The Journey Continues

The Hidden Will Of The Dragon

Excerpts from the sequel to Dandelions In The Garden

Chapters 1-3

Rose Hill Sanitarium

When she [nurse] was appropriately postured, I spoke.  I began to tell her my story.  Not the story I was writing for Count Drugeth about his grandmother, but my story.  I told her about my mother falling ill and how I went to serve as a lady in waiting to the Countess Bathory.  I spoke of my love for George and how it was not meant to be.  She was saddened by the news, but brightened when I introduced Draco Lorant to the conversation.  In a way, I shared Elizabeth’s story while I shared my own because it was impossible to tell one without telling the other.  I found it refreshing to talk and have someone listen.  At the time, I didn’t know if I’d ever leave Rose Hill, or if I’d fulfill my promise to Count Drugeth, but I was going to try.  I wasn’t ready to die, not yet.

Home Sweet Home

I waved her [maid] off.  I was already lost in my own thoughts and didn't want to be bothered with formalities.  Besides, there lingered my half finished book.  The truth was staring at me as the past spilled out line-by-line and permanently soaked in the parchment.  I could burn it, bury it or even hide it away, but I could never erase it.  I just wished the others had come to the same epiphany before their deaths.  Since I was the last, I was going to purge it all upon the page and give it to Count Drugeth.  He could do with it as he pleased.  Perhaps, set it a fire or drown it six feet under.  Even conceal it in a tomb, but whatever precaution taken it could never be destroyed.  I knew that now.  Why...why couldn't the past just be forgotten?  For the basic reason that it happened.  Whether we liked it or not, evidence of our lives was in every little crack.  Superstitions were embedded in the stone and crumpled in the dirt.  I could sense it.  It was the uneasy feeling I got when a strong wind blew, or the tingle I felt when my hair stood on end.  It's that little something that nags.

Uncovering Issacher

After the last trunk was secure, Nicholas led us to a giant crate that had ropes tied to all four corners.  He opened a hinged door on the side.  Reluctantly, I stepped in.  The deckhands hoisted the box making sure first to clear the railing of the ship before lowering it down toward the boats.  The box swung viciously as the deckhands tugged, maneuvering the box over the side of the ship.  I shut my eyes fearing the box would plunge into the canal, but not seeing added to my disorientation and only made me feel more nauseous.  I tightened my grip as we swayed like bait suspended above the water.  The motion from the ship churned the water into thick gravy making the clear blue look more like sewage.  It was utterly distasteful, and I could taste the wine and fruit I just consumed push up into my throat. 

A Peek Inside 'Dandelions In The Garden'

Dear Successor, A Prelude!

Those who fear the truth sew their eyes shut—closing one sense to use another, listening only to what they’re told.  It reminds me of the farmer driving his herd across green pastures as he leads them to the butcher.  Each year a new herd follows, each year they are slaughtered.  What happens if an indentured animal refuses—strays from the path?  Does he escape fate or is he punished with an immediate deathblow?  The corpse then tossed aside and left to decompose on a grassy knoll.  Either way the cow will die.   It is the manner and the usefulness of the animal’s death that will depend on the method taken.   

The following is the story of the path I chose.  However, a course is never a solitude journey.  Many people tread in mirrored footsteps.  Don’t be mistaken I have no intention of justifying certain choices made along the way.  My purpose is to fill in where history is vague.  Historical archives and court records give insight of what possibly occurred, and I use the word possibly purposely.  Although to scribe is divine, it is done by human hands.  As I meander through life I find myself questioning more than I accept, and for good reason—for I’ve witnessed corruption by those who have been entrusted to preserve an era so future generations may learn from our triumphs and mistakes. 

These servants of God and country take oaths to write the truth.  But…to up hold an oath can be a painful task most in my experience fail to do.  In this vein, I warn not to impose Christian beliefs as a method of determining right from wrong and good from the bad.  It will be of little use in understanding this tale.  The only role God plays in the following pages is through the hypocrisy of those who call themselves disciples and use belief in the Divine to inflict justice. 

What if there is a Hell?  I’m sure it exists, not in some mystical realm but right here on Earth.  But, if Hell is indeed a fiery pit lurking in the afterlife, then I most certainly will be reunited with my loved ones there.  Nevertheless, I do know in this Kingdom armed muscle keeps the herd in line; sickness murders in mass and the devout suffer the pain of stark disappointment.  Don’t let my absence of faith torment you.  I’ve made peace with those who matter and I intend to plead my case in the afterlife, if there is such a thing.  Most likely I’ll feed the worms from the bottom of a rotting, mold-covered box six feet under.  It’s a shame how easily a body decays into nothing after so many years of vitality.  Once the blood is drained, nothing is left to sustain the flesh.  I’ve been told the fluid pulsing through our veins holds the mystery to our fragile existence.  Without blood, humans are nothing but flaccid fleshy shells.  If you’ve ever seen a corpse then I’m sure you understand.  It’s shocking really, to see how hollow a human becomes just hours after death.  It reminds me of a snake shedding its skin, only a little more cumbersome to dispose of and less appealing.  This may sound crude, but when you’ve seen as much death as I – well, the mind finds ways to deal with the images.  It is little mystery that everything alive must die; it is Nature’s cycle of self-preservation.  Ah, but I’m not writing philosophy!  Forgive me for getting off course. 

Of all I’ve seen I’m convinced, each birth begins with a lie.  From the first draw of breath, deceit is exhaled.  Don’t attempt to argue, for I am too old and cannot be persuaded otherwise.  How can an innocent babe exhale deceit?  It is deceit; its presence in the world is a lie in tangible form.  Who we think we are, many times is not who we truly are at all.  I know this may be confusing, as if I’m speaking in riddles, but it all will become clear as the story unfolds.

How Vera (Cruz) Came to Be 

"It was a prison despite what the sign said and the nurse stations, more like guard blocks and the heavy doors with their automatic locks and echoing halls all suggested this was no place for healing, but a purgatory for those at a cross roads in their lives" (Spicy Jalapeno).