There was no good way to resolve the conundrum. There was no evidence anything out of the ordinary had taken place. Petrofsky told the captain, the mates, and his loitering ship-mates what he'd seen. Nikilov calmly asked questions. The watchman answered – in excited bursts of what could only be utter nonsense.
An examination of the deck was made during which most everyone paused to gawp over the gunwale (Popescu, the last, nervously crossed himself). Swales, refusing his turn at the rail, bellowed that he'd seen water before. He suggested they all head “ageeanwards to bed” where he had been “snod an' snog 'efore this quare scowderment”. Nothing was found; nothing could be done.
At the commander's word, the mate dispersed the crew. Olgaren was ordered to relieve Petrofsky's watch and the marlinspike given leave to go below. He drifted behind the others and wandered aft alone, muttering. He was still talking to himself when he reached the deckhouse stairs.
“You look as if you've lost your last friend…” Amramoff called from the wheel, “to a ghost!”
Petrofsky scowled and would have replied had he not spotted the second mate nearby. He swallowed the comment, unspoken.
Eltsin frowned at Amramoff, then told the marlinspike, “Do not let it bother you, Feliks. You thought you saw something you could not have seen. I could tell stories of the tricks my eyes have played on me.” He offered a friendly smile. Amramoff added a laugh.
Petrofsky went below without returning either.
The captain and mate shared a final word at the rail over rushing water. Neither believed Petrofsky. How could they? The crew was accounted for; as were the only two aboard with white hair. And, as they'd already slipped Harrington and Funar past customs, it was ridiculous to consider another undiscovered stowaway. Neither thought Petrofsky a liar, but his `old man' had been imagined. In agreement then that the mysterious stranger had never been aboard, neither could have believed… he was still there.
Forward, clinging to Demeter's figurehead and hull as if he were a fly, Dracula hung trapped beneath the bowsprit and above the deadly arcs of water on either side, in the same way he was trapped between death and life. The sea splashed and burned him like acid. Fangs bared, his hatred brewing, he suffered in silence… waiting.
The Count heard every word as the captain and his mate, ignorant of his presence, blamed Petrofsky's incident on a gloom that had settled over their voyage. The first insisted the men needed to focus on their labors, while the captain said they needed to lift their mood. Their conversation closed without a concensus and they left the bow for their beds.
When the humans cleared out, Dracula crawled up, over the rail and retook the deck. He straightened his attire, brushing away the humiliation of having to hide from these rodents. Another in a regrettable line of actions taken over four-and-a-half centuries in order to survive. Count Dracula, old and white, angry and insatiably hungry, made himself mist again.
* * *
An impromptu meeting took place in the crew's quarters. It started with Popescu complaining. Smirnov, disturbed by the event on deck, joined him and they grumbled together. Petrofsky, shaken and muttering, added his voice and suddenly they had a meeting. The marlinspike related his experience again, insisting he had not invented his story. Words failed him but his fear was evident. By the time Funar entered (Ekaterina's secret was still that), Petrofsky's fear had spread.
“It is not just your strange old man; whoever or whatever he is. There's something unnatural aboard this ship,” Popescu said. “Some evil. We've been under its spell since we sailed.”
“Before we sailed,” Smirnov corrected, his fright conspicuous in his whispered falsetto. “You were already aboard. You don't know the difficulty Constantin had signing crew in Varna.”
“I can imagine. They settled for you!” Popescu laughed at his own joke.
“Play the fool,” Smirnov said. “I am serious. Every experienced seaman in the city walked away saying something was wrong with this ship. Remember the fight on the quay? Those peasants threatening the dock workers. And our cargo! Has anyone ever heard of such a cargo?”
“An evil cargo,” Popescu added. Wide-eyed, he was no longer laughing.
But someone in the companionway was; a throaty, familiar laugh followed by an equally familiar grunt of disgust. “If only me dad could hear ye lads!” Swales barged in, unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. “Fool-talk, that's what he'd call it; nowt else. Wafts, an' boh-ghosts, an' bar-guests, an' bogles only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women a'belderin'. Invented to skeer each other.”
