“Lord God, by the power of your word you stilled the chaos of the primeval seas, you made the raging waters of the flood subside, and calmed the storm on the sea of Galilee. As we commit the body…” He paused, wondering what had become of Petrofsky? If he had taken his own life, why? If not, what had happened? Where was he? “As we commit the body of our brother Feliks Petrofsky to the deep, grant him peace and tranquility until that day when he and all who believe in you will be raised to the glory of new life promised in the waters of baptism. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
There followed a spattering of “Amens”; from whom exactly, Harrington wasn't sure. There were none from him. Though he held nothing against the religious, they could keep it to themselves. The service had, he supposed, accomplished its goal. From the gleam in his blue eyes, the captain felt better. Judging by their looks, as their tension slipped away, several among the men did as well. Still to the Englishman it seemed unlikely that Petrofsky, wherever he was, had gained much from the rite.
The officers and men peeled off, to their duties or below, but Harrington remained at the rail. Feeling every bit as depressed as he had the night he ran from Bukovina, but without the flight for life to charge his spirit, he stared sadly out to sea and barely noticed when Swales joined him.
“Thinkin' o' Petrofsky?”
“Oh, hello, Oliver. No, not Petrofsky in particular. Just thinking.”
“D' no' get too philosophical.” Swales pulled out his pipe and pouch. He scooped tobacco, tamped the bowl with a crooked thumb and, striking a match, raised an aromatic cloud of smoke. “Eternity – thaat's a tuff nut t' crack.”
“Have no fear,” Harrington said. “I'm no philosopher. I don't believe in eternity.”
“'ere now! What's thaat?”
“I don't believe in life after death. I believe in finality. It's just a shame when it ends like this. No family, no body, not even a marker to say you'd ever been. Surely, Feliks deserved a grave marker?”
“Would no' me father love you!” Swales boomed, laughing as he relit his pipe.
“What do you mean?”
“Grave markers! My Gog, how he goes off on thaat subject.” He shook a balled fist in the air, aping the memory. “Tombsteans in the kirkgarth; tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies wrote on 'em.” A cloud of smoke encircled his head then raced away with the breeze. “He'd sing it like a song; his indignation! A quarter of the lay-beds in Whitby, in any port village, are marked w' stones readin', Here lies the body o', o'er the empty plot o' some soul lost at sea, or Sacred to the memory o', o'er bodies long since forgot. An' how he laughed at the thought o' the Day o' the trumpt.”
“Trumpt?”
“Judgment, lad. The Day o' Judgment! All them dead souls draggin' their tombsteans t' the pear-ly gates as proof o' who they were an' how good they was.” The old man roared. “An' ye want a grave marker fer Petrofsky? Where? To mark what? We spent the whole o' the morn figurin' out he weren't nowhere. We've, all o' us, guessed he's in the Mediterranean. Well, there ye be, son.” He waved his pipe over the rail and the water. “Go ahead; mark his grave.” He laughed. “An' ye say ye're not a believer!”
“It's merely respect for the dead.”
“The dead do no' care, lad. One day, months from now, or years from now, an old mother, or sister, or sweetheart, in some Russian village, w' a false mem-ry o' how good things used to be but prob-ly ne'er were, will set a stone readin', Here lies Feliks Petrofsky. An' for a time the lie will make her feel better. But the lay-bed will still be empty as old Dun's `bacca-box on Friday night, an' the body still missin'. An' Petrofsky will still be dead as hung Haman.”
Swales laid a hand on Harrington's shoulder and, together, they headed aft. They ignored Popescu's stare from the wheel and ducked below. Behind them, the green clouds completed their turn to black, the thunder rolled, and the sky, unlike the Romanian steersman, began to cry for lost seamen.
* * *
The captain didn't feel like eating and couldn't rest. Just after eight bells, wandering the larboard deck in the sprinkling rain, he found the watch and, to stem his restlessness, relieved him personally. The deck was quiet, but Nikilov walked in turmoil, Petrofsky heavily on his mind. At ten, Olgaren relieved him (while Eltsin spelled Popescu at the wheel). “Four bells and all's well,” the captain said, though in his heart he did not believe it.
