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

by Doug Lamoreux

  Secreted below, pitching and rolling with the ship, but no longer pestered by the humans aboard, Dracula could concentrate on other things.

  * * *

  Renfield rose quietly and crept to the barred window… to gaze at the moon shining on the sanitarium garden and, in the distance, the deserted Carfax Abbey estate. Its untended grounds were hidden by a separating stone wall, but the top of the desolate main hall was visible and, beyond, the peak of its attached and partially ruined chapel.

  “Yes. Yes,” Renfield whispered, replying to a message only he could hear.

  “Prepare ye the way of the master.”

  So little to ask really, adoration, obedience. For this devotion… a promise of the world and all the blood-filled creatures in it. All would be given him, if he would obey. But fail the master and he would be punished with excruciating death, damnation, and all of the eternal tortures the demons of hell could conceive.

  Renfield gripped the iron bars… and swooned.

  * * *

  The devastating weather continued unabated on Monday, 26 July. The waves tossed the ship and overwashed her decks. Despite the hatch covers being closed, sea water sluiced down the hatchways. Everything between-decks was as wet as everything up top. The spirits of the brave crew-members flagged, unaware as they were that…

  Count Dracula guided the earthly elements of water and air. Then, turning his focus on his human disciples, from his dark, damp box of earth, he heard what Lucy heard:

  * * *

  “I saw her from the window last night. Already across the drawbridge, she had climbed the stairs to the Abbey cliff. Her slippers, the hem of her nightdress, were soaked. I could think of nothing to do, so I simply followed her. I feared waking her. You do hear it's wrong to wake a sleepwalker. She paused in the graveyard staring out to sea as if she were waiting for something on the horizon. But there was no horizon; it was as black as pitch. Finally, she dropped her shoulders as if in surrender and turned for home.”

  “I'm so grateful you were there. Do you think, Mina, it would help to lock her door?”

  “I do, Mrs. Westenra, but was afraid to suggest it for fear you might think –”

  “That you were being cruel? I think nothing of the kind. I know how much you love Lucy. But I am so afraid, Mina, some terrible dark force is trying to exert itself over my daughter; her life, perhaps her soul. Please do, lock her door at night until these nightmares subside.”

  “Every night, Mrs. Westenra, I promise you. I'll do all I can to protect our dear Lucy.”

  Lucy pulled her ear from the drawing room doors and hurried away. She should not have been eavesdropping, she knew. But some dark part of her needed to know. Clutching her night gown, her bare feet on the polished floor, she hurried up the stairs – before she was caught.

  She wanted to scream, to cry, but knew she could do neither. It was so embarrassing. By definition, she had no control over her sleepwalking. If only Mina and her mother understood how frightening it was. If only they could hear the voice from the sea. The whispered words of admiration, the warnings against disobedience. If, somehow, she could explain the dreams that made her walk the halls of the Crescent, to venture the streets of Whitby. The frightful nightmares with the dark man (Arthur Holmwood certainly?) in shadow. His promises of an eternal love, if she obeys.

  She closed the door to her room and leaned trying to catch her breath. It was all so confusing. But she knew one thing, she was not sleepwalking now. They intended to lock her in at night. She'd heard every word.

  Lucy was unaware that Dracula had heard every word as well.

  * * *

  “'ain't ye ashamed now?”

  “Ohhh, Mar-tin!” Renfield tripped, nearly falling, as the outraged orderly dragged him from the garden, through the side entrance, toward his room in the ground floor rear (where his antics were least likely to bother others). Renfield stumbled, while Martin grumbled all the way.

  “It's no good, mate,” the orderly insisted. “ `avin' at flies an' spiders in yer room is one fing. Scaring `ell out o' the other residents is quite an'of-er. Yer've no call makin' a nuisance, in-truptin' the of-ers treatments.” The orderly, more than usually angered, had searched the whole property. “Yer not the only one tryin' t' get `is sense back. When ye come over that big wall, ye scared the livin' daylights out of everyone what saw ye. The nurse will never be the same. Yer've no business at the old Abbey. That's private property, see. Ye'll be killed in that ruin and never found.” Martin sat Renfield on his cot. “Ye' `ear? Yer've no right. What ye doin' at Carfax anyway?”

