Karen Essex

by Karen Essex

  At the Whitby station, Seward reviewed my itinerary with me once more. “I envy Mr. Harker his malady if it means that such a beautiful woman is willing to travel so many miles to see to him.” He stole a furtive glance at Lucy, and I had the firm impression that in addition to flattering me, he was trying to make her jealous.

  I took Lucy aside to say good-bye. I clutched her hands in mine and kissed both her cheeks. “I beg of you to be wise, Lucy. Your future depends upon it.” I whispered these words into her ear, but when I drew back and looked at her face, I saw that she had no intention of obeying me.

  With an uncomfortable feeling in my belly for the welfare of my friend, I thanked the two men for all that they had done for me and I turned my thoughts to the future. Tonight I would be in the city of Hull, where I would catch the boat to Rotterdam, and then travel by train to Vienna, and then on to Graz.

  Part Three

  GRAZ, IN THE DUCHY OF STYRIA

  Chapter Eight

  5 September 1890

  I arrived in Graz in the rain, thicker than our English showers, and falling from a disconsolate gray sky. Though it was afternoon, dark clouds entrapped the town, making it look as if night had fallen. The foliage had just begun to turn colors, with gold, brown, and burnished patches intruding upon the lush green landscape. I had been trying fruitlessly to find the hospital for about an hour. My nerves were prickly from the long journey, and every doubting voice chattered in my head. The language here, harsh, guttural, and incomprehensible to me, fell upon my ears like an assault, much like the rain that beat down on my hood. I saw nothing like the sort of English tearoom in which I would have taken shelter back home, warming myself and asking directions that would be delivered back to me in the language I spoke. Those words would fall now upon my ears like a mother’s nursery rhyme, bringing feelings of safety and comfort. How much we take for granted in familiar surroundings.

  The fog that drifted from the mountains in great clusters of white glided over the city like ghostly watchmen. One such mass escaped from the crevice of a mountain and headed my way. I could not help but recall the eerie images of spirits in the Gummlers’ photographs. I had the disconcerting feeling that I was no longer alone, that perhaps the being that had informed me of Jonathan’s whereabouts had followed me here, as he had been following me everywhere else.

  Sometimes, faithful reader, we are called upon to reconcile and live with mystery. Prior to the note he sent, I had been able to convince myself, albeit halfheartedly, that my savior was a figment of my imagination. But the note, with its accurate information, now made that impossible. He was real; he read my thoughts; he could find me wherever I traveled; and, apparently, he was omniscient. Moreover, though I feared him, he thrilled and fascinated me. And now, after having had his sorcerer’s hands upon me, giving me pleasure, I had to face my beloved fiancé, who was lying ill in a hospital in a foreign country.

  I walked quickly along the quay of the river Mur, which wound its way through the town, its waters rushing past in foamy crowns. In the middle of the city sat the Schlossburg, a hill topped by a red brick ruin of an early medieval fortress with an adjacent clock tower. Though I had no idea where I was, I had the river, the fortress, and the tall onion-domed steeples shooting up from the town’s many churches as my landmarks. I asked each passerby, reluctant to stop in the rain, for directions to the hospital, which I am sure I pronounced dreadfully despite Seward’s careful tutelage. A man pointed me one way, which led to a dead end, where a lady pointed me back in the direction from which I had just come. I went through this exercise twice more with mounting frustration until a kindly gentleman walked me to the entrance of the hospital, which was tucked away (like many things in Graz, I later found out) off an Italian-style courtyard hidden from the street.

  An attending sister wearing the white sail-like headdress of her order and a starched apron over her heavy black habit greeted me in the hospital lobby. Every word that Seward had taught me went flying out of my head in the face of her stern demeanor. Stammering, I took the telegram out of my pocket and thrust it at her. She read it with her lips moving slowly over the words. Then she nodded and led me through a hallway where stately sisters in the same habit glided silently like ships on a calm sea, their hands tucked in pockets beneath their aprons. We came to a small ward with beds separated by heavy unbleached muslin curtains for privacy. I attempted to ask her about Jonathan’s condition, but she answered me in her language, which I did not understand.

