Dracula’s Brethren

by Richard Dalby

  A feeling of deep sadness came over her; for the first time in her life she felt a sense of bereavement and loneliness.

  Would this handsome young man come back again? She almost felt like running after the stranger to ask him if they would meet on the morrow, or, at least, after some days. Being a modest girl, she, of course, could not do so; moreover, the youth had already disappeared.

  ‘Did you bring me any cakes?’ was the mother’s first question, peevish at being awakened in her first sleep.

  ‘Oh, no! mati; I never ate a crumb of a cake myself.’

  ‘And you enjoyed yourself?’

  ‘Oh! very much so; far more than I ever thought.’

  Thereupon she began to relate all that had happened, and would have made a long description of the young man who had danced with her, but her father woke in the midst of a tough snore and bade her hold her tongue.

  On the morrow there was again a party in the village, for it was carnival, the time of the year when good folks make merry. When night came on, Jella went to the dance without needing to be much pressed by her parents. She was anxious to know if the young stranger would be there, and, also, if he would dance with her or with some other girl.

  ‘Remember,’ said her mother to her as she was going off, ‘do not dance with him “like a fly without a head”; but measure him from top to toe, and think how lucky it would be if he, being well off, would marry a dowerless girl like you. The whole village speaks of him, of his weapons and his pipe; still, he might be “like a drop of water suspended on a leaf,” without house or home. Therefore, remember to question him as to his land, his castle, and so forth; try and find out if he is an only son and from where he comes, for “Marry with your ears and not with your eyes,” as the saying is.’

  ‘Anyhow, take this tobacco pouch,’ added the old man, ‘and offer it to him before he leaves you.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jella, guilelessly.

  ‘Because it is made out of a muskrat, and so it will be easy to follow him whithersoever he goes, even in the darkness of the night.’

  Jella, being a simple kind of a girl, did not like the idea of entrapping a young man; moreover, if she admired the stranger, it was for his good looks and his wit rather than for his rich clothes; but being frightened both of her father and her mother, who had never had a kind word for her, she promised to do as she was bidden. She then went to the party, and there everything happened as upon the preceding evening.

  The girls all waited for the handsome young man to make his appearance, and put off accepting partners till the last moment, each one hoping that she might be the chosen one. The hour upon which he had come the evening before was now past, and still they all waited in vain. The music had begun, and the young men, impatient to be up and doing, were heavily beating time with their feet. At last the Kolo began. They had just taken their places, and all except Jella had forgotten the stranger, when he all at once stepped into the room, bringing with him a number of bottles of maraschino, and cakes overflowing with honey and stuffed with pistachios.

  He, as upon the evening before, went round the room, talking with the young men and teasing the prettiest girls. Then he stepped up to Jella, and asked her to dance with him.

  The Kolo at last came to an end, the boys went off with the girls, the old folks hobbled after them, and the unknown youth, putting his arm round his partner’s waist, as if he had been engaged to her, accompanied her home.

  They soon reached her house; Jella then gave the stranger the tobacco-pouch, and, having bid him goodnight, she stood forlorn on the door-step, to see him go off. No sooner had he turned his back, than the father, who was holding the door ajar and listening to every word they said, slipped out, like a weasel, and followed him by the smell of his musk pouch.

  The night was as still as it was dark, the moon had not yet risen, a hushed silence seemed to have fallen over nature, and not the slightest animal was heard stirring abroad.

  The young fellow, after following the road for about a hundred paces, left the highway and took a short cut across the fields. The old man was astounded to see that, though a stranger, he was quite familiar with the country, for he knew not only what lane to take, but also what path to follow in the darkness of the night, almost better than he did himself. He climbed over walls, slipped through the gaps in the hedges, leapt over ditches, just as if it had been broad daylight.

