Chapter 3
Episode 3
Prince Vlad Protects Amy's Life and Her Honour (1965 -1967) First Carson Colorado
The dust of Fort Belvoir still clung to the edges of my memory, a faint, gritty residue of a childhood spent in a place that felt both ordinary and profoundly other. Then came the change, a seismic shift that rearranged the familiar landscape of my young life. My father, a man of quiet routines and the comforting scent of pipe tobacco, was reassigned. The world, which had been a defined circle of Virginia pines and the distant hum of military life, suddenly expanded, stretching westward with a wild, untamed promise.
Carson, Colorado. The name itself tasted of pine needles and crisp, mountain air. We arrived in the summer of 1965, the sun beating down on the dusty roads, the sky a vast, unbroken sapphire. Our new home was a small, clapboard house nestled at the foot of towering, snow-capped peaks. It felt like stepping into a postcard, a place where the air was thinner, and the silence was deeper, punctuated only by the rustling of aspens and the distant cry of a hawk.
For a child of five, it was a world of endless exploration. The woods behind our house became my kingdom, a labyrinth of towering trees, gurgling streams, and hidden glades. I’d spend hours there, my small hands tracing the rough bark of ancient pines, my ears tuned to the symphony of the forest. And he was always there, a silent sentinel on the periphery of my vision.
Prince Vlad. The name was a whisper on the wind, a secret shared between us. He was no longer the spectral figure of my earliest memories, but a more defined presence, a shadow woven into the fabric of my existence. He moved with a grace that defied the earthly constraints of flesh and bone, his dark eyes, ancient and knowing, observing me with an intensity that was both unnerving and deeply comforting.
He never spoke in words I could articulate, not in the way others did. His communication was a language of feeling, of subtle shifts in the atmosphere, of an unspoken understanding that bypassed the need for spoken language. When I stumbled, a phantom hand would steady me, a fleeting warmth against my skin. When a particularly sharp branch threatened to scratch my face, it would bend away as if guided by an unseen force. He was my guardian, my silent protector, a constant presence in the wild beauty of Colorado.
My parents, blissfully unaware of the spectral guardian who watched over their daughter, saw only a child who had adapted remarkably well. They marveled at my independence, my fearless exploration of the wilderness. They attributed my uncanny ability to avoid danger to a child's innate caution, a keen sense of self-preservation. They didn't see the crimson petals that sometimes bloomed in the air around me when I was particularly vulnerable, a subtle, almost imperceptible shimmer that warned of unseen threats.
One afternoon, I ventured deeper into the woods than I ever had before. The trees grew thicker, the sunlight dappled and scarce. I was chasing a particularly vibrant butterfly, its wings a kaleidoscope of blues and oranges, when I heard it – a low growl, a sound that vibrated in my bones. My heart leaped into my throat. A large, shaggy dog, its teeth bared, emerged from the undergrowth, its eyes fixed on me with predatory intent.
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through me. I froze, my small body trembling. The butterfly, forgotten, fluttered away. The dog took a step closer, then another. I squeezed my eyes shut, a silent plea escaping my lips, not for help from my parents, but for him.
And then, a sensation. Not of touch, but of presence, so overwhelming it seemed to push the very air out of the clearing. The growling stopped. I dared to open my eyes. The dog was gone. Vanished as if it had never been. The clearing was silent, save for the gentle rustling of leaves. I looked around, my gaze searching the shadows. And there, just beyond the edge of my vision, was the faintest outline, a silhouette against the dense foliage. A sense of profound peace washed over me, a silent reassurance that I was safe. He had been there. He had always been there.
The years 1965 through 1967 in Carson were a blur of sun-drenched days and starlit nights. My connection to Vlad deepened, becoming an intrinsic part of my being. He was the echo in the silence, the whisper in the wind, the unseen hand that guided my steps. He was the crimson petals that bloomed in moments of danger, a silent testament to a protection that transcended the ordinary, a love that was as ancient and enduring as the mountains themselves. This was my truth, etched not in ink, but in the very marrow of my bones.