"The Three Dreams of Daciana Vadim"

Excerpt from a story by Jeff Owenby

"After Midnight he shall appear, and no thing shall resist nor restrain his power. Secure your ambitions, your cows, your children, for the dark lord is near."   -Andrei the Blacksmith

Upon his arrival, the young stranger felt completely at ease and welcome by the locals. Despite what he had been told about this particular region, he found the new land to be a vast slice of richness colored with artistic integrity and bound by legend. This new country was bold, handsomely etched upon a canvas of gothic beauty and country calm. Still, as a stranger, he was not quite unaccustomed to the local ways. He would therefore step lightly as not to offend, nor stand out as a lone nail on the fence.

Matthew Durham stood at the very edge of town admiring a string of trees that lined the road. The branches, nearly naked now from the late fall, nearly embraced each other. Together they formed a spine-like a canopy, shivering from the frigid winds of the approaching November. Matthew admired it all as he felt a crisp sting of cool air on his neck. On the ground below his feet lay a soft tapestry of withered leaves blazing orange and yellow. Dampened from recent rainfall, they served as a padding to his boots. This perspective was a welcoming gate from which he might rest an elbow of contemplation before making his entry.

The village of Dragomir rested no more than three rooftops above the foggy approach of the foothills. It was there that the very heart of the legend was born. Malevolence stirred, quietly, unspoken, yet understood by all. It had form and fire, and hid masked in the shapes of lizards and rats, and other repulsive things that slither and sting. The iniquity was old, yet young, and in this, the tenth month of the year, the evil walked among them. It was rumored that children and animals seemed to possess a pronounced sensitivity and were keenly alerted to its presence. Still, for the remainder of the village that toiled under hammer and plow, fatigue could not afford the luxury of such awareness.

  *   *   *  *

Daciana Vadim.

The third night delivered Daciana to a strange arousing. She felt she could have been outside of herself, or quite possibly her dreamself. Perhaps it was nothing more than a delusion in which she saw him as both lover and legend. There was wakefulness in her spirit and flesh. She prayed each night that it was only a dream. Yet, at the same time, she prayed for clarity and release from his hold. Who was he? Was he a portent of something in her not too distant future, or was he an incubus summoned to life by her miscreant dreams?

And it was in those dreams that he appeared-three nights now, saying nothing, not moving, not even breathing, yet possessing her entirely. Thoughts and feelings intruded upon her slumber as if in a flash of light. Bold visions of him appeared then disappeared again in one vaporous breath.

Daciana appeared as pale in the faint light of a cloud shrouded moon. A soft perspiration formed lightly on her brow. The dream was all so real. People had a certain smell, and his was of ash and musk, of things not quite dead, but not quite living. An echo of a distant heartbeat played like horses hooves on cobblestone. The beating heart was her own.

As she was led, dreamlike and weary, down staircases leading nowhere, she felt something undeniably intense. A chorale of voices warbled in ancient tongues, perhaps childish minions of a darker order. Things touched her, caressed her. Talons? No, softer, yet with such intent. Was it a kiss, or something more invasive than even a mere touch? Daciana would never know, at least not on this night. Nor would her dreams supply an answer to which she could anchor herself to reality.