  She pulled back a curtain revealing a thin man with a white streak like a lightning bolt through his brown hair and a lost, hollow look in his eyes. Only when the sister addressed him did I recognize my fiancé.

  “Mina! Can it be?” He leaned forward, but as soon as I approached the bed, he withdrew. “Or are you some apparition come to toy with me?”

  I was afraid to startle this haunted-looking person by coming too near, so I sat on the bed by his feet, which he quickly pulled toward his chest. He mumbled something in German. His eyes, always changeable, were now almost black, as if the irises had taken over the pupils.

  “Jonathan, darling, it is your Mina. I have come all this way to see you and to take you home,” I said.

  The sister whisked the curtain around the bed and went away. I could hear the quick march of her hard heels on the wooden floor as she left the ward. I was afraid to be left alone with this stranger who was inhabiting Jonathan’s body, this fearful man who had aged at least ten years in the eight weeks since I had seen him, and who looked dubiously at me.

  “Is it really you, Mina? Come closer so that I may touch your hand and look into your eyes.” His voice returned to nearer his normal way of sounding. I slid closer to him and gently put my hand out, palm down, as one might do to a strange dog. He took my hand in his, which was terribly hot. He spoke in a confidential tone. “Forgive me, Mina, but I must be careful. Very careful.”

  I explained to him that I had traveled for days and days from the Yorkshire coast all the way to Graz to find him. He looked at me as if I were a riddle he needed to figure out. He beckoned me closer with his index finger and he whispered, “Women can change. They are not always as they seem.”

  What brought on these ideas, I did not know. “I have not changed, Jonathan. I am as you left me.”

  “I must be assured that you are not one of them,” he said. “They always feign innocence, just as you are doing now.” He leaned back against his pillow assessing me.

  “Who feigns innocence? Remember when we said that we would keep no secrets from each other? Please tell me what happened to you.”

  “I have been deceived, but I will not succumb again,” he said. “If you really are my Mina, then you will help me get far away from this place.”

  I wanted to pursue this idea, but Jonathan was in no condition to speak rationally about whatever had befallen him. I needed to find his doctor. Perhaps confusion and paranoia were symptomatic of the disease. If only I had asked Dr. Seward more questions about brain fever, but I had been in such a hurry to come to Jonathan. Now I worried that I had arrived unprepared.

  I kissed him gently on the cheek, which he allowed, and told him that I was going to find his doctor and make arrangements to take him home. But I could not find a doctor—or anyone for that matter—who spoke my language. Finally, the staff produced a petite, French-speaking nun from Alsace, Soeur Marie Ancilla. I asked her to speak slowly because I was not accustomed to speaking with French people, who generally spoke rapidly.

  With great patience, the sister explained to me that Jonathan had been found wandering the countryside in Styria. Some peasant women who harvested pumpkin seeds for oil found him one morning as he walked out of the forest and into their field, calling out names. He did not seem to know where he was or who he was, and he was shaking, either from the chilly morning air or because he was in shock. One of the women gave him a mixture of herbs to drink to calm him and asked a farmer coming to market to drive him in his c
art to the hospital in Graz. Groggy from the sedative, he slept, fevered and delusional, for several days. The staff doctor examined and observed him, and diagnosed him with brain fever. Finally, Jonathan woke and started to cooperate, taking food and drink and the prescribed medication. But it took him a week before he remembered his name.

  “Did he ask for Mina?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “That name does not sound familiar.” She explained that no one understood Jonathan’s babbling. At first the sisters thought that he was praying, but they soon realized that he was having delusions. His body showed the signs of wickedness, she said, which let the sisters know that his rants were of an obscene nature. The nuns prayed for him, knowing that he was in the grip of the devil. In the past few days, however, he had been quiet and passive.

  I questioned the sister on the use of the word obscène. She crossed herself and said that she was quite certain she was using the correct word.

