She stood up and left the pew, crossing herself and genuflecting again before the altar. Without looking back at me, she left the church.
I sat back and took a deep breath. I had never entered a Catholic church in London. In truth, I was Catholic by birth and by baptism, but when my mother sent me away, she advised me to adopt the Church of England as my religion and never mention my Catholic roots. “Your suffering will be greatly diminished if you do this,” she said. I remember asking her what I had to do to be Anglican, and she said, “It is all the same, Mina. Only some of the words used are different. Just keep your mouth closed in these matters and pretend piety.”
It seemed easier to let my eyes flow over the cathedral’s ornate magnificence than to absorb what the nun had said. I must admit that something stirred in me as I looked over the blinding glimmer of the gilded pulpit and opulent chandeliers, the golden statues of saints and cherubs, and the marble sculptural relief above the altar, crowned with an exquisite representation of Mary. I was either moved or awed or both. I needed to take comfort in something, and I looked up to see God’s angels above me, blowing golden trumpets. Above them, the statue of a benevolent, bearded saint raised his hand in a gesture of peace. I stared up at him, anxious to receive his proffered comfort, but soon realized that he was not going to provide any answers to the many questions darting about in my mind.
Outside the cathedral, I stopped to look at a mural painted when the city was suffering under a trio of plagues—the Black Death, a Turkish invasion, and locusts destroying the crops. In the scenes below, the townspeople shrank from this multiplicity of horrors, watching as their loved ones were carted off in coffins. Enthroned above were the pope, the clergy, and the saints, presumably those who would intercede with God and save them.
How nice it would be if a deus ex machina would swoop down from above and save us all from the chaos and woes of human life. I was desperate for some being with superior knowledge to explain the strange chain of events that had begun this past summer and did not seem to be ending. Now Jonathan, who I thought would be my salvation, was being subsumed into the mystery.
As I walked through the streets, I passed a wedding party standing outside a municipal building under a sculpture of the Roman Lady of Justice. The bride wore a simple dress, but her face was radiant as her handsome groom toasted her with a flute of rosy red wine. I walked quickly past them, the scene only reminding me that Jonathan’s demand that we marry immediately meant that my dreams of an Exeter wedding would never come to fruition. Feeling terribly sorry for myself, I decided to make the climb up to the top of the mountain to see the ruins and to gather my thoughts.
The climb up the stone steps to the Schlossberg must have taken twenty or thirty minutes of labored breathing. My thighs burned with the effort, but it kept me from ruminating on my troubles. Reaching the top, I paused to look out over the great expanse of the city with its tiled roofs and the mountains beyond that rolled out like curved, slumbering bodies. An elderly gentleman with a scarf of crimson wool and a jaunty cap nodded to me as he passed by, reminding me of the old whaler, but I did not smile back. I had heard enough stories today. I found a bench and sat down, though the rain was about to fall. My stomach began to convulse as if I were going to be sick. The awful feeling rumbled up through my chest and into my throat, finally combusting behind my eyes and spilling out in a stream of tears.
What was I to do about all the strange things that were happening? Yes, I had found Jonathan, and yes, he still wanted to marry me. But how I came to discover his whereabouts was as puzzling and frightening as the state in which he was found. I looked up to the heavens. “This is not fair. I have worked so hard, so hard, to try to make a good life for myself. Why are you doing this to me?”
I had no idea who I was accusing. Did I really believe that I was God’s victim? If we give thanks to God for whatever good comes our way, then why should we not blame Him when our carefully formed hopes and dreams are dashed?
Despite the ominous clouds, rain did not fall. I looked up to see a tiny ray of sunlight begin to split the sky, a knife slicing through the pervasive gloom. And then, as if the sky were nothing but an artist’s canvas and the rays of the sun were drawing me a picture, the purple clouds dipped and then rose again, forming a creature with great wings and a long tail. In a few moments, it looked as if a dragon was hovering over me to protect me beneath his majestic span.
I felt a growing sense of calm, as if all were well in the world, as if nothing could harm me, no matter what my present circumstance. My mind settled, and I began to think clearly. I saw that if I took things one small step at a time—marrying Jonathan, getting us home, helping him get back to work—I could navigate us out of these troubles and back into the life we had planned to live together.
The gentlest rain began to fall, a drop here and there. The wind picked up, rattling the trees and shaking clusters of leaves into the air. The mighty beast above lost its shape, its wings now simply the clouds that would soon pour more rain upon the town. I put my shawl over my head for protection and began the walk back down the steep incline.
Chapter Nine
11 September 1890
The hospital in Graz was in a former mansion built in the Italianate style for a Venetian merchant. The attached family chapel was still intact, and the sisters used it for their daily worship. They kindly offered it to us for our wedding. With our passports for identity, we procured a license, and within a week, I found myself trading my long-held dreams of a proper wedding for being married in a ceremony in Latin in a strange country, with an inexpensive lace mantilla covering my hair, and wearing a dress I had owned for three years. Rather than Lucy in a gown of silver, two nuns in black served as my witnesses.
