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

by Doug Lamoreux

  Swales sat up rubbing the sand from his eyes and wondering what in hell Olgaren was doing in his room. Then reason returned and he realized he was in the crew's quarters. But why? He'd been relieved, he didn't know when, sometime Wednesday morning (21 July), and came out of the rain. He was exhausted and cold. Yes, it was summer in the Mediterranean, but he was nearly seventy, soaked, and in the wind for hours. He had no memory of lying down. But he had – in the crew's quarters.

  Swales heard the BANG and the room went dark. And again, and the dim light was back. Olgaren had failed to secure the door and, with each roll of the ship, it slapped either the sill or the bulkhead. It continued to do so, back and forth, BANG and BANG, as the ship rode the waves.

  Swales grabbed the bunk frame and weathered a swell while the door smacked the wall again. He was unsure of the time but clearly up for the day. Should he feel like lying down again, it would be in his own bunk. He pulled his boots on, gathered his coat as he stood, and headed out. Still in possession of his humanity, he closed the door for Olgaren.

  Harrington, relieved, soaked, and coming down found Swales in the companionway. “Aren't you on the wrong side of the hall?” he asked. His smile belied his exhaustion. “Or shouldn't I ask?”

  “Ask what ye will. I've no answer fer ye, as I've no' one for masel. I joined the crew an', after last night, I'm grateful to wake no matter the bed. Is it the light or could ye use a bed yersel.”

  “I could use a cup… if you were making some.”

  “Don't light the stove in a storm, but it feels we've e'ened out. A couple o' hot kettles will go a long way toward rightin' the whole crew. Ye keep me company, I'll keep ye awake.” Swales crossed into the mess.

  “I shan't be long, Oliver. I'm going to look in on Ekaterina.”

  Swales muttered an acknowledgement. A moment later, as he ladled two kettles of water from the larder cask, he heard a commotion. It was difficult to identify for, though the storm had lessened, it still made itself known. As he struck a match to the kindling, Swales heard it again; louder, longer, rife with terror. Harrington was shouting! Cursing himself for ignoring the first, he doused the match in the sand and hurried out. He reached the aft end of the companionway as fast as his arthritis allowed and saw the door to the passenger's cabin ajar… “Trevor,” he said, as he pushed the door open.

  Swales looked in with disbelieving eyes and gasped, “Good Lord!”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Harrington was on her bunk, clutching Ekaterina, rocking her and crying. She was unconscious, bleeding from her reopened throat wounds. Blood smears marred her lips and chin. “The door was open,” he bawled. “She was like this, her head on the floor, dropped there like so much rubbish.”

  They settled the girl in bed and Swales tended her. He examined the inside of her eyelid, peeled down her lower lip. What should have been healthy pink tissue in both were a dull blue. He pinched her fingernail turning it white, released it, and waited what seemed an eternity before the pink returned. “It's as if she were drained,” he whispered. “Drained o' blood.”

  Harrington grabbed his arm. “What does that mean?!”

  “Calm yersel', lad. It means what I said. Somethin's drained the girl's blood… fer a second time. An' there's damn little I can do.”

  “You must do something! Give her blood. Give her my blood!” He ripped his cuff open, yanked his sleeve up. “You don't imagine I'd object, surely?”

  “T'is no' aboot yer objectin' or no.”

  “Then give her my blood. I've read of it; a transfusion. It can be done!”

  “It can, aye, but no' here. Jings, lad, think. We mended Petrofsky's hand with a filed fish hook. D' ye think I'dda done that if I had the wherewithal to cross blood? I have neither the equipment nor the knowledge and I'd likely kill her quick as any shipboard malady. I'm no' a doctor! I'm a cook, tryin' to get home like thee! There's precious little I can do.” Swales squeezed Harrington's shoulder with all the strength in his gnarled hand. “But I will do all I can.”

  The wounds on her throat, more worrying now because of their inexplicable re-opening, were cleaned and bandaged. Extra pillows were collected for props to assist her breathing. Swales eyed the porthole, certain the child would benefit from fresh air, but the wind and waves precluded the idea.

  Harrington hovered. “How is she?”

  “She's sickly. Trevor, ye need a lie down.”

