Dracula The Undead Part 4

Chapter Four.

ELENA KOVACS'S JOURNAL.

23 August I am leaving the farm, but not as my father thinks. My decision is made and my heart beats so hard I turn faint. In secret I have packed a very few belongings in a small bag -to which I shall add my journal, when the time comes - and I wait.

I was meant to leave tomorrow with my father. We could not arrange a conveyance to Bistritz until then, and there have been bad scenes today. When I came out of my room, the family made the mono pantea at me, a hand sign against the evil eye, and my father grew furious with them and called them superst.i.tious fools. The farmer, who can be very fearsome, with his long black moustache, grew even angrier. They would have come to blows, had the farmer's wife and daughters not intervened. They want us gone, and the atmosphere is very uneasy. I came back to my room, but my father followed and questioned me for hours about where I had gone for two days in my nightclothes, why was I seen with the wolf, and so on. He made me weep with fear, but I would not answer. Pride will not let me tell him even the little I know.'Has some man dishonoured you? Some greasy shepherd, some gypsy?' he shouted at me. 'You have brought disgrace upon me! I should have known better than to trust you! Even Miklos will not have you now! What am I to do with you? What have I done to deserve so wild and disobedient a daughter?'

I felt a little sorry for him, for I cannot be the perfect daughter that he believes I should be. The fault is mine. But it cannot be helped.

At last he struck me across the face and left, locking me in. I am still trembling, exhausted from his questions and the injustice of them. But, strangely, I feel distant from all of it. No longer afraid of him, no longer distraught or ashamed -because I am going away. Father has lost me. Perhaps he has always feared this moment, and that is why he is so angry.

The door is locked, but I wait by the window for night to come.

All is quiet. A great silence lies on the world, as if it waits also.

He is coming! A long white shape in the darkness, speeding towards me. His eyes are two red stars. His great head rises up behind the gla.s.s, his tongue lolls over his long fangs, a strange blue-white mist s.h.i.+mmers all around him .. . and I must open the window, and go wherever he leads.

26 August I have come a long way since I last wrote.

When I left the farm, I took a bag containing only a few garments, a little food I stole from the kitchen, and my precious gifts from Madam Mina - my journal, dictionary, pens and ink. My companion led me again towards the forest. We had gone only a few hundred yards across the pastures when my father came running after me in his nightclothes, shouting so furiously at me he was almost screaming. I froze in horror. So enraged was he that his face was dark with blood even in the dim milky moonlight. He must have been spying on my window from his own room!

He catches my arm and orders me back to the house. I pull away and refuse to go. At that, he strikes me so hard that my head reels and I find myself lying on the gra.s.s, with the stars and forested steeps whirling around me. As I lie there, I see my pale friend growling at my father. My father begins shouting at the wolf, trying to frighten him away. But the wolf puts his head back and howls; and suddenly, from every direction, huge, woolly, white sheepdogs come running, fiercer than wolves, barking and snarling, their ears down and lips drawn back to reveal ferocious teeth.

I see my father's expression turn to one of terror. These dogs are trained to kill. He turns and tries to run, but they leap at him, catching his arms and legs in their great jaws. One jumps at his face. He screams. I wish I could forget that sound, so raw, harsh and despairing! Part of me longs to help him but part of me wants only to watch, cold and pa.s.sionless - and the cold part wins.

I see Father fall down among the long white backs of the dogs. They rip and tear at his flesh. I glimpse his face and throat, a ma.s.s of blood. He stops moving yet they go on worrying at him, tearing at his limbs.

Then my companion goes quietly between the marauding dogs. I am afraid they will attack him, too, for wolves are their great enemy. Instead they step aside to let him through, as if he were their pack leader. His tongue lolls out to lap blood from my father's throat.

I cover my eyes.

The next I know, my wolf is beside me again, urging me away with him into the trees. I see motes of light moving by the farm gate, lamps and torches. We hurry away, leaving the dogs to gnaw at my father's body .. . and although I am shocked, I feel only the faintest ache of grief, as if this had been meant to happen.

My friend leads me once more across the wild terrain towards the castle. The journey seems longer than before, if possible. I stumble after his wraith-like form along deer tracks and gorges, as if in a horrible dream. He must be a werewolf, I think, a man trapped in wolf's form.. .nothing is impossible.