Still restless, Nikilov headed forward for a last look as lightning flashed in the distance. The spittle of the last four hours, he could see, was nothing compared to the storm they were fast approaching. He headed below.
The voices of the crew spilled into the between-decks companionway, Smirnov, Amramoff, Popescu (fresh below), the cook, and the mate talking on, off, and at once. Nikilov could make out no specific topic and did not try. The master of the ship didn't need to eavesdrop. He pushed into their quarters and found the men as downcast as ever they had been.
“I know this business with Petrofsky is a shock,” Nikilov said.
“It isn't,” Smirnov piped up. “Begging the captain's pardon, sir, but it isn't.”
Popescu nodded his ascent. “We've been expecting something of this kind.”
The others nodded their agreement. All but the first, who was visibly starting to bristle. “What does that mean?” Constantin growled. “You've been expecting it?”
Popescu, already on the mate's list, shoved on. “There's something aboard this ship.”
The room was struck dumb and the sounds of the rain and the sea and the ship overwhelmed them for their silence.
Constantin, insistant, measured his words. “What does that mean?” Nobody would say or, for that matter, meet his glare. “SOMETHING!” the first suddenly yelled. “What does that mean?” He stepped to the Romanian and pushed his face into Popescu's. “You will answer.”
“Something either killed Petrofsky or made him kill himself. Either way, murder or suicide, it is the harbinger of evil. More will come.”
The mate shook with rage. He raised his fist over Popescu and would have landed a ferocious blow had not the captain intervened. Nikilov laid his hand on Constantin's shoulder. He spoke not a word to anyone; just the firm hand gently applied. The first lowered his arm, unclenched his fist, and nodded his acquiescence to Nikilov.
“I had hoped for clear sailing,” the master told his men. “But we are coming into rain. Be prepared to be called up at a moment's notice. In the interim, please, rest while you are able.” He bid his crew good-night then, at the door, asked the first to join him for tea.
Violence had been averted, Constantin's wrath quelled, but the captain's thoughts were more burdened than ever. The fears within the crew were mounting. And, though he was not a superstitious man, Nikilov's fears were growing as well. Fears that more trouble lay ahead.
* * *
The rain came – hard.
The wind picked up with a vengeance, forty knots gusting to forty-five, and the storm raised the seas to 18 feet before them. Despite the large sea, going downwind as they were, Nikilov decided to run with it. He called his crew to stations, as he'd warned them he would, and ordered the sails reduced. Then he turned the schooner upwind to slow her down.
Washed by rain, whipped by wind, his hands furled the headsails and triple-reefed the main and mizzen gaffers. All the while, the captain and mates worked alongside the men before the mast, on the deck and in the shrouds. Short-handed as they were, hard work was made light by the knowledge that together they were a good crew and, soon, most were below again and drying off.
Reefed down, Nikilov returned Demeter to her course. She settled into an easy motion, running on despite the gale.
* * *
In the dead hours of the night, lightning flashed, thunder boomed, the rain ticked on the mizzen deck above her head, and Ekaterina sat up in her bunk feeling like gold. The headache, the fever, the stifling sickness were gone. Her eyes ached from the lamplight but she felt rested and truly alive.
&n
bsp; Then she felt the inexplicable hunger. Then she felt the lust.
Trevor was asleep, nodded over his folded arms on the desk.
She rose quietly not to wake him. She grabbed the linen wrap, once used to hide her shape, and quietly tore off a strip. She carried it to the mirror and stared without emotion at her pale reflection, her sunken features, the dark orbits round her eyes. She pulled the bandage from her neck revealing two bruised, enflamed punctures. Ekaterina dabbed at the wounds as her breath rose to a pant. Her heart was pounding in her petite chest. Swales' outsized nightshirt fell open to her navel exposing her breasts and hardening nipples. All she saw were the wounds. She draped the linen strip around her neck seductively covering that most desired area in anticipation of…
Behind her, reflected in the glass, she saw Harrington. Such a nice boy. A grimace twisted her lips, arched brows marred her delicate features; a look of disgust. He is childish and insignificant. He has neither the capacity to understand, nor the strength or courage to follow. He'll have to be left behind. But there was no need crossing that bridge yet. He was, after all, a nice boy.
