I went back to bed, and was not troubled again.
I cannot imagine what caused this strange phantasm. It was clearly something within my own mind, which is a little worrying. A bad dream, although I seemed to be awake – at least I thought I was! Perhaps I was in fact sleepwalking, while dreaming I was conscious? That must be it. I hope I am not starting to sleepwalk, as poor Lucy used to!
The memory is distressing, but will not trouble me as long as it does not happen again. Or if it does, at least I know I have the strength to fight it.
* * *
ELENA KOVACS’S JOURNAL
25 September
I am so happy here! I do not deserve the kindness the Harkers have shown to me. Truly I do not deserve it.
I have my own big, bright room with a sink in one corner, a room in which I am allowed complete privacy. No one enters without my permission. I know they will not find and read my journal because they would not dream of abusing my privacy! This is a revelation to me. My father never showed me such courtesy.
The boy is a delight. I almost have what I desired; a son, without the tyranny of marriage! I love him so, I must remind myself he is Madam Mina’s. Quincey is good mannered and bright, yet too sickly to get into much mischief. Instead we play and talk quietly, and I lull him to sleep with stories when he is tired, which is often. Poor soul, I wish he were in better health. I feel an intense bond with him. That is, a bond between him, and me, and that other whose spirit travels with me...
I cannot allow myself to grow too fond of the family. I know that they did a great wrong to him who is my friend and my Dark Companion.
He has been urging me to find a suitable resting place. He is ruthless but never unfair; he knows that each step takes time, and he is patient. More patient than I!
The day Madam Mina took me to the graveyard of the little church, I knew we had found the perfect place. I could not appear too interested or explore too deeply, much as I desired to, lest she become suspicious. (I hope she has not – but why would she?) I hate the frailties of my mortal body – that I would be so easily prevented, if I were found out! And I must not be, for he needs me. Weak as I am, while he is disembodied I am the stronger, like a mother trying to bring a child into being. His existence is in my hands.
The next night, long after everyone had gone to bed, I left the house. I was very afraid that someone would hear me and catch me, for every floorboard groaned at my passing. But I escaped from a back door, and I was alone in the night, with the burden of earth from the castle on my shoulder.
It takes me a long time to reach the graveyard, for I am lost. But an easy walk after my long treks over the Carpathians! At last I recognise the silhouette of the church. I walk down long avenues of graves, watched by angels with blank marble eyes, letting his will guide me.
There are three sepulchres, all neglected and overgrown. None befits him. I take one step towards the largest; but he turns me towards the smallest, the most obscure. I understand. It lies in a dark hollow, overshadowed by yew trees: a squat building of white marble, discoloured by centuries of weather and drifting leaves. The path that winds down to it is barren, but for the mould of many autumns. I walk down eight steps and push open a rusted gate. If it has ever been locked, the lock rotted long ago.
Inside, the smell of damp stone and fungus reminds me of English churches, of the chapel in the castle in Transylvania. Strange that I used to find this smell repellent. Now it seems exciting, “the odour of sanctity,” or the scent of history coming to life.
I light the candle that I brought with me. I see tombs on every side, and one in the centre with a plain, flat marble lid. All is neglected and covered in cobwebs. The floor has a carpet of leaf-mould, leaves blown in year after year and never swept away. I reflect that he should have a magnificent setting, not this! A vaulting marble mausoleum with carved effigies; that would be more befitting! But he whispers, No matter. It suffices.
I perceive his will as my own instinct; that is, knowing what I must do without being told. Obeying, I try to shift the lid on the central tomb. I cannot lift or push it; I almost cry with frustration. But then I find it will swivel, leaving just enough room to pull out the skeleton that lies within. The remains come apart in my hands; I take them out bone by bone, piling them in a corner. I neither know nor care who the inhabitant was. In its place, I spread the rich earth from the castle.
Strange, now I think of it, that I feel no disgust at any of this. In fact I laugh as I work. It seems so right, so fulfilling, like gardening, preparing the soil for the seed.
