up from somewhere underneath the snow. I watched in fascinated revulsion as the red began to pool, first slowly, and then quicker, and then suddenly it came gushing forth in a torrent, engulfing me in a sticky, warm red spray. I fell back in terror and amazement, but quickly scrambled to my feet. I watched in more horror as the red, which only moments ago had gushed forth to create a large pool, now receded, as if being drained off once again. I was frantic. I began to paw at the snow, digging through it to find him, to find any trace of him, to save the one I loved. But there was nothing. No red, no blood, no Hendrik. I looked around and through my awe and agony I noticed that even the snow itself was no longer disturbed, not where I had come crashing through, not where I had dug around in it, frantically searching for Hendrik. It was as if nothing had ever been there at all. It was as if Hendrik and I—and our love—had never existed.
Speckled with the blood of the man I so desperately loved, I sank to my knees in the snow. I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands and burrowing my entire body under the thick white powder. If Hendrik was gone, then so was I. I had no desire to be anywhere but with him. I sighed in reconciliation and took one last large breath. Then I settled in, slid my head under the snow, and waited for the snow vampire to come for me as well.
T HE village where I grew up no longer exists.
It died, buried beneath a mountain of snow some time during the waning days of the first war to end all wars.
But I did not die with it.
I waited all night for the snagov vrolok to return and take me. I waited calmly and prayed only that I may be reunited with Hendrik in some way soon. But it never came. By dawn I shivered numbly in the snow. I had lost all feeling in my feet and hands.
But still it would not come for me.
I knew that if I stayed there long enough, death would come. Whether from the cold, or starvation, or wolves, I would not be long for this world. But I got up. I made my way back down the mountain. I stole some food and whiskey. I made a fire and got drunk. I cried. And the next day, I took the coach out of Pilsden forever.
I made my way to Salgótarjan and signed up for the army. I spent the better part of the next four years fighting. I volunteered for many a reckless mission, as many as I could, and saw countless men die beside me. I did my job and even without Uncle Sandor’s help I earned a full commission and became an officer. But I did not die. Try as hard I could, I did not die.
I left Hungary after the war. Hendrik was dead. Pilsden was dead. The empire was dead. There was nothing left for me. And so I left, and I never returned.
And even now, some fifty years later, I wait for death to take me. But it does not come. As an old man, I wheeze; I had been gassed in the war, and my lungs are scarred and burnt. My eyes blur over, and I cannot see well at all. As for my heart… well, it has not worked well for a long time. And yet, I do not die. I cough, I sputter—each breath is a torture in my chest—and yet I do not die. My eyes have clouded over, my hands shake terribly, and my heart beats slow, so slow, and yet I simply do not die. And only now, only after all these years have passed, do I understand why. For you see, what was inside me that was good, and true, what was inside me that felt, or cared, or was human, what was inside me that loved, all died on that mountain that day, in those ruins, with Hendrik. That all died the moment I held his scarf in my hands.
And that is the true triumph of the snagov vrolok . That is its true evil. Not that I live, but that I do not live.
And, of course, that I do not die.
About the Author
M ICHAEL G. C ORNELIUS is the author of five books of fiction. His work has been nominated for an American Library Association Award and an Independent Press Award, and he was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Prize in 2002.
Speckled with the blood of the man I so desperately loved, I sank to my knees in the snow. I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands and burrowing my entire body under the thick white powder. If Hendrik was gone, then so was I. I had no desire to be anywhere but with him. I sighed in reconciliation and took one last large breath. Then I settled in, slid my head under the snow, and waited for the snow vampire to come for me as well.
T HE village where I grew up no longer exists.
It died, buried beneath a mountain of snow some time during the waning days of the first war to end all wars.
But I did not die with it.
I waited all night for the snagov vrolok to return and take me. I waited calmly and prayed only that I may be reunited with Hendrik in some way soon. But it never came. By dawn I shivered numbly in the snow. I had lost all feeling in my feet and hands.
But still it would not come for me.
I knew that if I stayed there long enough, death would come. Whether from the cold, or starvation, or wolves, I would not be long for this world. But I got up. I made my way back down the mountain. I stole some food and whiskey. I made a fire and got drunk. I cried. And the next day, I took the coach out of Pilsden forever.
I made my way to Salgótarjan and signed up for the army. I spent the better part of the next four years fighting. I volunteered for many a reckless mission, as many as I could, and saw countless men die beside me. I did my job and even without Uncle Sandor’s help I earned a full commission and became an officer. But I did not die. Try as hard I could, I did not die.
I left Hungary after the war. Hendrik was dead. Pilsden was dead. The empire was dead. There was nothing left for me. And so I left, and I never returned.
And even now, some fifty years later, I wait for death to take me. But it does not come. As an old man, I wheeze; I had been gassed in the war, and my lungs are scarred and burnt. My eyes blur over, and I cannot see well at all. As for my heart… well, it has not worked well for a long time. And yet, I do not die. I cough, I sputter—each breath is a torture in my chest—and yet I do not die. My eyes have clouded over, my hands shake terribly, and my heart beats slow, so slow, and yet I simply do not die. And only now, only after all these years have passed, do I understand why. For you see, what was inside me that was good, and true, what was inside me that felt, or cared, or was human, what was inside me that loved, all died on that mountain that day, in those ruins, with Hendrik. That all died the moment I held his scarf in my hands.
And that is the true triumph of the snagov vrolok . That is its true evil. Not that I live, but that I do not live.
And, of course, that I do not die.
About the Author
M ICHAEL G. C ORNELIUS is the author of five books of fiction. His work has been nominated for an American Library Association Award and an Independent Press Award, and he was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Prize in 2002.
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