“Why?”
“Oh, aye. Why? Thaat's the question.”
“We haven't invented anything. We're only saying what all on board are thinking and feeling.”
“Oh, all, is it? Yer sure then? Well, I have me doubts. Feel whate'er ye like, lads. Fear what ye like. But take me advice – keep it to ye'sel'. For it do no' take a genius to gather that our good Mr. Constantin hates superstitions as much as the cap'n loves religion; an' if ye make either ireful wi' yer bogey stories, I fancy ye'll regret it.”
Fixed on the cook's warning, the room jumped when Harrington put his head in. “Is this a private meeting?”
“Yes,” Popescu said angrily. “It is.”
“O' course, it ain't,” Swales said. He turned on the Romanian. “Ye can't have it both ways, Bogdan. Ye can't speak for e'ery soul on the ship – an' exclude them from the conversation.”
“I was speaking of the crew. We're not to be carrying passengers. He doesn't belong.”
“He has a note from the cap'n sayin' he does. What have you?” Popescu scowled without reply. “Aye. So I thought.” Swales waved the Englishman in and pointed to a place on a bunk beside Funar.
Harrington started for it then, aware of his weaknesses, found a seat near Petrofsky instead. “So,” he said, settling. “As I gather, the topic of conversation is…”
“Ghosts an' bogles!”
“Nobody spoke of ghosts,” Smirnov put in. “Not exactly.”
“Gog! D' no' hedge now,” Swales insisted.
“Then we will not.” Popescu stared hard at the Scot, then turned on the Englishman. “There is a pall over this voyage. Something unnatural in or about this ship. Yes, unnatural! Such things exist! We wonder what it could be. And I wonder if it has to do with you?”
“Easy, lad, wi' yer accusations. I'm more than willin' to vouch fer Mr. Harrin'ton.”
“That's fine. In your estimation, that clears him. I wonder who will vouch for you, old man?”
Swales leaned in to Popescu and whispered, “Lad, I gawm how men act when they're skeered. They'll do an' say anythin'. The shite runs out their gob w'out a thought, so I canno' altogether blame ye. An' no' bein' a gentleman masel', I beg yer fer-giveness in advance. But yer leapin' up and down on me last feckin' nerve. I recommend ye take this as the one an' only warnin' this old man is goin' to give ye…” He poked his clay pipe into Popescu's chest. “Get yer head right.”
“Is there a problem?” The voice was Constantin's as he stepped into the bunk room doorway.
“Nowt to speak o'. No.”
The mate's beady, black eyes left Swales and took in the others. “Have I missed a meeting?”
“Not at all, sir.” Popescu said. “Just a friendly get together.”
“There is nothing then that I need know?”
It felt as if any number of them had something to get off their chests. But no one spoke. A strange tension, a palpable fear, passed among them. Popescu finally ended the silence. “No, sir. Nothing at all.”
Constantin nodded noncommittally. “In that case, Swales, Mr. Harrington, if you will find your quarters. Popescu, you and I have the early watch. Lights out.”
Chapter Fourteen
Popescu rubbed the goose flesh on his arms. It was mid-July, Wednesday the 14th, and they were in the mid-Mediterranen; still at that early hour, a cool breeze raced over the water, across his shoulders at the helm, and through the sails, chasing th
e darkness into daylight. Tired, nearing the end of his duty yet tied to the wheel, he couldn't help but shiver. He told himself it was the breeze.
He could hear the first, swearing and shouting at the hands in the bow. He'd roused them early, payment for meeting behind his back the night before, and set them to work. Annoyed with his fellow countryman's constant badgering, Popescu tried to put it from his mind, to think of something else. But the only image he found to replace it was one of Petrofsky's old man jumping off the ship.
Thus were his thoughts employed when Constantin came aft and startled the day-dreaming Popescu. “Sorry, sir,” the steersman said. “I was… wandering.” The mate stared, but said nothing, and the uncomfortable seaman tried to fill the void. “A bit of a nip in the air.”
Constantin nodded. The rising sunlight painted the horizon; the sea and sky waxing from black, to blue, to a brilliant red-gold.
