One evening Haroun came to us in a great state of excitement and said that Vizier Sokolly wished to see us. There was to be no delay. We were bustled out of our apartments, put unceremoniously into a palanquin carried by four eunuchs and, escorted by a troupe of Spahis, were jogged off through the Seraglio to the Vizier’s kiosk. The doors of the palanquin were bolted and, being made of wooden lattice-work, let in a little light but gave us no indication as to where we were going.
At last we were set down and hustled through a number of doors and passages, emerging finally into a domed hall of noble proportions where sat the Grand Vizier Sokolly.
The place in which we found ourselves was almost as splendid as the audience chamber of the Sultan himself, except that it lacked the gaudy ostentation of the latter. Here, one felt, was the true seat of power.
With a single economical gesture Sokolly waved all people from the room with the exception of ourselves, Haroun and two gigantic dumb Nubians. Without further ceremony he came to the point.
“I have found Zushad,” he said.
I nodded uncomprehendingly. What possible importance could this news be to us?
“He has agreed to perform a certain ceremony for me in return for services which I shall render to him. He took a great deal of persuading,” he added with some satisfaction. Men of power like Sokolly take pleasure in struggle, provided, of course, that their will finally prevails. “But he stipulated one condition. It seems that his exhibitions of the other night before the Sultan have taxed his strength somewhat.” He spoke with a hint of contempt. Sokolly was a man who worked night and day and never tired. “He needs the assistance once more of his young acolyte whose will is young and untainted and whose strength is still untapped.” He looked at Vlad with something like approval and I could detect a similarity between them: Vlad had a will that might already match his.
There was a pause before Vlad merely nodded. The Prince had made his calculation and decided that this was not the moment to stand out against the Vizier. Sokolly nodded too, as if confirming the wisdom of this decision.
“We go at once. You two,” he said, indicating Razendoringer and myself, “will accompany your Prince, and assist in any way possible. Naturally you are sworn to secrecy.” Haroun looked at his master inquiringly, but Sokolly cancelled him from the proceedings with a dismissive wave.
Then once more we were bouncing along in the palanquin making for we knew not where. It was a long journey and seemed to involve a great deal of movement up and down steep slopes during which the three of us found ourselves tumbled together in a heap at one end or the other of our vehicle.
By the time we arrived at our destination we felt as sick as if we had been out in a storm-tossed fishing boat. We were somewhere in the poor quarter of Stamboul, a place of narrow streets, drunken alleys and dark doorways. We were shown through one of these last and down several flights of steps, finally emerging into a high-vaulted underground cellar, damp and torch-lit. Somewhere not far off we could hear the slap of water on stone.
Against one wall leaned Sokolly, calm and still, as if he had been magically transported from the place where we last saw him. Bent over a table on the other side of the room was Zushad who turned to look at us and, with one rapid, impatient movement, beckoned Vlad to join him. He had visibly aged since we had last seen him. Streaks of grey now coursed through his hair like foam on a dark stream.
It was not long before I guessed what was about to happen, but there was no escape now. Zushad had made his circle about the iron, goat-footed altar, as instructed in the Clavicule of Solomon, and I noticed with horror that the names within the inner and outer rings were not those of the four Archangels of Judgement, but the four Demons of the Qliphoth Abyss, Baal-Berith, Succor-Benoth, Ashtaroth and the one whom it is a blasphemy even to mention.
I looked at Razendoringer. It was clear that he too knew enough to guess what was about to happen. Zushad lit the little charcoal brazier below the altar, then Vlad placed on the fire a chafing dish containing a mess of lamb’s blood, eggs, hellebore and other substances which I will not mention. The mixture boiled and then began to burn, releasing an acrid plume of black smoke. The fumigatory had been made, that odious parody of the rite of incense. I knew we were near to the moment when the horror would begin.
I tried to mutter some prayers, but none came. Even the Lord’s Prayer in the vulgate was lost to me. I could do nothing but wait.
