Mountains do not recoil from storms' slams of sleet
and chill wind. But some whom you vist recoil
from your cold touch; nor welcome you, Вурдалак:
they clutch their three-barred crosses, and curse you---for
a damned, dreadful thing.
Author's Notes/Comments:
For the title of this entire sequence, I am indebted to the novella, Вурдалак, by Kactop Mapkc, translated by Нижний Новгород and Zeph Zuilderzee, with commentary by Taphless Gibler.
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I wanted to restore the Wurdelak to active opposition to the Orthodox Faith, as well as underscoring the isolation of a damnable existence as a metaphor of hell.
In the last line, the fullness of dread is as incumbant on the vampire as on its victims.