Some hours into the next day, we reach the castle. In the courtyard, with the stone walls and towers frowning down upon us, we recover the bundle of ash that I collected on our first journey from its hiding place. I carry it as he leads me along a narrow, arched pa.s.sage to an ancient door of iron-clad wood. He indicates, with muzzle and paws, that I should open this door. A small wooden cross has been roughly nailed to it, and a whitish substance used to seal the crack between door and wall; the wolf growls with his head lowered and ears back to tell me most eloquently that this must be removed. The door is unlocked. I open it and pick the stuff away; it is a kind of putty, with other, papery, matter mixed in. I find a piece of fallen slate to sc.r.a.pe it away and to prise the cross from the door.

The putty has a smell of old, stale garlic. Someone has tried to seal the castle with wards against evil ... to stop something going in, or coming out?

I discard the sc.r.a.ps and the cross at the far end of the pa.s.sage, in a dank, mossy crevice where wall and flagstones meet. As soon as the door is clear, the wolfhounds over the threshold and into a low corridor. I feel intense tiredness creeping over me, and with it coldness and unease. I trust my friend, but this place feels bad. Ancient, full of loss and dark memories.

He leads me down into a deep, ruined chapel, where faint rays of daylight fall through the broken roof. The air is thick with the odours of mouldering earth, mixed with the charnel odour of decay, as if a thousand rats have died here. And I see rows of graves and great tombs. A crypt! All is still and heavy with dust, as if nothing has been disturbed for centuries. So desolate. My companion leaves me and slips between the tombs, jumping up to look inside some. He looks less like a living animal than ever; he is spectral, skeletal. A thin high whine issues from his throat, hurting my ears. I move like a sleepwalker through this death, this horror, until all of it overwhelms me and I sink down on the earth floor. All I want is to sleep. But the wolf takes my skirts between his front teeth and pulls at me. As I look up, I find myself beneath a great tomb with one word engraved upon it.

DRACULA.

I cannot encompa.s.s how I feel. The name means nothing and yet is familiar; it produces in me a sense of breathtaking awe and terror, and this feeling is so vast it seems to pa.s.s outside me to take in all the ancient chapel, the steep walls of the castle, the precipice and beyond, all the dark, wolf-infested forest. . .

My companion will not let me rest. He snaps and snarls at me, until I get up, alarmed. In his jaws he brings an ugly bra.s.s urn from somewhere, a squat bowl with a lid, and directs me to put the ash from the shawl into it and keep it safe. Then he digs frantically at the earth, and instructs me to fill my shawl instead with loose soil. None of this makes sense. It only seems imperative that I do it. My hands are black with the malodorous stuff, and the bundle is so heavy that I can barely lift it. At last I collapse, weeping with exhaustion.

Then the wolf leads me, dragging my burdens, up a spiral stair into the body of the castle. I don't think I could remember the way back. He brings me to this room and leaves me, and here I remain. Where has he gone? Will he return? Now I am lying on a couch in a large apartment that I imagine was once light and pleasant with tapestries and rich furnis.h.i.+ngs; but now all is moth-eaten and draped with dusty webs. It is growing dark again. The waning moon rises. I ate all my food on the journey, so the only nourishment I have had is a bottle of wine I found, fifty years old and dark as blackberries. It was good, but has made me heavy- headed.

What will become of me? I will die of cold and hunger, but nothing seems to matter as I rest here in this dream-like haze.

I look across an expanse of flagstones s.h.i.+ning in the moonlight. In front and to the side are vast latticed windows, the stone mullions as delicate as lace, the night sky and the forests below the precipice all silvered by this mystical light. The whole window expands in my vision, a great lacy veil of white and silver against which motes of dust glitter and dance. I feel hands stroking me.

Soft voices laugh and sigh like gla.s.s bells.

'Sister,' they say. 'Sister, sweet sister.'

I am cold. So very cold.

Morning I must make this record quickly. My hands tremble and tears blur my eyes, but grief will pa.s.s and I must move on.

I fell asleep as I wrote, I think. Or as the waking dream took over, pen and journal fell to the floor. I remember shaking violently with coldness. The chill of the stones was seeping through my whole body. I wanted to touch the phantom hands of those women, to grasp them or to push them away, I know not which - but there was nothing there. I was alone with ghosts. I began to sob in fear.