  Jella’s father had a great ado to follow him; still, he managed to hobble along, like an ungainly, bow-legged setter, as fast as the other one capered. They crossed a wood, where the boles of the trees had weird and fantastic shapes, where thorny twigs clutched him by his clothes; then they came out on a plain covered with sharp flints, where huge scorpions lurked under every stone. Afterwards they reached a blasted heath, where nothing grew but gnarled, knotty, and twisted roots of trees, which, by the dusky light of the stars, looked like huge snakes and fantastical reptiles; there, in the clumps of rank grass, the horned vipers curled themselves. After this they crossed a morass, amidst the croaking of the toads and the hooting of owls, where unhallowed will-o’-the-wisps flitted around him.

  The old man was now sorely frightened; the country they were crossing was quite unknown to him, and besides, it looked like a spot cursed by God, and leading to a worse place still. He began to lag. What was he to do? – go back? – he would only flounder in the mire. He crossed himself, shut his eyes tightly, and followed the smell of the musk. He thus walked on for some time, shivering with fear as he felt a flapping of wings near him, and ever and anon a draught of cold air made him lose the scent he was following.

  At last he stopped, hearing a loud creaking sound, a grating stridulous noise, like that of the rusty hinges of some heavy iron gate which was being closed just behind him.

  A gate in the midst of a morass! thought he; where the devil could he have come to? As he uttered the ominous word of Kudic he heard the earth groan under his feet.

  It is a terrible thing to hear the earth groan; it does so just before an earthquake!

  He did not dare to open his eyes; he listened, awed, and then the faint sound of a distant bell fell upon his ears.

  It was midnight, and that bell seemed to be slowly tolling – aye, tolling for the dead, the dead that groan in the bosom of the earth.

  A shiver came over him, big drops of cold sweat gathered on his forehead. He sniffed the cold night air; it smelt earthy and damp, the scent of musk had quite passed away.

  At last he half-opened his eyes, to see if he could perceive anything of the young stranger. The moon, rising behind a hillock, looked like a weird eye peeping on a ghastly scene. What did he see – what were those uncouth shapes looming in the distance, amidst the surrounding mist?

  Why was the earth newly dug at his feet, shedding a smell of clay and mildew?

  He felt his head spinning, and everything about him seemed to whirl.

  What was that dark object dangling down, as from a huge gallows?

  Whither was he to go? – back across the wide morass, where the earth, soft and miry, sank under his feet, where the unhallowed lights lead the wanderers into bottomless quagmires?

  He opened his eyes widely, and began to stare around. He saw strange shapes flit through the fog, figures darker than the fog itself rise, mist-like, from the earth. Were they night-birds or human beings? He could not tell.

  All at once he bethought himself that they were witches and wizards, carovnitsi and viestitche, the morine or nightmares, and all the creatures of hell gathering together for their nightly frolic.

  Fear prompted him to run off as fast as he possibly could, but huge pits were yawning all around him; moreover, curiosity held him back, for he would have liked to see where the damned store away their gold; so, between these two feelings, he stood there rooted to the earth.

  At last, when fear prevailed over covetousness, he was about to flee; he felt the ground shiver under his feet, a grave slowly opened on the spot where he stood, f
or – as you surely must have understood – he was in the very midst of a burying-ground. At midnight in a burying-ground, when the tombs gape and give out their dead! His hair stood on end, his blood was curdling within his veins, his very heart stopped beating.

  Can you fancy his terror in seeing a voukoudlak, a horrid vampire all bloated with the blood it nightly sucks? Slowly he saw them rise one after the other, each one looking like a drowsy man awaking from deep slumbers. Soon they began to shake off their sluggishness, and leap and jump and frolic around, and as the mist cleared he could see all the other uncouth figures whirl about in a mazy dance, like midges on a rainy day.

  It was too late to run away now, for as soon as these blood-suckers saw him, they surrounded him, capering and yelling, twisting their boneless and leech-like bodies, grinning at him with delight, at the thought of the good cheer awaiting them, telling him that it was by no means a painful kind of death, and that afterwards he himself would become a vampire and have a jolly time of it.