When I have smoothed the earth as best I can, I heave the lid back into place and sink down beside the tomb for a little while to rest.
He rewards me with a vision.
I see a scene; a bedroom, a big bed draped in white, washed in moonlight. Jonathan Harker lies in a deep trance of sleep while Mina kneels up on the bed, her nightdress bleached by the moon, embracing... embracing him. My Dark Companion. He is a tall, pallid figure in black; his face dazzles me and I cannot recall it clearly. He holds her with such tenderness that I feel jealous. But she resists, so he has to press her arms away. He parts her collar, speaking softly but sternly to her. When he bends his head to her throat, and I see them both stiffen, my own body convulses in empathy. An age passes before it ends. He raises his head. Blood glistens red on his mouth and on her nightdress. He speaks.
“And so you, like the others, would play your brains against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my designs! You know now, and they know in part already, and will know in full before long, what it is to cross my path. They should have kept their energies closer to home. Whilst they played wits against me – against me who commanded nations, and intrigued for them, and fought for them, hundreds of years before they were born – I was countermining them. And you, their best beloved one, are now to me, flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful wine press for a while; and shall later be my companion and my helper. You shall be avenged in turn; for not one of them but shall minister to your needs. But as yet you are to be punished for what you have done. You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my call. When my brain says ‘Come!’ to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding; and to that end this!”
Then he opens his shirt, and with a long sharp nail he opens a red wound in the flesh of his own chest. The blood flows out. His blood, that is now dust! And he takes Madam Mina’s head and forces her mouth into the flow, so that the blood must run into her lips and down her throat, the hot-metal blood, like molten iron, liquid bronze to rage through her own veins. She must swallow it or suffocate.
She groans and trembles, blood on her mouth and on her splayed hands, as if the end of the world has come. Her menfolk come bursting into the room. My Dark Companion throws her down, and they force him back with their crosses, and he becomes mist.
The vision ends then. I rise, shake the dirt from my clothes, and make my way home.
I believe I know what the vision means, but I cannot write of it yet. All of this made me weep bitterly. With jealousy, grief, or longing, I do not know. He asks so much of me. Too much. But it must be done. I want...
I need no husband, no family to chain me. My father died for trying to imprison me. I follow a bright, burning path instead – the brightness of the moon and the burning of freedom, of passion. For this I will be reviled – but I cannot turn back.
* * *
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
30th September
I have been unable to write until now. Quincey has been terribly ill. Pneumonia again. He is not out of danger yet. Elena has been wonderful.
How painful it is to see his sweat-dampened little face upon the pillow! Sometimes as pale as tallow, sometimes flushed with fever. How painful to hear such coughs racking his chest. I do not know how his heart and lungs have borne it.
We were almost prepared to lose him three days ago, but he has pulled back from the
brink. He has such a fighting spirit inside him! I do not know how he has suffered so much illness and yet survived.
I believe his current bout is my fault. That walk we took the other day – we went much too far. I overestimated Quincey’s strength; he seemed so energetic, but children will always go on long after they should stop. It was my responsibility to say, “Enough!” but I did not. This is the consequence! Jonathan, Elena and the doctor have all told me not to blame myself, but I cannot help it.
1st October
Quincey a little better. He is eating again, at least. Also played with his train upon the bed-cover for half an hour. Good. We are not out of the woods yet – will we ever be?
On another matter, it concerns us that we still have no word from Professor Kovacs. His expedition is obviously taking longer than he anticipated – I do hope nothing has gone wrong! We have all had enough worry lately. Jonathan and I know him only a little, but he seemed such a good man, and I know how hard Van Helsing and Elena would take his loss. Still, it has not come to that yet! He can only be grateful that we are taking care of his niece, however, for she has no one else.