Jonathan had been released from the hospital, and we spent our wedding night at the inn. After a small, quiet supper together, we retired to the room. I had no idea what to expect. I changed into a nightdress and lay quietly beside him in the bed. I watched the candle’s flame make quivering shadows on the wall, waiting for him to undress me, because that was what I had heard that men did. I had tried to gather information for this occasion. I wanted to please my husband, and I wanted our marital life to begin properly. When we were courting, I yearned for his touch and the pleasure that would come to us through intimacy. Though he had been sick, I still expected that he would want what all men wanted from their wives once the marriage has been celebrated. I thought that the light in the room might be inhibiting him—that he was concerned for my modesty or for his—so I asked him if he would like me to blow out the candle.
“No,” he said. “I do not care for the dark.”
I wondered if the brain fever had taken away his ability to engage in the act, and then I remembered watching him in his sleep as he made love to someone in his dream. But I also knew that I had to be patient. He had been through some kind of ordeal, which I still did not fully understand, and had contracted a disease from which he was not yet entirely recovered.
“Darling, I want you to know that I love you, and I know that when you return to familiar surroundings, you will quickly recover, and we will be the happiest couple in all England,” I said. I rolled over and kissed his cheek, caressing the other cheek with my fingers. His warm body felt good against mine, and I put my hand on his chest, letting it rest there.
He turned to face me, scooping me into his arms and pressing me hard against his body. I lifted my face, and he kissed me, at first tenderly and then harder, until I let my lips open. I felt a thrill as his tongue passed my lips and entered my mouth for the first time. He tightened his hold, and I wrapped my leg around his hip as if it was the most natural thing in the world for me to do. Comfortable and snug around him, I began to relax, giving in to the pleasure. Though I had given up my dream wedding, I loved the feeling of finally being married and in my husband’s arms. I was less nervous than I had anticipated and eager to experience what was to come. He put his hand under my nightdress
, running it up my thigh, over my hip, and to my breast. A little murmur escaped my lips. Then, without warning, he let go of me and turned away, giving me his back. “It’s no use,” he said.
“Jonathan?” I asked. “What is it?”
“I have waited for this moment since I first saw you. I have dreamt of it every day, looked forward to it, lived for it. And now it is ruined, and it is because of me and my weakness. I have wronged you, Mina. I must confess my sins to you or they will eat me alive and drive me to utter madness!” Unable to face me, he said all this to the wall.
I had feared Jonathan’s infidelity ever since those long weeks in Whitby when I had had no word from him. I knew that this confession would be a tremendous relief to him but a burden to me. Such information, once shared, can never be retracted. I wanted to tell him to keep his secrets to himself, but when he finally turned to look at me, I saw in his pained eyes that the admission of guilt was necessary if he was to mend. Very calmly, I said, “I am your wife now. We must have no secrets.”
He breathed uneasily, trying to stanch the flow of tears. He began at the beginning of his tale, when he arrived at the Count’s castle in the Carinthian mountains. He was received in splendor, with a kind of lavishness to which he was unaccustomed. “I was blinded by their opulent living, Mina. Food and drink such as you have never seen, the quality and quantity overwhelming. The Count imported wines and ingredients from Italy and France, spices from the Far East, and plate and crystal from the finest makers in the world. In this manner was I greeted and entertained by him and his household.”
Jonathan completed the business transactions with the Count in a few weeks, whereupon the Count left him in the castle to see to his affairs abroad. “He invited me to remain in his abode if I wished. I had been entertained in the evenings by his nieces who lived with him, ladies who could sing and dance and play instruments and recite poetry. I admit to you, with some shame, that they dazzled me from the start, one in particular who gave me all her attention.
“I was taken in by this foreign siren, Mina. I had no intention of betraying you. But after the Count departed, in the course of one evening of feasting and drinking wine and watching these women perform their exotic dances, I succumbed to what were the most overt advances. I am not proud of myself, but I daresay that any man would have lost control under the circumstances.”
I saw through his strategy of simultaneously apologizing while making excuses for himself. I laughed to myself at Schwester Gertude’s story that my husband had been enchanted by a witch, when like any other philanderer, he had simply had an affair behind my back. “How many men have used the language of enchantment to excuse their indiscretions?” I asked. “Is this not what all men say? ‘I fell under her spell’?” I sat up, pulling the covers to my neck. “And so you succumbed to her charms. Whyever did you leave? Did you tire of her so quickly?”
He put his head down, shaking it slowly. “I don’t know what happened.”
I had to exercise control to not scream. “But you were there, Jonathan. What do you mean?”
“I mean that one moment I was in the throes of seduction and pleasure, and the next, I found myself wandering through fields and orchards. I was alone and lost, with only my clothes on my back and a small rucksack. They turned me out, or I escaped—I cannot be certain. I had money in my pocketbook and my identification papers, but my memory of those last few days was gone. I wandered, but for how long I do not know. The rows of plants in those fields were a labyrinth to my addled brain. The light in the valley was so soft, as if someone had draped a veil over it. It seemed like some magical place. I remember staring into a pond at my own face and not recognizing myself. I had no idea where I was or who I was. I walked and walked, and I stumbled into the field where women were picking the seeds out of split pumpkins. I stood there, watching their quick hands dip into the fruit and gather up the seeds. Something about the way the slime dripped from their hands sickened me and I started yelling things. I am not even certain what I was saying. That is when I was given a mixture to drink, which obliterated me. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital with a German-speaking nun standing over me asking me questions.”