“Like the turn of the tide,” Popescu whispered. “The chill which comes with the dawn.”
Constantin scowled. “Is that poetry?” He didn't like poetry and, though he'd never met one, was certain he didn't like poets.
“Just an old saying.”
“Say it again.” He turned his coal black eyes on Popescu. The steersman stared back warily. “I said, say it again. That's an order.”
“Like the turn of the tide. The chill which comes with the dawn.”
“What does that mean?”
Popescu cleared his throat and, fearfully, answered in a whisper. “It is said those near death often die at the break of dawn, or at the turn of the tide.”
The first reddened. “I'm getting tired of your whining.”
“Mr. Constantin…”
“Do not interrupt me! I heard your morose mutterings last night in your farcical little meeting. I've been listening to this nonsense about a cursed ship since Varna. I'm tired of it! I'm tired of all of you whining like children. It is about time this crew began acting like men. And you are going to stop undermining them with your ridiculous superstitions – or you will feel my hand.”
Popescu, wilted by the first's glare, looked away and missed seeing Nikilov step from the deckhouse. Constantin, giving the steersman hell, was likewise oblivious to the captain's arrival.
“I do not want to hear anymore about death,” the first said through tightened lips. “Not another word. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now mind your helm.” Only then did Constantin see Nikilov. He stepped from the wheel and greeted him with a nod. “Morning, sir.”
“Good morning.” The captain stepped casually to the starboard and Constantin followed. He reached the rail and turned, his blue eyes searching those of his mate. “Iancu, are you all right?”
“I am, captain.”
They walked to the front of the deckhouse, paused and watched the crew ably but joylessly about their duties. The men were strained, anxious, and it showed. Nikilov knew them, those with whom he'd sailed before; steady fellows with first-rate attitudes. Their melancholy made no sense and he told the first as much.
“I agree, captain,” Constantin said. “Something disturbs the entire crew. It is palpable. I do not know what is wrong – and they either cannot or will not say. They say only that there is SOMETHING wrong.” With contempt, he added, “Then Popescu crosses himself.”
Despite his religious convictions, Nikilov listened in silence.
The mate, looking aloft, noted the foot of the main top sail (damaged days before by Petrofsky to save his life) was torn again. The marlinspike's repair did not appear to be holding. He shouted to Petrofsky, bringing the damage to his attention, and ordered him aloft again.
To everyone's surprise, Petrofsky snapped back, “It is n-n-not my f-fault!” The mate's order struck him as an accusation he'd been incompetent repairing it. He waved his bandaged hand, and shouted, “This m-m-makes the work nigh imp-p-possible! And b-burns like f-f-fire!”
“Stop your whining!” Constantin demanded. “Are you angry with the work? That you damaged the sail in the first place? Or embarrassed you made a fool of yourself last night with your old ghost?”
“Was no g-g-ghost! I saw wh-what… I s-saw!”
“Shut your mouth!” the mate hollered, his patience gone. “Shut your damned mouth – and follow orders!” He grabbed a coiled line from the deck, spun on the marlinspike, and whipped it across his shoulder. Petrofsky cried out and fell to one knee.
The others halted their labors, staring.
“E-Everything h-h-happens to… me,” Petrofsky cried. He shook his wrecked hand as evidence. “And n-n-now you're… a-angry about l-last night, as am… I. But it's n-n-naught to… do with me o-other than I… saw it.”
Constantin, livid, raised his hand to deliver another lashing.
The captain watched, disapproving, but holding his tongue. The chain of command could only be weakened by his stepping between the mate and a crewman where discipline was involved. But he was not happy with Constantin's handling of the situation. He would have a word later. For now, Nikilov fully expected the altercation to result in a fierce quarrel.
To his relief, it did not. Finding a patience even he was not aware he possessed, the mate stayed the second blow and lowered the coil. Petrofsky, too, backed down without another word. It wasn't cowardice. He simply realized his troubles, whatever they were, had nothing to do with the mate. Popescu was right, they were caused by this accursed ship. Weary, beaten, Petrofsky wordlessly gathered his gear and climbed the main mast shroud for the damaged sail.