  “What do you mean that his body showed the signs of wickedness?” I thought she would deliver some superstitious nonsense, but she spoke with candor. “I grew up on a farm. The patient was like a bull in a meadow of cows.”

  I knew what she meant, of course. Who had put him in this state of arousal? All my fears of his infidelity came rushing back. “If he was not crying out for me, was he crying out for someone else?” I asked.

  She shrugged, declining to be specific, perhaps in the interest of discretion. “The imaginations of men can be terrible,” she said to me. “And fevers confuse the mind, making it easier for the devil to plant his seeds.” I wanted to ask her more questions, but I could tell that she was too uncomfortable to elaborate. Before she left I asked her to find Jonathan’s doctor and ask permission to bring Jonathan home.

  I returned to the ward, where other visitors had come to see the patients. Conversations in languages I did not understand came from inside the curtained cells. I stood on the other side of the drape from Jonathan and his bed. It was quiet inside. I slid the drape open gently so as not to make a sound. Jonathan had dozed off. His skin glowed from the fever. His mouth was slightly open, and if not for the gray streak that had taken residence in his hair, he would have looked like my Jonathan having a nap. But then his brow furrowed, his breathing quickened, and his head began to move from side to side so rapidly that I thought he might injure his neck. Little moans escaped his lips as if someone were hurting him. Suddenly he grabbed the bed rail and thrust his hips upward, his manhood creating a tent in the middle of the blanket.

  I stood very still, not knowing what to do and too embarrassed to call for help. I watched him in fascination and horror as he shoved his pelvis at the air. Chatter and laughter from the other patients’ cubicles drowned out his moaning. I threw the curtain closed behind me so that no one else could see inside and I waited and watched until Jonathan’s frenzy came to an end with a few loud moans of either agony or ecstasy, I could not be sure. Exhausted, he settled back on the bed.

  I sat by his feet, not wanting to disturb him. When his eyes opened and he saw me, he hugged himself protectively. “They have been here,” he said. “They have come back.”

  “I think that your fever is causing you to have bad dreams,” I said, though after my conversation with the nun and what I had just witnessed, I was sure of nothing.

  I put my hand on his forehead as Headmistress had taught me to check the girls for fever. Jonathan’s skin was cool to the touch. “The fever has already broken. I will soon be able to take you home.”

  “Oh, Mina, I thought I was lost forever. Thank God you have come.” He opened his arms to me and I went to him and let him hold me tight.

  A doctor interrupted us. He was youngish, just a bit older than Dr. Seward, with dark hair slicked back with some sort of oil. He had a thick, impeccably combed mustache, and wore a somber, tight black jacket and vest with a skinny tie in a bow at the neck. His manner was formal and his English was hesitating but easily comprehended. He explained to me that he could not give permission to someone who was not a relation to move a patient who was not quite ready to be discharged.

  Jonathan objected. “No, I must go home. I must get away from here, Mina. Bad things will happen if we do not leave here at once.”

  “You are very safe here, Mr. Harker,” the doctor said. “Have the sisters not taken good care of you?” He turned to me. “Miss Murray, can you stay with us in Graz for a few more weeks while we treat Mr. Harker?”

  Before I could answer, Jonathan spoke up. “Mina, if we marry here in Graz, then we can leave at once.” The doctor and I both looked at him, and then at each other, surprised. “Is that not correct, Herr Doctor? If Mina is my wife, then on what authority might you demand that I remain in this hospital?” I was astonished at the change. If I closed my eyes, I would think that I was listening to a barrister in a courtroom, when moments ago, he had seemed so confused.

  “Yes, I suppose that if Miss Murray is your wife, and she wishes to take you home, I will not have the authority to keep you here. But I wish you would heed my advice and wait.”

  “Perhaps we should listen to the doctor, Jonathan,” I said sweetly. “Why don’t we wait until we are certain of your recovery?”