  At the sight of these dead-and-alive kind of ghosts, the poor man wished he had either a pentacle, a bit of consecrated candle, or even a medal of the Virgin; but he had nothing, he was at the mercy of the fiends; therefore, overpowered by fear, he fell down in a fainting-fit.

  That night, and the whole of the following day, Jella and her mother waited for the old man to come back; but they waited in vain. When the evening came on, her mother persuaded her to go to the dancing-party and see if the young stranger would come again.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said she, ‘he might tell you something about your father; if not, ask no questions. Anyhow, take this ball of thread, which I have spun myself, and on bidding him goodbye, manage to cast this loop on one of his buttons, drop the ball on the ground, and leave everything to me. Very likely your father has lost the scent of the musk, and is still wandering about the country. This thread, which is as strong as wire, is a much surer guide to go by.’

  Jella did as she was bid. She went to the house where the Kolo was being danced; she spent the whole evening with the young stranger, who never said a word about her father, and when the moment of parting on the threshold of the door arrived, she deftly fastened the end of the thread to one of his buttons, and then stood watching him go off.

  The ball having slowly unwound itself, the old woman darted out and caught hold of the other end of the string. Then she followed the youth in the darkness, through thorns and thickets, through brambles and briars, as well as her tottering legs could carry her, much in the same way her husband had done the evening before.

  That night and the day afterwards, Jella waited for her father and mother, but neither of them returned. When evening came on, afraid of remaining alone, she again went to dance the Kolo.

  The evening passed very quickly, and the rustic ball came to an end. The youth accompanied her home as he had done the evening before, and on their way he whispered words of love in her ear, that made her heart beat faster, and her head grow quite giddy, words that made her forget her father and mother, and the dreaded night she was to pass quite alone. Still, as they got in sight of the house, Jella, who was very frightened, grew all at once quite thoughtful and gloomy. Seeing her so sorrowful, the young stranger put again his arm round her waist, and looking deep into her dark blue eyes, he asked her why she was so sad.

  She thereupon told him the cause of all her troubles.

  ‘Never mind, my darling,’ said the youth, ‘come along with me.’

  ‘But,’ faltered Jella, hesitatingly, ‘do you go far?’

  ‘No, not so very far either.’

  ‘Still, where do you go?’

  ‘Come and see, dear.’

  Jella did not exactly know what to do. She fain would go with him, and yet she was afraid of what people might say about her, and again she shuddered at the thought of having to remain at home quite alone.

  ‘You are not afraid to come with me,’ he asked; ‘are you?’

  ‘Afraid? No, why should I be? you surely would take care of me?’

  ‘Of course; why do you not come, then?’

  ‘Because the old women might say that it is improper.’

  ‘Oh,’ quoth he, laughing, ‘only old women who have daughters of their own to marry, say such things!’

  Thereupon he offered her his arm, and off they went.

  Soon leaving the village behind them, they were in the open fields, beyond the vineyards and the orchards, in the untilled land where the agaves shoot their gaunt stalks up towards the sky, where the air is redolent with the scent of thyme, sage and the flowering Agnus castus bushes; then again they went through leafy lanes of myrtle and pomegranate trees and meadows where orchids bloomed and sparkling brooks were babbling in their pebbly beds.

  Though they had been walking for hours, Jella did not feel in the least tired; it seemed as if she had been borne on the wings of the wind. Moreover, all sense of gloom and sadness was over, and she was as blithe and as merry as she had ever been.

  At last – towards dawn – they reached a dense wood, where stately oaks and fine beech trees formed fretted domes high up in the air. There nightingales warbled erotic songs, and the merle’s throat burst with love; there the crickets chirped with such glee that you could hardly help feeling how pleasant life was. The moon on its wane cast a mellow, silvery light through the shivering leaves, whilst in the east the sky was of the pale saffron tint of early dawn.

  ‘Stop!’ said the young girl, laying her hand on the stranger’s arm. ‘Do you not see there some beautiful ladies dancing under the trees, swinging on the long pendant branches and combing the pearly drops of dew from their black locks?’

  ‘I see them quite well.’

