by Paul Monette
The sea was not interested in being paid. No amount of money was enough. But he turned from the gesture with a renewed sense of command, and he walked across to the door, ready to take the wheel of his beloved ship. He had to hold on to the wall at every second step, but he made his slow way up the deck. He didn’t even seem to realize that the fever had come upon him.
Lucy was subdued when the nurse ushered her into the doctor’s office. Van Hesling stood up eagerly at his desk and came around to embrace her, but the somber mood stayed his hands at the last moment. He waited for her to speak first. She put down her stack of books on the edge of the desk, looked blankly at the fetal pig in the jar, and slowly took off her gloves. She was wearing a dress that was gray and very severe, and her wide-brimmed hat was plain as a Quaker’s. She was no less beautiful than before—more, perhaps, with the procelain glow that had come to her white, white skin—but still it was a shock to see her so. In the past she had always favored colors bright as a garden.
“I have come to ask a favor,” she said.
“Of course, dear Lucy,” the old man said, bringing up a chair for her. “You mentioned you had some things you wanted to discuss. Something’s come up in your reading, perhaps.” He tapped the topmost book as he sat at the desk.
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head and looking away. “Not yet. You wouldn’t believe me.” She stated it as a matter of fact, without any rancor or accusation. “What I need to do—I have to talk to Renfield.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the doctor, leaning forward. “He wouldn’t even know you, Lucy. You can do nothing to help him, good as you are. I must insist that you turn your mind to more cheerful matters. Wismar sorely misses your gaiety, you know.”
“I think he will talk to me,” she insisted. “I know he cares for me greatly, and besides, we share a common . . . vision, if you will. He is the only one who can ease my mind about Jonathan. Will you have me go mad myself with worry?”
He couldn’t say no to Lucy. He looked at her longingly for a moment, as if he could bring them both back to the simpler time when she was a child who ran to him laughing, whenever he came to call. It touched him that Lucy was not afraid of the mad like the others. Renfield had so far ceased to be violent that they had taken him out of the strait-jacket. Van Helsing believed that a generous soul like Lucy could have the most salubrious effect. He had only said the contrary in order to protect her. But he saw again how strong she was, and he felt new hope himself as he beckoned her to follow.
“There is the most extraordinary swing in his behavior,” he explained as they walked downstairs and past the guards. “At times he is so lucid I feel like bringing him up to my office to talk. For the rest, he is in a kind of trance. But what is most curious, he never seems to experience melancholy or anguish. Not since the first day. He seems to be in such a state of peace.”
A guard unbarred the door, and they entered the cell. Renfield sat cross-legged on the wooden bed, his head turned dreamily up toward the high barred window. He couldn’t climb up to see out of it, but the patch of sky he saw from where he sat seemed quite sufficient. He was stark naked. One hand played with his genitals. Van Helsing was so captivated by the madman’s mood that he neglected to apologize for any offense the lady might have taken. But the lady hardly noticed.
“Mr. Renfield,” she sad, “I don’t know what I shall do. I haven’t had word from Jonathan in weeks. If only I knew the name of the place where you sent him . . .”
“Jonathan Harker of Wismar. Is that the man you speak of?” the madman asked. His voice was very tender—sleepy, almost, except his eyes were round and wide. He stared at her just off center. He seemed to revere the name, as if his house agent had gone away to war and acquitted himself like a hero.
“You’ve had word of him?” Lucy demanded, coming close and sitting by him. Not afraid or horrified. She realized now how much time she had lost by running from him eating his butterfly.
“He is a man of noble birth, I believe,” said Renfield.
“Not Jonathan,” she replied. “You must be thinking of the nobleman he visited. What was his name?” She took up his free hand in both of hers, trying to catch his gaze and make him concentrate. “Try to remember, Mr. Renfield. I must get word to my husband.”
“He is nothing but a name,” the madman said. “He rides like a gypsy, rootless and alone.”
“Who? Who do you mean?”
