by Dacre Stoker
“You wanted to know the truth, did you not?” Dracula rasped out. “The secret they were all so desperate to hide from you? I lay with your mother before your father ever did. You are the fruit of my seed. My blood flows through your veins.”
The pain flooded back into Quincey’s head, and he fell back, releasing his hands from the kukri knife. The voice he heard this time was Mina’s. Forgive me, my son. He speaks the truth.
Quincey’s entire existence had been a lie. He stared at Dracula. His skin was melting, but Quincey was not affected by the sun’s rays. He was still human. . . . That meant he still had free will. He had a choice.
“I am the son of Jonathan Harker, and a child of God.”
Dracula gazed toward Mina, his expression one of resignation.
Then he lifted himself off the ground, launched himself over the edge of the cliff, and burst into a ball of flame.
The sun had done the job. The light had destroyed the darkness.
Quincey could only watch helplessly as the flaming body that was Dracula fell three hundred feet from the cliff and crashed into the foaming sea. Behind him, he heard his mother scream. He felt nothing.
Mina shrieked as she watched Dracula’s body fall. In an instant, he was gone, leaving behind a trail of black smoke. She had battled so long against the truth of her love for Dracula, wasted so much time. Their love was meant to be eternal, and now it was over.
Smoke rose from her hands. The sun’s rays were now falling upon her body, inflicting searing pain. Mina stumbled a few steps through the graveyard before her body rebelled against her and she fell. She crawled on her hands and knees, clawing her way along the ground, trying to get to Quincey. Perhaps now that he knew the whole truth, he would understand her choice and offer the forgiveness she needed.
But he would not turn to look at her and simply stood there, staring out over the cliff, lost in his thoughts.
“Come away with me now, my love,” Mina implored. “There is much to tell you. Much I must prepare you for.”
Quincey looked down at his hands, bloodied and unwashed. The words he spoke were more deadly than any stake he could have driven. “My mother is dead.” And with that, he turned his back on her and ran away, never looking back.
Mina watched him go, feeling a desperate emptiness inside her. She had saved her son, and the victory had come with a heavy price. It was worth it: Quincey could still choose his own destiny. But now she was alone. The only people she’d ever loved were dead. She had not chosen to face eternity on her own. What was the point of immortality if she had no one to share it with?
The flames licked at Mina’s feet as she trudged toward the cliff’s edge, but she felt no pain, only the sensation that her life had almost run its course. She yearned to see Jonathan, Lucy, and all her friends again. She yearned to be reunited with her dark prince. The journey had been long and hard. It was time to go home. She raised her arms to the sky and commended her soul to God. She hoped He knew the truth in her heart and, in His infinite wisdom, could forgive her.
For a moment, she teetered on the edge. Then she leaned a little farther forward and an instant later she was falling.
The water and treacherous rocks rose up to meet her. For an instant, she saw her flaming reflection, then darkness. A sleep well earned.
CHAPTER LXIII.
Able Seaman John Coffey was exhausted. He’d put in a late night of drinking belowdecks with his fellow crew members, and now he was paying the price.
It was a cloudy day, but the sun was struggling to break through. The weather was causing a heavy chop on the sea. Coffey wondered how his hangover would fare if the weather turned. The massive ocean liner was anchored at Roches Point, two miles off the coast of Queenstown, being too damn big to fit into the local dock. He wondered why the hell they built ships so bloody huge. Who were they trying to impress? Certainly not the crew: On a ship like this one, a sailor had to do more work for the same meager pay.
It was common practice that when anchored offshore, the liner’s crew would accompany passengers on the ferry, taking them to and from the port. It was just John Coffey’s luck that he was assigned this brisk morning to the PS America—one of the steamer ferries used to taxi passengers. Queenstown was Coffey’s hometown, but despite being so close, he would not have a chance to set foot there. He was under orders to make this trip as quickly as possible. The ocean liner was on its maiden voyage, and its owners and captain were determined to break all speed records to New York. There was no time to be wasted.
