Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 2

  Atop his castle, Dracula stretched his white hands to the stars (a gesture that seemed to fix him into stone) and, across distant land and water, called to his servant. From far away, he heard Renfield's whispered reply, “Yes, master. I await you!”

  The moon was all-but gone and the first streaks of dawn broke over the mountains. Dracula climbed onto the south parapet and slipped head-first over the side. His sharp nails gripped the roughly cut stones, the toes of his boots dug into the crevices where time and the elements had crumbled the mortar or washed it away. He took in the heady vista of the shadowed countryside and crawled lizard-like down the outside of the castle.

  He paused in his descent by a tall, deep, weatherworn window, the bedroom of Dracula's guest, and peered in at the Englishman. He slept fitfully, across the heavy bed, still wearing his disheveled clothes. The Count's eyes gleamed and he laughed silently. He thought of his three wives in flowing white, somewhere within, even now making their way to their resting places. His women and his guest alone together. He congratulated himself on the fate he intended for Herr Jonathan Harker. He crawled on to another window, a storey below and to the left, raised the sash and disappeared inside.

  The web-filled room was scantily furnished, an ornate bed, a table, a high-backed arm chair, all covered in thick dust. In one corner a great pile of gold rose from the floor like a mountain in a child's sandbox; chains and ornaments (some jewel encrusted, many tarnished) and, mounded amongst them, gold and silver coins from countries throughout Europe and the East; Greece, Turkey, Hungary, Austria, Italy and Britain, all ancient and covered with dust – for long had it lain there unmolested.

  He opened a heavy door in the opposite corner, strode through a passage to a circular stairway, and descended. The stairs were steep and treacherous but he glided down without a sound. At the bottom was a tunnel heavy with the sick odor of old earth newly turned. At its end, he opened a heavy door and entered a ruined chapel. The roof was broken, vast walls fallen away, and its graveyard long since been abandoned and forgotten. Until now.

  These grounds had, recently, been dug over; the earth placed in great boxes piled throughout the chapel by the Szgany, on his orders. Between these boxes, in two places, steps led down to in-ground vaults. He passed the stairs to the first two, containing fragments of old coffins and piles of dust, and descended the second staircase to another set of vaults. At the base he entered the crypt on his left. He examined the remaining boxes, stacked within, the last of a total fifty being readied for removal by the Slovaks in daylight.

  Count Dracula sighed in satisfaction.

  His own box lay as he'd left it, close against the wall, atop newly turned soil, open and partially filled with earth. Beside the box leaned its cover, pierced sporadically with tiny holes, nails in place at its corners ready to be hammered home.

  Dracula climbed into the box. Bloated, he belched and an eructation of blood escaped his lips and ran in a crimson rivulet down his chin. He drew his cloak about him like a shroud and lay back atop the cool soil. He drew the lid up and over his box and, exhausted with his repletion, closed out the sliver of light stealing into the vault from the stairway door.

  Tomorrow, he and his boxes would be taken from his castle home; from the kingdom where he lived, ruled, and died. He would be taken from his haunted Carpathian Mountains where, following his death, he had been – unborn – to live again. He would leave the Transylvania he loved but that could no longer support his kind. Tomorrow, Count Dracula's new life would begin.

  Chapter Two

  The taste was awful!

  There was no other word for it. Had he been home Nikilov would have pinched his nose (like his late mother when she wanted the little boy he used to be to swallow a nasty elixir). Now, fifty years later, in public - in a public house - he couldn't. So he took the spoonful straight from the labeled bottle. The quacksalver's answer to his uncooperative heart. He shook his head to down the dose. Awful!

  Getting old, he thought, and tired. But he had no right to complain and wouldn't. Getting old was part of God's plan too.

  “Captain?” the Innkeeper inquired, teapot in hand. Nikilov cleared the path to his cup. He sipped the fresh, steaming brew that, after the quack's tonic, tasted better than it had all morning. He stowed the heart medicine in his coat pocket and returned to his charts. His ship sailed at noon – and he had his course to consider.

