Harrington was quickly finding the voyage a torture. Unable to bear it, he stole a pre-ration moment with Ekaterina in the galley and insisted she meet him that night in the bow. Having as difficult a time with their separation as he, she readily agreed.
* * *
Harrington tied his tie, studying the reflection in his cabin's small mirror. Silently he wished for a bottle of lilac water or, might he dream, a comb; some shred of civility. He considered the clever sailors he was likely to pass between his room and the bow and decided it was just as well he had neither. The less he looked and smelled as if he were headed for a rendezvous, the more likely he was to make one. He did his best to look his best, for someone just walking the deck.
He doused his lamp, peeked to see the hall was empty and, knowing he would need to pass the steersman, donned his most innocent expression as he headed up. He took a deep breath, stepped from the deckhouse, and found things twice as bad as he'd imagined. Not only was Pasha Amramoff there, steering, but Feliks Petrofsky as well, standing the watch. Both stared (was it his imagination?) from the helm as the Englishman stepped on deck. Harrington met their looks with a wave.
“T-T-T-Trevor, w-w-hat are… y-you…” Petrofsky shook his head, “…about?”
“Thought I'd take some air before bed. That is, if you're amenable.”
Petrofsky eyed him suspiciously, nodded assent, and returned to conversing with the steersman. Harrington strolled as he rounded the deckhouse then hurried forward. To his delight, Ekaterina – still dressed as a seaman – was in the bow waiting.
“Good evening, Funar.”
“Mr. Harrington. Beautiful night.”
“It is now,” he said with a smile.
She smiled and, as he drew near, dropped to a whisper. “I do not even know how you can look at me after all I have put you through.”
Looking at her was incredibly easy. Still, she was correct, what he'd been through had not been. In that instant, Harrington was propelled back to his four day journey, on the run through the wilds of Bulgaria, to Varna and the safety of Demeter.
He'd hated to leave Ekaterina, that petite bauble he'd met among the library stacks. They'd had a wonderful romance that, he certainly thought at the time, ended cataclysmically. Sadly, he'd had no idea why. There'd been no tearful breakup. Barely had he arrived outside her house that night, and rapped on her door, than he was running for his life. In the distance, he heard her calling his name. He heard her father (Mayor Dragos Gabor) and brothers cursing the same name. The accusations they hurled! Cor blimey! Absolutely ridiculous. But they clearly were in no mood to debate.
Four days of hell followed; running, skulking from one rugged field to another, slowed by one dense forest after another, making his escape south through the Moldavian countryside, and south-still through the Walachian territory of Romania without being seen by day, without breaking his neck by night. He had a kit of personal effects, grabbed in haste, but no food or water save that found on the way. Admittedly, he wasn't dodging tse-tse flies in Maasailand but he wasn't on a picnic either. He was the most bookish of scholars; hunted without cause. What did it matter he hadn't broken any law, when his pursuers were the law. Harrington was on the lam.
Being an Englishman (read that foreigner), traveling a fiercely political eastern Europe under the best conditions was not easy. As a wanted man, he avoided the city of Bukharest, choosing the anonymity of the wild instead as if he were an American red Indian. With few options, no time to think, and a bullet hole in his once-stylish hat, he hurried south. Suspicious its smaller ports were watched, he needed to leave Romania. Despite the danger, he snuck into a wagon under cover of night and stole his way over the Danube, crossing into Bulgaria (more accurately the new principality of the Third Bulgarian State). There, he breathed a sigh of relief. Still, he needed to put Europe behind as well.
The centuries-old rule of the Ottoman's had been thrown off by the Russian and Romanian armies, with Bulgarian volunteers, in the Russo-Turkish War. But the ending Treaty had been rejected by all and the country's autonomy was in flux. (There is an old Russian proverb: If you see a Bulgarian in the street, beat him. He will know why.) Sneaking into Bulgaria could have gotten Harrington shot by any number of nationalities. Be that as it may, possibly being shot was better than certainly being shot, so on he ran. He spent several days hiding by light, crossing fields by night and, regretfully, remaining afoot while local farmers passed in tempting horse-drawn carts. Finally, he reached Varna. Afraid of arousing interest, and hoping to save his small purse for bargaining, he slept that night in the northern vineyards. At daybreak, hungry, disheveled, but rested, Harrington entered the port city.
