by P. N. Elrod
Of course, I could do pretty much the same, or so he maintained.
Though of different breeds, he vouched I could dematerialize and float about where I liked, except past running water. During our initial confrontation in the forest he said I'd lapsed into an incorporeal state for a few seconds without even knowing. At the time I thought I'd been about to give in to shock and collapse, when all along it had been my body responding to my heartfelt wish to escape.
I'd not attempted a repetition of it because of the pain and weariness of my self-imposed fast, but now made an inner promise to try to rediscover this new ability. It struck me that a proficiency for easy vanishing would spare me from being troubled by stray stable hands while dining.
"Why are you so concerned for my welfare?" I now asked Dracula after a good long study of the fire.
He paused with his writing. "Because the customs binding host and guest are sacred in this land."
"I accept that, but not many days past I was doing my all-out best to kill you."
"Such is the nature of war. As I have won, there is no reason for me to continue the fight. Besides, I had questions for you."
"Which I've long since answered."
"You have."
"So?"
He let the quill drop. "I have heard of how direct Americans can be. It is a most stimulating change from the so-polite British circumspection. Very well, my concern for you is tied to concern for me, for all others who share this life. I deem it a duty to see that you are able to look after yourself so that you may not draw attention to the fact we Nosferatu even exist. Our chief protection in these enlightened times of science is that most believe us to be a myth. It has not always been so, but now that it is, you will be wise to preserve the sham, to safeguard yourself and always keep others from being discovered."
"But I know no others of our kind. Except for Nora."
"That you are aware of. Recall that your lovely Miss Jones seemed a normal woman in all ways. Perhaps now that you know what to look for, you will find more than you would think."
"You make it seem like a secret society."
"Some may view it as such, though I find the idea of Nosferatu gathering themselves together quite absurd and dangerous. Such foolishness would only call attention to us. Those whom I've encountered had little in common with one another save their changed state. As with other people we each have our separate needs to look after."
"And maybe it's better for the predators to have plenty of hunting room."
"There's that," he admitted, apparently missing my sarcasm.
"So you do feed on people as well as animals."
"When moved by passion, of course. You will as well when the time comes. And do not make the face and begin to object. Did you not find great pleasure with Miss Jones?"
"Yes . . . but she should have said something to me."
He gave a little shrug. "Indeed, but that is something you must settle with her should you meet again. For your own future dalliances, it is up to you how much to convey to your mistresses. When it happens, make certain they are of a character that you may utterly trust them with your secret. By that you are trusting them with your very life. Few such exist, I promise. It has ever been so. It is best that you not even bother. So long as you only take blood and not exchange it with your mistresses, then—"
"But they'll know when I do that. I did."
"True, but you can make them think it unimportant. Did Miss Jones not impart such a request to you? Perhaps at the same time looking deep into your eyes? Such is the power of influence you now command. Use it sparingly, out of self-protection lest others notice."
"But I don't know how." I was wary of trying, too, as it struck me as being almighty ill-mannered to press my will upon another person, especially a lady.
"It will come in the doing. Knowing that you are capable is all you need; the accomplishment will then be a most natural thing."
More like a most supernatural thing, I silently corrected.
"Any other questions?"
"Yes." I wondered if Dracula might shy away from this one. "I want to know about Renfield."
He looked honestly puzzled. "Who?"
"The wretch who helped you at Seward's asylum."
"That madman who attacked me? Yes, what of him?"
"You killed him."
"Indeed, I should very much hope so. He was useful to me for a short time, and then his insanity overtook him at last. He was a . . . liability."
"How can you say that?"
"Is it not the correct word? A danger then."
"A danger to you? That poor devil?"
"I suppose one may feel sorry for a mad dog, but—"
"You murdered him! I was there at his dying when he named you."
Dracula pursed his lips, regarding me with what seemed to be great patience. "I've no need to explain my actions to anyone. If you consider defense of myself against him to be murder, then so be it. You were not there to see how things were at the time."
"Then enlighten me."
He paused a long while, finally shrugging. "Yes, I used him to gain entry to the building. I used him and others in that house to help me discover what your friends were up to in regard to myself. My powers of influence worked well on the servants, but mad people are immune. Mad people and drunkards. That is something you need to remember."
"Why did you kill him?"
"You may believe or not, but he gave me no choice. He babbled of vengeance against those who had imprisoned him, and he included Mrs. Harker in his plans. I could not allow that. Seward was too kindly a keeper, and to my mind, too stupid to see what so obviously lay ahead. This Renfield was a disaster poised to overtake all of you. It was a fortunate circumstance he chose to attack me first."
"But he was trying to defend us against you."
"Ha. And you believed his ravings?"
"He was quite sane at the end. Completely lucid."
Dracula made a waving-away gesture with one hand. "I care not. Only his intentions prior to his death concerned me. In the days of my breathing youth I'd have had him removed from his misery, and it would have been more effective than confining him to an easily breached cell. Are all the lunatics under Seward's charge so adept at escape or was Seward simply incompetent?"
