased to see one passage in particular.
“I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any traveling on my part for some time to come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters.”
Once that was read, the Count took off the lid of my supper, with turned out to be of exquisite quality. A whole roast chicken, cheese, a salad, and a bottle of sweet Tokaji wine. I had two glasses, which went very well with the rest of the food and admittedly did some to calm my feelings further after this evening’s harrowing journey. He asked me many questions about my journey, and I shared all I could with him; though after the veiled threat of his coachman to the bus driver, I may have left out some of the actions of the people I’d encountered that might cause them trouble.
Now that I had a chance to look at him, he was very unique in his features. A strong jaw and a thing, aquiline nose, with thicker hair than I might expect from someone of his apparent age. His ears and teeth almost looked pointed, and he had quite thin lips, though very red, which reminded me again of the coachman. His cheeks were very thing, and between that and his very cold hands, I had to wonder if he had been ill in some way.
His nails were cut to a point, and when he reached over and touch my hand, the mood of the evening before made me shiver, thinking of the damage sharp nails and strong hands could do. He apparently noticed and drew back with a grim sort of smile, settling into silence for a while.
Eventually, the sound of wolves echoed up through the window from the valley below, and I glanced at the window, the image of them surrounding the coach rising vividly to mind. He seemed to notice the change in the direction of my gaze. His eyes lit up, and he said, “Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!”
I swallowed, not sure what to say. It was beautiful, genuinely, but haunting… and I had certainly had enough of that feeling for the night. He picked up on my mood – if nothing else, he is certainly observant. “Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.” He rose. “But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon; so sleep well and dream well!”
With that, he left for an octagonal room, and I went into my bedroom and set up something I got before I went, when Mr. Hawkins warned me that there likely wouldn’t been much in the way of electricity up here – a small solar generator, and some panels I can set up on the window sill, or hang from the window, perhaps. It will let me continue to charge my laptop, at least, so I can keep writing this and do the electronic portion of my work for the Count.
This day has been all too strange, and going over it again in my mind, I can’t help the fear from before that rises back again on the reminder of it all. I wonder, and my thoughts are strange – things I dare not admit to my own soul.
I hope I can keep it together, if only for the sake of those dear to me.
(A/N: Oh my god, that was a lot… especially for how little really changed between this and the book. Dracula is a bit stuck in the past… and with the location of the castle, it would be a gigantic pain to get gas up there, so he still uses the caleche. I rather enjoy how bizarre it is to a modern mind.
I think it’s appropriate for Jon’s connection to the outside world and ability to sort out his thoughts (and keep his sanity) is now powered by the sun.
I did my best to put all this in my own words. The only thing super unchanged are Dracula's lines and some descriptions that were too vital to the ambiance not to use. Because Dracula's an unaging undead creature and you gotta have vibes.)
#dracula daily#dracula 2023#modern#retelling#fanfic#just for fun#jonathan harker#poor boy has problems#he just doesn't want to disappoint Mr. Hawkins#the man practically raised him#he'd probably trust your judgment bro
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I’m a day behind on Dracula Daily, but I must correct our dare Jonathan: it’s not ordog, but ördög, and it means devil, not satan. Semantics.
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