Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage

by Doug Lamoreux

  “Did anythin' come of it?”

  “No. She's sleeping. Sometime this morning she was up, unfastened the door and pulled her bandage off. She tied a scarf about her throat and…” He hesitated, searching for the least embarrassing way to present it. “She… left herself rather unfastened as well.”

  “Good Gog!” Swales sat heavily. “What changes? She's…?”

  “Unchanged, as far as I can see. I don't know what she was about, but I don't think she left the room. She merely fell asleep. I should not have drifted off.”

  Swales sagged with relief. “Let it be, Trevor. You canno' go w'out sleep. An' she's all right.”

  “Not at all! No more did the rain stop and the sun rise than she suffered another attack; crying, writhing about as if in a nightmare. Now she looks as pale as ever.”

  “Which is she, lad, unchanged or relapsed?”

  “Oliver, please. I'm bedeviled as it is. I no longer think of it as relapse. She has a night condition and a daytime condition. It's daylight again, and she's sickly and back abed.”

  There came a rap and the first stuck in his head. “You might keep it down.” Though it was not a request, neither did it appear to have been delivered with ire. “Mr. Harrington, how is Funar?”

  He studied the mate, wondering if Constantin was human after all? “Not well, I'm afraid.”

  “Sleeping?”

  “Yes. But only just.”

  Constantin nodded. “You are wanted on deck, both of you, if the patient can spare you.”

  Without waiting for a reply (his humanity was limited), the first turned and was gone.

  * * *

  Constantin and Eltsin book-ended Amramoff, steering, and the captain at the wheel. The crew spilled around the gear house on the mizzen deck. Harrington, having paused to check Ekaterina, arrived late and joined Swales (knocking hell out of his pipe bowl at the rail). A put-upon Olgaren was the focus of many questions coming quickly from mates and hands alike.

  “You are saying you saw Petrofsky's strange man? There is someone in the ship?”

  “I saw something. I do not know who or what. He was tall and thin, with a great mustache.”

  “What you are describing, that is Petrofsky's old man!”

  “He was not old. He was young, dark and pale.”

  “You mean we have two stowaways?”

  “You saw a ghost!” All eyes fell on Popescu, who didn't care. “He was pale? What are you saying? It was a ghost?”

  “Oh yes!” Amramoff laughed. “We have two ghosts?”

  “There are no ghosts – young or old,” Constantin shouted angrily. “You saw what you cannot explain. That does not make it a ghost! Nor a stowaway. We mistake things; in the weather, the night, the lamplight. Shadows become phantoms, reflections become ghosts. Your eyes played a trick in the rain. This ship is not haunted!”

  * * *

  Ekaterina awoke, cramping, working to breathe, in an empty cabin. A blanket lay over her, her nightshirt was buttoned, and a new bandage covered her neck. She had no memory of the previous night, save flashes of an argument with Trevor. Why and what about, she did not know. All she knew was Trevor was gone.

  She stood to a swirling dizziness. Feeling lost and alone, she had something to do. She stole a look beyond the door, found the companionway empty, and against orders sneaked out.

  Voices settled through the scuttle from above. The crew, gathered about the helm, were loudly debating some topic she was too sick to care about. What mattered was they were busy and hopefully would be for a while. Quietly, carefully steadying herself, Ekaterina lifted the cover at her feet, opening the scuttle to the aft hold. She slipped through and disappeared into the dark.

  * * *

  The discussion built with questions argued, fears expressed. All to the good, Nikilov thought. In the open, their superstitious terrors would not eat away at the men. When a fight threatened, when the mate shouted the men down, the captain ended it. “We will search the ship again.”

  The first studied the captain. Unable to contain the forces building within, he asked through gritted teeth if he might have a word. They stepped away.

  “I beg your pardon, captain, but this is folly. We have searched the ship. There is no stowaway. There is no stranger, young or old. To search the first time was prudent. To yield to such foolishness again would demoralize the men.”

  “We cannot ignore this.”

  “I do not suggest we ignore it. I suggest we get ahead of it.”