Suddenly my friend was with me again! He climbed upon my couch and lay down beside me. His eyes were very bright, dazzling like the setting sun, and his tongue was warm as it rasped at my hands. (It always felt cold before.) I was too tired to think or to be afraid. As I slipped into a doze, I felt that he was actually lying on me, to keep me warm. I felt his tongue and teeth sc.r.a.ping gently at my throat. My whole body seemed to tingle and tighten with a strange breathless feeling - not unpleasant - and although my eyes came open I could not move. Then it seemed to me that the spectral wolf was actually a man, a tall figure in black with long pallid hands.

Yet this human figure is not upon me but very far away, and although he reaches out to me he cannot touch me. I remember a feeling of desolation, rage, the urge of the dead to clasp vivid red-blooded life. I see long, muddled visions of battles, armies, mountains, a strange cavern where flames leap from an abyss and turn the very walls to red and bronze. And again the two steel knives flas.h.i.+ng down towards me. Death, limbo, Mina Marker's sweet presence pa.s.sing me by, oblivious to my need. Longing, bitter anger, and then a thrust of will so firm and resolute it seems physically to pierce me. And all of this comes from the solitary pale figure in black. I am filled, as I was by the tomb, with dread and awe. At last, breathing heavily from the weight on my chest, I fall into deep, black sleep.

When I woke - half an hour ago - it was day again, I was once more shaking with cold and the wolf, my dear companion whom I have come to love, lay dead beside me.

I was grief-stricken to find him so. I wept bitterly, with my arms round his dear furry neck. But my tears stopped very suddenly as I heard a voice; heard it inside my head, not so much the words as the intent. What I understand from it is this.

The spirit that animated the wolf has pa.s.sed, for a time at least, into me. Thus, it was never the wolf, the sh.e.l.l, that I loved, but the spirit inside. This is the soul - if soul is the right word, perhaps I mean will, or essence - of the tall man whom I do not yet know, but whom I will surely come to know. If I do not fail him!

He needs me. He tells me that it is all my responsibility now to help him be resurrected, reclothed in his own flesh. He has entrusted himself, body and soul, to me; so I am the only one now who can help him. I must not fail him. If I want to see him, to touch him in the flesh, I cannot fail him.I feel that I have met the other half of myself, my shadow, my soulmate. I will do anything for him.

My father, Miklos, and Uncle Andre are nothing to me now. I leave my family and follow a rockier path, like a saint. He will be my guide. My Dark Companion.

1 September At last I am able to write my journal again. I am at home in Buda-Pesth. My journey was terrible. I must have seemed a madwoman to the peasants who found me - walking alone in the mountains with a bag in my hand (the urn inside) and a shawl bundled heavily on my shoulder! I am certain I appeared a fright. I told them that I had been travelling with my father, but our carriage had an accident, and the rest of the party were killed by wolves, and I must reach Buda-Pesth urgently. They questioned me only a little, but helped me a great deal; fed me, cleaned me, gave me a suitcase of cracked leather in which to carry my burdens, and conveyed me to the nearest railway station.

Hunger and physical pain mean little to me, in any case. My Dark Companion is inside, urging me onwards. He is all dial matters. How I am to do what must be done, I know not. I can only follow his guidance.

No one is here except the housekeeper, who tells me that Uncle Andre and Miklos have gone on some expedition and are not expected home for a week or two, at the least. It is no surprise. My uncle has always adored exploring. I am glad he is not here; it spares me the pain of telling him that his brother is dead. It helps me, also, that I do not have to make elaborate explanations for my actions.

There is a letter, unopened, from Abraham Van Helsing to my uncle. Uncle must have left before it arrived. I feel a strange urge to read it. I should resist . .. but what if it contains something important?

Now I must write no more, but make all ready for the journey.

LETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING TO ANDRE KOVACS.

(Not received by him) Amsterdam, 28 August My Dear Andre, You will forgive me, I beg you, for the unconscionably long time it takes for me to answer your letter. My mind has been on other matters; dark sad matters, the clouds of which are only now beginning to move aside, leaving me to think of the outside (my friends, my work) rather than the inside (my sorrow).

My poor dear wife has died. It shames me to admit that my grief is more for her life than her death, but it is so. As you know she has been in the care of asylum nurses for many years; often she has not even known me. For a long time, I have been a widower in all but the physical thread of her life; now the thread is severed, it is to me less a great shock than a little sigh of relief. Yet still cause, you understand, for much recollection and regret.

But enough; it is over. I write to express my great interest at your archaeological expedition. However, a word of caution. We have learned, as you so rightly say, of the evil reality that lies behind folklore and myth. Dracula was real. Of course the Scholomance existed - or exists!

