Séance for a Vampire

by Fred Saberhagen

  The girl made no response to our entry, or to our first reassuring words. Taking up the lighted candle from the table and approaching her more closely, I saw that her face was calm, expressionless, and her eyes fixed on the now-moving flame. More shocking was the fact that I thought I noted some of the characteristics of the vampire in her appearance; but I could not be sure. At least there were no fang marks visible upon her throat.

  Naturally we had closed the door to the room behind us. Just as we were starting to lift Miss Altamont from the bed, it suddenly opened; a chambermaid had entered and switched on the electric light. In the next moment, the young uniformed servant, every bit as startled as Holmes and I, gave voice to a faint cry and drew breath for a louder effort.

  Before she could scream again, both Holmes and myself were at her side. We had come equipped with a small bottle of chloroform, in anticipation of some such difficulty.

  After putting the unconscious servant in a large wardrobe, and blocking the door to the cabinet with a chair, we at length succeeded, by blowing out the candle, in partially rousing the lady on the bed.

  Meanwhile, from my post just down the hall, I, Prince Dracula, heard the outraged servant's faint outcry, but being something of a connoisseur of such noises, I dismissed it out of hand for what it was. No one else in the house, if they heard the cry at all, paid it the least attention.

  Next I detected the sounds of four human feet casually approaching, bearing with them two sets of breathing human lungs, one male and one female. They were coming down the hallway on my right. I waited, confidently, to confront whoever might appear.

  I waited, I say...

  Ahhhhhh.

  I warned you at the start... now you must be patient with me for a moment or two.

  Thank you for your patience. Now we can proceed.

  The unknown man who came strolling into my sight was accompanied by a woman equally unknown to me, who appeared to be jealous of her escort's attention and was trying to engage him in conversation. She was perhaps thirty-five or forty, attractive and bejeweled, obviously a member of the upper classes—and what suddenly riveted my attention was the fact that she was walking worshipfully at the side of a man who obviously belonged to a much different stratum of society.

  I was startled, to put it mildly, to observe that the man who drew such worshipful attention from this countess—for such she might have been—appeared to be a peasant. His long shirt, boots, and trousers were peasant garments, though of fine fabrics never seen on any farm, and he looked about him with bold, piercing eyes. He carried with him, like a wave, strong olfactory evidence that his body had been long unwashed. I found this apparition disconcerting. He wore on a chain around his neck a large pectoral cross of gold.

  This peculiar stranger was also carrying, in one massive, thick-fingered hand, some kind of crystal cup, half-filled with wine. He held the vessel not in the manner of one serving drinks, but of one consuming them. He savored the contents of the valuable goblet, then almost contemptuously tossed it away empty.

  The Russian woman with him continued incongruously and—some would say—shamefully hanging on the peasant's arm, and at one point, she addressed him as "Holy Father," which startled me again. Besides the large pectoral cross, there was nothing about him to suggest that he might be a member of the regular clergy.

  I thought that there were only bedrooms down the hallway in the direction from which the couple came. The suggestion was inescapable, to my experienced eye, that this lout and his fair companion—I even wondered whether she might be the lady of this house—had just been engaging in debauchery. I am not very easily shocked, as you may well imagine, but here roaring peculiarities demanded to be noticed. She was hanging on to her consort, obviously tolerating his odor and his strange appearance, now laughing—with him, not at him—and taking obscene liberties with his person.

  Perhaps I should mention, even though I am a gentleman, that the lady was somewhat the worse for drink.

  The man said something to her again, speaking in crude, peasant-sounding Russian, and I caught the name of Kulakov. He seemed to be trying to explain to his companion that he had an appointment to meet Kulakov and have a talk with him.

  Then suddenly the man broke off, having become aware of my presence where I sat pretending to be smoking in the shadows. At once he grew interested in me. Something about me—even in the dim light—caught his attention sharply.

