“The girl!” Nikilov hollered. “What have you done with her?”
Dracula stared a threat at the captain. “Like your crew,” he said, “her usefulness was behind her.” He punctuated the remark by washing his hands in the air.
The captain raised the crucifix. The vampire averted his eyes. He lingered a moment more, threatening at a distance, before he turned and vanished below.
What nightmare could be more terrible than this awful, unnatural thing aboard his ship. He dared not go below, dared not leave the helm, dared not even sleep. He determined then and there to stay awake at the wheel all night. He was resolved, but he was also more frightened than he'd ever been before. Nikilov began to shake, crying in despair, for the girl, for his crew and for his lost ship.
Chapter Thirty-six
“Forgive me, Iancu!” Nikilov laid his head on the wheel. “Forgive me.”
He'd misjudged his mate, his friend, he'd accused him of murder and (though he'd pitied his insanity) had breathed a sigh of relief at his self-immolation. He'd been so desperately wrong. God forgive him, Constantin was right. There was a horror below, a monster in the flesh.
Nikilov had seen the creature, a sight he could never forget. He'd spoken with him, an experience he could never get over! He'd cowardly allowed him to take the girl forward to her destruction. Now he stood alone, at the helm of his doomed ship, awaiting death. If only he'd listened!
The first had been right to jump overboard. What man of the sea could object? But a death in the waters that had been his life, would not be granted Nikilov and he knew it. A comforting sea was for others. His was a cruel sea with its own rules. He was captain of Demeter. Cursed or not, possessed by demons or not, she was his ship and he could not leave her. More than that, he would not surrender her. He would take a stand. It was his duty. He owed it to his friend and mate, Iancu Constantin.
Nikilov refilled his fading lamp with the kerosene he'd collected on his sortie and considered his position. He was weakening and felt it. Had he a plan, would he have the strength, the courage, or the time to act? Could his mind last? Could he even look the monster in the face again?
He licked the point of his pencil and, in his notes, in a weary hand, wrote…. God and the Blessed Virgin and the Saints, help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty.
Should the ship fail to make Whitby, should she be wrecked, perhaps the bottle would be found, and those finding it might believe. Even if they did not, at least men would know he had been true to his trust. He rolled the pages and slid them into the bottle. He corked it like a repentant sot and pushed the bottle into his pocket. Then he sighed deeply. The time had come for his final offensive action as commander of Demeter.
Well Nikilov knew, he could not escape the fiend that had brought ruin to his ship. He was, he knew, as dead as his crew. But he was not finished. He could not save himself, but he might yet save his ship. And, if God was willing, he might even save his soul and his honor as a captain.
He scanned the deck, as far as the shifting fog allowed, and the sails in the heights. Convinced he was alone, he left the wheel. He scarpered forward to the deckhouse, grabbed the thinnest, strongest braid he could find among the hanging lines, and returned to the helm. He took the miracle rosary from his neck. He looped the beads over the top spoke on the wheel and, with the line, tied his left hand over them. Carefully, if awkwardly, with the crucifix clutched in his palm, he tied his right hand over the left. He tested his work, making sure of the slack to flip the crucifix over his hand, toward the bow, and back again. Satisfied, he fastened the knots with his teeth.
* * *
Night became morning, became day… All day Thursday, 5 August, Captain Nikilov stood his station tied to Demeter's wheel.
The cost of saving his ship, Nikilov realized, would be high but not tragic. The only human left aboard, he'd had to surrender his humanity. He would not leave the helm, therefore he could not eat, attend to his ablutions, or see to the calls of nature. It hardly mattered. There was nobody left to impress, for whom to be an example, or before whom to be embarrassed. Direct sunlight was no worry owing to the fog and, as they'd traveled far enough north, the heat was no difficulty either. In fact, as day dragged into evening, the captain developed a chill (and a fear of the impending cool of night).
His major physical concern was thirst, which grew as the hours wore on. More than once, he was tempted to untie and drink of the nearby rain barrel or even, forgive him, of the half-hogshead of rum. He resisted. The water was a matter of character. The rum, under the circumstances, would be as wrong as surrendering the helm. And that, he would not do, until he reached land. His thirst unsatisfied, Nikilov could only pray for the fog to lift and a British port-of-call to show itself.