Whilst the Devil doubtless keeps it too well hidden for an innocent mortal to stumble upon, I do not doubt your ingenuity in overcoming such obstacles. As to the consequences, should you actually find it, have you considered what these might be?

My conclusion, should you seek my opinion - not that you are under any obligation to do so - is this. The Scholomance is best left well alone. Don't go!

I antic.i.p.ate your report in due course. But if you are of a mind to listen to me for once, I entreat you once again. Please don't go.

Your friend, Abraham Van Helsing.

LETTER, ELENA KOVACS TO MINA HARKER.

Buda-Pesth, 1 September My dear Madam Harker, I write to you in the direst, most urgent of circ.u.mstances. Something terrible has befallen us. I hardly know how to write it. My poor dear father is dead -dead, from a terrible accident. He went out alone at dusk to sketch - though I and the farmer warned him against it, for there are wild animals in the forests -and he was attacked, not by wolves, but by sheepdogs. They are trained to kill strangers near the sheep, as you know. He was so badly savaged that nothing could be done to save him. No doubt the farmer and the shepherds are as horrified and grief-stricken as I.

But I could not stay. I came straight home, only to find that my uncle Andre and Miklos have gone away. Little do they know what sad news awaits them on their return! The housekeeper will tell them, of course. As for me, I cannot stay here alone. I write to implore you, Madam Mina, for the sake of the deep regard in which I hold you, and the kindness you have shown me, to let me come and stay with you for a while. I ask something so presumptuous only in the direst necessity. I would be no trouble - indeed, would do anything to earn my keep! If it is impossible, I understand, but if it is in your power to look kindly upon my request I would be for ever grateful - you know not how grateful! I can write no more.

Yours ever, Elena Kovacs.

LETTER, MINA HARKER TO ELENA KOVACS.

Exeter, 5 September My dear Elena, But of course you must come to us! My dear, you must feel distraught and very alone. We are all grieved and shocked by your news. It is a terrible reminder that we can never take the dominion of man over nature for granted, or think ourselves safe just because we are civilized, especially in such wild areas of the world as the Carpathians. We will let Professor Van Helsing know at once, for he is a great friend of your uncle and will wish to commiserate. I hope this blow will not come too hard upon him after the recent loss of his wife.

Now, will you let us know if we can do anything to a.s.sist in your journey? Whatever you need, be it doc.u.mentation, railway timetables, the means to purchase tickets - anything, don't hesitate to ask. We have become quite expert in the business of travel! Once you arrive in England, you may take a train to Exeter or we can meet you in London. You have only to let us know.

There will be no need to 'earn your keep'; you will be our guest, of course, for as long as you wish. However, as you mention it, there is one matter in which you could help me greatly, as a friend. Quincey's nurse has left us to get married, and with his delicate health he needs constant attention. Alice Seward - Dr Seward's wife - has been helping us, but cannot do so for ever.

If you could be his companion, until a replacement is found - and knowing you, I feel certain that you and Quincey will be perfect friends - my debt would be to you, and not the other way round. Indeed, you would save my life!

Your friend, Mina Harker.

Chapter Five.

MINA BARKER'S JOURNAL.

11 September Elena has arrived. Jonathan and I went by train to London to meet her, leaving Quincey in Alice Seward's care. I did not want to leave him, for he has a chill, but seems somewhat better now. Mary and I took trouble to make the largest guest room very pleasant and welcoming, so Elena will be comfortable. I am so glad to have her here, she will be such a help and a good companion to both my son and myself -indeed to all of us.

Her demeanour on arrival was very quiet; no doubt she was tired from travelling and still shocked by the death of her father, Emil. (We barely knew him, but it shames me now to recall how I recorded in my diary that I did not like him! How shallow such sentiments seem, when the object of them cannot defend himself.) However, after a rest and a good meal, she brightened and spoke briefly of her poor father's death. She shed a few tears, but spoke so easily of him that I have great hopes for her recovery.

As to his funeral, that was the only matter she seemed unwilling to discuss. In the absence of her uncle, she has left it in the hands of the Szekely farmers, or rather the Hungarian authorities. This makes me fear that she has indeed fled, as a means of avoiding the actuality of her father's death. But she is young still, and has led so sheltered a life, that I cannot blame her. On the contrary, she will find no blame or judgement as our guest, but only our care and love!