  * * *

  An ancient stone wall surrounded Varna, fifty miles south of Romania, in northeast Bulgaria. Inside, the wooden houses of the Ottoman coastal town were packed along narrow, winding streets leading to one place; the largest port on the western Black Sea.

  It was Tuesday, 6 July, 1897, and Trevor Harrington had made his way to Varna in hopes of finding an out-bound ship, passage off the continent. He hated the thought. Sailing was outdated, dirty, and took an eternity with one plague after another; cramped quarters, danger of fire, seasickness, inedible food, and illness. He dreamed of one of the sleek steamers replacing sailing vessels around the world. But it was only a dream. As he neared the harbor, the young Englishman had to face two cold facts. Sailing was cheaper than steam. And he had precious little money.

  Harrington was on the lam (a phrase just come into usage). Over the last four days and nights he'd had a hard, first-hand lesson in its meaning. Actually, as fugitives went, he could have been in worse shape. The territory was unfamiliar but Harrington was not completely lost. He'd spent ten months studying in Bukovina (a Romanian city on Transylvania's eastern border), a year walking there from Spain, and he spoke six languages. He was fine… but his clothing needed help.

  Harrington normally looked the dandy. But a night in a vineyard, after four days afield without a bath, had been hard on his attire. His hat was irreparable. His brown pinstripes had gone to smash owing to mud and grass. The watch pocket on his red silk waistcoat had been ripped by underbrush. His collar was embarrassingly limp, his silk braces needed a brace, and his four-in-hand tie was out of hand. All would have been lost were it not for the occasional brook to rinse the grit from his hair and the ache from his sunburned face and hands.

  To his good fortune, Harrington found a public house outside of Varna's harbor. He wasn't a drinker but, in a port town, what better place to learn which ships were to sail. He dusted his pants, adjusted his tie and stowed his hat in his kit. He forced his chin up (off his put-upon collar), his chest out, and entered the pub.

  * * *

  The innkeeper, and the men holding up the bar at his elbows, examined Harrington with frowns and whispers. Bulgarian was not among his fluent languages. While most eastern European tongues were similar, the Englishman heard only slang and gathered he'd made a poor impression. Still, he smiled and bid them good morning. He soon discovered the bookends spoke Romanian and German (languages he savvied) and that both spoke the landlord's Bulgarian. A round robin was established and their glasses refilled. Harrington took tea. Satisfied his coin was genuine, the innkeeper and company agreed to help if they could and Harrington learned the name of an outbound ship.

  “Demeter,” one of the old boys said. The others agreed. “Demeter, a Russian schooner, sails today. For England, I believe.”

  It was grand news. Harrington hadn't hoped for a vessel bound for his homeland and found himself wondering if his luck might not have turned. He had no idea how far until he followed their stares to a rugged, man of the sea alone in the corner.

  “Her captain,” one whispered. Prodded by the landlord, he added, “Nikilov.”

  He wore a blue coat with shining brass buttons, a matching waistcoat and trousers, a white pin-striped blouse and wrinkled blue tie. Worn black boots scuffed the floor, and a beaten hat lay at his elbow. He was sixty-like, clean shaven, wind-burned and sun-baked. He studied several maps, unrolled atop his table, as he sipped from a china cup.

  Harrington gulped his own tea, nervously crossed to him and, in his admittedly rusty Russian, introduced himself.

 
Without looking up, the captain said, “You are not from here.”

  He confessed he wasn't, stumbled explaining his presence and, omitting his reason for needing to be gone, asked for passage aboard his ship. With a disinterested wave, the commander muttered, “No passengers. Private charter; cargo only.”

  “Please, captain,” Harrington blurted, remembering four nights since, the rough days between, the brothers Gabor and their red-faced father on his heels with blood in their eyes, eager to shoot him like a dog. He shuddered. “I do not mean to offend. But it is important I leave Varna. I can pay you.”

  “You do offend, young Herr. Your Russian offends my ears. I speak English.”

  “I am sorry.”

  He waved away the apology and the apologist. “I cannot help you.”

  Harrington would not be put off. He grabbed the nearest chair and impudently sat. “Please, I beg you! It is vital I get to England.”