  “You are not listening, Iancu. We must hold control of the ship – and the mens' fears.”

  “My point exactly, sir. Leave it to me and I will engage to do that. I will keep them out of trouble, I assure you, with the handspike.”

  “You would beat the fear from them?” The captain studied his first with weary eyes. He shook his head at the hot-blooded Romanian. “Take the helm, Mr. Constantin.”

  * * *

  In the aft hold, a groggy and ill Ekaterina pulled a package from its hiding place. The package she'd hidden there on the day they sailed. Her only connection to her old life, her last hold (outside of Harrington) on the world she once knew. She opened it, peeled back the paper inside, revealing a lovely and delicate white gown; the dress she'd carried with her from Bukovina and spoken of to Trevor that first night he'd found her out.

  She held it out, remembering its beauty but straining to see in the darkness. She pulled it close, relishing its softness. She rubbed her cheek against the fabric – and began to cry.

  * * *

  On deck, the meeting over, the search was about to begin. Rather than split into parties, it was decided they would tour en mass. They lit three lanterns (watched by the disapproving mate at the wheel). Swales was sent forward to guard the bow and scream bloody murder if anyone showed his face before they ended. The rest started down the aft scuttle holes into the between-decks.

  They reconvened outside of the captain's and passenger's cabins. Nikilov opened his, showed all it was empty and secured it again. Harrington begged them, in a whisper, to by-pass the other. “Funar just fell asleep. He was awake all night. I assure you there is no tall man inside.”

  “Open the door,” Popescu said angrily. He leaned in threateningly.

  “That is enough,” the captain said, putting a hand between them. “Herr Harrington, your word as an Englishman? Funar sleeps? The berth is otherwise empty?”

  Harrington nodded curtly, eyeing Popescu with distain. “I assure you.”

  “Then it is pointless to wake him.” Nikilov smiled, satisfied. “There is no tall phantom in the sick room,” he declared. He looked among the crew and, one-by-one, received their nods of agreement. Finally, begrudgingly, Popescu added his.

  The captain led them away, moving forward, where half of the group inspected the crew's quarters on one side of the companionway, and half went through the mess, hot galley, and cook's berth on the other. Amramoff popped up the ladder, waved to the scowling Constantin, and came back down again. Certain of the between-decks, they passed into the forward hold.

  “One of you remain here,” the captain said, leading the others abaft. “We'll start in the stern.”

  * * *

  In the aft hold, Ekaterina, dizzy and sick, was still clinging to her lovely dress, still crying, and drowning in a flood of images from her past, in her fears for a future that suddenly felt lost, and in her own feelings of mortality. Suddenly, she was shaken from her reverie. A multitude was approaching via the forward holds and was very near.

  There was no time to wrap her dress back up or to hide the package again. There was no time to do anything but run. She threw the dress over her shoulder and started up the scuttle ladder. In terror, aware of the risk from above, but sure she was about to be caught from below, she had no choice. She popped the scuttle cover and scrambled up through the hatch into the between-decks.

  The companionway was empty but she had no time to bless her luck. She pushed the hatch cover back i
nto place, just closing the scuttle hole when…

  * * *

  The search party entered the aft hold.

  With no clue anyone had recently visited, they made a quick and thorough check by lantern light. Not that there was much to search; stacks of sand ballast and a cloying dampness from the rain, nothing more. They were satisfied. They left the way they'd come, making sure of the midship hold, and ending in the forward hold again.

  It was flooded with daylight now. Swales had opened the overhead doors and, from his deck perch, watched them conduct the final leg of their search.

  As Harrington had discovered in the Turkish straits, there were few good places to hide. The bulk of the fifty boxes, sand, barrels of lamp oil, and the ship's stores were all that occupied a space created to hold 199 tons of cargo. There was considerable open space and no sign of a stranger, old or young, ghost or human. The search had come up empty.

  The captain thanked the second and his men. “That, I believe,” Nikilov said, “ends the matter.” He turned headed up. Harrington followed, hoping he and Swales could finish their tea.