Coffey had been at sea for over two years, working his fingers raw for little pay. The job on this new ocean liner was the best he’d had, but his wages didn’t allow for any savings.
The PS America raised its anchor and unleashed itself from the great ocean liner, ferrying seven passengers on their way to the port. As it made its way across Cork Cove to the pier, Coffey’s bloodshot eyes were drawn to the Cathedral of St. Colman, nestled near the top of the hillside. Construction on it had begun over forty years ago. By the look of the scaffolds adorning the bell towers, it was almost complete. Coffey smiled at the sight. This seaport had become the gateway to America since 1891, when the SS Nevada began taking thousands of Irish immigrants across the sea on their way to a new life. Coffey had been to New York many times but always found himself longing for his quiet sea town. To add insult to injury, the PS America would be dropping off its seven passengers to Pier 13. Such an unlucky number. Once again, Coffey wished he could say a prayer in the church before setting off on the massive ocean liner. He sighed and gazed out over the approaching pier, where over a hundred third-class passengers waited to board the liner. These men and women had come from all over Europe for a chance to make a better life for themselves. God knew what they would find when they got to America.
Once Coffey had finished checking every ticket and marking the names on the manifest, he and the other seamen began loading cargo.
A voice called from the shore: “Wait!”
Coffey looked up to see a disheveled fellow careening across the weathered planks toward the ferry. By the look of the man’s ragged clothes, Coffey wagered he was some homeless wretch trying to steal passage to America. “Ahoy, where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“Forgive me,” the vagabond stammered. His accent was English and well-to-do, which was surprising, and he had a hollow, possessed look in his eyes. Coffey felt there was something not quite right about him. He had seen that look before—it was his father’s look, that of a man who had been to war and had seen and done terrible things. Another surprise: The man handed over a paper bearing the familiar bright red letters in the center: BOARDINGPASS.
“B Deck, First Class?” Coffey asked dubiously as he looked at the vagrant’s rags. He read the name on the boarding pass. “You’re telling me that you are Dr. Fielding?” He had also noticed that this filthy lad appeared to be younger than he, too young, surely, to have a medical practice. He had obviously stolen the ticket from the real doctor. Coffey looked down at the suspicious-looking satchel, hanging off the man’s shoulder. “Am I to believe that is your medical bag?”
“Ah . . . I had an accident, as you can plainly see from my appearance. I lost my medical bag,” the lad replied, tightening his grip on the bag’s leather straps.
“Lost? Along with your luggage?” Coffey asked. He now expected the lad to run, the game over. The young man gave Coffey a look that sent a chill down his spine. “Let me see your license and passport,” Coffey said.
The vagabond produced a wallet from his pocket and handed it to Coffey. Inside, Coffey was shocked to see a green banknote. It had an odd design. After only an instant, Coffey recognized it as American. The number 20 was printed in bright yellow, as were the words IN GOLD COIN. Coffey blinked. His fingers flipped it over nervously to see if it was real, and only then did he realize that there were five banknotes. One hundred dollars. It was more money than he made in a year. Coffey looked back at the va
grant. This money was his chance for a new life, but at what cost? Swiftly, he made a decision.
“Your papers seem to be in order,” he said. “You just made it, doctor. Come this way.”
There was a stack of crates piled on the dock, cargo to be transported onto the ocean liner. As Coffey and his fellow seamen finished loading the cargo onto the ferry, he promised himself that he would make a confession of his sinful behavior at the Cathedral of St. Colman before the day was out.
“Dr. Fielding” disembarked the PS America and boarded the mighty ocean liner. He made his way up the grand staircase and out onto the promenade deck, walking along the stern railing. The pompous elite of high society scoffed at his appearance. He was surprised that no one had reported him, thinking he was a steerage passenger who had wandered somewhere he didn’t belong.
