Dracula’s Brethren

by Richard Dalby

  A sense of fear born of the knowledge of impotence came over Scarlett; what in the name of evil did it all mean? The smart scientist had no faith in the occult, and yet what did it all mean?

  Nobody stirred. Scarlett’s companions were soaked and soddened with fatigue; the rolling thunder of artillery would have scarce disturbed them. With teeth set and limbs that trembled, Scarlett crawled over to the dog.

  The great, black-muzzled creature was quite dead. The full chest was stained and soaked in blood; the throat had been cut apparently with some jagged, saw-like instrument, away to the bone. And, strangest thing of all, scattered all about the body was a score or more of the great purple orchid flowers broken off close to the head. A hot, pricking sensation travelled slowly up Scarlett’s spine and seemed to pass out at the tip of his skull. He felt his hair rising.

  He was frightened. As a matter of honest fact, he had never been so horribly scared in his life before. The whole thing was so mysterious, so cruel, so bloodthirsty.

  Still, there must be some rational explanation. In some way the matter had to do with the purple orchid. The flower had an evil reputation. Was it not known to these Cubans as the devil’s poppy?

  Scarlett recollected vividly now Zara’s white, scared face when Tito had volunteered to show the way to the resplendent bloom; he remembered the cry of the girl and the blow that followed. He could see it all now. The girl had meant to warn him against some nameless horror to which Tito was leading the small party. This was the jealous Cuban’s revenge.

  A wild desire to pay this debt to the uttermost fraction filled Scarlett, and shook him with a trembling passion. He crept along in the drenching dew to where Tito lay, and touched his forehead with the chill blue rim of a revolver barrel. Tito stirred slightly.

  ‘You dog!’ Scarlett cried. ‘I am going to shoot you.’

  Tito did not move again. His breathing was soft and regular. Beyond a doubt the man was sleeping peacefully. After all he might be innocent; and yet, on the other hand, he might be so sure of his quarry that he could afford to slumber without anxiety as to his vengeance.

  In favour of the latter theory was the fact that the Cuban lay beyond the limit of what had previously been the circle of dry bones. It was just possible that there was no danger outside that pale. In that case it would be easy to arouse the rest, and so save them from the horrible death which had befallen the mastiff. No doubt these were a form of upas tree, but that would not account for the ghastly spectacle in mid-air.

  ‘I’ll let this chap sleep for the present,’ Scarlett muttered.

  He crawled back, not without misgivings, into the ring of death. He meant to wake the others and then wait for further developments. By now his senses were more alert and vigorous than they had ever been before. A preternatural clearness of brain and vision possessed him. As he advanced he saw suddenly falling a green bunch of cord that straightened into a long, emerald line. It was triangular in shape, fine at the apex, and furnished with hooked spines. The rope appeared to dangle from the tree overhead; the broad, sucker-like termination was evidently soaking up moisture.

  A natural phenomenon evidently, Scarlett thought. This was some plant new to him, a parasite living amongst the treetops and drawing life and vigour by means of these green, rope-like antennae designed by Nature to soak and absorb the heavy dews of night.

  For a moment the logic of this theory was soothing to Scarlett’s distracted nerves, but only for a moment, for then he saw at regular intervals along the green rope the big purple blossoms of the devil’s poppy.

  He stood gasping there, utterly taken aback for the moment. There must be some infernal juggling behind all this business. He saw the rope slacken and quiver, he saw it swing forward like a pendulum, and the next minute it had passed across the shoulders of a sleeping seaman.

  Then the green root became as the arm of an octopus. The line shook from end to end like the web of an angry spider when invaded by a wasp. It seemed to grip the sailor and tighten, and then, before Scarlett’s, afrighted eyes, the sleeping man was raised gently from the ground.

  Scarlett jumped forward with a desire to scream hysterically. Now that a comrade was in danger he was no longer afraid. He whipped a jackknife from his pocket and slashed at the cruel cord. He half expected to meet with the stoutness of a steel strand, but to his surprise the feeler snapped like a carrot, bumping the sailor heavily on the ground.

  He sat up, rubbing his eyes vigorously.