I bristled, wanting to defend John Seward, but quelled it. "You say Renfield might have tried to do us an injury?"
"It was a certainty to say the least. I was given to understand Mrs. Harker had taken to visiting him. Apparently she would sit with him with but one attendant for protection. Be that creature tied hand and foot, I would never have trusted to place her fate within twenty yards of him. Your friends have too much civilization. It overcomes honest sense. Bah!"
Once more I was placed in the position of trying to balance what I'd seen against what he was telling me. Both views made sense depending where I stood. Could we have all been so wrong?
"Is there anything else you wish to have clarified?" he asked.
"Indeed, sir. I wish now to know about Harker."
He did look mildly surprised, but not worried. "A most general request. Would you please more specific be?"
"I want to know why you treated him so harshly. He spent most of his time here with you in fear for his life."
"Is that what he told you and the others?"
"It's all in his journal, which I have read."
Dracula spared a regretful look at his papers, pushed his chair from the table, and stood. "I should be interested to hear a complete account of that, Mr. Morris."
"It is not complimentary."
"Evidently, since your friend was so anxious to kill me and was able to pass that desire onto others. Give me an honest reporting and spare no detail; I shall not take offense."
"But I want to hear what you have to say."
"In good time. Please." He made a gesture of invitation with his upturned palm.
As it didn't seem I'd get anywhere unless I went first, I did s
o, full well knowing that he'd have the chance to think up a ripe and reasonable explanation for each of his crimes against poor Harker. I plunged into things, from Harker's arrival in Munich to his desperate climb down the wall to freedom and his subsequent hospitalization in Buda-Pesth for brain fever. Dracula made no interruption, though once in a while his brows descended and he paced once or twice before the fireplace pulling at his graying mustache. He seemed more thoughtful than agitated, though, and continued in his silence for quite some time after I'd finished.
"This is Harker's exact story?" he finally asked. "That which he set down?"
"I've read it many times over. You've gotten a fairly short version, but everything's there that matters."
He shook his head and clasped his hands behind him, stalking slowly up and down, his gaze on the floor. "No wonder all of you pursued me with such vigor and determination."
"Between what happened to him, what you did to Mrs. Harker, and—"
He froze in midstep at her name and snapped a dark look at me. "That subject, young sir, is closed, for now and evermore."
I smothered the rest of my utterance. It had to do with Lucy and was perhaps best left unsaid, lest I betray myself to him.
"Now shall I speak of Jonathan Harker's sojourn with me, nothing more," he stated in a manner that would brook no argument.
Pushing my nascent anger away for the moment, I leaned forward. "I'm listening."
"Then listen well, for now you will hear the truth of things."
Keeping a poker face is second nature with me when I choose to use it, and so I held to a neutral expression. I thought it would be to his advantage to lie, to make himself look better in my eyes, but I could not ignore the nagging instinct that he really didn't give a tinker's damn for my good opinion, or anyone else's for that matter. There was also the fact he seemed to be fairly annoyed about something, and if he was intending to lie then he'd be more prone to put on a pleasant manner in order to convince me of his sincerity.
"All that you told of his story was true—up to a certain point," he said. "Yes, I did hold him prisoner in his room, but it was for his own protection."
"To keep the—your three friends away from him?"
"Let me speak of it in order. You tell me that his real fear began when he saw me descending along the castle wall?"
I nodded. Certainly at that point Harker first realized the true supernatural nature of his host. While reading that part of his journal I'll say without blush that my hair went straight up on the back of my neck and goose-flesh raced along my arms. I'd had to stop for a time to gather myself enough to finish it and needed a bracing drink afterwards.
Dracula snorted. "I shall state with certainty that the seeds of his fear were sown long before he arrived. His companions on the diligence he took here no doubt supplied him with many rumors about me, about the land. It must have quite slipped his mind how I'd gone to great pains to see that he arrived safely, and even saved his life when he insisted on an ill-advised walk and got caught in a snow storm, but that is nothing to the rest. Such is man's character to forget the good done for him. Harker is a most sensitive sort of fellow, is he not? I noticed that about him from the first."
"He was when I met him." He had good reason to be, after what he'd been put through.
"Which was after his return to England?"
"Yes."
"He must have always been so, but not allowed others to see, I think. When Harker first came here he was most anxious to be of service and so it seemed only . . . typical? . . . to me. I am accustomed to people behaving in such a manner; it was nothing to remark upon. I made him welcome, we conducted our business, and he soon became comfortable in my presence. He was helpful to answer my questions about the English law and customs. I found him a good listener, and the hours of evening passed quickly for his company. I thought all was well for him. What I'd not considered was the effect of the—" he gestured wide about us to take in the whole of the castle. "—atmosphere this place might have on one unused to it."
"I suppose he might have found it a little forbidding."
