Dracula's Child

by J. S. Barnes

  I proceeded to interview him as to the question of this eerie Rite of which you spoke – the name of which now, oddly, eludes me.

  ‘Whatever did you mean by it?’ I began. ‘Why, the Chaplain thinks it tantamount to blasphemy.’

  ‘Truly,’ said the child. ‘I meant only to execute the work that had been set. It was never my intention to cause the least distress.’

  Written down these words have an air of archness or impudence, yet none of this did I perceive in the boy when he sat before me. On the contrary, he seemed to be acutely earnest and open, even displaying some signs of naïveté which one might expect to have left him by his present age.

  ‘But where,’ I persisted, ‘did you even hear of such a thing?’ He murmured something about the library of his father (in this, Reverend, your suspicion was correct) and also about the contents of his dreams (which I chose in this instance to dismiss as childish folly).

  ‘Then you must read rather less widely,’ I said. ‘Or, at least, you must read with greater guidance. For your mind is now at its most malleable. You must be sure not to fill it with flummery and nonsense.’

  He seemed distinctly puzzled by my words. There is, indubitably, something strange about the lad – something also of the savant.

  ‘You mentioned, sir, my mind…’

  ‘I surely did, for it is the most precious part of you there is, my boy. You must treat it kindly and you must consider at all times its health.’

  He blinked at me in the manner that is often described as owlish.

  ‘My own mind is quite split in two,’ he said solemnly. ‘One side fights constantly against the other. Light against darkness. One father against the other.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘I have two fathers, sir, and both of them speak to me… One in person… the other… in here…’ In a weird piece of pantomime, he tapped the side of his head.

  There was a good deal more of what he said, but I find that I am quite unable to recollect a word of it now. The rest of our conversation seems befogged in my memory.

  In the end, of course, I beat him soundly for his own good. I gave him twelve lashes which he endured in manly silence. Afterwards, however, his air of discombobulation continued.

  Let us hope that the boy took my advice. Let us hope that the festive holiday is one that soothes and calms him. Let us hope that this unpleasantness is all done with now.

  R.J.H.

  PS. Chaplain, I cannot say quite why, but I should like very much for you to pray tonight for that strange boy’s soul.

  MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

  19 December. Another hammer blow has fallen; another tragedy has struck and our circle is again beset by catastrophe. When will there be an end to it? When shall we be spared? Not soon, I fear. Not soon and not without much sacrifice.

  Two days ago, I left Jonathan to his work and boarded the train to Paddington. This portion of the trip was pleasant enough and I was able, alone and peaceful in my carriage, to lose myself in several works by Mr Conrad which I had not hitherto had the leisure to explore.

  Arriving in London on time, I had to travel some miles by means of that subterranean railway which continues to burgeon beneath the streets, a world of steam, grease and metal which remains just out of sight, like veins beneath the city’s skin. As I submitted myself, standing amid the ranks of my fellow citizens, I felt profoundly tempted to ascend at the earliest opportunity, to seek out Arthur in Westminster, caught up as he is in all his politicking, to take his arm as firmly as I dared and drag him with me to the Godalming estate, towards his truest and most important obligation.

  Yet I knew that authority to do so would not be mine, and perhaps even that the time for such an intervention has passed. No, I decided that the best course was to press on and to offer Caroline any aid that was within my power to dispense. I wonder now if this was merely pride and whether, had I made a different choice, the tragedy might somehow have been averted.

  At Victoria, I returned to the surface and, having fought my way through the ceaseless bustle of the station, boarded the service to that rural outpost where I would meet a fly to take me to the Holmwoods. The train was a little busier than before but I found myself a deserted carriage. The journey passed swiftly; more swiftly, somehow, than it ought to have done. The words on the pages of my book seemed after a time to swim before me as the grimy excesses of the city rolled by. There followed an intermission of soft oblivion before I was, once again, jolted awake.