  Renfield scowled, a look he generally reserved for Dr. Seward, but said nothing.

  “ `ave it yer way. But that's it, ol' fly eater. Now, yer goi-in' to fink a-bout what yer've done.”

  A slam and a snick of the key in the lock. Renfield, alone, threw himself against the door. He tried the knob, knowing it was locked, then sagged to the floor in a heap.

  “Forgive me,” Renfield whined. “Forgive me… master.”

  In his box, in Demeter's cellar, Dracula laughed, enjoying the game, then replied without anything like laughter. His message, across the distance, echoed in Renfield's tortured mind. “I do not forgive. I do not forget. Do not fail me. Obedience brings reward. Failure brings death and damnation. Prepare ye the way of the master.”

  * * *

  The devastating weather continued all of Tuesday, 27 July. Demeter, hopelessly windlocked for a full day now, was running the Red Queen's race. Even stubborn Nikilov was forced to admit it and surrender. The sails were dropped; and both anchors. The ship bobbed between the swells, riding out the blow, her bare poles and furled spars pointing like skeletal fingers at the lightning-streaked sky.

  The air between-decks was growing stale but, with the waves still breaking over the ship, going topside for fresh was out of the question. Watches, despite safety lines tied about the deck, had been curtailed because of the dangers. The steersman, lashed to the deckhouse by an afterline, manned the helm and deck alone in vastly shortened (one hour) shifts. The schooner was miraculously holding together. But cracks were appearing in the psyches of her crew.

  Popescu, always grumbling, did so now under his breath. (His mother's rosary, it seemed, had been misplaced.) He used the little energy not sapped by the storm to cast suspicious stares around. He prayed often, but only for himself. Amramoff and Olgaren, the two longest with captain and ship, were thick as thieves but growing distant from the rest of the crew. Olgaren spoke only to Amramoff and slept every moment he wasn't on deck. The carpenter feigned good humor but failed to convince. His familiar laugh was gone.

  As for the mates… Eltsin moved about as if he were a cat – silent, alert. For what, nobody knew. Constantin was more brooding and unapproachable than ever. Captain Nikilov, hardly gregarious in the most social settings, grew even more introspective.

  Swales, the eldest, was also the busiest. With their dwindling numbers, the watch and meal schedules had gone to smash. With the weather pounding hell out of them, no fires could be lighted – and no hot food be had. Swales saw to it that cold meals were available. When he was not preparing food, he was tending the girl (still thought a boy by half those left).

  The ailing Harrington suffered in the extreme and, were it not for his concerns for Ekaterina's welfare, would have given up completely. Like the others, he was cold, wet, miserable, and had had virtually no sleep in days. Unlike the others, Harrington was no seaman. When he was up and about, the scholar fretted at their interrupted efforts to find the vampire in their midst.

  Swales could only agree. They'd had no time to hunt, to melt the crucifix, to make the bullets, to steal the gun. The weather was marking both as woefully inadequate menaces to the monster.

  At the same time, the rumor solidified among the men that the ship's curse was responsible for the weather that plagued them. The captain would not accept it and the first would not hear it. Swales and Harrington believed the whispers were
closer to the truth than any aboard imagined. But that conviction brought with it an alarming paradox; the devastating sea made it all-but impossible to slay the monster, yet destroying the creature was precisely what had to be done to end the horrible weather.

  * * *

  Though it couldn't be told for the clouds, night fell again on the sea, somewhere between the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel, and on Demeter lost therein.

  On her tossing deck, unseen by human eyes, a swirling vapor escaped from beneath the battens on the forward hatch. The fluctuating cloud took shape and an aged, gray Dracula strode the bow alone. Washed in rain, wrapped in fog, he stretched out his hands… concentrating across the miles…

  Lucy's eyes came open, though she still slept, as Mina left the room. Stealthily, as if in a dream, she rose from bed and padded to the door. She laid her ear against it and listened. There, again, outside, Mina and her mother conspiring.

  “Lucy? Is she…”

  “She walks more than ever, Mrs. Westenra. Every night I'm awakened by her moving about. Pulling on the door; trying to get out. To where, for what, I don't know.” Mina sighed, sounding weary.