Peace, at last a moment of peace. Dr. Fielding was as good a name as any other for a man who no longer knew who he was. He had once been the namesake of Quincey Morris, a brave man who’d died battling evil for the good of mankind. Quincey Harker felt he no longer deserved to carry that name. He remembered running for what had seemed like hours from Carfax Abbey. He remembered the moment he had sensed that his mother was dead, utterly dead.
Alone, he had wandered aimlessly for days, with no idea where to go or what to do. Was it by a miracle or pure luck that he happened upon the horse he had stolen in Whitby, after taking a train from London? He had shown mercy to the beast when it had collapsed. How the horse had found him, he did not know. Quincey had not noticed the satchel on the horse’s saddle before, so focused had he been on his journey. Now God had shown him a path.
Upon opening the satchel, he had found the doctor’s wallet containing three hundred American dollars and a first-class ocean liner ticket for New York City. Quincey’s first instinct had been to seek out the good doctor and return his property, as well as his mount. He would have liked to have been a man of strong moral fiber, even if he was the son of Dracula. Despite this, Quincey had found that after all he was a coward.
But now as he stood on the deck of the mighty ship, he could not help but feel that his great adventure was about to begin.
Having assisted the one hundred new steerage passengers off the PS America and onto the ocean liner, Coffey began his final task of the morning. As ordered, he would unload the cargo from the ferry into the liner’s hull. Then, once the grand ship was casting off, Coffey would stow away on the PS America and return to Queenstown. He would head directly to church to make his confession, and then disappear to begin his new life.
Coffey attached a rope to the two crates that remained to be loaded onto the liner. He tugged on the ropes as he and his fellows hauled the crate across the gangplank, through the cargo hull door, and into the hold. Stenciled on the sides of both crates were the words: PROPERTY OF VLADIMIR BASARAB. QUEENSTOWN, IRELAND. TO NEW YORK CITY, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
The crew closed the doors of the cargo hold. Coffey’s moment of freedom had arrived. He backed away from his fellow seamen and scurried into the PS America’s lower deck. There, he found a discarded canvas oost-bag and hid beneath it. He patted the money in his pocket, relieved to find it was still there. Coffey raised the edge of the canvas sack so that he could spy through the porthole. He watched his fellow crewmen run up the gangplank and enter the mighty ship; and then the PS America cast off from the ocean liner and steamed back toward Queenstown. Coffey was almost home.
As the PS America pulled back into Pier 13, Coffey took one last look at the name painted on the stern of the ocean liner as it drifted out of sight, then pulled the canvas tarpaulin back over his head and resolved that he would wait until dark to make his escape. For some reason, he was overcome by a feeling of dread. Something told him that the future of the vagrant, and all the other souls aboard the liner, was in peril. He prayed that the grand ocean liner, the Titanic, was as unsinkable as the captains of industry believed it to be.
AFTERWORD
Abraham (Bram) Stoker was born in Clontarf near Dublin, Ireland, on November 8, 1847. His father, John Abraham Stoker, was a clerk with the British civil administration in Ireland. His mother, Charlotte Thornley, from Sligo in western Ireland, was an active social reformer. The Stokers were Protestants who attended the Church of Ireland. Bram was the third of seven children: He had four brothers (William Thornley, Thomas, Richard, and George) and two sisters (Margaret and Matilda).
Bram was a sickly child, but no explanation for his mysterious illness has ever been provided. During these early years, his mother filled many of his hours with stories and legends from her native Sligo, including supernatural tales and narratives of disease and death. Whatever the nature of his illness, by the time he entered Trinity College (Dublin) in 1864, Bram Stoker was a strong young man who excelled at university athletics, notably football, footraces, and weight lifting. He also received awards for debating and oratory, and was president of the Philosophical Society.