  I became conscious that the landscape outside the window had changed, from the smoke and industry of London to the timeless vista of the English countryside in winter – bare brown fields, bleak hedgerows, lines of leafless trees. I had, I realised, been dreaming. Of someone from long ago. Poor Lucy – my friend – whom dear Carrie in so many ways resembles. Is there not a strange symmetry in events? And does not symmetry suggest some manner of design?

  As I sat and waited, rain began to patter and then to drum against the window. When I arrived at the final station, the downpour had become torrential. No fly was waiting for me, meaning that I had no choice but to hire, at considerable expense, a motorised hansom cab which I found growling on the concourse. Its horse-drawn rivals had no doubt retired for the afternoon due to the inhospitality of the weather.

  My driver was a young man, his pale face still speckled with spots. He struck me as being a newcomer to his profession and seemed anxious in my company. In some indefinable manner, he reminded me of Quincey. When, having settled myself in the back seat of the vehicle and breathed its unfamiliar scent of stale air and engine oil, I told him the name of my destination he reacted with what I thought to be a most exaggerated form of shock.

  ‘The Godalming estate?’

  ‘If you please.’

  ‘You’re sure, miss? I mean, you’re quite certain?’

  ‘Bless you for the “miss”,’ I said, with a smile that was intended to set him at his ease, ‘and yes, I am quite certain. So… if you would be so kind?’

  He must have seen from my expression that I meant to brook no refusal. He turned to his wheel and we nosed out into the street and into the driving rain. Rain hammered hard on the roof of our vehicle, a drumbeat urging us onwards.

  ‘Do you know Lord Arthur, miss?’ asked the boy behind the wheel as he negotiated those treacherous country roads.

  ‘I do,’ I said. I had meant to restrict my reply to those two syllables, but for reasons which were opaque to me, I heard myself adding: ‘Not so well now, I fear, as once I did.’

  Oddly, the answer did not seem to strike him with any degree of surprise. ‘You’re not the first. They do say he never was the same after he lost his fiancée.’

  ‘But his new wife…’ I began. ‘Caroline.’

  ‘Very pretty, ma’am. Like a lady stepped from a painting. But not – how should I put it? – not one of us.’

  I could think of no ideal response to this and so I settled back in my seat again as we went on into the storm.

  At length, the familiar turrets of the Godalming estate appeared. We left the main road and began to progress down the long, straight drive which leads to the manor house. The rain was worse than ever, heavy and persistent, hurtling downwards from the heavens with such excessive force that it seemed almost to rebound from the earth, creating a seething, obfuscating spray. So absorbed was I by this phenomenon that I failed to notice at first the queerness of the sights that were set before us.

  The great manor house was all lit up, its windows blazing against the afternoon gloom. Yet this view, unusual and subtly disquieting, was not in any way the chief oddity. Rather, it was something quite different – the sight, sporadically situated, on either side of the wide stone path, of what looked at first like statues formed in the most lifelike proportions. There were two straggling rows of them.

  Naturally, I thought this odd, but I considered that it represented only some eccentric addition to the grounds until we d
rew nearer and I glimpsed at last the truth.

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Stop the car.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Please. Do as I ask. Right now.’

  He slowed as swiftly as was possible in the downpour. By the time he had done so, several of the statues had already slid by. We came gingerly to a halt and, against the protestations of my chauffeur, I opened the door and stepped out into the storm.

  I approached the nearest ‘statue’ – that of a tall, barrel-chested man of about my own age – and saw at once that my worst suspicions were quite correct.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I called out, raising my voice to be heard above the cacophony of the downpour. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing out here?’

  The statue shivered. Any remaining doubt left me that I was looking at anything other than a living man.

  ‘We’re doing as we were told, ma’am,’ he said. His voice was low and deep and I detected in it undercurrents of frustration and shame.

  ‘You’re a servant here?’

  ‘Butler, ma’am. Amory is my name.’