  ‘That you, sir?’ he asked. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘For the love of God, get up at once and help me to arouse the others,’ Scarlett said, hoarsely. ‘We have come across the devil’s workshop. All the horrors of the inferno are invented here.’

  The bluejacket struggled to his feet. As he did so, the clothing from his waist downwards slipped about his feet, clean cut through by the teeth of the green parasite. All around the body of the sailor blood oozed from a zone of teeth marks.

  Two-o’clock-in-the-morning courage is a virtue vouchsafed to few. The tar, who would have faced an ironclad cheerfully, fairly shivered with fright and dismay.

  ‘What does it mean, sir?’ he cried. ‘I’ve been—’

  ‘Wake the others,’ Scarlett screamed; ‘wake the others.’

  Two or three more green tangles of rope came tumbling to the ground, straightening and quivering instantly. The purple blossoms stood out like a frill upon them. Like a madman, Scarlett shouted, kicking his companions without mercy.

  They were all awake at last, grumbling and moaning for their lost slumbers. All this time Tito had never stirred.

  ‘I don’t understand it at all,’ said Tarrer.

  ‘Come from under those trees,’ said Scarlett, ‘and I will endeavour to explain. Not that you will believe me for a moment. No man can be expected to believe the awful nightmare I am going to tell you.’

  Scarlett proceeded to explain. As he expected, his story was followed with marked incredulity, save by the wounded sailor, who had strong evidence to stimulate his otherwise defective imagination.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Tarrer said, at length. They were whispering together beyond earshot of Tito, whom they had no desire to arouse for obvious reasons. ‘This is some diabolical juggling of yonder rascally Cuban. It seems impossible that those slender green cords could—’

  Scarlett pointed to the centre of the circle.

  ‘Call the dog,’ he said grimly, ‘and see if he will come.’

  ‘I admit the point as far as the poor old mastiff is concerned. But at the same time I don’t – however, I’ll see for myself.’

  By this time a dozen or more of the slender cords were hanging pendent from the trees. They moved from spot to spot as if jerked up by some unseen hand and deposited a foot or two farther. With the great purple bloom fringing the stem, the effect was not unlovely save to Scarlett, who could see only the dark side of it. As Tarrer spoke he advanced in the direction of the trees.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Scarlett asked.

  ‘Exactly what I told you. I am going to investigate this business for myself.’

  Without wasting further words Scarlett sprang forward. It was no time for the niceties of an effete civilization. Force was the only logical argument to be used in a case like this, and Scarlett was the more powerful man of the two.

  Tarrer saw and appreciated the situation.

  ‘No, no,’ he cried; ‘none of that. Anyway, you’re too late.’

  He darted forward and threaded his way between the slender emerald columns. As they moved slowly and with a certain stately deliberation there was no great danger to an alert and vigorous individual. As Scarlett entered the avenue he could hear the soak and suck as the dew was absorbed.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, come out of it,’ he cried.

  The warning came too late. A whip-like trail of green touched Tarrer from behind, and in a lightning flash he was in the toils. The tendency to draw up anything and everything ga
ve the cords a terrible power. Tarrer evidently felt it, for his breath came in great gasps.

  ‘Cut me free,’ he said, hoarsely; ‘cut me free. I am being carried off my feet.’

  He seemed to be doomed for a moment, for all the cords there were apparently converging in his direction. This, as a matter of fact, was a solution of the whole sickening, horrible sensation. Pulled here and there, thrust in one direction and another, Tarrer contrived to keep his feet.

  Heedless of possible danger to himself Scarlett darted forward, calling to his companions to come to the rescue. In less time than it takes to tell, four knives were at work ripping and slashing in all directions.

  ‘Not all of you,’ Scarlett whispered. So tense was the situation that no voice was raised above a murmur. ‘You two keep your eyes open for fresh cords, and cut them as they fall, instantly. Now then.’

  The horrible green spines were round Tarrer’s body like snakes. His face was white, his breath came painfully, for the pressure was terrible. It seemed to Scarlett to be one horrible dissolving view of green, slimy cords and great weltering, purple blossoms. The whole of the circle was strewn with them. They were wet and slimy underfoot.