With the setting of the sun (presumably), came the gloom and, from forward and below, the sound of hammering. The source was beyond question. There was no one else aboard Demeter except that thing. There it was again, sharp hammering, metal on wood. What was he doing?
* * *
In the dark of night, as Nikilov knew he would, came the monster.
Thirsty, hungry, exhausted and fighting to remain awake and upright, Nikilov was just nodding when the demon rounded the deckhouse. The captain snapped instantly awake. The tall man stopped and stared toward the helm with a cruel smile on his lips.
He removed a handspike from among the hanging gear, waved it in Nikilov's direction in a playfully threatening manner, then rammed the tool through the lower side of the tapped rum keg. He pulled it free and the rum spilled out. He watched the captain while the container gurgled empty. He repeated the action with the full, untapped keg. Again, even more forcefully, the perfectly good rum poured out, followed the roll of the deck to the scuppers and spilled into the sea. When the second was empty, he threw the handspike at the helm. Nikilov ducked and the makeshift dagger rang the ship's bell and hurtled away.
The dark man snapped the lines holding the rain barrel to the deckhouse. He lifted it over his head, dumping the water on the already rum-soaked deck, then heaved it over the bulwark into the sea. Still smiling, the monster spoke. “Apa, apa, fiecare in cazul in care … Nici vreo picatura de a bea.”
Nikilov stared sullenly. He understood the Romanian easily enough. And it was not necessary he be a scholar like Harrington to recognize the quotation from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Every ship's commander and seaman that could read knew it by heart. “Water, water, everywhere,” the villain had said. “Nor any drop to drink.” It was not necessary, either, he be a genius to realize the monster was doing more than taunting him. That he intended his speedy demise was beyond doubt, but it was increasingly clear the demon sought the captain's mental breakdown first. He was evil incarnate.
The monster disappeared around the deckhouse and, a moment later, was throwing the forward rain barrels into the ocean. Nikilov could hear the splashes and could only watch as, ten yards out on the port side, one of the barrels bobbed past in the fog. He flinched, tied as he was, when a third barrel hit the foredeck with a tremendous smash, splash and splintering of wood.
The phantom reappeared in the opposite companionway. He was coming aft, quickly, with the last rain barrel above his head, puking its water as he came. The terrified Nikilov raised the crucifix. The dark one averted his eyes and blindly hurled the barrel at the captain. It hit the binnacle before the wheel. Nikilov ducked as his bindings allowed. An explosion of wood and water followed as the barrel chipped the housing, shattered the crystal compass face, and burst. Nikilov dodged a flying wheel-spar, but was hit instead by a broken barrel slat that tore his coat sleeve and his arm. The ship yawed hard to port, answering the erratic rudder, and only the wheel prevented the captain falling on his face.
The creature smelled the blood before he saw it; a moist stain growing on Nikilov's sleeve. He hissed, hungry and seething. He paced madly in an arc before the helm with murder in his eyes, yet was unable to approach. The crucifix shown like fire
in the captain's hands, the rosary beads glinted in the lamplight. Nikilov raised his head and, with what little strength he possessed, spoke to the creature in his native Russian.
The demon glared hell-fire! He threw his head back, howled like a wounded animal, and vanished through the deckhouse door headed below. The vampire understood the guttural mouthings of the bastard Russian plainly enough. “All this blood,” Nikilov had said, waving his pathetic crucifix. “And not a drop to drink.”
* * *
Terrified, in pain, the captain sagged against the wheel. His heart pounded in his chest (with his quacksalver's tonic below). He fought to slow his breathing, to govern his fears. He thought of the monster, unsure even after all that had happened, if he could make himself believe. He felt a chill in his soul and, as he stood through the night, it came home… He was the only human on board. More, having seen it with his own eyes, he finally understood that he was also the only thing aboard with a soul.