  The captain looked up, stinging him with electric blue eyes beneath exploding white brows. “Is that true? Must you get to England? Or is it merely vital you leave Varna?” The young man hesitated. “It does not matter. We are contracted for cargo only. It would be illegal.”

  “I would pay whatever you demanded.”

  “That is ridiculous. You have no idea what I might demand. I pray, Herr…?”

  “Harrington. Trevor Harrington.”

  “I pray, Herr Harrington, you guard your soul more carefully than your purse. I cannot offer passage. But you are in luck. I am not a bandit, so you will get away without having your throat cut.”

  “Do you need crew? I could work for you. I'll be no trouble.”

  The captain studied the man, who looked intelligent but did not understand the word No. “Would you be any use?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I am not concerned with trouble. I can handle trouble. Would you be any use? Have you ever been to sea?”

  “I crossed the English Channel - once.”

  The captain made a noise, either amusement or disgust, Harrington wasn't sure, and shook his head. “I already have ballast.”

  “I'm not a sailor,” Harrington said, talking rapidly to head-off rejection. “I'm a scholar. But I am strong. I'm not afraid of labor. I know a good many things.”

  “Why must you leave? What laws have you broken?”

  “It isn't a matter of broken laws,” Harrington said bitterly. Then, in for a penny, he finished the thought. “It's a matter of broken hearts.”

  The captain sipped his tea and smiled sadly. “I had a heart once, Herr Harrington. It too was broken.” He frowned and pushed the thought away. “You would be useless; teats on a boar.” Then he paused, struck by an idea. He lifted a finger and, staring at Harrington, stabbed down at the top-most map on the table. “Tell me something, anything, about this spot – that I do not already know – and I will sell you passage on my vessel.”

  Both looked, following the finger to the map.

  “The Dardanelles.” Harrington cleared his throat.

  “Yes. As it says.”

  He cleared his throat again, buying time. “Uh, with the Bosphorous, uh, they make navigation possible between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.”

  “You think I do not know that?”

  Harrington held up his hand, pleading. “The waters…” he said, trying to remember something he'd read. “The waters of the Dardanelles flow in two directions; from the Sea of Marmara to the Aegean via a surface current and in the opposite direction via an undercurrent.”

  Nikilov smiled. “That is good. You are smart, young Herr. But – I already know that too.” He waved him away and returned to his cup.

  It wasn't fair, Harrington thought, rising to go. What in the name of blazes could he tell a sea captain about the Dardanelles? Then, as if a lamp had been lit, he shouted, “Lord Byron!” He turned back to the captain, ignoring the eavesdropping trio at the bar. “Lord Byron.”

  Nikilov shrugged his ignorance.

  “In May of 1810, Lord Byron, British author and poet, swam across the Dardanelles. An event he immortalized in Canton the Fourth of his poetic masterpiece Don Juan, eh, published in 1821.”

  The captain growled with his eyebrows. “Why would I care about this?”

  “I don't imagine you do. The question is, did you know of it?”

  The captain stared, then laughed a rumbling laugh (the landlord and his book-ends joined in). He jumped up, clamped Harrington's jaw in his rough hand and demanded, “Are you healthy?” He squeezed so hard Harrington had to open his mouth, jerked his face toward the lantern and, squinting, examined his teeth. Satisfied, the commander released the pressure but maintained the hold on his jaw. With a threatening thumb he pulled down on the flesh of Harrington's cheek, abandoning the role of dentist for that of ophthalmologist. His eyeball bulged and Nikilov stared in. He repeated the process on the other side.

  Though startled and embarrassed, Harrington understood. He'd read of it. The captain was looking for signs of illness, conjunctivitis perhaps. Emigrant passengers had to pass physical exams before traveling to prevent the spread of disease; often holding up passage for days. The captain was expediting the process. “You look healthy enough.”

  Nikilov released his numbed face, then rumbled again, “Lord Byron!”

  * * *

  In the end, the captain charged a steep but fair price for passage. Nikilov was taking a risk. Harrington recognized it and would have paid more. He left the pub with a note ordering he be shown aboard, and a warning to be squared-away by eleven-thirty as they sailed at noon with him or without.