  Behind them, Eltsin dismissed the men. To his surprise, they seemed less than anxious to go. Popescu, as was his nature, put the matter into words. “Are you not sick yet of searching for nothing?” When Eltsin admitted he was, the Romanian pounced. “Shall we not make an end of it then? Let us open these boxes, every one of them, and complete the search.”

  “Don't be ridiculous. We can't tear open the cargo. Its safety is the whole point of the voyage.”

  “We need not tear a thing. We open them carefully; we close them again with the same care. Then we know.”

  “We know what? The Turks opened them.”

  “They did not open them all. We will open every box.”

  “Fifty of them? They contain nothing but dirt.”

  “Then we cannot hurt them.”

  It was ludicrous. But now the notion had settled, and Popescu's influence worked its way over them, the men seemed united. They stood in the pool of daylight from above, pleading with their eyes for Eltsin to give them hope, silently begging him to help vanquish their fears. “Quietly,” Eltsin said, hesitant but relenting. “With no damage to any of the boxes, you understand!”

  The men quickly agreed.

  Amramoff, being the carpenter, led them in carefully prying the lids off the boxes. The first five revealed nothing but the expected dirt. The lid of a sixth came up initiating a bit more excitement. Two rats, having found their way inside, were now noisily looking for an exit. Olgaren provided one, to the excited shouts from the others, with the heel of his boot. Their death-squeals jangled the nerves of more than one among them. Triumphant, Olgaren carried the dead vermin to the top of the ladder and pitched them into the sea.

  With calm restored, the search of the cargo boxes was resumed.

  * * *

  Only a few feet away, Count Dracula lay awake. Fresh air and tiny shafts of sunlight stole in through the holes in his box. The air stirred the mold in his earth-bed, the light pricked his skin like hot needles. He could hear the humans opening the other boxes and fought the urge to explode from his casket and kill them all. What were they to him?

  But he knew better. As humiliating as it was, they were his transport to England. Reaching England, Whitby first and thereafter London, was what mattered.

  He felt his box being jostled, heard the Romanian language – and several variations of the guttural Russian – as the jostlers called to one another, and the thud of metal on wood. The beveled tip of an iron bar entered his box at the corner. It wagged forcefully, the wood groaned, there came a shrill exclamation as the nails and lid rose a fraction. Dracula sank his fingernails into the underside of the cover. He gritted his teeth, cursed his need to remain hidden, and held fast matching the pressure from without.

  His rage grew. With whom did these fools think they were dealing? He was the Voivode; the son of the Dragon. He led his forces over the great river Danube into the land of the Turk. When they were beaten back, he led the charge again, and again. Alone, he'd come from the field of battle where his troops were slaughtered, each time to regroup and attack again. Who were these fools?

  Again came the bar in another assault. He held fast to the sound of Russian curses. A second bar entered the thin gap at his right side manipulated by another Russian teasing the first. Lifting pressure was applied. Dracula held fast. He was cornered, he realized, but not helpless. He needed a diversion.

  Still holding the casket lid, Dracula whispered, “E-kat-erina!”

  * * *

  Following the search, Swales made the mistake of staying too long in the bow. More, he'd made the mistake of looking into the forward hold. He'd gotten an eyeful of the crew starting their extended search. The dumb bastards were opening every container in the hold. He watched, disbelieving, secured the hatch doors and hurried below. Not to intervene, but to distance himself. Better to be at tea with Harrington than witness the wreck of the captain's cargo.

  He was just leading the scholar into the mess when the door to the passenger's cabin was yanked open and Ekaterina ran out. Pale and sickly, but moving like an Olympian, she raced down the companionway in their direction with glazed eyes. It was obvious they were not her target, but merely an obstacle. They grabbed her as she tried to pass.

  “Here, lass, whe-re ye' goin'?”

  “Let me go.”

  “Ekaterina, what is it.”

  “Let me go. Let me go!”

  Just that quickly there was chaos between-decks. Ekaterina screamed she needed to get by while, together, they prevented her. Nikilov stepped from his quarters, saw the tumult, and assisted them in getting the hysterical woman back into her cabin.