  Tarrer had fallen forward half unconscious. He was supported now by but two cords above his head. The cruel pressure had been relieved. With one savage sweep of his knife Scarlett cut the last of the lines, and Tarrer fell like a log unconscious to the ground. A feeling of nausea, a yellow dizziness, came over Scarlett as he staggered beyond the dread circle. He saw Tarrer carried to a place of safety, and then the world seemed to wither and leave him in the dark.

  ‘I feel a bit groggy and weak,’ said Tarrer an hour or so later: ‘but beyond that this idiot of a Richard is himself again. So far as I am concerned, I should like to get even with our friend Tito for this.’

  ‘Something with boiling oil in it,’ Scarlett suggested, grimly. ‘The callous scoundrel has slept soundly through the whole of this business. I suppose he felt absolutely certain that he had finished with us.’

  ‘Upon my word, we ought to shoot the beggar!’ Tarrer exclaimed.

  ‘I have a little plan of my own,’ said Scarlett, ‘which I am going to put in force later on. Meanwhile we had better get on with breakfast. When Tito wakes a pleasant little surprise will await him.’

  Tito roused from his slumbers in due course and looked around him. His glance was curious, disappointed, then full of a white and yellow fear. A thousand conflicting emotions streamed across his dark face. Scarlett read them at a glance as he called the Cuban over to him.

  ‘I am not going into any unnecessary details with you,’ he said. ‘It has come to my knowledge that you are playing traitor to us. Therefore we prefer to complete our journey alone. We can easily find the way now.’

  ‘The senor may do as he pleases,’ he replied. ‘Give me my dollar and let me go.’

  Scarlett replied grimly that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. He did not propose to place the lives of himself and his comrades in the power of a rascally Cuban who had played false.

  ‘We are going to leave you here till we return,’ he said. ‘You will have plenty of food, you will be perfectly safe under the shelter of these trees, and there is no chance of anybody disturbing you. We are going to tie you up to one of these trees for the next four-and-twenty hours.’

  All the insolence died out of Tito’s face. His knees bowed, a cold dew came out over the ghastly green of. his features. From the shaking of his limbs he might have fared disastrously with ague.

  ‘The trees,’ he stammered, ‘the trees, senor! There is danger from snakes, and – and from many things. There are other places—’

  ‘If this place was safe last night it is safe today,’ Scarlett said, grimly. ‘I have quite made up my mind.’

  Tito fought no longer. He fell forward on his knees, he howled for mercy, till Scarlett fairly kicked him up again.

  ‘Make a clean breast of it,’ he said, ‘or take the consequences. You know perfectly well that we have found you out, scoundrel.’

  Tito’s story came in gasps. He wanted to get rid of the Americans. He was jealous. Besides, under the Americanos would Cuba be any better off? By no means and assuredly not. Therefore it was the duty of every good Cuban to destroy the Americanos where possible.

  ‘A nice lot to fight for,’ Scarlett muttered. ‘Get to the point.’

  Hastened to the point by a liberal application of stout shoe leather, Tito made plenary confession. The senor himself had suggested death by medium of the devil’s poppies. More than one predatory plant-hunter had been lured to his destruction in the same way. The skeleton hung on the tree was a Dutchman who had walked into the clutch of the purple terror innocently. And Pierre Anton had done the same. The suckers of the devil’s poppy only came down at night to gather moisture; in the day they were coiled up like a spring. And anything that they touched they killed. Tito had watched more than one bird or small beast crushed and mauled by these cruel spines with their fringe of purple blossoms.

  ‘How do you get the blooms?’ Scarlett asked.

  ‘That is easy,’ Tito replied. ‘In the daytime I moisten the ground under the trees. Then the suckers unfold, drawn by the water. Once the suckers unfold one cuts several of them off with long knives. There is danger, of course, but not if one is careful.’

  ‘I’ll not trouble the devil’s poppy any further at present,’ said Scarlett, ‘but I shall trouble you to accompany me to my destination as a prisoner.’

  Tito’s eyes dilated.