  The last had been unnecessary. There was nothing in Bulgaria, or Europe, Harrington needed more than to be gone. For all he knew, his pursuers were right behind and he'd have been mad to be taken so near to an escape. He would get aboard and out of sight. Buying a new hat could wait until he was safely back in England.

  The harbor entrance was separated from the city by a large warehouse that, at that moment, featured a queue of men trailing out its open door. At a table inside, a bald, muscular seaman was swearing blue fire at the line of would-be sailors. Things looked to be going badly. The Englishman considered the note in his hand and moved on, hopeful of finding a less excited ship's officer. He turned the seaward corner of the building and the chaos of the harbor came into view.

  To the far right lay a web-work of piers extending from the quay, forming a marina of working ships, fishing boats, and pleasure craft of every shape, rig, tonnage and color, flying flags of every nationality presently considered a friend, moored or at anchor. Several knockabouts (one with no bowsprit, another rigged with the mast forward) tacked in, passing a steamer leaving a gray trail as it tacked out. A ketch, across the inlet, was making ready for sea. Behind it, lay several two-masted schooners (lumber and grain haulers) at anchor, their sails furled, their masts poking the sky like skeletal fingers; one taking in cargo, the other discharging. A larger barque rested idly on this side toward the harbor entrance. To the sea, a long pier and breakwater jutted south protecting all from the sporadic ravages of nature. It culminated in a lighthouse at the harbor mouth. Back his way, tied astern of the barque, a pulling cutter (Harbor Pilot painted across her bows) bobbed on the water. The sky above was filled with sea birds singing to the work. All across the quay, dock workers, sailors, and civilians walked and talked, stood and strolled, labored and lounged under the morning sun.

  As exciting as Harrington found it all, still it was merely background.

  What grabbed his attention despite the harbor's activity was an imposing ship's figurehead; a beautifully carved sculpture decorating the prow of a three-masted schooner before him and stretching down the dock to his right.

  For centuries, bow ornamentation exemplified the wealth and might of ship owners; weighing tons and twinning the sides of the bowsprit. Following the Napoleonic wars, while still beautiful, they went out of style as massive works of art, shrank in expense and pomposity, and reverted
to their original purpose - to proclaim the name of the ship to an illiterate society. The scholar studied this figurehead, captivated. Most, Harrington understood, were either female or bestial but this specimen was both. The Greek goddess of the crops and fertility, her gold hair wrapped in a halo, gazed out over the harbor's waters. She wore a crimson gown, off her shoulders, with the head of a wild boar resting between her exposed breasts, their bodies intertwining. A basket of vegetables occupied her near hand. A torch staff was gripped in her other, extended to symbolically light the darkness ahead. Harrington had found her, the Greek goddess and the Russian schooner that bore her name; Demeter.

  While she wasn't the work of art her figurehead was, Demeter was beautiful. More, she was the answer to Harrington's prayers. She was thirty meters long, perhaps thirty-five, with another ten for the bowsprit and mizzen boom; over 150 feet. Her three masts rose over twenty-five meters, nearly 90 feet, into the air. She was dark brown at her rails and altered in hue as you descended the side of the ship; brown to auburn, to burnt umber, to sienna, maroon and finally bright crimson at the water line. The effect was startling - as if the ship were bleeding into the sea.

  Less-than-startling was the loading process. Harrington expected the bustle to be concentrated around the soon to launch ship. But it was not. The activity about Demeter was, for want of a better term, anemic. On her bow, chutes slanted from the bulwark to the deck and open fore hatch. There they sat – unused. Likewise, on the dock, a trapeze was in place to swing cargo aboard, ready but idle. Harrington continued down the dock past workers, sitting and smoking, past several others at midship carrying sacks marked silver sand up the gangplank. They moved steadily, in no rush, gained the deck then disappeared. On the stern, this side of the ship's wheel, many identical sacks were stacked; more sand. Two men, a big one in a white blouse and one with no shirt, lifted these (with no urgency) and passed them through scuttle holes in the deck.