  ‘Well then, Mr Amory, I am Mrs Mina Harker, and I would greatly appreciate an explanation at your earliest convenience of all of this foolishness.’

  Rain dripped down Mr Amory’s face. He must have been soaked through, right to the bone. ‘Lord Arthur is in Westminster, ma’am. In his absence, Milady has grown…’ He paused, weighing his next words carefully. ‘She has become fretful and erratic. Shortly after luncheon, she sent out the whole of the staff to stand just as you see us now – like statues.’

  ‘Then it’s very much worse,’ I said, ‘than I feared. Amory, this rain is quite intolerable. Gather together all your staff and bring them to the hall. You must be frozen.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Harker. At once. And as for the mistress?’

  I set my face into a frown. ‘I shall deal with Caroline.’

  Had anyone been sufficiently unwise as to brave the extremities of the weather that afternoon they would have been met by a peculiar sight: a miserable procession of bedraggled figures, marching through the rain to reach an almost-empty mansion lit up as though for the grandest of gatherings. I sent the car on ahead and, desiring solidarity, walked alongside the servants. We trudged largely in silence, although I did ask Amory one thing.

  ‘Has she got very bad?’

  The loyal fellow would not at first reply, until I urged him to respond. ‘Mr Amory, please. Be honest. I give you my word that what you say shall go no further.’

  He bent his head against the rain. ‘We have been most concerned, ma’am. Yes, she is not herself at all. Or rather…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rather, she is something like her old self once again.’

  At the entrance to the hall I held up my hand to address the crowd of servants.

  ‘You must all be frozen. The priority of every one of you is to wash and to warm yourselves immediately. Pneumonia must be a real danger. I shall speak to Lady Godalming and ensure that nothing like this ever happens in this house again. Mr Amory?’

  The butler stepped forward. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘As soon as you have bathed and changed, come to me. There is a good deal of work ahead of us.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.’

  He led his staff away, into the house, chivvying them and taking charge. The throng cleared and the driver emerged, looking about him with considerable bemusement. I realised then that his continued presence here would do us no good.

  ‘Go home,’ I said. ‘And I should account it a personal favour were you to say nothing to anybody of what you have seen here.’

  I took from my purse a pound note and passed it to him. ‘This should help with the failure of your memory.’

  He looked rather sceptical. ‘Yes, miss.’

  I pulled out another two notes. ‘As should these.’

  He brightened. ‘Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.’ He looked about him one final time as though committing the scene to memory and went to clamber back into the car.

  I did not wait to see him depart, but rather turned and crossed over into that ancestral seat. It seemed at first to me that the place lay in utter silence, save for the sounds of the torrent outside. There was a momentary lull in the noise of the storm, and I heard from some distance away, yet assuredly from inside the building, a peal of shrill female laughter. I determined to track it to its source.

  * * *

  In the end, I found her easily enough, poor Carrie,* for it was she, of course, who was the author of that delirium, sitting alone in the dining hall. She was at the head of the table, surrounded by plates of food which were spoiled and beginning to acquire corruption.

  At the sight of me in the doorway she made no further sound but rose silently to her feet. There was a swelling in her belly, quite noticeable.

  For a long moment, we merely gazed at one another. It was then that I took in other elements in the scene: a sweet, putrid scent, the ragged, dirty quality of Carrie’s fingernails, her redrimmed, bloodshot eyes. For a moment, I even believed that I heard something like the rustling of wings, as if a bird had become trapped inside the building.

  Then Lady Godalming spoke and, such was my concern for her, all other thoughts left me. ‘Mina? Mina Murray? Is that you?’

  ‘I am Mina Harker, my dear, as I have been these many years.’

  Carrie tried to move about the table and stumbled, righting herself but barely. ‘There’s something within me, Mina, my dear.’ She drew closer to me. ‘Something growing and starting to bud.’

  She took a further, faltering step and I hurried to meet her.

  ‘Carrie…’

  She stopped, swaying uncertainly on her feet. ‘It is soaked in blood, this little marionette. It is rich in the stuff of life and death.’

