Maria Dracula: A Fantasy Novel for Children [Anglais] [Broché]

A Salem witch apprentice discovers that she is the daughter of Dracula – Maria Dracula.

After her mother’s death, a message scribbled in black calligraphy on a mysterious papyrus invites Marigold—Mary, for short—a ten–year–old witch apprentice from Salem, Massachusetts, to a fantastic country—Rondelia.
Mary’s adventures take her to Bookrest’s Theater of Vaudeville, to the underground city of vampire kids, and to Dracula’s mysterious Castle Bran in Transylvania. She travels to the gypsy spell–casters’ Enchanted Forest, back in time to the City of Whispers to find the secret of the Golem, and to the Sapphire Sea and the island of pirates.
But a big surprise awaits Mary at the end of her fantastic adventures, when she finds out that she is more than a Salem witch. She is none other than the long-sought great-granddaughter of Dracula—Maria Dracula.

Maria Dracula is truly an imaginative story. It has - just about - every magical exercise devised. Well-written, the narrative speeds along from one conflict to another. Somewhat gruesome in spots, a young student who hunkers down with the book will find action galore and a satisfying ending - with clues to a sequel. A bit over-the-top, but certainly a readable story. Each chapter is fronted by a lovely ink-sketched illustration.
Nancy Ferrell
(1992 judge for the Golden Kite Award, reviewing more than 700 juvenile books; 1984 reviewer of children's books for the School Library Journal; reviewer for the Society of Children’s Books Writers & Illustrators)

In her writing, Denise blends Eastern European surrealist and North-American realist traditions. She is the author of a non-fiction book about popular culture and society in Romania, Fragmented Identities (Lexington Books/Rowman & Littlefield, 2003). Denise is a member of the Authors Guild of America.

Cover art and illustrations by Angela Ursillo, whose work can be seen in such films as Lord of the Rings and King Kong, as well as several children’s books.

1. Marigold, the Last Herbs Witch of Salem

It all started ten days ago. Mother began to vanish, disintegrating into bits of green particles I couldn’t find later, either in her bed or in her bedroom. Her hair, her hands, her mouth disappeared. Last to go were her eyes. Her bed was left empty under her moss-green quilt, and only the pillow kept her head’s shape – and, for a few seconds, her warmth.
When Dr. Chamomile Connor, Salem’s physician, entered Mother’s bedroom at five o’clock this morning and saw that she had vanished entirely, he declared her dead.
"That’s how witches die, little girl," Mayor Raccoon Rickety said in his infinite wisdom, as I dropped lilies of the valley on her empty witch coffin at noon. "They become light as the wind, then they become the wind itself."
After that I had no more teardrops left. Crying hurts my eyes.
And now I’ve become an orphan – the only orphan to live alone in an old cottage with an attic full of pointed hats, herb recipes, and catalogues with paintings of witches and fairies, the only orphan to become the last herbs witch of Salem.

The summer is torrid like an orange drop of lava, the Twisted-Wand District quiet like vanishing mist. The August night is red-hot and the herb recipes waft lavender and coriander through the dim attic and down the snail-shaped staircase, spreading memories and magic in my home.
Uncut silence flows down from the sky, brushing my ears, slipping through my fingers like a silk sash, covering the satin of the black knee-long dress Mother made for me last year.
Two green teardrops head toward my dimpled chin, washing my freckles, gathering around my mouth like beads on a necklace. I taste them: they’re watery-sweet as usual. As were Mother’s tears when she told me that if she died she’d rise to the sky, from whence she’d watch over me disguised as a star.
Alone in my night-filled attic, I loll around until I find a scarlet wooden box hidden behind a pile of black pointed witch hats. I take it to the window and climb on it, eager to glimpse the faraway stars, wondering if they’re attached to the sky like brooches to a velvet gown. I lean and stretch to follow a falling star but lose balance. The box jerks and slips from under my feet, and I find myself on the spider-web-covered floor. I look at my black torn dress, which I’ve worn today for Mother’s funeral. I realize how much I hate it now because it reminds me of Mother and I’ll never be able to see her again. And that’s not fair!
Still, I get curious about the box. Of course it’s locked, so I must find a way to open it. I snoop around in old hatboxes filled with ribbons, feathers, and pads, with scraps, batting, and cotton balls. I poke through empty wardrobes smelling of wax, lemon, and dead moths. I don’t find any keys.
For an hour or so I torment myself, trying to jimmy the box’s lock. Still, I don’t give up. I’m full of desire to unearth secrets – maybe some maps leading to a forgotten land of dragons. I tap and scrape, until I push something by accident. Suddenly the box twitches with a strange click and opens, squeaking. There, on the bottom, I find something rolled up.
I take the strange object in my hands and realize it’s a yellow papyrus. I unfold it gently, but the papyrus loses a corner, which scatters into a fine dust. I hold my breath, and soon I realize I’m looking at a letter scribbled with black calligraphy.
The first thing to draw my attention is a seal with the head of a dragon. It has long fangs. Its scary eyes with vertical cat-like pupils stare at me above a nose that’s fuming, probably from spitting fire. I begin reading it:

June 15, 19 – (the papyrus is torn here)
Dear Miss Marigold of Salem,
You are kindly invited to attend the opening of an important legacy your family in Transylvania has bequeathed you. Since your sole surviving relative is now living in Bookrest and is of an advanced age and delicate health disposition, you are expected to arrive in this city before the end of the twentieth century.
Looking forward to meeting you soon.
Yours cordially,
Dr. L. Acua, Esquire
Theater of Vaudeville, Bookrest, Rondelia

I read the letter again, but it doesn’t make sense. Who is this Dr. L. Acua? I’ve never heard of a relative outside of Salem, in Transylvania. Isn’t Transylvania the land of vampires? And what’s all this got to do with me?