What was happening to them?
* * *
The men closed up the boxes. They covered them, tied them down, blew the lanterns out and left the hold. All… but Eltsin. The second mate could not leave, not yet. He peered into the shadowy depths… certain he'd heard something. Movement? Yes. Rats? Possibly, but he didn't believe so. It was more than the presence of vermin.
“Come away,” the captain had said. Eltsin returned to the deck.
There, for the first time in days, the second heard laughter and witnessed smiles. He saw a relieved crew. Eager to maintain that mood, Nikilov allowed them a celebration of sorts before getting under way. With the captain's permission, even his approval, an early rum ration was ordered and the men brought their instruments up. There was music, singing, even dancing. The festivities ran for three-quarters of an hour before Constantin, at the master's urging, returned them to their work.
Even then, they went about it cheerfully. The singing continued with the men in the shrouds, at the sails and at the rails, while Nikilov and the mate looked on from the deck. The captain beamed. Constantin glared. The second, passing both on the way to the helm, overheard Nikilov whisper, “You see, Iancu? You see their confidence? The search did not demoralize the men. I told you.”
The first made no reply. He merely watched – and scowled.
* * *
The morning, 18 July, came earlier than Nikilov expected.
He awoke with a start, perspiration beaded on his lip, his forehead, his chest – and he didn't know why. There had been no alarm, no cries, no unwarranted jostling of his ship. All was peaceful, quiet as the tomb. Still he was wide awake. What was the matter?
They'd settled their concerns with yesterday's search. There were no murderous stowaways, ghosts, or bogies. The events of the last days had been unfortunate circumstance brewed in a cauldron of suspicion and superstition. They'd scared themselves like children. Petrofsky's fate was a mystery and, as you could not know the unknowable, would remain so.
They were in full sail and under way again, traveling without incident north of the African continent on a westerly course through the gorgeous Mediterranean Sea. Hadn't Olgaren played his accordion and sung last night? If the big man could sing, what could be wrong? All was well.
So, Nikilov wondered, why couldn't he sleep? Why couldn't he shake this feeling of doom?
He lit his lantern, bathing his desk in a flickering glow, and considered the bottle in his desk drawer. (The heart medicine he'd been prescribed.) He pushed the idea away. His problems were in his head, not his heart.
He pulled a volume (one he'd purchased ages ago but never used) from his shelf. It was not in Nikilov's nature to keep a journal. Living was enough; he saw no reason to relive events. And who else cared about the routine of an old sea dog. He could read but did not consider himself literate and he was no writer. Still, strangely, he felt compelled. He opened the book to the intimidating emptiness of the first page and, putting pen to paper, scribbled in his sharp angular scrawl, LOG OF THE “DEMETER”. Beneath he wrote, Varna to Whitby. Then, in hopes of excusing himself, for who starts a ship's log halfway through the voyage, he added, Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land.
He paused again to decide how and where to begin. An overview seemed natural, but that brought its own concerns. He wrestled with his conscience and, finally, entered the crew compliment: five hands. He considered adding their names but, with one seaman missing and presumed dead, decided against it. Instead, he finished the list, writing; two mates, cook, and captain. It only made sense (as he had done on the ship's manifest) to leave the deck `boy' out of it. Why admit in writing he was a fool? That Constantin had signed Funar meant nothing; the captain was responsible for that girl being aboard. He'd take the responsibility, but saw no need to proclaim it. Likewise, he decided against any mention of young Harrington. He was still in hopes of getting the Englishman off without anyone being the wiser. Both were better left off of any written record.
Nikilov heard movement in the companionway and opened his door to see Harrington step from the guest berth. The phrase popped into his head, Pomyani chorta, on i poyavitsya. How did the English say, “Speak of the devil… and there he is.”
“How is the patient?”
“The same, captain.” Harrington shook his head. “Strangely cyclical. She…” He caught himself. “He… seems to recover in the night and relapse after sunrise with little overall improvement.”