  Gently but firmly the peasant put his fair companion aside. As he released her, he made a gentle gesture with his broad hand, a wiping motion with the palm out. The hand did not touch the lady, but her eyelids sagged and she sat down on the edge of a big chair, then pitched softly forward to lie partially on a bearskin rug, in which position she fell asleep. Her fair breasts, almost escaping her low-cut dress, seemed to be menaced by the dead fangs of the white bear.

  My gaze lifted to the eyes of the man, who was standing motionless, regarding me. I was being challenged. Deliberately I crushed out my cigarette upon the marble floor. Perhaps this burly, impudent peasant was going to try to stare me down. A great many years had passed since anyone had seriously attempted that.

  My eyesight, as you might suppose, is excellent even in dim light. I saw before me a powerfully built man, perhaps a little above the average height—he was not really tall, but he carried himself like a tsar and gave the impression of being tall. His age was in the early thirties. He had long, dark hair parted in the middle, and a beard stained with the remains of several meals. His boots and clothing were cut in the peasant style but, as I have already remarked, made of richer materials than ordinary peasants ever see.

  However, all these matters were peripheral, as was his rancid, goatlike smell. It was the man's eyes that really counted.

  Taking a step or two toward me, he put out a broad, strong hand and said in his peasant Russian: "Blessings, Little Father. I am Gregory Efimovitch."

  Something was happening; I knew that, even as I got to my feet, but was not alarmed. I suppose I must have murmured something in reply. He accepted whatever I said as a fair greeting.

  The hypnotic spell that had already begun to engulf me was very subtle, so subtle that I—I, Dracula—was scarcely aware of it at first. In my own defense, I can plead that I was already tired and that many days' exposure to feeble northern sunlight had been a strain. At any rate, I must confess that I was well on my way to being overcome before I even realized that anything was wrong. To this day I am not sure whether I succumbed to a deliberate assault on the part of Gregory Efimovitch, or whether it was only the way he was, part of his nature... for him, as automatic as drawing breath.

  Suddenly, whatever the cause, at the suggestion that I might be tired, I was tired, and felt strangely content to sit back in my soft chair and stare into the fire. Have I said there was a fireplace nearby? I don't remember for certain, but I think there was. The burly peasant's eyes seemed to be there in the fire, too, as well as in his head, their burning images now woven of the flames...

  Oh, it was all very pleasant. I was drifting, a ludicrous sense of safety assuring me that I remained securely in control of the situation, though actually I was in the greatest danger. Dimly, as from a distance, I could see the peasant leaning toward me, hear him saying in his rough Russian: "I see thou art one of the lovers of blood, like Alexander Ilyitch..." To me, a stranger in evening dress and speaking like a gentleman, the peasant used the intimate form of address with serene self-assurance.

  "Like Kulakov? A lover of blood?" I chuckled, struck by the perfect appositeness of the phrase. To me, his Russian phrase seemed as oddly ambiguous as does the Neo-Latin, or the Greek: hemophiliac.

  "Why yes," I said. "Perhaps I am." Gently I licked my lips. Vaguely I turned my gaze to where the dead bear's fangs still menaced the woman lying on the rug.

  But those great dark eyes irresistibly brought me back. "Why dost thou not tell me thy name?"

  "Vlad Drakulya."

  "Thou art of
the Romany? No? Art thou a friend of God?"

  I shrugged, then frowned. This was a serious question. "He and I are old acquaintances, at least... I fear we do not always get along as well as we might."

  "Do not blaspheme." It was a command, delivered not with anger, but with the serene confidence of spiritual authority.

  Obedience was necessary, but still I shook my head. I had not thought I was blaspheming.

  "It might be possible to cure thee, Vlad Drakulya."

  "I am not sick."

  "Thy body is in a strange and wonderful condition. I meant to cure thee of thy taste for blood. Dost thou want to be cured?"

  Again I shook my head. "That would..."

  "What?"

  "That would cure me of my life altogether. And I wish to live. What is thy name?" Somehow only the intimate form seemed appropriate to use to this man, as I did not object when he used it to me. His arrogance did not offend, because it was so great that it transcended arrogance.