He leaned back on the pillow as if this confession had exhausted him. His lips were dry, and he kept licking them and biting his upper lip with his lower teeth. He looked altogether distraught.
“Jonathan, you began by telling me of an infidelity. But you speak of the women in the plural. Did you bed all of them?”
He looked straight ahead, refusing to meet my eyes. “I am ashamed to admit this to you, Mina, but they shared me among them.”
My body went cold, but he turned to me with a look of ferocity. “You must understand. They were not like ordinary women. I have never known women devoid of the simple principles of goodness. I am the most wretched of men, but I felt as if I had no choice in the matter, that my will was entirely suppressed. I was innocent until they got hold of me.”
He put his head in his hands. What could I say? This was beyond anything I dreamt I would ever hear. My Jonathan, whom I loved and trusted, and upon whom I pinned all hope, had participated in orgiastic play with strange women.
“I am not worthy of you, Mina,” he said. “I cannot even meet your eyes.”
He rolled over on his side, again giving me his back. I lay watching the shadows on the wall until the candle burned itself out. Soon, I heard a gentle rumbling from Jonathan, a sign that he had purged his conscience enough to retreat into his dreams, probably aided by the chloral that the doctor had given him for sleep. I, on the other hand, knew that my night would be spent reviewing everything that he had confessed. I slipped out of the bed and opened Jonathan’s valise, extracting the medication. I mixed a small amount into a glass, which I filled with water from the pitcher on the nightstand, and drank the bitter liquid down. I climbed back into bed and fell asleep to the sound of Jonathan’s rhythmic breathing, trying to forget the many sweet fantasies I’d had for my perfect wedding, yearning for the exquisite touch I had anticipated from the man I loved, and wondering if I would ever have it.
I was lying on a soft bed of fallen leaves, their crunch unmistakable beneath me as I twisted and writhed. The air was cool, but he was beside me, keeping me warm. He was as familiar to me as my own breathing, yet I was aware that his was not a simple human touch. His presence was less dense than the human body’s but more powerful and able to engulf me. I took in the ambrosia of his hot scent—wood, leather, and ancient spices—earthy, in contrast to the feel of his being. I opened my eyes and saw that we were lying in a grove of trees with golden leaves beneath unfamiliar stars that blazed across an immense velvet sky. The wind tossed about a single glistening leaf, which rose and fell at the air’s will. I watched it dance with the breeze as my lover flooded my senses. Eventually, it fluttered beside us and fell to the earth.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“We are nowhere, Mina. You have met me in the river of time. It flows backward and forward, and we are adrift in it. We can meet here anytime, if you are willing.”
“Tonight is my wedding night. I must be with my husband.”
“There are many ways to be married. You and I have done it a dozen times.”
“But now I am married to Jonathan,” I said.
“Not in this realm but only on the temporal plane. Here, you are mine. I have followed you through decades, centuries, trying to lose your scent and the memory of you, but I cannot do it. Can you not look into a mirror, or into your own bank of memories, and remember who you are? Who we are together?”
His voice was rich, full of the promise that I have dreamt of a dozen times. Though he was barely touching me, his mere proximity thrilled me. It was as if our spirits were entwined, dancing together, though our bodies were not joined.
“But who am I?”
“You are the woman with viridian eyes, the color of a rare stone worn by the immortals. I have not seen such eyes in one hundred yea
rs. Are you ready for me, Mina? I have waited a long time for you to be ready. It is only fitting that your true husband makes love to you on your wedding night.”
He kissed me with agonizing languor, and I quivered with anticipation of what was to come.
“Yes, I am ready,” I said, eager for whatever bliss he would bring. Between his lush kisses, he whispered to me, his words tumbling into my open mouth:
By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savor of blood.
“Blood is the true love potion. Remember?” He twisted my long black hair around his hand, sweeping it from the curve of my neck, where he buried his face. His lips worked their way up to my ear. “There is no going back, Mina, not this time. I am answering your call. And you have answered mine.”
“No,” I said. “No going back.”
I knew what he was going to do because he had done it before. My body remembered the sensation of it, and my every nerve heightened with expectation. I knew the danger and the pleasure, but there was no turning back now.
“What will I taste like?” I asked.
He inhaled deeply at the base of my throat. “Sweet and pure,” he answered, “like white lilacs.” With the intensity of a wolf tracking its prey, he began to explore my body. I felt the electricity of his mouth on my skin as his teeth searched for their point of entry. I waited, breathless, anticipating this thing that I both feared and longed for.
“You are sure, Mina?”
“Yes, I am sure. Please, please do it.” He waited until I asked again and then once more, teasing me until I was begging. Finally and with haste, he bit deep into my neck, breaking the skin in a single clamp of his jaw and attaching himself to me. I cried out in exquisite pain. I was his host, feeding him with my very essence, with my life force. I was no longer a body at all but a vehicle to serve him, to make him stronger, and to make me a part of him.
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