“Half of the man is blood, and half is now a darker thing.” Renfield spoke in a singsong, his meaning wrapped in riddles. “Which way will he go? Well, that depends. Fate is not required to flip the coin till later.”
“It delights you to tease me, doesn’t it?” She rose and walked to the corner, under the window; It was simply amazing, van Helsing thought. She chatted with him as if he were quite as normal as anyone else. Why did everyone always raise their voices and talk to the mad in toneless phrases? She was better at it than he was. “I’m so worried, you know,” she went on, “I’ve half decided to saddle a horse and go myself. I would not cease asking questions till I reached the Carpathian Mountains.”
“No, no,” cried Renfield, coming up to his knees and putting his hands out pleadingly. “You mustn’t do that. He is almost here.”
“Do you mean Jonathan Harker?” the doctor demanded.
“The Master,” Renfield gasped, as if beatified by the knowledge. “The Master comes at the head of his army. Thirsty, thirsty. Four hundred thousand strong.” The last came out in a kind of babble, and the madman lost control. He fell back in a fit, and his mouth foamed over. The bug eyes rolled back into his head, till all they saw was white and blank as grapes.
Doctor van Helsing went over and held Renfield’s head, a hand around his jaw so he wouldn’t choke on his tongue. Then the doctor looked over to Lucy, thinking to apologize for the madman’s losing his grip at the crucial moment. She stood there, cool and impassive, and waited for the fit to subside. Van Helsing realized two things at once. First, she had come to a point where nothing could make her squeamish. She’d assimilated all that was grotesque or festered or coming to pieces. Second, she appeared to know what Renfield was about. The halluncinations were no less real to her than the ordinary chatter.
Renfield quieted down and presently came back to them. The doctor almost forbade her to question further, but he sensed they were on the verge of a breakthrough. It was worth the risk to Renfield’s nerves to push him just a little more. And it struck van Helsing again as he gave her the nod to continue—the sense of Lucy’s towering purpose, larger than the stifling cell they sat in now, larger than all of Wismar.
“Army?” she queried, coming close. “Army of what?”
He focused on her slowly as he crouched in the doctor’s lap. He grinned in a way that seemed both loving and curiously pure. “You know,” he said coquettishly. “They fill up your dreams the way they fill up mine. Shall we tell the doctor?”
“Oh please,” she said, nodding excitedly.
“It’s rats,” he announced. “They are white as lambs, and their eyes are full of light. They sweep across the earth like a blanket.”
Van Helsing looked from one to the other, and the gravity in their eyes as they locked each other with a stare was so enormous that he shook with terror. He began to think he was the one going mad. He pushed Renfield aside and stood up from the bed. Lucy was wide-eyed, but her body seemed limp and impassive as he took her arm and steered her out of the cell She looked over her shoulder helplessly, holding the eye-to-eye with Renfield, even as she let the doctor take her away. The doctor shut the door. The guard bolted and barred it. Lucy began to weep quietly as they made their way upstairs.
And Renfield sat back in his corner, cross-legged and alone. He looked up again at the square of sky and began to recite. He spoke with a strange officiousness, as if he were a town councillor reading a proclamation in the market square. He had not seen a newspaper since they locked him up. He had spoken with no one from t
he world at large. He had heard no rumors. Yet his voice was full of the certainty of fact.
“Plague is declared in several places,” he intoned. “In Transylvania and the Black Seaport of Varna, an irreversible fever has appeared. Most of those stricken have been young women. All victims have died with puncture wounds at the neck, the origin of which is still unexplained. Whole stretches of land along the coast have withered into dust. The animals throw fits and twitch in the streets. Silence grows and grows.”
And in the silence that followed his speech, from out in the hallway there came a muffled cry. The guard had drawn his sword and thrown himself upon it. Blood seeped out and covered the floor like a blanket. As the silence grew, Renfield came off the bed and crawled—soundlessly, soundlessly—to the door. He crouched to the crack of light at the doorsill, put out his tongue in the dust, and waited for the stream to reach him. The room was full of glory.