  “Damn blast it, Oliver! How is she?”

  “She's near death! An' I'm sayin' nowt ye don't know already. I can no' treat her an' attend to ye as well. Now, listen to me. Listen! Ye've been a-deck all night, near drowned. Ye need rest as…”

  “I can't rest!” Harrington insisted.

  “Ye can't go on, no' an' do her any good. I'll do what I can. But I'm too old to go on fore'er. When I fail, ye'll need be there for her. An' ye won't be if ye do no' get some sleep now.” Harrington tried to speak, but Swales interrupted. “It's clear, we canno' leave the wee lass alone. One o' us must be w' her. I'm rested now. Ye must ge' rested to spell me. Now, argue with that an' ye're nowt but a fool.”

  He couldn't and didn't. With Swales' assurance there was nothing to contribute, he kissed Ekaterina's clammy forehead and left to get some sleep.

  Swales returned his attention to the girl who surfaced to semi-consciousness in agony. He mixed a powder for her pain and helped her drink. He paced for a time, watching, wondering what if anything he could do. It was then, while most helpless, he made a fascinating discovery.

  The girl moaned, rocking, as if she were lying on broken glass. Swales paused between her and the outer bulkhead and noted that, of a sudden, she seemed to relax. The medication had taken hold. Relieved, he stepped away, and was startled as Ekaterina cried out. He turned back but, before he reached her, saw her relax. Swales stared, perplexed. Again he moved and again the girl cried out and cringed. “Jings,” Swales whispered. It was damned strange. Something was turning the girl's pain on and off like a lantern.

  Beyond her condition nothing about her appeared out of the ordinary. He examined himself, seeing only that which he expected, and too the cabin. All was as before, with the exception of a beam of sunlight dissecting the room from the porthole. Swales approached noting that a crease had opened in the storm and a startling gold beam of light stabbed through the gray clouds like the blade of a knife. The morning was proclaiming itself and the port focused the brilliant light on Ekaterina's face. When he stood between, and the girl lay in shadow, she was at peace. When he stepped away and the beam hit her – she cried out!

  “Michty me,” Swales muttered. He stepped away again, letting the sun touch her. She moaned in pain and rolled to escape the light. He grabbed Funar's cap and held it over the port, blocking the beam. The girl fell quiet again. “Daylight?” Swales whispered.

  As his experiment required torturing the girl, he could not continue. (He was embarrassed he'd treated her as he had.) Still, Swales had seen it! But what in the name of Robert the Bruce had he seen?

  * * *

  As quickly as it had parted, the cloud-cover returned. The sunlight vanished and gloom reclaimed the sea, the ship, and the cabin. Swales dispensed with Funar's cap and, free from the debilitating effects of the sun's rays, Ekaterina found fitful sleep.

  Demeter rode the storm. The young woman struggled for every breath while Swales watched. Hours passed. The cook and scholar, the latter only slightly less exhausted than the former, changed places. Swales went to bed (his own this time) determined to sleep. Harrington sat up determined to stay awake. The young woman wrestled with nightmares while Harrington willed her to recover. Hours passed. Demeter rode the never-ending storm.

  Harrington answered a rap and admitted Swales, carrying food, with books under his arm. “She's still sleeping,” the scholar whispered. “I shouldn't think we ought to wake her.”

  “Nor I. It's no' for her.”

  “Oh, I'm not hungry.”

  “Wither or no' ye lack bell
y-timber is no' the question. I need no' remind ye o' the importance o' keepin' up yer strength.”

  “No. I'll eat.” Harrington set the plate down and pointed to the books. “What are those?”

  “I borrowed these. Been doin' some readin'. Thought ye might take a look.” Harrington reached but Swales, now the moment had come, hesitated handing them over. The Englishman eyed the old man suspiciously. Swales relented, speaking rapidly as he surrendered the volumes. “I've been curious aboon things happenin' aboard ship. Wither any are connected or all coincidence. An', natur-ly, I'm suspicious aboon the cause o' our lasses affliction. The affair w' the sunlight only made it more so.”

  Harrington nodded. Swales had told him of the effect the light had on the girl. Her cap, as a porthole cover, had been replaced with the lid from a flour barrel. It all seemed rather silly.