The rest of the crew went quietly back to work. Nikilov watched them all, relieved a violent confrontation had been avoided, but deeply concerned.
* * *
Vampires do not dream.
They rest in a cold and death-like state. But when aroused, they are much like humans; they think, feel… and hunger.
Count Dracula had much to think of to occupy his wakeful hours; all he knew behind him, all he anticipated before him, and the moments at hand. One can imagine the things he had to consider.
And, while his feelings ran the gamut as anyone's might, two emotions held sway. The first was anger. Existing in a world in which he could not live had engendered in Dracula a constant state of anger and bitterness. Add the need to hide from the ship's crew, like a filthy rat in the cellar, and his thoughts grew to ferociousness. He hated them, ached for their destruction… and more.
And now a new feeling!
The recent revelation of a woman aboard the vessel had aroused in him… something he had not felt or thought of in generations. An image of his wives, behind at Castle Dracula, flashed in his mind and the words of one in particular, spoken recently in spite, echoed in his ears…
He'd just returned to the castle with their… sustenance. He threw the bag upon the floor where a gasp and low wail escaped as it writhed with its living contents. Angry as he was, Dracula paid it no further attention. He found them – all three of his women – in a room they did not belong, doing that which he had forbidden; closing in on Harker, intent upon drinking his blood.
He'd stopped them, of course, denying their hoped-for kisses. Then Marishka, his fair-haired treasure, with her usual laugh of ribald coquetry, leveled her accusation. “You yourself never loved. You never love!” The others joined her, filling the room with their mirthless laughter. Gorgeous, ageless maidens, soulless fiends, taking pleasure in his pain. But he had loved and told them so. Long ago and far away, he had loved – deeply. Before that love, leading to that love, he had lusted.
Now, starving for life-giving blood, insanely lusting for the female creature here and now aboard the ship, he knew these were not dreams (for vampires do not dream). They were all-consuming desires. In his box, in the dark of the forehold, Dracula felt the overwhelming, undeniable ache… For, indeed, one lust fed another.
* * *
“There are so many things I want to tell you.”
The night was upon them and Ekaterina, st
ill dressed as Funar, had again managed to meet Harrington in the bow. There they whispered, wanting to hold hands, to make contact with one another, yet knowing they dared not. Society, secrecy, perhaps their lives demanded they be deck hand and paid guest passing in the night.
“And I have things to say to you. We will say them soon,” Harrington assured her. “But, as you so wisely put it, not now.”
Ekaterina nodded and smiled. Many things had to wait, but were worth waiting for. Making sure of the deck, she withdrew a necklace from beneath her seaman's jersey, a delicate gold fleur-de-lis that glinted in the light of the mast lamp. “Do you remember this?”
He did – and its backstory. The pendant was a stylized lily that, historically, symbolized everything to everyone (politics, dynasty, art, and heraldry). The Grand Duke of Luxembourg, the overthrown King of Spain, the House of Bourbon whose coup d'état replaced him, French-Canadians, all thought it part of their cultural heritage. The religious believed the petals stood for the Trinity. Harrington preferred the simple interpretation of faith, hope and charity; a charming representation of Ekaterina. He'd seen her adoring it in a shop window. (Actually, she'd admired it and several jeweled cruciforms but, not even understanding Christian believers, Harrington saw no reason to buy their trinkets.) He'd bought it that same day and carefully guarded it until its presentation seemed appropriate. “Of course I remember.” He smiled to know she wore the gift beneath her disguise.
“I bought a dress to wear with it,” she said, still whispering. “It's lovely! White as new-fallen snow, with a beautiful long gored skirt. You know, the empire look so popular in the cities, with a corselet…” He smiled. Even in the dim light, Ekaterina saw his cheeks redden. “Merely a raised waistline, silly.” She giggled and laid the heel of her hand against his stomach, demonstrating the height. With impressive balance in that rocking bow, she strode away, pivoted and returned, miming modeling the dress. “It has a full blouse with three tiers of ruffles.” She leaned in whispering the secret, “…encircling the upper bodice,” and laughed again.
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 11