And here he was; and Ekaterina, the love he thought he would never see again, was with him. She'd given up the only life she'd ever known, hired transport and a man to pick up his track, and followed him into the dark unknown. The two of them on the run.
* * *
Dracula came awake in his box – like a wild animal in a cage. His black soul was starved, on fire. No longer able to battle the bloodlust, he pushed up on his wooden prison. The nails at the corners gave way with a shrill bark and the lid lifted a crack. That was enough.
He closed his gleaming eyes, gave a silent command, and turned to mist. The gray cloud poured through the crack and out. It floated above the cargo, hovered over the tied tarps, then drifted down to the deck. It shifted from the horizontal to the vertical and materialized…
Count Dracula stood in human form.
This was a very different Dracula than had climbed into that box over two weeks since. Gone was the gaping wound on his forehead (inflicted in his castle vault by the hand of Jonathan Harker). It had healed and was now only a rose-colored blemish. Gone, too, was the puffed flesh swollen with the blood of a recent feed. His face now was a strong aquiline, with a high bridge on the thin nose, arched nostrils, and a lofty domed forehead. His ears were pointed at the tops. His chin was broad and strong, and his cheeks firm though thin. His mouth was fixed and cruel-looking, with markedly sharp white teeth. These protruded over the lips, whose ruddiness showed astonishing vitality for a man… of his years. For this was an old man. His hair, growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere, his untamed eyebrows almost meeting over his nose, his long moustache, were all shockingly white with age. He was extraordinarily pale - and desperately in need of nourishing lifeblood.
He took in the sounds of the ship; the rushing water, the creaking timbers, the wind in the sails, the rats in the darkness; the chatter, the laughter, the whispers; the breathing, the pounding hearts, the blood pulsing through the veins of the human crew. He smelled the salt air, the odor of cooked animal flesh, the human sweat… The warm, iron-rich blood… And that other odor…
Seeing as if in daylight, Dracula moved to beneath the closed cargo doors. He could smell her above, forward of the hatch, in the bow of the ship… the woman. He would have her! He closed his eyes and raised his hands.
* * *
From somewhere abaft came the snap of wood and scrape of metal. Harrington and Ekaterina both started, turned astern and stared into the gloom around the foremast. They silently examined the deck, saw nothing, and traded nervous laughs. Barely had they returned their attention to the glassy water, when it happened again, a great snap, a scratching clank, a thud. Now both were staring aft, Harrington's hand on Ekaterina, searching for the source.
“What was that?”
“I don't know. I don't see anything.” Just then, the scholar saw…
The hatch cover battens had somehow come off and lay tossed, one to each side. It made no sense. Surely they had been secured for the night and, once applied, could not have fallen off by themselves. He inched forward into the lamplight. Ekaterina followed with a hand on his back.
The hatch doors blew open, as if shoved from below by a great gust of wind, and slammed on the deck. Ekaterina jumped, Harrington shouted, and immediately after a blaze of light hit
them from amidships. Blinded, trying to shield their eyes, neither saw a cloud of mist escape from the hold.
“What in hell goes on!” came a shout from behind the light. The voice was unmistakable. Constantin, forward of the deckhouse, came on with a lantern in his hand. He lowered the light, glaring daggers. “What goes on? Rada, why are you in the hold?”
An awkward instant passed before Ekaterina realized the mate had addressed her. “The hold? No, sir, I wasn't in the hold. Neither of us.”
“It just – just came open,” Harrington added. “It must have been the wind.”
Constantin stared at the pair, then to the sails in the moonlight. They billowed with a steady breeze but were untouched by anything resembling a gust. The first looked past, but failed to notice, the odd mist hovering near the yard arm.
“Why are you on deck, Funar, at this time of night?”
“I, uh, was using the head, sir.”
“There is a pot in the crew's quarters, yes?”