  “I'm no' in step w' the skeered yabblins o' the crew. Nor do I think any knowledge ought be rejected out o' hand.”

  Harrington nodded, slightly amused. Two days of seriousness from Oliver Swales was almost more than one could bear. He turned to the books. The first was a well-used bible. He screwed up his lips and stared a question at the cook.

  “He would no' let me borrow one w'out th'other.”

  “The captain?” Harrington asked, thinking of the ship's zealots. He missed the shake of Swales' head as he took up the second volume. The title, in worn gold, read Aberglaube und das Volk Gottes which, if he could trust his German, meant `Superstition and the People of God'. The author's name, Rev. E.P.H. Wagner, added nothing to his knowledge. Neither it seemed, as he flipped the pages, would reading the work. Every 'das jedes Monster, Undeadgeschöpf (undead creature), Nosferatu, Werewolf, Gewindebohrerkobold(hob-goblin), Bluttrinker (blood drinker) and Günstling des Teufels enthält” (minion of the Devil) that had ever dragged its knuckles across the mountains of Europe on a cold Walpurgisnacht appeared. And, as written by a minister, only devotion to God could save their victims from death, eternal suffering or, worse, undeath and an eternity haunting the earth.

  Harrington rolled his eyes. “Where in the world did you… No. Allow me to guess. You borrowed these from Popescu?” Swales nodded. “You think we have a monster aboard?”

  “I dinna know what t' think. I have heard a lot o' fearful grumblin' an' I am curious. Aside that, if ye need somethin' to keep ye awake through yer vigil w' the lass, this ought to do.”

  Harrington couldn't argue with that.

  * * *

  By Thursday, 22 July, Demeter had been in rough weather for three days during which her short-handed crew struggled past the southern tip of Italy, north round Africa, and fought their way into the western Mediterranean south of Spain. Exhausted hands were busy with the sails round the clock; furling and reefing them short when the rains came, resetting them when the rains abated and the blows ebbed. After each storm, the captain earned his bones fixing his course as if they were just starting, with limited visibility, a useless sextant, and trusting to instinct.

  Strangely, for the crew, the dangers were a blessing. The more they feared the storm, the more they fought to stay atop it. The harder they worked, the less they thought of nightmares and shipboard phantoms. As they won the battle with nature, they forgot their fears of the supernatural. And, as they left their ghosts behind, even the mate grew cheerful. It was almost perverse. With each storm, working on the verge of destruction, the ship pitching and rolling until hell wouldn't have it, the mood of the men improved. The mate, not a genial man on his best days, laughed and praised their labors.

  His compliments were timely, as they approached the straits of Gibraltar. Countless armies had failed to destroy or conquer the famous rock at the southwest tip of Spain. `Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar' had become a maxim. Constantin felt the same about his crew.

  Harrington, with his academic's mind, wandered from the heroic symbolism to the mythical and mystical aspects of the location. Had they shared his knowledge of what Plato called the realm of the Unknown, Constantin and his crew might well have trembled. The strait and the Rock, one of the fabled Pillars of Hercules, was believed by the Romans to have been created when their hero smashed through the mountain of Atlas, connecting the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. The Greek historian Siculus argued the opposite, that Heracles (as he knew him) narrowed an existing strait to prevent sea monsters entering the Mediterranean. Tradition said the pillars bore an inscribed warning for sailors, Nec plus ultra (nothing further beyond).

  The schooner passed through the straits in visibility so poor neither the rock, to the north, nor Jebel Musa (Hercules' southern pillar), could be seen. The rain still fell, but what had for days seemed an assault from the weather had quieted. Considering all she'd been through, a relatively shipshape Demeter entered the Atlantic Ocean.

  Nikilov ordered the carpenter to begin frequent soundings and, correcting his course to N.N.E., instructed the steersman to keep them as near to Spain as he was safely able. “Rather than venture any further out to sea,” he told the helm. “We will give ourselves a respite and turn her into a coaster for the time being.” The captain stared into what, despite the rain, looked like a new curtain of fog settling over them, and only partly in jest, added, “That is… if Spain is still there.”