  ‘You’re tired.’ I went closer. ‘You’re exhausted and you’ve been left alone for too long. You must rest. You must pray. Above all, you must be hopeful for the future.’

  She opened her mouth but no words came. She was looking behind me, over my shoulder, as if her attention had suddenly been caught by an object of considerable fascination, although we were, of course, quite alone in the room.

  ‘Mina…’ she breathed. Her eyes rolled up and she fell heavily forward in a deep and desperate swoon. I caught her in my arms just in time.

  * * *

  I come now to the worst part of this account. I have been dreading its setting down. Nonetheless, I shall be clear and I shall be thorough.

  As soon as poor Caroline had collapsed I called for help. Amory – newly scrubbed, clean and dry – appeared almost at once and together we carried her upstairs and laid her in her private chamber.

  Once Amory had left, I undressed Carrie and put her in a long white nightgown that I discovered in her chamber, making sure that she was as comfortable as possible. Leaving the room, I found that the servants were all abroad again, busying themselves with the brisk restoration of the manor. I sent one of them – a sombre, thoughtful and rather impressive young man by the name of Ernest Strickland – into town with instructions to wire Arthur immediately and to return with the local doctor. We will need Jack Seward soon too. I shall send a message to my husband to that effect in the morning.

  Amory had prepared a simple meal, which he brought to me by the fire that had been made up in Arthur’s study. It was all most unorthodox, of course, yet entirely fitting with the character of the day.

  I tried to question the butler as to the details of his mistress’ evident decline and his master’s absence. He proved evasive. ‘Let his Lordship come home, Mrs Harker, and he will tell you everything. He’s done his best has Lord Arthur, in his way, but…’ The servant’s words tailed away. ‘Forgive me, ma’am.’

  ‘If something is troubling you, Amory, then, please, you must speak freely.’

  ‘Only to say, Mrs Harker, that sometimes when a thing is broken it can’t ever be mended, no matter how hard you try. And somet
imes, in trying to mend it you only break it all the more.’

  His short speech done, Amory bowed and left the room. Young Strickland came back soon after with bad news. The telegram had been despatched but the local doctor was himself in his sickbed, meaning that a replacement had been sent for who was unlikely to arrive before morning.

  I talked a little with Amory concerning this and it was between us decided, in lieu of any response from the lady’s husband, to leave Caroline to sleep for now and to urge the doctor to appear at the earliest possible opportunity. It seemed unwise to try to move her. Night had long since fallen and my eyelids were growing heavy. Amory had the room beside Caroline’s made up for me and a fire within it banked high. I thanked him and, by extension, all his staff and took myself upstairs.

  I was too tired to write in these pages then. Before retiring, I looked in on Lady Godalming, who lay silent and still and, it seemed to me, quite peaceful. I sat beside her and took her hand. I spoke a few lines of prayer, my voice sounding, even to my ears, rather feeble against the relentless rain outside.

  Afterwards, I went to the adjoining room and to bed. The fire hissed and crackled and I tried, in opposition to the sad events of the day, to form within my mind happy, joyful portraits of those whom I have loved. Somehow I was not able to conjure them to my satisfaction. They grew first distant and then faint before fading altogether into darkness. In my mind’s eye, I followed after them and, gratefully, let sleep claim me.

  I woke again suddenly in the night with a profound feeling of dread. The fire had not died down but rather had grown higher and more fierce, and its madly dancing flames cast capering shadows in the walls of the chamber. From outside, closer than seemed altogether comfortable, I heard the high baying of dogs as if at the outset of the hunt. And standing over me, on the left-hand side of the bed, stood Lady Caroline Godalming in her long white gown.

  For a moment, the years dropped away and I was once again in Whitby, and Lucy Westenra was walking in her sleep in those weeks which immediately preceded her transformation. Then I remembered where and when I was and precisely what was required of me.