Chapter Six
PROFESSOR KOVACS’S JOURNAL
Date unknown
I have no means of telling how much time has passed. My writing is so crabbed than I can barely read it myself. But record this I must, in the hope that even if not you, Abraham, someone, in some far distant time, might discover it.
I am still alive. For how much longer, I cannot tell. But of this I am sure; the Scholomance exists.
So my expedition has not been in vain. Even though I do not expect to survive, at least my death will have been in the pursuance of knowledge – with what sweet irony, since it was greed for knowledge that exiled Adam and Eve from Eden.
This is a labyrinth of mysteries that defies human understanding. I have merely set foot in the porch.
After my candles burned out, I spent what seemed an endless and hideous length of time in utter blackness. I knew that whatever had emerged from the webs and killed Miklos was somewhere in the darkness with me. I sat rigid, waiting for the faintest sound or the whisper of dry flesh against mine. I was aware that the creature might be a waking delusion, that it could have been the blow to the head that killed my friend – but it was the uncertainty that nearly unhinged me, the total loss of trust in my own senses.
When exhaustion overcame me, I drifted in and out of sleep. How long this phase lasted I do not know. At length I was woken by a blinding light.
I squinted against the brilliance, not knowing where I was. My head pounded, every inch of my body ached. At last my eyes began to adjust and I could see.
I was still on the floor of the chamber. But now the place was alight with candles! Miklos lay lifeless on the bench, where I had laid him out as best I could, that he might retain some dignity. His body wax cold and waxen. An old man stood before me with a taper in his hand, his thin lips drawn back to show long sharp teeth. He had a cadaverous face, a long hooked nose and a bald pate with white hair flowing around it. The robe he wore was deep red and sewn with sigils like those on the marble block and the walls. These were all brief, dream-like impressions on my part. I was so caught up in horror that I could not even speak; a vile odour of decay and burning tallow choked me. When the old man spoke in the Magyar tongue, I heard his long teeth rattling in their sockets.
“My dear friend, my dear guest. Make use of you I must, but I will never misuse you. I have waited so long, my precious visitor. Welcome. Welcome.”
His face loomed closer and closer over me. I experienced the utmost revulsion and a desire to thrust him off, yet I could not resist. Then I felt a sudden intense cold that centred on my throat. I heard voices whispering all around me. This experience was unpleasant, yet there was something in it that I welcomed, as an exhausted traveller welcomes deep sleep.
When I woke again, I was lying on the floor with a jacket – Miklos’s – pillowed under my head. The chamber was still alight with candles, but now there was a younger, pale-haired man sitting on the bench, his chin on his hands, looking down at me. He wore a red robe that seemed identical to the old man’s; I mean that it seemed to be the very same garment. An odour of age and damp clung to it, and there were speckles of black mould between the gorgeous ropes of embroidery.
He had taken the rations from my knapsack and set them out, paltry as they were, as a sort of mock-feast. Seeing the food, my hunger and thirst leapt ravenously. It must have been a day or two since I had eaten, though I have lost track of time.
“Eat,” the man said. “Don’t be afraid. My questions are pressing, but it would be ill-mannered of me to to impose them on a guest who is starving.” So I did as he said. The effort of sitting up made me breathless.
Bizarre, it seemed, that I could sit upon the floor to break my fast while my friend lay dead nearby and this strange creature sat watching me, but my hunger overwhelmed all finer considerations. I was weak, and my neck pained me. Food, water and a few sips of brandy restored my strength somewhat. All the time I ate, the stranger watched me with a half smile on his lips. Out of courtesy – perhaps also out of the desire to find common ground, to make a frightful situation seem more normal – I offered him a share of my repast, but he declined. “I have already partaken,” he said, with a strange, soundless laugh.
He was very thin, his wrists skeletal within the loose sleeves of his robe, his hair colourless, his age indeterminate. He was anything between thirty and fifty. He could have been the son of the old man I first saw. He could indeed have been the same man, at a younger age. And I, whether through the madness induced by captivity or some deep instinct, felt that this was the same man – grown younger by taking Miklos’s life!