The horse did all the work. As they came down into a wild and stormy region, Jonathan nodded in the saddle. He held the reins so loosely that he couldn’t give directions. For hours at a stretch he slumped forward onto the horse’s neck. But the beast seemed to have the will to go on, even when Jonathan didn’t, and so they made their way. When the lightning dazzled the air and struck trees down like match-sticks, they sought the shadow of an overhanging rock and waited for the rage to pass. When they came to a stream that tore through the landscape in a torrent, the horse went along it till he found a natural bridge to cross.
Jonathan was too feverish and weak to say how long they’d traveled. They’d left the steepest crags behind long since, and in the meadows on either side of the muddy road began to appear the trees and grasses of the foothills. But it was not till he came through a narrow pass in the gathering dark and decided to stop for the night that he found himself remembering. He came to the middle of the level space, sheltered at last from the driving winds, and saw the remains of a bonfire, many weeks old. I’ve been here, he thought as he dismounted.
He sat by the bed of ashes, arms around his knees, while the horse trailed off to crop the meager grass that grew up among the stones. He remembered a group of people dancing. He looked about him on the empty ground and saw in his mind the gypsy treasure. He could almost hear them whispering behind him, and he strained his ears to recover the words they spoke so long ago. The sound took shape in his head like a shadow on the night: Nosferatu, Nosferatu.
His eyes widened in horror. He looked down at the scar on his thumb. He brought his hand up to his neck, where he felt two tiny scabs. He saw the vampire start forward toward him, the night he had slumped against the table, powerless to move. He screamed now as he couldn’t then, and the mountains rang around him with the echo. He shuddered at the touch of undead flesh, the heat of the monster’s breath against his neck. The whole of the time he was trapped in the castle came back in a flash. The scream went on and on, till he thought the breath would go out of him for good. But at last it was done, and he lay panting in the dirt, his cheek in the muddy ashes. His heart was still again. Then, like a stroke of lightning blazing through his being, he saw to the end of the nightmare. He saw Lucy.
“Lucy,” he whispered, as if he’d solved the riddle at last. The face was blazoned on his heart like the portrait on the pendant. The world came back into balance again. For every force of evil, a fire of goodness stood and fought. He knew he would not forget again the anchor of his life. “I am Jonathan Harker of Wismar,” he thought to himself with a wild thrill of pride. The terror of the vampire shriveled and died on the spot, like dust among the ashes. He and Lucy together would make the night retreat. He knew he had come to himself again for good.
It was dusk on the open sea. The decks of the Demeter were empty of men. The captain stood at the helm, groggy and alone, and every few minutes he seemed to double up with pain. The rats crept over his feet in a trance. They didn’t bite, didn’t scurry, and didn’t search for food. They only waited to reach dry land. The captain hardly noticed them anymore, even when he was lucid. They were as much a part of the journey now as the heavy gray waves of the brooding.
But the first mate was still sane enough to feel the horror all about him. He had buried the rest of the men today, heaving them over the side, too tired to sew a shroud around them. He never stopped his search of the ship, but he never knew what he was looking for. Now he stood at the stairway down to the hold, an axe in his hand, and determined to hack his way through all the coffins till he tracked it down. He would sift that black polluted soil between his fingers and hold the secret in his grasp.
He descended into the belly of the ship. He went up fearlessly to the pyramid of coffins. As he heaved the axe and struck at the lid of the nearest one, splintering the wood and letting out a hideous stench on the air, he neglected to notice the shadows building behind the pile. He worked away, and at last he broke open one whole side. He knelt to the hole and pawed at the earth with his hands. He did not know that the sun had set. He was head and shoulders through the hole and into the coffin, digging around in the dirt, when he felt something tugging at the tail of his shirt. He thought it must be the captain, and he pulled out into the gloomy light to say he wouldn’t stop till he came to the end of the pile.