  He shook his head; the deep-set eyes were amused. My responses were unsatisfactory, though perhaps not unexpected. He said: "I told thee my name: I am Gregory Efimovitch Rasputin."

  As yet that last name meant nothing to me—nor to the world, not for a few more years. But I believe I smiled, because the Russian word rasputin carries strong connotations of sexual debauchery; rather as if an Englishman or American were to introduce himself as Gregory Porno, or Ephraim Smut.

  "A starets," I murmured. "One of Russia's wandering, holy fools." That began, at least, to explain his acceptance among some of the aristocracy. Such people were a tradition among them and perhaps still are. In 1903 ten thousand, perhaps a hundred thousand, of them were walking the highways and byways of the great country, from Poland to Siberia. Not one in a hundred thousand of them, though, the Holy Virgin of Kazan be thanked, more likely not one in a million, carried or now carries in his mind and soul anything like the power of Gregory Efimovitch to blast or to heal—or felt or now feels as little responsibility toward his fellow humans.

  Gently and irresistibly he was saying to me: "Come with me to the balcony, and we will watch the sunrise together."

  Some remote part of my consciousness assured me that the Christian name and patronymic I had just heard should have been familiar to me, and that it had a particular meaning of great importance, related to some matter on which I ought to be engaged. Yet at the moment it was not possible to pursue the thought...

  ...because it was absolutely necessary to comply with the suggestion that had just been made. It was one of those suggestions that simply left one no choice. In my time, I have made a few of them myself.

  Willingly I got to my feet. Images danced before me, of the cheery, sunlit days (there were a few) of my childhood and youth. "Yes... it is a long time, it is very long, since I have watched the dawn."

  I think that there were stairs beneath my feet, and I remember vaguely that my new guide and mentor, whose commands were always to be heeded, brought me out onto a small balcony, one of several on the eastern face of the large house, and I remember placing my hands on the rail of cold wrought iron that guarded the small space at waist level. And then I was left standing on the balcony, serenely awaiting sunrise, while Rasputin went back indoors, where (as I now realize) he soon caught sight of Kulakov, whom he had been intending to meet and speak with.

  The two men began to talk. I heard most of it, recording it without understanding at the time, while my thoughts remained serenely concentrated upon the coming dawn. Shortly it became apparent from their conversation that Kulakov, suffering from his long-term disability, had returned to St. Petersburg primarily, or largely, in search of the one person he knew who could give him relief.

  Rasputin was, and had been, treating Kulakov intermittently for certain chronic conditions: nightmares, mental anguish, and some psychosomatic condition of the neck, a lingering result of being hanged.

  I got the impression that Kulakov had told Rasputin months ago that he was going to England to try to recover a treasure, stolen from him long ago. But the peasant had not sent the count to England to rape and murder and loot. It seemed that in some general way, Rasputin had suggested that Kulakov try to see that amends were made for old, rankling problems out of his past.

  Sounds of revelry from distant rooms of the palace came drifting into the chamber where the two men were meeting. A gramophone was playing over and over a scratched record—the distorted voice of Mary Garden.

  Someone down on the ground floor put a new wax cylinder on the machine—now we had Enrico Caruso. There was an outburst of uproarious laughter; perhaps there were gypsies down there, entertaining in the lower regions of the house, and I wondered in a detached way whether the gypsies had even brought a dancing bear with them, at least into the kitchen or scullery. Certainly a distant crash of falling furniture and crockery indicated that the party was getting out of hand.

  Rasputin, however, plainly preferred to keep his distance from such goings-on. Though a peasant and a mystic, he moved upon a different plane from gypsies, with their innocuous spells and love potions. He said to Kulakov. "Where hast thou been, my friend? I have not seen thee for months."

  Kulakov: "I have been to England. I told thee months ago that I was going there."

  Rasputin said something that neither I (nor Cousin Sherlock, who as you will see was also eavesdropping) could clearly hear.