The captain lost track and, though he saw the glow of sunrise somewhere beyond the fog, was unaware when the morning of Friday, 6 August, arrived. More than three full days had passed since Iancu Constantin immolated himself. Since Nikilov had left the helm, washed himself or shaved. Three days since the captain had eaten a bite of food. Two days had gone since he'd first tied himself to the wheel and swore his oath to remain there until Demeter reached a friendly port. Owing to that promise, he'd had no choice but to wet himself again in the night. It made no difference, there was nobody aboard but the demon. Urination was no longer a concern. Two days had elapsed since his last drink of water.
Nikilov grew tortured with thirst. His throat burned, his mind was on fire. The mist of sea water, ever upon him, ever drying, caked his bleeding lips with salt. The sun was both ally and traitorous enemy. Its pure light kept the dark creature below, while those same rays, and their reflection off the water, would have cooked him had they not been refracted by the fog. It was bitterly ironic… the miserable fog preventing his finding land was also keeping him alive.
Demeter, like Nikilov, barely lived. A sea-worthy schooner the day they left Varna, she'd been sorely mistreated by the devastating unseasonable storms. Buffeted at anchor or forced to run before the wind, the short-handed crew had been kept from making badly needed repairs by the unseen monster. Repairs that would not be made now until she reached a port. The fore sail, the fore top-sail, and one of the jib sails had tears in them. These would rip further should the storms return or the winds gust. The rigging was loose on the main sail. The gaffe vang (replaced following Petrofsky's long-ago injury) needed to be tightened. The rudder was responding awkwardly and Nikilov was concerned. The whole ship, redolent of fear and death, needed cleaning and airing. Add the knowledge all vessels leak, even if they haven't been near cap-sized as his had.
The threat of misfortune and disaster was a constant companion on any voyage. How much more should something occur to further disable his vessel? He was alone, at the mercy of the fog, the wind, the sea, and the devil in his hold. His only tool was the ship's wheel and, among his many worries, was the thought his vessel might not hold together. He wrestled with one scenario after another; all that was wrong, all that could go wrong. In the meantime, not a bite of food, no water, none of the quack's prescribed tonic. Not even a chair.
And so the day passed.
Night fell and fear rose in the fragile heart of the ship's captain. For he knew that soon the monster would come, looking grayer, more pale than on his last hellish visit, to stare and to growl, to glare hatred with his eyes gleaming like ignited rubies, to hiss and bare his sharp white teeth, to attack and (dear God please) be repelled by the blessed crucifix.
* * *
Dracula could hear them, through Lucy, as clearly as if they were beside him, the dogs howling in the night throughout the village of Whitby. They sensed his approach. They howled. And Dracula, in Demeter's cellar, remembered the wolves in the courtyard of his own castle.
“The children of the night,” the voivode whispered. “What music they make!”
He remembered also the expression of bewilderment on the face of the young estate agent, the late Jonathan Harker, when he'd made that comment in his presence. What was it he'd told him? Yes, that being a city dweller, Harker could not possibly enter into the feelings of the hunter.
Whitby first, soon after Purfleet, and then the great city of London… all stretched before him. His for the taking to do with as he pleased. Dracula arose from his box, aging and white, but victorious. The ruling kingdom of the world was about to meet its conqueror. The hunter had come to England.
* * *
“Put it away.”
There he stood again; the demon. Where he came from, how, or when he appeared, the captain did not know. He was simply there, standing on the deck, fading in and out of the thick fog. His head was turned, his glance averted, his hand raised to his brow shielding his eyes from the crucifix in Nikilov's hands. “Put it away,” he said again. “I will not approach.”
The captain eyed him, wearily, warily.
“I am Dracula,” the vampire said, still facing away. “Count Dracula. You are?”
“Nik-i-lov.” The captain licked his split, white lips. “Captain Nikilov.”
“I will not approach you… captain. Why would I? It makes no sense to harm you. I need to reach England. You need food and drink. Put the crucifix away. Let us strike a bargain.”
Like a soothing balm, the thought of food, the image of clear, clean drinking water, the idea of sinking his throbbing head onto his bunk pillow overwhelmed the captain. He heard the deep, inviting voice again, “Let us strike a bargain.”