"Perhaps you are not as sensitive as he. You walk unafraid through passages that still ring with the thousand lives and deaths that have gone before. These stones have long memories—and I know Harker felt their oppression."
"Are you talking about ghosts?"
"Not in the ordinary sense."
I gave short chuckle. "I don't think a ghost is supposed to be ordinary, that's why people get all alarmed about them."
"I do not speak of crude figures in winding sheets rattling chains and locks. I speak of an essence left behind, an impression, a feeling one senses with the soul, not the eyes. This ancient land is steeped in blood and barbarity well beyond any savage imagining, and it can have an adverse effect on those unprepared. Harker was a soft man from the city, raised to civilized comforts, sheltered from the true terrors of the world past and present. Comes he then to a wild, dark country where he has not the instinct to listen to the wiser voice of his heart. When it says stay indoors at night and pull the covers over your head it is for a very good reason.
"I should have seen the mal power working away on him, but not knowing him well I could not judge what is normal or not for him, and he being English, he speaks nothing of his troubles to me. In a very short time the gloom of this place began to take its toll upon his mind."
"You're saying he got touched in the head just from being here?"
Dracula gave a little shrug. "A most interesting phrase. I must remember it. It seems right."
"And all that he wrote in his journal was a fiction?"
"Not all. Much there was true. He departs from the facts concerning my three companions. He departs very far."
I felt my heart sink. "In what way?"
"You say he wrote that I interrupted before my dear ones could kiss him, take his blood. That is not what happened."
"Then what did?"
"They were . . . playful and curious. And disobedient. I told them to leave him alone, but the temptation was too much for them, and when he fell into a doze in that part of the castle they did come upon him. What followed you may guess, for you are a man of the world."
"So they—"
"Oh, yes, They did indeed. Once he discovered the delights of their company he was a most willing participant. One can hardly blame the fellow. He is a lonely stranger far from the restraints of his own genteel society and has before him three most passionate, beautiful women. One cannot blame him at all."
"But he loves his wife, very deeply."
"She was not his wife then, and is it not the custom that young men are expected to, as I have heard said, `sow oats' before settling down?"
"I wouldn't call it a custom. Besides, I can hardly see a steady fellow like Harker going on such a rip as you suggest. Are you sure?"
"My dear ones confessed as much to me when I did finally take notice of Harker's . . . deterioration."
"They were drinking blood from him?"
"Only a little, not enough to endanger him and there was no blood exchange. What I saw was a sharp decline in his spirits. At night he knew the heights of ecstasy, but during the day he wallowed in the depths of guilt. So much so that it began to show in his manner and speech. I do not understand why it is that some people suffer such distress and shame for doing what is so enjoyable. It is as though they must punish themselves for taking pleasure from life, as though they deserve it not. Why must joy be atoned for? There is no reason for it, but many persist in bringing harm to themselves when they should be thankful and accept. Harker was of that number.
"He felt guilt for his perceived betrayal of his fiancée and perhaps of myself, his unsuspecting host. Had I known I could have put his mind to rest on the latter. My dear ones were ever free to fulfill their desires with anyone they chose unless I bade them otherwise. Harker did not know that, of course, and because of things he'd observed as I went about my other business he was too afraid o
f me to speak. If he'd said but one word I might have prevented much anguish for him. By the time I discovered the truth he was already half mad with the brain fever and to stop him from harming himself I had to lock him up. I gave orders to my Szgany to free him and conduct him to a doctor after my departure for England."
"Why did you not take him yourself?"
"My arrangements of travel could not be altered to allow for it by then. Besides, toward the end the very sight of me was enough to send him into a terrible fit. It was most distressing to witness—and feel." He thoughtfully touched the scar on his forehead. "It seemed best to not be around him, though perhaps I should have tried otherwise. Then might I have found his journal."
"And destroyed it?"
"Of course, out of self-protection. As you've just realized, it contains some rather damaging untruths. He describes me as being a monster. If I am a great and so-terrible monster, then his little dalliance of the flesh is not so important."
"Like stubbing a toe to forget a toothache?"
"Ah . . . yes . . . I suppose. As for feeding a child to my dear ones and setting my wolves upon the grieving mother, or compelling them to attack Harker should he set a foot outside, those are fantasies from his fevered mind. He was indeed ill to invent such things."
I shook my head. "But he wrote so believably."
"Then perhaps he is misplaced in his vocation and should take up the writing of lurid romances instead. I have had to do many dread acts in my life, but torturing English solicitors—bah!"
And to hear it like that, it did seem absurd.
"What would be the point, Mr. Morris? I'd already obtained all that I required of him. No, young sir, the truth is that the very proper Mr. Harker could not bear to have his forbidden pleasures on his conscience and so buried them deep in his mind. That he made mention of them at all in his journal is what should be so surprising to you. The only way he could speak of his carnal encounter was to say that I stopped all before it could start, leaving him an innocent victim of the others' unfulfilled lust. Would that it were true, then none of this might have happened."