I told her that we, and Van Helsing, have had, so far, no luck in locating her uncle and Miklos. Van Helsing had a letter from Professor Kovacs, informing him that they had gone into the mountains near Hermannstadt. We can only wait until they return from their expedition - and meanwhile protect Elena from all anxiety.

After Elena had gone to bed, I sat in the parlour with Alice for a while, speaking of our guest. Alice will return to Dr Seward in a day or two, once Elena has recovered from her journey. 'I will be sorry to leave Quincey,' Alice told me, 'but it will be good to return home to my husband.'

'We are so grateful for your help,' I said. 'We will miss you, but it is unfair of us to have kept you away from home for so long.'

'I do hope Elena will be a help to you. She's little more than a child herself. There is something dark inside her .. . I think she has suffered a great deal. I can always come to you again, if you need me.'

Alice's words troubled me a little, for I trust her implicitly. I do so like her. I admit, we had reservations when, five years ago, Dr Seward first announced he was marrying her; a childless widow ten years older than himself, a comfortably built creature of a certain grace but no great beauty, and her hair already turning grey. But once we became acquainted, we were quickly won over.

She is one of the kindest, wisest souls I have ever met. It was quite a strain at first, remembering never to mention Lucy's name in her presence. Once, Lucy's name did slip out, and I was mortified; but Alice took me aside, and said so sweetly, 'Mina, I know all about Lucy. I know that she was beautiful, which I am not, and that my dear John loved her, even though she was promised to another. And I know how she died, and that it broke his heart. Oh yes, John has told me everything. That is why he needs me; because he can tell me such things, and I will never be shocked or disbelieving.'

I was very startled by this, yet relieved that she knew our secret story of Dracula. It meant we could be open and trusting with her, and not have to watch every word. Alice smiled and went on, 'I know you must wonder why John is marrying me, and not a girl as young, pure and lovely as Lucy, especially when it would be easy for a handsome, accomplished doctor like him to make such a match. The reason is simple. He dares not love another Lucy, for fear that she would be taken from him as Lucy was.' There was no bitterness in her voice as she said this, only warm understanding. 'With me, he feels safe. He is a good, caring man, but he has his black moods when all that is bad in the world weighs upon him. He needs someone to protect him, someone who will never be torn away by another - be it rival or monster.'

That is Alice. Our rock! Proof that wisdom and good sense are far more valuable qualities in a wife than beauty - and all credit to Dr Seward for realizing it.

14 September Alice has gone home, and Elena is settling in beautifully. She is such a dear, helpful girl. Quincey adores her. He has roses in his cheeks and loves his new companion. She enlivens him when he is strong enough to play; when he is tired and peevish, she soothes him. It is a delight to see them together; Quincey, fair as an angel, his face rapt and intent on hers; Elena, neat and dark-haired, sitting with such demure grace as she reads to him. Her English is excellent; I have no fear of her leading Quincey into mistakes!

Though once or twice I have heard him correct her, which made me smile.

I feel we will be soul mates. I have had no truly close woman friend since we lost Lucy. Elena is, naturally, very different from Lucy - who in life was a sweet, pa.s.sionately animated soul. Elena is quiet and demure, with large, dark, watchful eyes. A little wary of being in a new country, with its different customs. But often a smile dimples her cheek, and there is such kindness and intelligence in her face. I truly feel as if I have known her all my life - perhaps in another lifetime! Almost without exchanging words I feel very close to her. There is surely a bond between us!

16 September We have had the most delightful day.

Jonathan was at work, of course, but Elena and I took Quincey for a walk. I feared it would be too much for him but he marched along like a little soldier, and we went much further than we meant to. We are lucky to have the countryside within a few minutes' walk of our house. It was such a beautiful day, warm without being too hot, the sun gleaming on the meadows and edging the trees with soft golden light. The air was full of fluff and seeds, white gossamer! And late-summer flowers everywhere; roses in the gardens, wild flowers in the fields.

We stopped for a cream tea at a little cottage near the church, and had a long talk - the three of us - in the tea room. Quincey's talk is very grown-up for his age. (I suppose that is due to him having, of necessity, to be with adults rather than other children. I hope he does not feel too deprived, but we cannot risk him being exposed to every childhood illness.) On the way back, Elena was very interested in the church and insisted on going inside the churchyard to read the gravestones.

Parts of it are very overgrown with long gra.s.ses and cow parsley; so much life burgeoning among the lichen-covered stones.