Presently we heard a faint dragging sound from the far side of the cellar. A concealed door opened and through it came a huge, stupid looking man carrying something wet and bulky in a sack. He laid it down, made a clumsy obeisance and left. I looked at Sokolly who merely nodded, as if this was what he had been waiting for.
“She was put into a sack and drowned in the Bosphorus yesterday for being caught in the act of adultery, as the law decrees,” he said. “On my orders her corpse was recovered.” There was no concealing the satisfaction he felt at a job well done.
The body was taken from the sack and placed on the altar. It was that of a young woman, short and inclined to plumpness, but pleasing enough perhaps had she been alive. Her features were regular but coarse, the mouth wide and sensual. It was a body which showed no blemish except for the whiteness of untimely death. It gleamed like marble.
Now began in earnest the great ritual that the Clavicule of Solomon calls the Necromantic Rite and which can only be performed on a body from which life has been violently and prematurely removed. Zushad droned the words of the Summoning of Typhon Seth, Lord of the Dead, while Vlad added more elements to the fumigatory.
After speaking the Words of Summoning Zushad then performed the Banishment of the Element whose purpose is to drive out the spirit of the element which caused death. In this case it was water. Slowly at first water began to dribble out of the corners of the mouth and a little from the eyes which were now open and staring. The limbs quivered a little as if something were passing through them, then the water began to flow out in a steady stream.
Finally, and shockingly, it gushed out in a great fountain from the mouth, mixed with a little blood. A few drops splashed onto me. No liquid has ever felt fouler to the touch.
Then came the Invocation of the Soul which compels the departed spirit back into its own body. This is the hardest part of the ritual, partly because the spirit may be unwilling to come, but chiefly because some other spirit or demon may seize on the body for its own purposes.
I could see, as he performed this rite, that Zushad was already exhausted. His first invocation was feeble, but with his second he summoned all his strength and achieved a slight twitch in the legs, as if a spasm of life had passed through the body and then left it. The third time he nodded to Vlad who added his own voice to the chant.
This time the effect was all too violent. The body was convulsed, the legs kicked, the back arched and the corpse nearly fell off the altar, but Zushad and Vlad held it down. Now the thing was wriggling and twitching in an utterly uncontrolled way. Little whimpers and bubbling sounds came from the mouth. Still holding the corpse’s shoulders Zushad bent over the face and addressed it.
“Now by Adramalek who bestrides the abyss and Chamos who compels truth with the sword of fire, I adjure you to tell your true name, on peril of your soul and the five agonies of Eternity!”
For some time nothing came from the corpse’s mouth but foam. The lips quivered and twisted as if played with wantonly by an unseen hand. The adjuration was repeated four, five times. Finally there seemed to be a voice.
“F-Fatmah... Ff-Fatmah...”
Zushad threw a glance of inquiry at Sokolly who nodded. “It was her name,” he said solemnly.
Now came the last stage of the ritual before the corpse can prophesy. This is called the Cycle of Enactment or the Banishment of Memory. The spirit has to live through its last moments before the channels can be cleared to make way for the path of prophesy. It is at this stage that the necromancer must show the greatest stre
ngth of will, for unless he is firm the corpse can be locked into the cycle of death and continue to repeat it until Doomsday.
For Fatmah the cycle of death began even on the bed of her shameful passion. The corpse began to writhe and quiver beneath its phantom lover in a grotesque parody of physical ecstasy. We were spared nothing, from the gasps and cries of pleasure to the pinches and the laughter. Suddenly her body stiffened and we heard the first comprehensible words.
“My husband!” What followed was an orgy of terror and anguish. A flood of words poured out from her, excuses, pleas, protests, at the same time what seemed to be a commentary upon what happened to her. “The blood... No! Not the sword! No! His head! Head in my arms! Blood. Blood...” Then it seemed she was dragged from her house. Her back scraped along the cobbles. Down to the quayside... Stripped. Tied in a sack. The vain efforts to escape. The coarse sacking against her face... Lifted up. A moment in the air. The wind, then the water. Sinking. A struggle. The waterlogged sacking pressed against her body like unseen hands. The first gulp of water. The last struggle. The sinking. The sinking. And somewhere in that infinite descent the passing of a barrier which we call Death.