The captain nodded. There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask, but the answers (what few there were) had so far offered no satisfaction. “Thank you, Herr Harrington. Please, carry on.” He closed his door with a renewed determination. He'd had enough of no satisfaction. It was time for something different. The search of the ship had lightened the mood among the men. A lighter mood was what Demeter's master needed as well.
It was Sunday. They would hold services this morning; thank God for their blessings and their new-found mood. They would have a fine day at sea. This evening, he would dine with the crew. Together, they would sit down to one of Swales' fine meals and even finer plum puddings.
But first…
He returned to the ship's Log. Captain Nikilov would record, as best he could remember, the significant events that had befallen his ship and crew since leaving the port of Varna on the 6th of July.
* * *
The between-decks door came open and an amber sliver of light stabbed into the forehold. The second mate slipped in and secured the door. He'd been hiding in the shadows, in the mess, waiting for the coast to clear. Why Harrington and the captain were awake at that hour, and what they were discussing, was anyone's guess. Thankfully, the conversation was short. The commander returned to his cabin, the Englishman to Funar's, and the companionway was clear.
He descended the stairs carrying a roll under his arm and wearing a knife in his belt. He crossed the hold, lit the mast lamp and lifted it down. They'd been over the compartment with a fine-toothed comb. There was nothing, every man aboard was satisfied. Everyone… but him. He could not explain it, but Georgiy Eltsin knew there was something evil in that hold.
His mind made up, he went about his business. He turned the lamp up. He unrolled the canvas, revealing a hammock, and tied it between the mast and the starboard bulkhead. His intention may not have been sane, but it made sense to him. He would camp here. He would spend every waking moment, not occupied by ship's duties, on the look-out in that hold. If there was a secret in Demeter's cargo, Eltsin intended to discover it; suicidal seamen, old ghosts, or restless young spirits be damned.
The second climbed into the hammock, swaying with the ship. He followed the light about the hold, the boxes, tarps, barrels, sand – the long shadows reaching for him, then away, reaching for him, then away, to the sounds of surging water and groaning wood.
“Come on, you bastard,” Eltsin whispered under his breath. “Come and get me.”
Chapter Twenty
Fear and evil.
The crew of Demeter took a respite from the former, convinced for the moment the latter was a figment of their imaginations. The master of the vessel, proclaiming the same, secretly set his fears to paper to convince himself. The second mate swallowed his fears in pursuit of that evil. In her cabin, despite the efforts of a young scholar and an old cook, Ekaterina suffered egregiously from both. But Demeter was not the only canvas being painted with the unholy blackness of fear and evil.
On Monday, 19 July, as the Russian schooner continued westward across the Mediterranean, her passengers and crew were unaware that over two thousand miles away, in England, strange events were happening in a Purfleet mental hospital and, less than three hundred miles to the north, in the port village of Whitby; events influenced by the dark evil in Demeter's hold.
* * *
“My God!”
The exclamation echoed within the walls of the private asylum, in Purfleet near th
e river Thames, on the eastern outskirts of London. It rang through the halls, up and down the floors of the Seward Sanitarium, and out across land and sea. John Seward stood aghast. Well-kept but rumpled, weary yet alert, the young put-upon psychiatrist rocked in the doorway of Renfield's room – squinting as the morning sun stabbed through the barred window. “My God! The birds!”
They were everywhere; flitting to and fro. Thick males in gray and brown with black bibs; duller females in buff; young ones, deep brown with round heads and short tails; on the window sill, clinging to the bars. One rode the torn wallpaper like a seaman walking the plank. Several on the floor pecked dirt with their stout bills. Several flapped around a bowl of water on a writing table. One strutted a shelf above Renfield's cot while a young one warbled from his perch on the pillow. The air was alive with incessant variations of chirrup, quee, and chur-chur-r-r-it-it-it.
“No, doctor,” the lunatic corrected. “Not birds. Sparrows.”