He opened his mouth to scream, but the vampire’s teeth gripped onto his throat with such a lightning speed that he never made a sound. He was paralyzed in every limb as the vampire shook him by the neck, drinking him in in great gulps. He usually made his incision so precisely, drank the blood at such a heartbeat’s rhythm, that his victims died in a kind of swoon. But the vampire raged at the desecration of his temple. He wanted pain. And the mate went out in such an agony that his heart burst in his chest. He was pinned and tortured till he lost his mind, all in the moment that he died.
When every drop was drained, the vampire raced about the room in a sort of drunken madness. He always forgot the awful beauty of violence. The triumph broke in him anew each time. He was swept by a fit of soundless laughter, and he let the blood dry on his fangs, his mouth like an open wound. He pointed a nerveless finger at the corpse, and a wave of rats erupted from the violated coffin, swarmed all over the still-warm flesh, and mangled it with their teeth. Dracula quivered with pleasure as he watched. The drunken delirium passed, and he drew his cape about him and went forward. As he climbed the steps to the main deck, it was clear in his proud demeanor who was in command here.
He went up to the bridge, where the captain fought to stay at the wheel. He came up close and put a hand on Krull’s shoulder. The captain didn’t flinch—he hardly seemed to notice. They watched the lilt of the evening waves together. They had no one around them anymore to worry about. They kept the ship between them like a secret.
“I thought,” said Dracula, “the time had come for us to meet. The cargo you carry belongs to me.”
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me,” the captain replied. The devil had come to court him. He forced the fever out of his head and turned to the God he had left behind in the harbor town where he was born.
“Nothing is required,” said Dracula, “but the courage to be alone. I will need a thousand lieutenants before the month is out. A thousand thousand by the start of winter.”
“Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”
“When it is all over,” said Dracula, “I will banish the light of day entirely. We will build beneath the ground tremendous cities. When all the blood is drunk up, there will be no hunger among us.”
“I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” the captain replied, but the words had turned to ashes in his mouth. They didn’t make any sense. He was so weak and weary that he fell against the stranger’s icy shoulder. The vampire held him up and put out a free hand to the wheel. When the captain felt the stronger force take over, he turned and buried his face against the stranger’s neck. He wept for his l
oss of strength, for the lies he was taught at the altar rail, for the men he had failed. There was no comfort anywhere but here.
Doctor van Helsing couldn’t let the matter go. He had sent Lucy home the moment they came upstairs from Renfield’s cell, but the feeling plagued him that the two shared an intuition he had missed. He didn’t like to admit it, but it came as a blow to his pride to think that someone other than himself could communicate with a hopeless case. But he genuinely wanted Lucy’s thoughts when he rang the bell beneath the chestnut tree that evening.
“Oh,” she said when she opened the door. “You’re very kind to look in on me, but I’m feeling quite myself again.”
They went into the parlor and sat by the fire. The solid oak tables and horsehair sofa, the gaslight glowing from the walls in frosted tulip globes, the mantel clock and the steel engravings—everything in the room anchored them here in the sturdy world of Wismar.
“I was interested in your method with Renfield,” he observed. “I wonder if you would consider coming to work with me.”
“How many beds have you in the hospital?” she asked abruptly. He sensed that she had not even heard his question.
“Sixty.”
“Oh, that’s not enough. We’ll need hundreds. I was wondering if we couldn’t set up the school as a sick ward. Or the town hall.”
“Lucy, you aren’t making sense,” he said a trifle harshly. He heaped another spoon of sugar in his coffee.
“It is only a matter of days,” she said without any passion. “The plague is coming.”
“Don’t even say it,” he gasped, standing up and looking about for his hat. He had heard the rumors of fever at Varna, of course. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but he acted as if Lucy had jinxed the town by speaking the word. He seemed very old as he hobbled to the hatrack in the hall.
“It does not matter anymore if you believe me,” she said with an odd compassion. “But we might save a good many if we were prepared. We ought to convene the town council. Draw up emergency plans.”