At last the body ceased to twitch and lay still, a corpse again. Quickly Zushad uttered the Banishment of Memory and then in a loud voice commanded the Breaking of the Seal of Prophesy. He emptied a phial of blood into the mouth. The corpse seemed to drink it; I saw the muscles of the throat move, but the rest of her was like stone.
Slowly, with gentleness, Zushad lifted up Fatmah’s torso while Vlad swung the legs round so that the creature now sat upright on the goat-footed altar, facing Sokolly. The eyes were open but expressionless; the mouth dribbled a little. Zushad whispered words into its ear then released his hold. Miraculously the corpse remained upright, stiff and motionless.
“Now prophesy,” said Sokolly.
The corpse opened its mouth so that the jaw hung loose. The pale tongue wandered about the mouth, like a worm searching for food. Sokolly tapped his foot impatiently.
“You must ask it a question,” said Zushad.
“Very well,” said Sokolly who seemed to be much at his ease with this entertainment. He indicated Vlad who stood on the corpse’s left. “That young man there. I have plans for him. Will they come to fruition?”
The mouth opened and closed several times. There was a clicking in the throat, then the first sound came.
“Dracula... Dracula... Prince... King Dracula...” Then a scream, not like a human voice at all, but like the screech of an animal in pain. After that a babble of sound as if not one person but a thousand were trying to talk through the body. And not in one language, but many... “Death... Tepes... Tepes... The Impaler... A forest... A forest of dead men... Bones... Burning... Fire... The terror... Ice... Black... The Black Cathedral... Waiting for... The Prince of... Flies... No!” Another wretched scream and the corpse was writhing on the floor of the circle. Zushad was pointing his blasting rod at it, muttering imprecations as fast as he could think of them.
Vlad was silent, still as the grave. The shrieks of the corpse grew louder and stranger until they no longer seemed to belong even to an animal. It was like the piercing shrill of a whistle. Its movements became more wild and abandoned. Zushad now stood helpless, staring in horror at his handiwork. The corpse rolled over and over; its hand struck the edge of the circle and caught fire and its cries now utterly filled the room.
Suddenly it flopped off the altar and began to crawl towards the edge of the circle. When the creature’s face touched the edge of the circle it burst into flames. Now there was nothing in the world but its demented cries while we sat paralysed with horror.
The creature rose to its feet and stumbled against the circle until the whole of the upper part of its body was a mass of flames. Blindly it searched for something to hold onto.
Vlad deftly sidestepped its advances, but Zushad cowered helplessly by the altar, drained of all power. Relentlessly the creature groped towards him. He tried to scream but nothing came out. Razendoringer rose and advanced towards the circle. The corpse was now touching Zushad with its burning hands and the next moment the two were locked in an embrace. Fire surrounded them and they seemed fused together in one body. The altar fell and they crashed with it. Now the centre of the circle was a mass of flames. Vlad retreated from them towards its edge.
Razendoringer advanced towards the circle. “Take my hand, lord, and jump across,” he said. Vlad looked doubtful. Razendoringer extended his hand. I saw flames leap round it but there was no burning. Vlad took the hand and jumped while the dwarf tugged hard and did his best to lift the Prince through the air. He landed safely on the other side.
The whole of the circle was now burning. I could not see bodies in the flames, only vague shapes that flitted to and fro in a kind of dance. Sokolly was slumped in his chair dazed, almost unconscious. We felt the air of the room being sucked into the flames. Soon we would be suffocated.
Razendoringer tried to open the door but it would not budge, then I lent a hand. The pressure of the heat was holding it shut. I returned to Sokolly and pulled him off his chair, shouting at him that there was not a moment to lose. Vlad was now at the door, trying to push it open with the dwarf. Now all four of us applied pressure and suddenly, with a great gust of air, the door flew open. The flames in the circle leapt even higher as we plunged through the open door, pushing the figure of Sokolly unceremoniously up the stairs ahead of us.
I was the last to leave that terrible underground chamber. Was a naked child dancing in the flames as I left it? If there was not, my memory of such a vision is more real than much that I know to be true.