Renfield was fifty-nine, according to his admission papers, but looked younger. Other than his vibrancy, too big ears, and too intense gray eyes, he was unremarkable. His collection of pets, on the other hand, was worthy of remark.
“Sparrows, yes,” the flabbergasted Seward agreed. “But you've a whole colony. How many are there? One… two… And what's happened to the rest of your flies and spiders?” He nosed in Renfield's things. “They're obliterated; all but gone.”
“So they are,” the patient said.
“To the birds, eh, the sparrows? Don't they prefer seeds? Grains?”
“Prefer them? They're like us; opportunists. They adapt – and eat whatever is available.”
“Spiders?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Anything with life in it,” the lunatic said impatiently. “But, please, I want to ask you a very great favor.” Renfield's impatience vanished – as he descended into rapture. “A kitten! Oh, doctor, might I have a nice, sleek, little kitten, that I can play with, and teach, and feed…” Then came a quality of menace, “…and feed… and feed!”
The doctor hesitated, caught off guard. “I, eh, I'll, eh, see about it.” To regain the upper hand, he added, “Wouldn't you rather have a cat than a kitten?”
“Oh, yes!” the lunatic cried. “I would like a cat!”
Now you're watching me. You're always watching, Dr. Seward. You tempt me with a cat. But you're the cat. You're the cat and I'm your mouse… to thump with your paw, to flick with your claws, to lay your hand upon my head and hold me – helpless – until you choose to do away with me. I'm on to you – cat. The self-important bastard lording over his lunatic. But I know, and you don't know, I'm not your lunatic. I'm the master's lunatic. The master's servant when the time is right. I know something else, Dr. Seward. I know that you are everything he has grown to detest throughout the centuries. He hates you; he's telling me even now. And, yes… I hate you too. I feel your fear.
“Renfield,” Seward said, involuntarily taking a step back from his patient – and his patient's icy stare. “Renfield?”
I would like very much, I think, to kill you, doctor.
“Renfield? Renfield, can you hear me?”
This is your lucky day, Dr. Seward. The master says not yet. I cannot kill you… yet. I will continue to play the game; to be the fool. I will bide my time… as the master so patiently bides his.
“Renfield!”
“Please, Dr. Seward,” the obedient one cried, surfacing as if he'd never been away, throwing himself on his knees. “Please let me have a cat. My salvation depends upon it!”
“No,” the appalled doctor replied. “You cannot have a cat!”
Renfield sank into silence.
Abandoning his sulking patient to his disappointment, the psychiatrist paused outside to insist the orderly secure the man's door. “Lock it, Martin! I don't want birds flying through the sanitarium.”
You're fooling yourself, doctor. You think you've accomplished something for your science. That, in goading me, you've learned something. You're fooling yourself. I'm not thinking of you; not listening to you. I'm listening to the master. He's coming. He's a long way off, but he's drawing nearer. As he bides his time, so will I obediently bide mine.
* * *
The following day, Tuesday, 20 July, Martin knocked excitedly on Dr. Seward's study door. The orderly was a white-suited cockney, out from London to escape the bustle, who found – with Renfield's arrival – he'd leapt from the frying pan into the fire. He'd been made the fly-eater's warder and, oh, how he longed for the old stresses of The Smoke.
The doctor bid him enter, certain (as it was only eleven in the morning) it was too early for anything awful to have happened. Seward was wrong. A crisis had taken place and the exasperated orderly began his report – as he began all his reports – with a sigh and the words, “It's Renfield, sir…”
“Yes? What is it?”
“'e's very sick, doctor.”
“Sick? That's strange. I saw him this morning. He looked robust. He was humming a tune and spreading sugar on the window sill.”
“Yes, doctor. Goin' about `is old business o' fly catchin' again. An' cheerful 'e was.”
“Yes, and?”
“Ye told me to report if `e got up t' anythin' odd.” Martin doffed his cap and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Well, sir, I got to finkin', wonderin' what `e was up to. I didn't see none o' `is birds first time I stopped. I went back an', blimey, if I wasn't right, 'is birds - 'is sparrows - was gone.”