Upon graduating, he followed in his father’s footsteps and accepted a position in the Irish civil service. During these years, he wrote theatre reviews for a local newspaper. One of these, a review of Hamlet, led to a meeting with Henry Irving, who would later be acknowledged as one of the greatest Shakespearean actors of the Victorian age. The two became friends. In 1878, shortly after his marriage to the Dublin beauty Florence Balcombe (who had also been courted by Oscar Wilde), Stoker accepted an offer of employment as acting manager of Irving’s new Lyceum Theatre in London, a position he held until Irving’s death in 1905. Much of his writing, including Dracula, was done during whatever spare time his exceptionally busy schedule allowed. His primary responsibilities included organizing the company’s provincial seasons and overseas tours, keeping financial records, and acting as Irving’s secretary. He was a vital part of the Lyceum’s eight North American tours, during which he befriended Walt Whitman (whose poetry he had admired for many years) and Mark Twain. Working at the Lyceum with the prominent Henry Irving (who was knighted by Queen Victoria in 1895) brought Stoker into contact with many of the leading figures of his day. Numbered among his friends and acquaintances were Alfred Lord Tennyson, Sir Richard Burton, and William Gladstone. But most significant was the influence of Irving himself; in Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving (1906), Stoker would write at length a glowing tribute to the man for whom he felt great affection and loyalty.
Though he is best known for Dracula, Bram Stoker was the author of several other novels and collections of short fiction. He died on April 20, 1912 (just five days after the sinking of the luxury liner Titanic), having suffered from Bright’s disease and two separate strokes. His cremated remains are located at Golders Green in London. An obituary in the Times (London) observed that Stoker would be best remembered for his association with Henry Irving. That, as we know, was not to be the case.
Dracula was published in London in 1897. We know from his Notes1 that he worked on the book intermittently for over six years, including while he was on vacation and while on tour with the Lyceum Theatre in North America. The original title for the novel was The Un-Dead. On May 18, just a few days prior to publication, a dramatic reading was staged at the Lyceum in order to protect the theatrical copyright. Entitled Dracula; Or The Un-Dead, it was performed for a small group of theatre employees and passersby. Lasting about four hours, it comprised large segments of the novel apparently cobbled together by Stoker in haste. The final decision to use Dracula as the title was made virtually at the last minute.
Whether Bram Stoker ever intended to write a sequel to Dracula is a matter of conjecture. The rumor has persisted that he had “planned to bring Dracula over to America in a different story.”2 No supporting evidence has been unearthed. The ending of the novel is, however, sufficiently indeterminate to support the concept of a sequel in which the count reappears. The method of Dracula’s destruction is at variance with the prescription and procedures outlined earlier in the text: a stake through the heart, followed by d
ecapitation. Instead, the vampire is dispatched with two knives: a kukri and a bowie. Furthermore, it is unclear whether Harker’s knife (the kukri) actually cuts off Dracula’s head. Further ambiguity is present in Mina’s statement that the vampire’s body “crumbled into dust.” Does this clearly indicate his final destruction, or is the crumbling yet another manifestation of the count’s shape-shifting powers? Another factor that leaves the door open is that Stoker (or his editor) changed the originally planned ending, which was to have Castle Dracula disappear completely in a massive natural explosion. Was the change made to make the ending more ambiguous? We do not know. Of course, given that the text of Dracula is replete with inconsistencies, this may all be the result of sloppiness, of a rush on Stoker’s part to finish his book. Whatever the explanation, Stoker’s novel has generated a number of prequels and sequels, yet another testimony to its enduring appeal and power.
Dracula the Un-Dead is a multifaceted sequel to a multilayered novel. Dacre Stoker and Ian Holt follow the lives and fortunes of the surviving characters: Dr. John Seward, Arthur Holmwood (Lord Godalming), Abraham Van Helsing, Jonathan Harker, and Mina Harker. All have suffered irreparable damage in both their personal and their professional lives as a result of their past encounters with Dracula. Seward has succumbed completely to morphine addiction. Arthur has unsuccessfully sought relief from his grief over the loss of Lucy in another marriage, isolating himself from his former friends. Van Helsing, now an old man, is still obsessed with tracking down the monster. Jonathan and Mina’s marriage has been irreparably strained by their respective memories of Dracula.