  Jonathan’s arms were folded across his chest, but he reached out with one hand to take mine. “Please, Mina. If you love me and if you came here to help me, you will marry me as soon as possible. If you do not get me away from this place, there will be no recovery.”

  A few hours later, I left the hospital to find an inn to freshen myself and to get something to eat. I was walking through the courtyard when I heard someone call out from behind me. “Fräulein!”

  I turned around to see the nun who had greeted me upon my arrival hurrying toward me. She took me by the arm. “Let us walk together,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you say that you spoke English?” I asked. I was both embarrassed and offended that she had earlier left me to flounder, stammering in mispronounced German, when she might have helped me.

  “I did not want to speak to you. But I went to the chapel and prayed upon the matter, and I feel that I must. It is my duty before God.”

  She introduced herself as Schwester Gertrude and told me that she was born in the Styrian countryside just south of Graz. Her father was a winemaker who had many daughters. “By the time I was ten years old, my six older sisters were married, and the money for dowries had run dry. That is when I came here to the convent. I know this country and its people. I know its secrets too, the things that people do not like to speak of.”

  We walked out of the courtyard and onto the wide street. The sky was clear and the town seemed cheerful to me, with many ornate and gilded medallions on the buildings’ façades. Colorful coats of arms and statues of Baroque ladies dressed as pagan goddesses graced the grander structures, and complex wrought-iron arches decorated the doorways. We walked through a narrow alley where all the light seemed to drain from the city and, at its end, found ourselves in front of a grand cathedral.

  “Come with me into the house of God,” she said. I was too curious to resist her. The entrance was adjacent to a mausoleum for some Holy Roman Emperor, where angels—tall soldiers of God—holding olive wreaths guarded the door to his tomb. I found it ironic that symbols of victory adorned a mausoleum; no one, including the emperor inside, achieved victory over death.

  The sister led me into the dark and chilly church, lit only by two dim lamps flanking the altar and a small table of candles for offerings. Schwester Gertrude dipped her hand into a marble urn of holy water at the rear of the church crossing herself extravagantly, and I followed her as she genuflected before the altar with great piousness and then entered the back pew, where we sat down.

  “Now you must listen carefully. I am telling you this before God. My immortal soul depends upon telling the truth.” Dread rose in me as she began to speak in portentous tones. “I come from the hills where Herr Harker was found wandering. It is a land inhabited by beings, some wh
o are human and some who are not. Herr Harker shows all the signs of being touched, so you must take great care in seeing to his recovery. It is not just his body but also his soul that must be tended. You must pray; pray for him and with him.”

  “What do you mean by beings who are not human?” I asked.

  She continued: “There are creatures in these mountains that are in partnership with evil. They know things about men, and that is why they are able to tempt even the pious into sin. By making pacts with the devil, they can cure a man of disease or make him rich. Child, there are women in those hills who can make flowers bloom in the dead of winter. They promise old men that they will be young again, and ambitious young men that they will be wealthy.”

  “Why do you think that Jonathan has had anything to do with these creatures?”

  “He is not the first, nor will he be the last. The women who found him said that he was crying with great desperation for his lover. We have seen these victims before and have heard tales from our mothers and grandmothers of the young men who have been seduced by these witches. The men of the Church tried for hundreds of years to rid our countryside of them, but they persist. The devil helps them to survive even the flames. They appear to burn to ashes, but somehow they live to haunt the hills of Styria.”

  “I do not believe that any of this applies to Mr. Harker,” I said. Why did old people feel the need to spread these kinds of tales? “My fiancé has been diagnosed with a fever of the brain by a doctor of medicine. I wish you would not try to frighten me with these stories!”

  I stood up to leave, but she grabbed my arm, pulling me back down. “The explanation for what happened to Herr Harker is not in the medical books. It makes no sense to an educated lady like you, but there are many things in this world that are beyond the understanding of men. Marriage, a holy sacrament, to a righteous woman, will help Herr Harker to recover. You must trust in God and be patient. I am praying to St. Gertrude for his soul and for you.”