The tempting visions, the words of promised peace, reverberating through his brain, vanished suddenly, pushed back into the darkness from which they'd sprung by another phrase, ingrained in him since boyhood; a scripture from the New Testament book of James. “Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” The devil was staring icily at him, trying to sway him toward… what? It did not matter. Nikilov had his answer and, with no desire to debate pure evil, he passed it on to Count Dracula in the only way he could. With all the energy he could muster, he began to loudly pray the Lord's Prayer.
Dracula hissed his anger, raised his arms, and was gone.
One moment he was there, tall, dark, evil. Then came a blur, a bending of his physical being that caused Nikilov to gasp. An instant later, a huge black wolf – with the same red-burning eyes – stood growling on all fours in his place. The creature moved, panting as it padded the deck in a whirl, then vanished in the fog. Unable to see it, still Nikilov could hear it circling the helm.
The panting, the padding feet, a low growl… A flash in Nikilov's periphery and the wolf popped out of the fog to his right. It growled and was gone. There again, out of the gray swirls on the left. A snarl and it was gone. Nikilov's terror was intense. The panting, the padding feet, a yelp… Out of the fog again, forward of the wheel, eyes gleaming red, great globs of saliva dripping from its vicious white fangs. The monster howled to chill the captain's blood. It leapt at him.
Nikilov jerked back, unable to retreat for his bindings. He flipped his wrist and the crucifix flopped forward. The monster landed beside the dented compass, howled at the proximity of the holy icon, whined in pain and darted away. Breathless, Nikilov halted his scream, searching the deck. He knows, Nikilov thought. The demon knows I'm sick. He smells my fear. He's trying to frighten me…
The wolf appeared again from the fog. It leapt, snapping and snarling, landed to his left, spun and disappeared.
Nikilov began to cry. “Stop this,” he yelled. “Stop this!” Like the wolf, the captain's breath came in pants. His dried lips cracked, bleeding, tears ran down his sun-baked face. Somewhere within the fog, he could hear the growls, the howls, the panting, as the creature chased circles round him. It seemed very far away, for pain seized him. It started in his left arm, a shooting pain, followed by cr
ushing pressure in his chest. Nikilov gasped but could not catch his breath. He squeezed the crucifix, his knuckles turning white. Again, before him, the wolf appeared, growling, dripping saliva.
The captain's erratic racing heart suddenly seized. Unable to hold his head up, he nodded and, had it not been for his bindings, would certainly have dropped to the deck. But the lines held, the ship's wheel stood, and Mikhail Sergeyevich Nikilov – the last man aboard the Russian schooner Demeter - died standing at the helm.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Now the tale returns to where it started, Friday, 6 August, in the village of Whitby.
Hopeful of her fiancé's homecoming following Mr. Hawkins letter, disheartened at not having heard from Jonathan since, worried, even frightened by Lucy's sleepwalking, Mina sat on her cemetery bench overlooking the sea.
Sir Oracle, Mina's old whaler, hobbled up the steps and made straight for her. His approach, his expression, the way he lifted his hat, made it plain he wanted to talk. Mina had been touched by the sad change in the poor man of late. This day he looked more melancholy yet. He twisted his hat and wearily said, “I want t' say somethin', miss.”
He was so ill-at-ease Mina could not help but take his hand and gently whisper, “Speak freely, Mr. Swales. Please do.”
“I'm afraid, my deary, I must have shocked ye by all th' wicked thin's I've been sayin' aboon the dead.” He began to cry and begged her forgiveness. He related the sad tale of his life, in Scotland, at sea, and here in his adopted home. He poured out his heart, his fears of a rapidly approaching eternity, his fears for the return, the life, of his son, Oliver.
So it played out in the cemetery.
Soon after, Mr. Swales started home, passing the alarmed coast guard racing across the harbor bridge and up the great stairs. He put his spyglass to use and drew Mina's attention to a sailing ship, a Russian schooner, bobbing lost and confused on the distant sea. “We'll hear more of her before this time tomorrow.”
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 31