  “We have her, sir,” Swales said, as he and Harrington wrestled her onto the lower bunk.

  “You've got to quiet her down.” the captain insisted.

  “Let go of me. You don't understand. He needs me!”

  Harrington looked to Swales. “What is she talking about?”

  “It doesn't matter,” the captain said, behind them. “She must be quiet!”

  “We'll see to it, sir,” Swales assured him.

  “Let go of me,” Ekaterina shouted, struggling. “The master needs me!”

  Harrington, all but on top of the young woman, clamped his hand over her mouth. Over his shoulder, he reassured the commander. “We will see to it.”

  The captain left, pulling the door closed. He paused for breath outside the room. “The master needs me.” That's what the girl had said. Nikilov could not help but feel a tinge of pride. Even in her fever, she felt a duty to the ship and to him. The master of Demeter mouthed a silent prayer for the girl's quick recovery and a wish that more of his crew had her devotion to duty. If only the secret of her presence could be revealed. The crew needed…

  The thought was interrupted… by another din, equally egregious, forward and below, as if he needed another difficulty. What, in the good name of God, was going on in his hold?

  * * *

  “Did you hear that?” Popescu asked nervously.

  “What?” Amramoff demanded.

  “A scream! A woman's scream!”

  “You are out of your mind… and I'm busy.” The agitated carpenter, sweat pouring as he bent to the stubborn casket, looked to Olgaren. “I never seen the like.” Olgaren, on the opposite side, sweating twice as much, nodded in agreement. They wrenched at their respective bars, the wood barked, but the lid would not rise.

  The others had ceased their labors to watch; Smirnov with amusement, Popescu under a nagging fear (the imagined screams did not help), the second in growing concern these apes would break the container. “Be careful,” Eltsin warned, “whatever you do.”

  All were startled when the door to the between-decks flew open and Captain Nikilov filled the void. “What,” he shouted, “is going on in my hold?”

  His entire compliment, save the mate and cook, stood below bathed in lampligh
t with pry bars in their hands. Beside them, to his disbelief, several shipping containers lay open. While to his horror, only a few feet away, two men were opening another. “Stop what you are doing! Stop it now!” Nikilov descended the stairs. “How dare you touch my cargo!”

  The bars were stilled, the powerful hands fell slack. “The fault is mine, captain,” Eltsin said. “The men wanted to be sure and, I thought, if we took care not to damage them…”

  “You thought? You are suggesting we have a stowaway inside our sealed boxes? That Petrofsky's old man… Olgaren's young man… are stored in the hold? They have been living here for eleven days without food or water? They squeeze through cracks in nailed containers to stroll the deck? And, when they are seen, they jump overboard to avoid questions?”

  Nikilov's voice echoed. Then he laughed and the dam burst. One by one the men began to laugh too. Soon all were, as if they were drunk. “Come away,” the captain said, a great weight suddenly off his heart. “We've searched and there is nothing here; nothing but our own mad, empty fears. Come, we have sails to set and a voyage to start anew. Close up these boxes. Put them right, that our consignee will be pleased to receive them. Know there is nothing aboard this ship that ought not be here.”

  Amramoff and Olgaren pulled their pry bars from the box they'd been forcing. They hammered the nails back home, securing the casket.

  * * *

  Ekaterina passed out. One instant she was fighting them tooth and nail. The next, she was unconscious, as if she'd been struck with a truncheon. There seemed no more reason for her losing consciousness than for her having become hysterical in the first place. Swales collapsed in the desk chair and sighed in relief. Harrington, winded but grateful, tucked the girl under her blanket. He ran his fingers through her butchered hair remembering, not long ago, when it was long and beautiful; when life was beautiful. What was happening to them?

  He saw something protruding from beneath her mattress, took hold and gently eased it out. It was a white gown with frills and lace, billowed sleeves and a delicate cincture. Her new dress. Funar had, no doubt, secreted it aboard in her kit. He squeezed the soft fabric, held it to him, rubbed it on his cheek (in need of a shave). He watched Ekaterina's breast rise and fall, and wondered again…