I noticed also a great axe leaning against the marble dais, an ancient thing with a pitted, curved blade that might have seen many a medieval battle. Had it been there all the time, hidden by the webs?
When I finished eating, and was packing what was left into my knapsack again, my companion asked, “Who are you?”
I told him my name and title. My own voice sounded hoarse to my ears, lacking in any authority.
“I am called... Beherit,” he said. “It is not my given name, but I am called it. Why have you come here?”
How difficult it is to communicate when one is in the dark, as it were – bereft of introduction, the mutual knowledge of status, position, purpose etc, that oils the wheels of social intercourse! “I am a scholar,” I began. “My friend and I were engaged in an archaeological expedition...”
“You speak strangely,” he said. “What were you seeking?” He sounded dangerously impatient, and I was at his mercy! I had no choice but to be honest.
“A fabled place known as the Scholomance. We sought evidence that an ancient establishment may once have existed that led to the myth. A secret order of alchemists, perhaps, or...”
He was laughing, a soft, inappropriate laughter that was almost feminine yet sinister. “And have you found it?”
“I believe so. Can you enlighten me?”
He didn’t answer, but asked, “What is the year?”
I told him. To my shock, he covered his face with his hands and let out a long, loud groan that made me tremble. Then he leapt up and stared at me. “How is the world changed?” he demanded. “Tell me!”
I was alarmed. “Changed – since when?”
He pointed a bony finger at the cocoon. “I have slumbered there for some four hundred years. Dreams come to me, but how do I know if they are true visions or illusions?”
“Much has changed,” I said, stammering. I began some garbled account of Wallachian, Turkish and Austro-Hungarian history, but I know not how much sense I made; calm again, he waved a hand to stop me.
“Nothing has changed,” he said idly. “The same nations squabble over the same territories. How reassuring.”
“But the advances in science–”
He gave a quick, hard laugh. “And where d
o you think that knowledge has come from? Leaked from here, I have no doubt. Why were you searching? Did you wish to apply? You are some four hundred years too late to join, I fear. The Scholomance has been long deserted.”
“So this is...” My scholarly spirit rallied, pushing fear aside. “You mean that this truly is the place...”
“It was.” He sighed deeply, and I smelled a sweetish, metallic odour on his breath, like blood. By now I suspected, knew, what he was. “And as you have found it, you must have been meant to find it. Which means...”
“What?”
“That the time has come for rebirth. The planets shift in their courses, the stars tremble, empires rise and fall, and our time comes once again.”
I said, “My only concern now is to find a way out.” I looked at Miklos, my heart souring with grief. “Though it is too late for my friend. Is it too much to ask that you help me...?” I was going to say his name, but stopped myself, for I know that Beherit is the name of a devil.
“But my friend, you cannot leave me so soon,” he said smoothly. “We are surely meant to help each other. Come, let me take you somewhere that you may rest more comfortably.”
He put out his hand and helped me up. My head spun and I gasped for breath, in no condition to defend myself or flee from him. Once I was on my feet, he left me and went to stand over Miklos. He gazed tenderly, I would even say lovingly, on Miklos’s face, and stroked the sunken cheeks in a way that nauseated me – almost gloating.
“They do not always rise again,” he said. “The conditions must be precise. Three kisses. After all, how could they all come back? The Undead would spread like a rippling circle of plague, until there were no living left for us to prey on. Still, we had better be sure.”
Through a glaze of utter disbelief I watched Beherit take the battle-axe from where it leaned against the dais. In one swift arc he swung it down – I cried out, but it was over even before I opened my mouth! – and the blade cleaved through Miklos’s neck. The head rolled to the side and hit the floor. It lay there, discoloured, misshapen, a white bone gleaming in the purple ooze of the stump, candlelight shining like tears on the cheeks. I reeled away, sick, unable to comprehend what I’d seen.
Dracula the Undead: A Chilling Sequel to Dracula Page 8