  “Aye,” Popescu said, adjusting the rudder. “And assuming we stay afloat.”

  Nikilov frowned but said nothing. Beaten as they were – how could he?

  * * *

  Harrington no longer needed to peek outside. He could gauge the time by merely watching Ekaterina. In the day, she struggled for breath, fought for life. Following each sunset, her symptoms fell away and some wild and repellent new personality came to the fore. The change was frightening to observe and as regular as clock-work.

  Swales entered and was just closing the door when Ekaterina's eyes snapped open. They seemed almost red though Harrington thought it a trick of the light. She looked from her lover, to the cook, about the room, and back to Harrington. She bared her teeth, markedly longer and sharper than before, and hissed. Harrington and Swales reeled back in spite of themselves. Then, ignoring her mystifying temper and his own fear, the Englishman took her hand. The hatred vanished from her face. Ekaterina fell back – and to sleep.

  “Cor!” Harrington spluttered. “Did you see that?”

  Swales shuffled closer. He pulled her lips aside displaying her normal white teeth, her eyelids to show her beautiful green eyes. He and Harrington read each other's emotions; the fear and concern, curiosity and relief.

  Ekaterina's eyes snapped open again. Her hands shot up before her, arms bent as if she were pressing up on some invisible flat surface. “Help me!” she shrieked. “It's dark! It's cold! Oh, God, help me! I'm in a casket! I'm buried… in a wooden box!”

  Ekaterina screamed to freeze the blood of the young scholar, to stall the heart of the old seaman; to frighten two brave and stalwart men nearly to death.

  * * *

  During the night, Ekaterina, who needed sleep, slept fitfully while Harrington, there to protect her, was having a time staying awake. Even Popescu's book of superstitions was unable to keep him alert. He pulled the lid off the porthole (the night offered no threat) and stared out. The latest storm seemed to have ended but a thick fog hid the moon and stars.

  He splashed water on his face and grimaced at the heavy-lidded reflection in the mirror. He splashed again, showed little improvement, and toweled off. Inexplicably, a shutter ran through him. The hairs erected themselves on the back of his neck and Harrington was overwhelmed with the feeling someone was watching him.

  It was an insane notion, but he checked the glass again. There was no one watching; nothing there but the dimly lit cabin, Ekaterina in her bunk, and the uncovered port (backed by swirling fog) staring back like the opaque eye of a blind cyclops. Still… the cloying feeling persisted. He turned to examine the room. It was empty and he felt foolish; scaring himself for no reason. Then his eyes found the port again – and the b
one white face, framed sideways, staring in.

  Harrington started in disbelief, then knocked over the ewer, splashing water, as he darted back to the mirror. There was nothing! Ekaterina, the cabin, the port reflected in reverse, but nothing else. The mirror cast no reflection of the face, nothing in the port at all. Turning, it was clear either his eyes or the glass were betraying him. The face remained, on a bizarre horizontal angle; stark white, with red-looking eyes above a heavy mustache. It sneered with red lips and raging white teeth.

  He took a step toward the porthole – and the monstrous face disappeared.

  Stunned, moving on instinct, Harrington threw open the door and raced out. He hit the stairs running and burst from the deckhouse to the deck, scaring the hell out of the helmsman. “What is it?” Amramoff asked, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching his chest.

  Harrington was too busy thinking to answer. The realization had struck that, in order to look through the port at that angle, the spy had to dangle at arm's length from the mizzen deck. Ridiculous! The only alternative would be to cling to the side of the ship. It was absurd! He could not have seen what he thought he saw.

  “Harrington! Harrington, what is wrong?”

  “Did you see anything?” the Englishman asked, passing the wheel.

  “What? Did I see what?”

  Harrington, leaning over the mizzen deck rail, peered into the gloom at the port to Ekaterina's cabin. That's all there was to see, a small circle of amber in the hull. Nothing else. The man, the thing with the white face, was gone. “You've been here all the time?” Harrington demanded.

  “For an hour, I just came on.”

  “But you've been here since?”

  “Of course. What is the matter?”

  “Who has the watch?”

  “Smirnov, for what that's worth.” Amramoff laughed. “He's wandering the fog in the bow.”