“I – I do not… I prefer solitude.”
“That is childish. You need to grow up.” Constantin ran his hand over his dome, annoyed, then turned on the passenger. “Mr. Harrington, we don't encourage passengers on deck at night. Does the captain know you are here?”
“He doesn't. Unless he saw me come up. It certainly is no secret; I just wanted air.”
“Now you've had it, I recommend you go below. Rada, you belong in bed. You never know when the sea will call you to duty for days at a time. Sleep when you are able. Now, clear the deck.”
The deck `boy' reached for one of the hold doors.
“Nevermind,” the first said. “I'll see to it. You may go.”
Constantin stood, lamp in hand, as Harrington and Funar passed and started around the deckhouse. Opting for discretion, Harrington took the port rail alone. Funar took the starboard, with Constantin on his heels.
Behind them, the mist swirling in the foresail floated to the deck and in the dull amber glow of the mast light transformed back into the aged and hungry Count Dracula. He stared aft as the trio disappeared.
* * *
Petrofsky and Amramoff were still at the wheel when the ship's boy and the Englishman appeared from the gloom on either side of the deckhouse. The first mate came behind Funar, herding them like truants. As they started below, Constantin paused and glared at the helm. “The hatch on the forward hold is open. Petrofsky, batten it down.” The door slammed and he was gone.
Petrofsky turned to his shipmate. “W-What did I d-d-do? Th-Three of them… a-and they can't batten a hatch?”
Amramoff shrugged. “Who knows.”
“I kn-kn-know,” the marlinspike complained. He grabbed a lamp with his good hand. “S-Same as… al-ways. Everything f-falls on Petrofsky.”
“What do you suppose that was? Those two?”
“Who c-cares! I h-have to b-b-batten the hatch!”
Forward, alone, in the glow of his lamp, Petrofsky's mood lightened. He was no fanatic of the watch, neither was he so poetic as to claim his senses came alive, but he did enjoy a calm night at sea; the warm Mediterranean breeze sweeping them west, the roll, pitch, and occasional thrilling heave of the deck, the roar as the bow cleaved the water in matching arcs beneath the anchors… And, rudely infringing, Amramoff whistling at the wheel (God damn a man that whistles)!
But as he passed the forward rain barrels something came over him… Whether a sound or simply an odd vibration, Petrofsky did not know. Something about the ship suddenly felt… wrong.
Ahead, he heard a scuttling, a scratching on wood. Regardless of the hour, it was ridiculous! The ship's carpenter was at the helm. There ought be no one ahead doing any wood-working. He halted and held his breath, the better to hear. He lifted his lantern to peer into the dark.
The hatch was open, as the first said, a menacing black hole in the deck. The battens lay tossed aside. But why in the world at that hour? And why having opened the hold hadn't they closed it again? He could not imagine. But where was the surprise? Everything fell to him.
Something moved – and Petrofsky started.
He regained himself, lifted his lamp and searched the gloom. He saw nothing, but heard… There again; the movement, the scratching! He directed the lamp low on the deck and full upon the source. Rats! Several of them, black and filthy, their naked claws and fleshy tails white beneath his light as they emerged over the lip of the hatch from the hold below. Their eyes reflected red, they squealed and scuttled into the forward shadows.
Petrofsky shook involuntarily (he hated rats!), then shook his head – feeling the fool. For, though he despised the loathsome creatures, there was certainly nothing novel about their being aboard a sailing ship. What ship of the line didn't have rats?
He reached the hatchway, to carry out Constantin's order when, something more caught his eye. It was forward, where the port rail ought to have been (though it was hidden by darkness); something else moved. Something larger than a blinking rat! Petrofsky circumnavigated the yawning pit and lifted his lantern. There! He could just make out… a tall man standing at the rail.
Chapter Thirteen
“Y-Y-You t-t-there!”
Who was this man? He had a thick head of white hair, but was too tall to be either the captain or the cook; the only white-haired men aboard. He was too tall to be anyone except Olgaren. But Moisey was thick as a tree with flaming red hair. Who was this thin, dark phantom? He must be one of the crew. From where else could he have come? Yet the marlinspike was certain he wasn't a crewman at all. Whoever he was, the man just stood staring at the water without any indication he'd heard.