Quietly, she blew out the lamp. The room was plunged into darkness, the ache vanished from her eyes, and Ekaterina saw - clearly indeed. She unlatched the door and returned to her bunk. She lay back on her pillow starving and, at the same time, lusting to be fed upon. She pulled the nightshirt open. She fought to still the gyration of her hips. Must not wake little Trevor. And she waited.
Ekaterina did not know what she was doing. Yet, she could not stop herself.
* * *
One hundred feet away, a cloud of gray mist passed through the fissures in the door to the forward hold. At first it appeared an explosion of steam had taken place and this, the escaped cloud, was finding the quickest exit. Yet it did not dissipate, but thickened into a carpet of mist that moved down the companionway. It floated past the crew's quarters and the galley, where the captain and mate were finishing a cup. The cloud stopped at the dead-end of the companionway T and hovered before the door to the passenger's quarters. Her quarters.
Even in that state, Dracula could smell the woman ready for him inside. And – something else. Someone else.
“Can you rest?” Nikilov was heard to ask. He stepped from the mess, followed by Constantin, who answered in the negative. “Then you may as well join me. We've some mulling-over to do.” There were items to be discussed; the weather, maintenance, duty assignations, the mood of the short-handed crew and, no doubt, Constantin's recent flairs of temper as well. The mate accepted dutifully.
They followed the companionway to where the captain's room abutted that of the injured child and Nikilov moved to admit them. Neither saw anything out of order – as neither looked just above their heads. The gray mist, an infuriated Dracula interrupted, was abandoning the between-decks through the cracks in the overhead's aft port scuttle hatch.
* * *
Olgaren was trying to stay dry. The big Russian was hunched beneath the eave on the aft end of the deckhouse, trying to shelter from the storm; a ludicrous endeavor. Eltsin stood at the wheel, soaked and in a state of high hilarity. Black bangs matted and running with cold water, clothes hugging him like skin, coat and boots sodden, he reared his head, gargled the downpour, spit a stream like a fountain, and laughed like a lunatic. Olgaren, wiping his eyes and watching the second through the falling sheets, could not see what was funny.
So busy were they, Eltsin laughing like a clown and Olgaren shielding himself, neither noted the mist that appeared behind the helm, above the scuttle hatch. Diffused by the rain and virtually invisible at first, it soon grew dense and gray.
From his hiding place, looking aft through the onslaught, Olgaren finally saw it. He stared, straining, afraid his eyes were playing tricks. It was a cloud, yes, but something more, changing as it moved forward inside the rail. It came on, growing darker, taking on a solid form. The cloud vanished and, in its place, strode a man.
Just like that. The deck had been empty - then he was there! A tall, thin young man. (Near his own age, Olgaren thought.) He was dressed in black, had a thick mustache, an angry set to his white jaw, and red eyes that, God! seemed to burn like fire. He was a stranger, unlike anyone in the crew.
Olgaren shouted!
The tall man took no notice of the big Russian. Neither did he regard Eltsin. Nor did he hesitate in the slightest. He simply continued forward, past the agog Olgaren, past the corner of the deckhouse and down the port companionway, his cape billowing like the wings of a fluttering bat.
“Did you see that?” Olgaren shouted.
Eltsin shook his head like a dog sheading water and called back, “See what?”
“My God! Did you not see him?!”
“What? See who?”
Olgaren left his cover, stepped to the corner and stared into the rain down the companionway. Gone. The man was gone. Eltsin yelled something. What, Olgaren neither knew nor cared. He ignored the second and hurried forward – after the dark figure. The wind billowed the gaffe sails, whipped at the furled foresails, the rain beat down on the deck, the vessel heaved on a swell. He ignored it all. He hurried past the fore hatch, battened and secure, into the bow. There, his clothing soaked, his red hair matted, Olgaren turned in place, searching.
Gone. The man was simply gone.
Chapter Nineteen
Just before dawn, Saturday, 17 July, a hesitant rap on Nikilov's door interrupted the captain's tea and his thoughts. He was genuinely surprised when the swinging door revealed the rain-soaked Olgaren. He was the last man Nikilov would have expected to break the chain of command. Yet, here he was without being summoned and without a mate. More alarming yet was the look in the seaman's eyes. The big man appeared on the verge of panic.