  Lucy felt a pang for the anxiety she was causing. Her nocturnal activities were awakening Mina. Her friend was growing nervous; finding it difficult to sleep herself. But what could she do?

  “Thank God, Lucy's health has kept up.” So good. Mina was always thinking of others. “Her cheeks are a lovely rose-pink. She's lost the anemic look she had. It's just that… Lucy seems in such great anticipation of – I don't know – something.”

  “You mean something – good?”

  “Yes,” Mina said reassuringly. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Westenra. I just pray it will last.”

  They moved away and the hall fell silent. Lucy tried the door and, as expected, found it locked. She knew they were only looking out for her welfare. She knew they meant only the best for her. But…

  Why are they doing this to me! Why are they trying to keep me from you!

  Lucy sank onto the floor beside the door – crying softly.

  * * *

  Martin had had it! London was a thirty minute train ride west. Why in hell was he still there?

  Renfield was gone again. Martin had searched the sanitarium and grounds, top to bottom, and come up empty. The orderly was back inside, wondering how he would explain the man's absence, when he heard screams on the ground floor. He made out two voices as he hurried that direction; Dr. Seward's, and the high whine and hideous laugh of the ole fly-eater himself.

  “Renfield! Put it down! I will not tell you again!”

  Martin, out of breath and patience, passed into the doctor's study without knocking. There stood Seward issuing orders. On the other side of his desk crouched the laughing Renfield, ignoring the psychiatrist for all he was worth. The lunatic clutched the sanitarium's calico cat by the nape of the neck, licking his lips while Tabby struggled.

  “'ere now! 'ere now! Come along, ole fly eater!” Martin grabbed the cat away.

  “Ohh, Martin!”

  “Listen 'ere.” The orderly set the terrified animal down. It raced from the room. “Ye're go-in' t' leave off that cat, see! Tabby belongs t' the lot, see. An' ye are go-in' t' leave off chasin' her. Ye scare `ell out o' that poor fing.”

  “Ohh, Mar-tin!”

  “Not an-ofer word! I've had me fill of ye'. Come along.”

  “But he gave her to me!” Renfield blubbered.

  “What're ye talkin' about?”

  “The calico cat!” Renfield whined. “The master gave her to me!”

  “Renfield, please,” Seward said, wearily. “I did no such thing.”

  Renfield stopped in his tracks. Struck dumb, he turned and stared at the doctor – as if he were a bug. Then he broke into laughter.

  “Come along, ol' fly-eater.”

  Laughing hysterically, Renfield allowed the orderly to escort him out and away.

  Dracula was laughing as well.

  Forward of the foremast, the ship pitching and bucking at her anchors in the raging sea, the vampire stood in flux. He surrendered his human form, becoming a mist, as each wave lipped the bulwark and dashed the deck. The water passed through him. Between the blasts of water and foam, he resumed his solid form.

  Just so, like the phantom the crew feared, the aged Dracula stood his own watch in the bow.

  * * *

  Wednesday, 28 July, brought more of the same, persistent rain, spasmodic bursts of lightning, and a hapless schooner tugging at her anchor chains with every indication she would do so all day long. No progress whatever was made, and no one aboard had the least idea of where they were. But, late in the afternoon, hints appeared their luck might be changing. The weather, while miserable (particularly for the green lubber among them), began to slacken. Near sundown, or the time the sun ought to have set, the storm arrested itself enough that the deck finally saw human traffic.

  The wheel was lashed. The captain stood the helm in lamplight, lost in thought as was becoming his habit, when a shout from the deckhouse caught his attention.

  “Four days of this!” The second mate stepped out, his oilskins shining as if he'd been for a swim. “Four days,” Eltsin repeated, “in hell!”

  Maybe he was tired, maybe he'd been dulled by the weather and the days, either way Nikilov ignored the junior officer's impertinent oath. Besides, he was right. Even heaven would not debate they'd been knocked about. The captain laid a hand atop the wheel, nodded, and sighed, “Aye.”

  “I'm so stiff and weak I can scarcely move.”

  “I feel for you, Georgiy; for you and with you. Try doubling your age.”

