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KELSEY Timmerman
Travelin' Light
kelsey@travelin-light.com
Travelin' Light
kelsey@travelin-light.com
Castle Dracula
(Please click on cartoon to see it in high resolution)
My shaking hands are cold
and sweaty. They snake
through my backpack
searching desperately for the
leather pouch.
“Got it. Phew! Now what?”
and sweaty. They snake
through my backpack
searching desperately for the
leather pouch.
“Got it. Phew! Now what?”
My thoughts are filled with echoes of the
overactive imagination of my youth: BLOOD
THIRSTY VAMPIRES! SOUL SEEKING
GHOULS!
I’m eight again.
In one hand I hold a pencil; the other slowly
unzips my sleeping bag. CLOSER AND
FASTER. I throw the bag off of me and whirl
around to confront my fears. My eyes search
the dilapidated ramparts for bears, wolves,
vampires, and ghosts. Darkness stands still all
around. The noise has stopped.
Crawling back into my bag, I notice a certain
noise when my chest rises to meet the inside
of the sleeping bag. The hair rustles against the
nylon fabric and, to a paranoid eight-year old
spending the night in Castle Dracula, it sort of
sounds like a monster’s footstep. I laugh to
myself and loosen my grip on the emergency
vampire kit. I guess this eight-year old is going
to have to get used to having chest hair.
“No man knows till he has suffered from the
night how sweet and how dear to his heart and
eye the morning can be.” - Bram Stoker.
The mist clings to the mountainside, lingering
fingers of the cold night. I walk to the tower
and stare out into the valley, the mountains in
the east silhouetted by the first rays of light.
Everything is quiet. The Arges River, which
has carved this dramatic pass into the
mountains, trickles below inaudibly. It had
long ago been dammed and now remains a
shadow of its former self.
With the passing of time, rivers lessen, castles
crumble, history blends to legend, legends
become myth, and little boys become grown
men with hairy chests.
overactive imagination of my youth: BLOOD
THIRSTY VAMPIRES! SOUL SEEKING
GHOULS!
I’m eight again.
In one hand I hold a pencil; the other slowly
unzips my sleeping bag. CLOSER AND
FASTER. I throw the bag off of me and whirl
around to confront my fears. My eyes search
the dilapidated ramparts for bears, wolves,
vampires, and ghosts. Darkness stands still all
around. The noise has stopped.
Crawling back into my bag, I notice a certain
noise when my chest rises to meet the inside
of the sleeping bag. The hair rustles against the
nylon fabric and, to a paranoid eight-year old
spending the night in Castle Dracula, it sort of
sounds like a monster’s footstep. I laugh to
myself and loosen my grip on the emergency
vampire kit. I guess this eight-year old is going
to have to get used to having chest hair.
“No man knows till he has suffered from the
night how sweet and how dear to his heart and
eye the morning can be.” - Bram Stoker.
The mist clings to the mountainside, lingering
fingers of the cold night. I walk to the tower
and stare out into the valley, the mountains in
the east silhouetted by the first rays of light.
Everything is quiet. The Arges River, which
has carved this dramatic pass into the
mountains, trickles below inaudibly. It had
long ago been dammed and now remains a
shadow of its former self.
With the passing of time, rivers lessen, castles
crumble, history blends to legend, legends
become myth, and little boys become grown
men with hairy chests.
| I am ashamed of myself for unzipping the pouch as I seek security from the tools within; after all, I am a grown man. Counting eight lethally sharp ends, I sigh, “Stakes - check.” From the lid of the pouch I dump out two items: “Garlic - check. Cross – check.” When my brother gave it to me he had joked, “You can’t go without an emergency vampire kit!” Three weeks earlier standing in my parents’ kitchen, I had held up the tiny clove of garlic and the smallish cross for all to squint at. “I’ll be alright as long as the vampires have a very keen sense of smell and sight.” The warm, brightly lit kitchen filled with laughter. No one is laughing now. I am alone in the cold, dark silence of Castle Dracula, a half-day’s travel west of Bucharest, Romania. Haunted by boyhood nightmares, I have no vampire repellent Snoopy sheets to pull over my head, no fearless teddy bear by my side, and no parent to conduct the nightly vampire sweep. The castle is not part of any myth or legend. Vlad Tepes, nicknamed “The Impaler” and frequently referred to as Dracula, chose this position, on a razor-edge ridge above the Arges River for its strategic location. During the 15th century tyrant’s rule, the castle saw a bloody Turkish invasion and his wife jumping from a tower to her death. Bram Stoker’s Dracula would likely squirm in the presence of Vlad, whose favorite method of punishment was death by impalement - the practice of running large stakes through people. On occasion he dined amid the squirming impaled bodies of his enemies. Vlad’s brutality was Stoker’ s inspiration. |
Cartoon by Geoff Hassing
Invasions and earthquakes had badly damaged the
castle over the years. The Romanian government
rebuilt portions of the castle in the 1970’s. The
original walls can be seen in places, but the soft
clay bricks used in the reconstruction, now
scarred with graffiti, dominate the structure.
The low-lying crumbling walls of the castle fade
into the night. When I switch on my flashlight,
the world shrinks down upon me. I can see only
what is illuminated; the rest of the castle is in
dancing shadow.
From one of the remaining towers, I listen to the
night - a large void defined by a light breeze. I had
planned on staying awake until midnight, the
Witching Hour, but the cold forces me to seek the
warmth of my sleeping bag.
My mind is restless. Besides the imagined threat
of vampires and a 500-year-old ghost tyrant,
there is the all too real threat of the areas many
curious inhabitants - bears and wolves. I adjust
the sleeping bag so it covers my entire face and
think of warm oceans, colorful fish, and puppies.
I sleep.
Footsteps! There they are again getting CLOSER
and FASTER, surely a nocturnal hunter of
fantasy, history, or reality bounding down upon
me. As the rising and falling of my chest increases
so does the noise. I hold my breath and it stops.
castle over the years. The Romanian government
rebuilt portions of the castle in the 1970’s. The
original walls can be seen in places, but the soft
clay bricks used in the reconstruction, now
scarred with graffiti, dominate the structure.
The low-lying crumbling walls of the castle fade
into the night. When I switch on my flashlight,
the world shrinks down upon me. I can see only
what is illuminated; the rest of the castle is in
dancing shadow.
From one of the remaining towers, I listen to the
night - a large void defined by a light breeze. I had
planned on staying awake until midnight, the
Witching Hour, but the cold forces me to seek the
warmth of my sleeping bag.
My mind is restless. Besides the imagined threat
of vampires and a 500-year-old ghost tyrant,
there is the all too real threat of the areas many
curious inhabitants - bears and wolves. I adjust
the sleeping bag so it covers my entire face and
think of warm oceans, colorful fish, and puppies.
I sleep.
Footsteps! There they are again getting CLOSER
and FASTER, surely a nocturnal hunter of
fantasy, history, or reality bounding down upon
me. As the rising and falling of my chest increases
so does the noise. I hold my breath and it stops.