“Yes. They were this morning. I asked where to and he replied they had all flown away.”
“So `e says. But, I looks, see, an' there was feathers `ere an' there about the room an' a bit o' what looked like blood on `is pillow. Now 'e's sick, very sick indeed. 'e, uh, 'e vomited quite violently not long ago an', bless me if `e didn't disgorge a 'ole lot o' feathers.”
“Feathers?”
“It's my belief, doctor, that `e's eaten 'is birds. The lot of 'em. 'e just took an' ate 'em raw!”
* * *
You said you wanted to talk with me, Dr. Seward. But you don't. This is not conversation. It is pontification; a lecture for your captive audience. Or should I say… your captive. What have you done with the birds, you ask. But you do not wait for a response. You don't want a response because this is not a conversation.
Again, the stare. The doctor did what he could to control a shiver, and hoped it hadn't been too obvious. Still Renfield's icy stare. No reason to drag this out, Seward thought. He'd made his point. He administered an opiate, which the patient took without trouble. Heavily but necessarily medicated, he would leave Renfield to sleep. Or, at least, to lie quiet for the night.
As he started for the door, Seward picked up the small notebook which Renfield made such a habit of scribbling in and slipped it into his pocket. It was more than curiosity. He was the man's doctor. “Good night, Renfield,” he said. There was no answer.
The psychiatrist could feel Renfield's eyes, drooping slits from medication, against his back, watching him depart. Worse, and this made no sense, he swore he could feel a second pair of eyes as well, all the way out the door. Someone else watching. The doctor admonished himself for being foolish. Of course, no such thing had happened. Renfield may have been a rare case but he had the standard set of two eyes; no more. Be that as it may, he felt a wave of genuine relief when Martin turned the key, securing the fly-eater in his room for the night.
* * *
Seward jumped…
Unnecessarily, as it turned out, startled like a child by a flash of movement and color in the corner as he entered his study. He lit the coal-gas lamps and turned to that which had frightened him – Tabby, the sanitarium's cat.
There was nothing alarming about the animal. She was your standard British Shorthair - in calico. Renfield's orderly called her `the clouded tiger' but others on the staff pooh-poohed the moniker declaring her tortoiseshell-and-white coat too striking to be `clouded'. She'd been given them by a recovered patient with t
he declaration she would `bring good luck'. She had done for the cook as Tabby spent her mornings mousing in the larder. Her afternoons were taken up roaming the sanitarium garden, and she spent her nights lounging in Seward's study. The doctor did not believe in luck. Neither was he a cat fancier. But he had to admit, despite the occasional startle, Tabby had become one of the family.
“You scared me. Don't do that,” Seward told the cat, wagging a finger and wasting an admonition.
It was gone eleven at night and Seward had patient notes to record, starting with the interesting but exasperating Renfield. As for the tortured man… He'd explained as plainly as he was able Renfield would have to come to grips with what he'd done – from the flies through and including the disastrous end he'd afforded his sparrows. What else could he do?
“Renfield, my homicidal maniac,” Seward said aloud. “You are a creature unto yourself.”
At his desk, rifling the pages of the notebook he'd borrowed from the lunatic, he wrestled with his thoughts. “Peculiar… one of a kind. I shall have to invent a new classification for you. But what?” He tossed the notebook aside and took up his pen. “I shall call you a zoophagous maniac; meaning life-eating. For what you desire is to absorb as many lives as you can. You gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird. Then you wanted a cat, presumably to eat the many birds.” He eyed the skulking Tabby and the obvious question popped into his head. “What would have been your later steps? What kind of a monster are you, my friend?”
Unable, yet, to answer the question, Seward began jotting his notes.
* * *
“Yes, of course, dear. I'm terribly excited too,” Mrs. Westenra said. A dignified widow, with an excitable blossoming daughter, she casually sipped her tea looking pleased but not in the least excited. “She'll soon be here. Only four days. Four days and Mina will be in Whitby.”
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 17