  His complaining was idiotic, Eltsin knew. They'd been through it, the evil days, together. He'd endured nothing that the others had not. It was a poor beginning to what he'd actually come to discuss. “Captain,” he said, searching for the words and the courage to start again. “The talk going round. Do you not think it possible something aboard the ship is causing the weather?”

  “We've had this out, Mr. Eltsin.”

  “Yes, sir, but…”

  “What does it mean, causing? Are you asking if someone here is controlling the weather?”

  “You said, captain, you've never seen such violent weather, for so long, in these seas. Nor I, nor anyone, I imagine. Late August storms, on the Banks, yes. But here? Now? It's not natural, this endless tempest. Maybe whatever is aboard the ship… this nameless horror…”

  “There's nothing aboard my ship, Mr. Eltsin!” Nikilov, rarely a shouter, saw the fear in the second mate's eyes and regretted his tone. He lowered his voice. “There is nothing aboard this ship that ought not be. Nothing but fear. Fear is our trouble; the most destructive cargo a ship can carry.” The captain's eyes hardened with determination. “Georgiy, I need your help. The men are not wrong, but they have the wrong target. This fear is the cargo that must be jettisoned, thrown into the abyss, that the heads and hearts aboard this ship can right themselves.”

  The second trembled involuntarily. Fighting to still it, he nodded and said, “I will help you, captain, however I am able.”

  Nikilov smiled (the first time in four days). “Why are you not sleeping… when you have the chance?”

  “Everyone is abed. But no one sleeps,” Eltsin said. “They are, perhaps, too exhausted.”

  “Aye.” The wheel bucked. Nikilov unlashed her, took firm hold of the spokes, and talked to the rudder with his hands. The stern came round, climbing off an angry hill of water, and quieted the growl of the anchor chains. He returned to his conversation as if they'd never been interrupted. “Between us, Georgiy, I hardly know how to set a watch anymore. No one is fit to go on duty.”

  The second nodded. “I'll watch, sir, and steer when need be. You've been too long. And the others… Let them rest a few more hours. Perhaps they'll sleep.”

  Nikilov looked over his sodden deck, criss-crossed with lines, rain barrels puking their overflow with each swell, dripping reefed sails o
n the mizzen and main, furled spars on the fore (looking like Christ's cross on Golgotha against the rolling clouds). The wind gusted sporadically but appeared to be waning. The seas remained terrific, but the captain could feel them calming. Tomorrow, he thought with relief, tomorrow we shall get underway again.

  “Yes,” Nikilov heard himself telling Eltsin. “Perhaps just a little rest.”

  * * *

  Night fell. Demeter remained at anchor in a rough – but easing – sea, and Eltsin remained at the lashed wheel alone. He wasn't complaining. He'd volunteered as watch and unsteering steersman. The crew were too exhausted to double up as they had been or even walk the regular watches. They'd earned a break, and their sanity demanded it. The captain and mate were certainly pulling their load and more. Eltsin was not complaining. He was able and it was his duty. That said, he didn't like it one bit.

  He had a feeling. Eltsin was the kind of man who got feelings. When he did, he usually acted upon them and rarely regretted having done. Something now was giving him a feeling. There was a vibration in the air he did not like. (The fog which had increased despite the winds was not helping.) He'd sensed it before, on this voyage; the queer feeling around the forward hold. It was insane, Eltsin knew, he'd already proven it. All those hours standing guard, with nothing in the hold but fifty boxes of dirt and one idiot. He laughed at his own foolishness.

  He was still laughing when he walked away from the helm.

  * * *

  Eltsin found himself below, at the foot of the deckhouse stairs, as if in a dream. His shadow stretched, long and thin, down the companionway owing to the dim light from the deck lantern above. He was halfway forward, without realizing he'd taken a step, when something within roused the second to consciousness. What was he doing? He'd left his watch! He'd left the helm! They may have been at anchor, but they were still at sea, and there was nobody on top to keep the ship trim. He could not be that irresponsible. And yet…

  Eltsin entered the crew's quarters, felt his way to the carpenter's bunk, and slipped his hand over Amramoff's mouth. “You're needed,” he whispered. “Get up.”