Petrofsky was dumbfounded. “Y-You t-t-there,” he called again.
Slowly the dark figure turned. Petrofsky shined his light full on him – and his throat went dry. It was an old man with a face as white as his great mustache and eyes that shined red in the kerosene light. Despite the warmth of the Mediterranean summer, a chill shot through Petrofsky as if he'd been struck by lightning. “W-Who are you?”
The old man's eyes cut through Petrofsky. He drew back the corners of his red lips, displaying outrageously sharp teeth in an awful smile. He snarled and hissed like a feral cat. Then, unbelievably, the stranger jumped overboard.
As simple as that, from his standing position, he merely jumped up and over the gunwale and disappeared. Petrofsky shouted and ran to the rail. He looked over, into the sea, but saw – nothing. Nothing but swiftly passing, white-capped waters near the hull. He strained, scanning the darkness and the sea abaft, to no avail.
It made no sense! The old man had been there at the rail and had jumped overboard without a word. Petrofsky would swear to it, on a bible, before Pope Leo himself. But where had he gone? Even drowning takes time; a splash, a shout, the instinctive struggle regardless of how voluntary the act! How could he have gone so fast? The watchman was awestruck; then came the full embarrassment. What the hell was he waiting for? Someone had just… He'd done nothing about it! “M-Man o-o-over-b-board!” Petrofsky shouted, running aft. “M-Man o-o-over-b-board! E-Every-b-body on d-d-deck!”
Amramoff heard him from the wheel for, an instant later, the ship's bell rang. And, soon after, the others appeared on deck; the first mate barking, Smirnov, Olgaren, Popescu grumbling, and the second. Another moment and the English passenger was there, then the deck boy, then Swales (gasping for breath). Even Amramoff, who was supposed to be minding the helm, showed up. “M-Man o-ver-b-board!” Petrofsky shouted, leading them into the bow. “M-Man o-o-over-b-board!”
“Shut up!” Constantin shouted, grabbing Petrofsky's arm. The marlinspike stopped screaming and the mate lowered his voice. “What in hell are you yelling about?”
“T-T-There i-i-is… a man… over-b-board!”
Several went to the rail to peer out to sea, but Constantin held his ground. He scanned the gloomy deck and those standing in the lamplight. His eyes fell back on Petrofsky. “The captain?” the mate demanded. “Is that what you're saying? Th
e captain fell overboard? I just spoke to him!”
“N-N-No, sir,” Petrofsky replied in confusion. “I n-n-never… said it was. I never s-said so. I-I-It w-was not the cap-tain.”
The first glared. “Look around you.” The marlinspike merely returned his stare and Constantin flared. “That's an order, you stupid bastard! Look around you!”
Petrofsky did, without a clue what he was meant to be looking for.
“We are all here! The captain is… indisposed and will be here momentarily. Otherwise the entire compliment is here. Every soul aboard is staring at you!”
Petrofsky took them all in. “A-A-Aye, s-sir.”
“We are all here,” Constantin repeated. “Even those who ought not be.” He turned on Amramoff and barked, “Aren't you on the wheel?”
“Aye, sir. Smooth sailing. Just tied her off to see what the screaming was.”
“Return to your duty.” The carpenter hurried aft. The mate returned his attention to Petrofsky, who only shook his head.
From the stern came the captain's raspy, “Mr. Constantin!” The gravel in his voice was a remnant of the quack's elixir. (The screams had taken him off guard and he'd been forced to slow his heart rate by the bottle.) He could still taste it as he snapped his braces and pulled on his coat. “What in the name of the murdering Turks is happening on my ship?”
“Petrofsky thought he saw someone go overboard, sir.”
“And everyone stands here?”
“All hands are accounted for, captain. He could not have seen that which he claims.”
“I d-did see it, s-s-sir,” Petrofsky insisted. “I s-s-saw a m-man jump o-over! An o-o-old man.”
* * *
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 10