  ‘They must be Vile?’

  ‘I am sure they are.’

  ‘Fairies should not be seen by mortal eyes against their wish. Then do not let us seek their wrath.’

  ‘Do not be afraid, sweet child; we are no ordinary mortals, you and I.’

  ‘You, perhaps, are not; but as for me, I am only a poor peasant girl.’

  ‘No, my love, you are much better than you think. Look there! the fairies have seen you, and they are beckoning you to go to them.’

  ‘But, then, tell me first what I am.’

  ‘You are a foundling; the old man and woman with whom you lived were not your parents. They stole you when you were an infant for your beauty and the rich clothes you wore.’

  ‘And you, who are you, gospod?’

  ‘I?’ said the young man, laughing. ‘I am Macic, the merry, the mischievous sprite. I have known you since a long time. I loved you from the first moment I saw you, and I always hoped that, “as like matches with like,” you yourself might perhaps some day get to like me and marry me. Tell me, was I right?’ said he, looking at her mischievously.

  Jella told him he was a saucy fellow to speak so lightly about such a grave subject, but then – woman-like – she added that he was not wrong.

  They were forthwith welcomed by the Vile with much glee, and, soon afterwards, their wedding was celebrated with great pomp and merriment.

  ‘But what became of the old man and his wife?’ asked an interested listener.

  ‘They met with the punishment their curiosity deserved. They were found a long time afterwards locked up in an old disused burying-ground. They were both of them quite dead, for when they fainted at the terrible sights they saw, the vampires availed themselves of their helplessness to suck up the little blood there was in them.’

  ‘May St John preserve us all from such a fate,’ said Milos Bellacic, crossing himself devoutly.

  THE RING OF KNOWLEDGE

  William Beer

  William Beer is a forgotten author about whom nothing appears to be known, other than that he had two stories – ‘The Casa Principessa’ and ‘The Ring of Knowledge’ – published in Atalanta, a British monthly magazine that flourished briefly in the late 19th century. Primarily intended for young middle class women readers, it, nevertheless,
published a wide range of stories, of which the most outstanding was Clemence Housman’s ‘The Were-Wolf.’ Surprisingly, Beer’s story ‘The Ring of Knowledge,’ which appeared in the November 1896 issue, has never been reprinted until now, making it one of the rarest stories in this anthology.

  ‘DEAR Mr Vere, – We much regret to learn that you have not succeeded in finding Madame Augarde: but it is, of course, some satisfaction to know that you are certain she is no longer in Paris; and if you are correct in your inference that she has taken refuge in Berlin, we are sure to be able to find her shortly, thanks to the admirable police arrangements of that city. We shall be glad for you to remain some time longer in France, as we shall require your ability in unravelling a case placed in our hands. You probably know the particulars of “L’affaire Viroflay” as well as we do. The widow of the deceased Count is looked upon with suspicion by his relatives as having had some connection with his death: and now her brother-in-law (who is an Englishman) has placed the matter unreservedly with us. We hope, with your help, to clear away the mystery that now surrounds the Count’s demise.’ So ran the letter from my chief. I had read this letter and the papers accompanying it through and through again. I had been to the chateau where the accident, crime, or tragedy – whichever it was – occurred, had questioned the servants, and prosecuted enquiries in every conceivable direction without the slightest result; and L’affaire Viroflay seemed in a fair way to remain as much a mystery to me as it had already proved to the French police.

  I was again in Paris, in my old rooms in the Place St Antoine-des-Cochons – two rooms and an anteroom, on the fifth, it’s true, but which had the advantage of opening on a wide balcony which gave me a view, not only of the Place below, with its beds of brilliant flowers and falling spray of the fountain, but also of the ceaseless ebb and flow of life, the bustle and noise in the Boulevard St Michel – the dear old Boule Miche of one’s student days – how long ago they seemed, those salad days, and so far away were scattered those I used to know, that they might have been a handful of leaves in the wind that is called time, and I a ghost, come back to haunt my old habitat in the Quartier Latin.