When we reached the top of the stairs the blessed open air was waiting for us, and the ordinary old city of Stamboul. In addition there were four black eunuchs standing by a palanquin. If they seemed surprised by their master Sokolly’s condition, they did not show it.
“What would be your pleasure now, mighty Vizier?” piped one of them.
XXVI
After these frightful occurrences we saw neither the Sultan nor his Vizier again. Our lives slipped once more into oblivion. Even the incentive to study sometimes deserted me, so featureless were the days, so rigid our luxurious confinement. Haroun came more rarely and when he did, he had nothing for our comfort; all his news had to do with the war between Baffo and Valide, the Sultan’s two chief wives, and it seemed that Baffo was gaining the upper hand.
Then one day we received an unexpected visitor. The guard said that there was a boy at the door with the pomegranates we had requested. Vlad looked at me inquiringly, for we had certainly not ordered pomegranates, but neither of us wished to forego the chance of anything that would break the monotony of our existence.
He was a slim, graceful boy and he carried the basket of fruit like a god of plenty in a picture. He laid it at my feet and when he looked up I knew the face: delicate features, hollow cheeks, sad, surprised-looking eyes. It was Inanna, the dancing girl whose life Vlad had spared. When she had explained who she was she told us why she had come.
“I am one of Vizier Sokolly’s many concubines. I am Greek by origin and a Christian, but long ago I was captured in a pirate raid on my island and sold into slavery here.” She spoke as if she had lived many years, yet I doubt if she had reached the age of twenty. “My master Sokolly does not treat me badly; that is to say, he leaves me be as a dancing girl in the harem and does not force his attentions upon me too often. I come and go as I please dressed as a boy and sometimes perform small errands for him. In this palace, where men and women are separate, and women often hold inordinate power, I have my uses.
“Recently, I have been carrying secret messages from Sokolly to the Sultana Valide, and from her to him. One day I was carrying a message in a basket of figs for the Sultana. Usually I pass in and out of the harem unmolested, as do many boys, but this time I found the Khislar Agha himself, the Black Eunuch who is the chief guardian of the harem, in the way. He ordered m
e to drop my basket and follow him. I did so in great fear, for in his own domain the Black Eunuch’s power is supreme, overriding even that of the Sultana’s.
“He brought me to one of the many domed chambers in that building. It was richly appointed, even more lavishly than Valide’s and there, upon a great bed, reclined the Sultana Baffo. A slave girl was delicately paring the Sultana’s toenails and anointing her feet with aromatic oils. She has great brown eyes, this Baffo, which I find compelling. She beckoned to me.
“‘Come here, boy,’ she said. Before I could move of my own accord, I felt the Black Eunuch’s flabby hands shoving me forward. Baffo looked at me long and inquiringly. ‘So you carry fruit to the Sultana Valide?’ I nodded. ‘I have seen you about. You are a pretty boy. Whose boy are you?’
“‘Nobody’s boy,’ I replied. ‘I live in the bazaar and go on errands.’
Baffo nodded, apparently satisfied.
“‘Well, Nobody’s Boy, how would you like to earn more money? More than you have ever dreamed of?’
“I replied that I was quite contented as I was. Baffo ignored this. She said that the Sultan took a particular interest in boys such as myself and that I could carve out a fine career if I were ready to join his service. Not wanting to arouse suspicion I expressed some mild interest, but I knew what was meant.
“Then Baffo requested that I should come even closer to her. I muttered something about having to deliver my fruit, but got nothing but a slap from the eunuch’s great black hand for my pains. I came close enough to the couch where she lay to smell her heavy musk perfume. She scrutinized me again, then, nodding with approval at what she saw, she ordered me to strip.
“At this I made a run for the door but was caught and taken struggling and kicking back to Baffo’s couch. There I was stripped and found to be a girl. All my lies were useless. In my fig basket papers were found which contained details of a plan my master has to marry Prince Vladimir to a niece of the Sultana Valide’s and set him up as King of Transylvania in place of his father—”
The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale Page 33