  ‘They will not shoot me?’ he asked, hoarsely.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Scarlett replied. ‘They may hang you instead. At any rate, I shall be bitterly disappointed if they don’t end you one way or the other. Whichever operation it is, I can look forward to it with perfect equanimity.’

  GLÁMR

  Sabine Baring-Gould

  This story is based on a famous episode in Iceland’s Grettir’s Saga, which was first written down in the early 14th century. It tells of a fight to the death between Grettir, a mighty warrior, and a vampire named Glámr. The latter is a draugr, which is the name the Icelanders of that period gave to an animated corpse. In appearance these restless dead are hideous to look at and carry the unmistakable stench of the grave, from which they periodically emerge to prey on the living. Unlike ghosts, they have a corporeal body and possess superhuman strength; and they can also increase their size at will, making them formidable adversaries.

  Baring-Gould (1834–1924) first told the story of Glámr in chapter seven of Iceland: Its Scenes and Sagas (1863), under the heading ‘The Vampire’s Grave,’ and later included the same tale in his collection of short stories A Book of Ghosts (1904), retitling it ‘Glámr.’ An English clergyman, hagiographer, and prolific storyteller, Baring-Gould is also remembered as the composer of hymns, the best-known being ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’

  The following story is found in the Gretla,fn1 an Icelandic Saga, composed in the thirteenth century, or that comes to us in the form then given to it; but it is a redaction of a Saga of much earlier date. Most of it is thoroughly historical, and its statements are corroborated by other Sagas. The following incident was introduced to account for the fact that the outlaw Grettir would run any risk rather than spend the long winter nights alone in the dark.

  AT the beginning of the eleventh century there stood, a little way up the Valley of Shadows in the north of Iceland, a small farm, occupied by a worthy bonder, named Thorhall, and his wife. The farmer was not exactly a chieftain, but he was well enough connected to be considered respectable; to back up his gentility he possessed numerous flocks of sheep and a goodly drove of oxen. Thorhall would have been a happy man but for one circumstance – his sheepwalks were haunted.

  Not a herdsman would remain with him; he bribed, he threatened, entreated, all to no purpose; one shepherd after another left his service, and things came to such a pass that he determined on asking advice at the
next annual council. Thorhall saddled his horses, adjusted his packs, provided himself with hobbles, cracked his long Icelandic whip, and cantered along the road, and in due time reached Thingvellir.

  Skapti Thorodd’s son was lawgiver at that time, and as everyone considered him a man of the utmost prudence and able to give the best advice, our friend from the Vale of Shadows made straight for his booth.

  ‘An awkward predicament, certainly – to have large droves of sheep and no one to look after them,’ said Skapti, nibbling the nail of his thumb, and shaking his wise head – a head as stuffed with law as a ptarmigan’s crop is stuffed with blaeberries. ‘Now I’ll tell you what – as you have asked my advice, I will help you to a shepherd; a character in his way, a man of dull intellect, to be sure, but strong as a bull.’

  ‘I do not care about his wits so long as he can look after sheep,’ answered Thorhall.

  ‘You may rely on his being able to do that,’ said Skapti. ‘He is a stout, plucky fellow; a Swede from Sylgsdale, if you know where that is.’

  Towards the break-up of the council – ‘Thing’ they call it in Iceland – two greyish-white horses belonging to Thorhall slipped their hobbles and strayed; so the good man had to hunt after them himself, which shows how short of servants he was. He crossed Sletha-asi, thence he bent his way to Armann’s-fell, and just by the Priest’s Wood he met a strange-looking man driving before him a horse laden with faggots. The fellow was tall and stalwart; his face involuntarily attracted Thorhall’s attention, for the eyes, of an ashen grey, were large and staring, the powerful jaw was furnished with very white protruding teeth, and around the low forehead hung bunches of coarse wolf-grey hair.

  ‘Pray, what is your name, my man?’ asked the farmer, pulling up.

  ‘Glámr, an please you,’ replied the wood-cutter.

  Thorhall stared; then, with a preliminary cough, he asked how Glámr liked faggot-picking.

  ‘Not much,’ was the answer; ‘I prefer shepherd life.’