“What is it?”
Olgaren's lips moved without sound. Tears welled in his eyes.
“You had better step in.”
Olgaren obeyed, ducking to clear the sill. The lamplight fell on his matted red hair and his face, pale beyond the usual. “Captain, I… I just come off watch.” Olgaren said, trembling. He crossed himself (something Nikilov expected from Popescu, not a countryman) and blurted, “I seen him!”
The captain lurched, startled by the outburst. “You've seen who? Petrofsky?”
“No. No, sir,” Olgaren said in confusion. “Not Petrofsky.” The name of the missing crewman had not even occurred to him. He shook his head. “No. Not Petrofsky. I… I do not know who he was. I saw a strange man aboard the ship.”
“What is this? How dare you! First Petrofsky with his vision! Then Petrofsky overboard! Now you, you too have seen this mysterious old man!”
“He was not, captain. Not old. He was young, tall and thin. Pale as a ghost.”
He stared at Olgaren, an experienced man of the sea, dripping on his cabin floor like a child, frightened into tears and babbling of ghosts. The captain's anger vanished, replaced by fear. “Tell me,” Nikilov said. He handed the sailor a towel. “Tell me, Moisey, what you saw.”
Olgaren dried his face and recounted the previous night. When he had made an end, Nikilov sat dumbfounded. What the sailor had described could not have happened. It was utter nonsense. Yet, Olgaren believed it. The man was no liar. Nor could he have invented the story being, as he was, devoid of imagination. What in the name of God was happening aboard his ship?
Petrofsky reported a stranger on deck and, soon, went to a watery grave. Now Olgaren had made a report - of a different stranger. Was some contagion raging aboard his vessel? Had it driven Petrofsky mad? Was this faithful sailor next? What if these events were the result, not of human frailty but of choice? Was someone, Olgaren, trying to interrupt the workings of his ship? To what end? To prevent the delivery of his cargo? Something more evil? Could there be a simple explanation for the fears of his crew? His own growing paranoia?
“Captain?”
Nikilov returned to the crewman staring in the lamplight. “We will search the ship again,” Nikilov said qu
ietly. What else could he do? The man was in a panic he could not allow to spread. He needed to allay those fears. “We will search the ship from stem to stern.”
Relief passed over Olgaren like a wave. Somebody was doing something.
“In the meantime,” Nikilov added, “You must keep this to yourself. Not a word to anyone. Get something to break your fast and await my order.”
* * *
Olgaren joined Amramoff and Popescu at breakfast and, following orders, didn't say a word. Their questions were met with grunts; their jokes with indifference. Had he been anyone else, they might have taken offense. But when you are six-two, beneath a six-foot overhead, you are granted dispensation. After the meal, normally, he would have hit his bunk. There was nothing normal about Olgaren's morning. Instead, following their bread and butter, bad coffee, and worse tea, the big man followed them up; Amramoff and Popescu to work, he to wait.
Behind them, Harrington dragged himself from Ekaterina's cabin to the galley, vacant now save for the cook, and sat at the long table.
“Jings, lad,” Swales said, pouring him a cup.
“If you're suggesting I look a bit haggard, I am sure you're right.”
“Haggard? Ye look like ye were ate by wolves an' shite out o'er the Stonehaven cliffs. How's the lass? Sleepin'?”
“We argued all night. She wouldn't sleep; leapt about like a caged animal. Insisted she was recovered. Insisted she be let up and out. I had to hold her down to keep her in the room. She became abusive. Called me horrendous names. Said she wished her father and brothers had shot me.”
Swales set down the pot, scowling. The report seemed wildly out of character for the girl he knew. “Ye convinced her t'would be best to stay abed?”
“That's just it. I didn't. She battled me outrageously, then just stopped, as if I'd grabbed her whip hand. Retreated to her bed and went out like a snuffed candle.”
“She slept?”
“I assume.” Harrington looked sheepish. “I don't know, actually. Something came over me. I failed her; fell asleep sitting there.”
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 15