  "—I told you, Little Father, that there were people in England who had robbed me. I went to get back what was mine. Also, to make them pay for what they did to me."

  Rasputin: "That was not what I advised thee to do. Dost thou love God, Alexander Ilyich?"

  "I need help, Gregory Efimovitch. Help me. The bad dreams have come back, and I have trouble sleeping, and my neck hurts all the time."

  The holy man told his patient to sit in the soft chair where I had been. "Consider the sun and stars, and He who made them. The pain will go. And the dreams, also. I see that thou art worried. But nothing in life is worth worrying over—it all passes."

  Kulakov, the murderous vampire, as if drifting toward sleep, murmured something in a soft, childlike voice.

  Then Rasputin spoke again. "Tell me about this treasure thou sayest is lost. What is there about it that is so important?"

  And Kulakov, under deep hypnosis, told Rasputin word for word what had passed between himself and Doll, back in 1765.

  There, I have told some of it. Almost the worst part, though that is yet to come. I must rest. Watson...

  Sherlock Holmes and I, walking Rebecca Altamont between us down the hallway—toward the stair—from the room in which she had been confined, heard voices ahead and stopped.

  The voices spoke in Russian, and of course I could make nothing of them. But for Holmes, the matter was quite different.

  20

  Of course at the moment our immediate problem was not to interpret a conversation held in Russian, but to convey Rebecca Altamont safely out of the house. We had garbed the young woman first in a robe over her nightdress, then in a light summer coat, chosen from a wardrobe not occupied by a chloroformed maid. We had put slippers on Miss Altamont's feet and had got her standing beside the bed. Then, despite her continued mumbled protests, we cajoled and led and half-carried her out of the room and halfway down the hall.

  We had just rounded the last turn of the dim hallway before the stair when the sound of voices and the sight of figures just ahead forced us to pause, and seek concealment in a kind of niche containing the closed door of another room. As we were coming out of a bedroom like kidnappers, we chose not to try to brazen out the threatened encounter. So far, the doors in this part of the hall had fortunately remained closed. Still, we could not remain indefinitely where we were, nor could we reach the stairway without passing directly in front of the large alcove where Rasputin and Kulakov were having their strange confrontation. I now observed that the alcove also contained some nameless lady of the Russian nobility, whose elegantly gowned form wa
s lying senseless upon a bearskin rug. Both of the men ignored her completely. I could see her stir at intervals, a movement suggesting that at any moment she might regain sufficient consciousness to complicate our situation even further.

  In this awkward situation, Holmes and I exchanged whispered comments. Neither of us could understand what might have happened to Prince Dracula, who had supposedly been on guard in the very alcove where Kulakov and the strange-looking peasant were now conversing.

  We were forced to the conclusion that in one way or another, the prince must have been put at least temporarily out of action.

  Within a few moments—though the time seemed vastly longer—Holmes succeeded in somehow positively identifying a figure visible through one of the windows which illuminated the stairwell, silhouetted against a brightening eastern sky. It appeared that our ally was now standing, strangely motionless and facing outward, upon a balcony on the next floor up. If Kulakov and his companion were aware that anyone was on the balcony, they paid that motionless figure no attention.

  Shaking my head, I whispered: "What shall we do? Dracula stands like one mesmerized."

  "That must be it!"

  And we realized further that the rising sun, due to appear in a few minutes, must destroy our comrade in arms. The balcony faced the east, where the orb of day would soon appear out of the endless bulk of enigmatic Asia.

  Clearly we could not allow this, if there was any way to prevent it, and Holmes whispered as much to me. Hastily we worked out a plan between us. While I remained with our young charge, supporting her, still dazed and uncooperative, on her feet, Holmes walked boldly forward—there was no other way to reach the stair or climb to the level of the balcony where the prince stood so serenely poised to watch the sunrise.

  To judge by the growing brightness of the eastern sky, dawn could not be more than a minute or two away—the sun never goes very far below St. Petersburg's horizon at this season of the year. And today, for once, the morning promised to be cloudless.