Mina Part 12

"Mina! Wake up!"

Her eyes opened. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed in front of the door.

Millicent knelt beside her. "You were screaming, Mina. And you walked in your sleep."

Mina looked down at her hands, the sc.r.a.ped knuckles. "You were pounding on the door."

"I had a nightmare." How to explain? "All I recall now is that it was terrible."

"Terrible enough. The entire street may have heard you. What must they think?" The question was only what Mina expected from the woman, the sympathy in her tone was the real surprise.

That we torture our servants, Mina thought, and suppressed the urge to giggle. After being pulled from that dream, laughter of relief, of hysteria, was so appropriate. She had never felt so thankful to anyone as she did toward Millicent at this moment. The woman helped her to stand, to walk to her bed.

"I was taking some tea upstairs. It's on the table outside. I'll leave it for you."

"No! That is, please, just stay with me for a little while."

"Perhaps you'd like to get dressed and come upstairs with me," Millicent suggested. Without being asked, she sat and waited until Mina had tied back her hair and put on a gown so that they could climb the stairs together.

Mina had never been asked to Millicent's room before. She had expected it to be spotless but not nearly so bright or so cluttered with mementos from Millicent's past. Mina sat on the chaise in the sunlight and, to dispel the seductive horror of the dream, studied the curios, drawings and photographs arranged on the chest and shelves above it.

"The pictures are all of Jonathan, aren't they?" she asked with surprise.

"I never had any children of my own," Millicent said, her voice defensive, as if Mina would reproach her for this show of pride.

"His mother was always having him pose for drawings or photographs. Such a waste of money, but after she died, it would have been more of a waste to throw them away.""Did Jonathan make the drawings? They look like his work."

"He did. I thought he gave all that up long ago."

"Oh, no. When I met him here in Exeter, he was sketching in the gardens around the cathedral." She sensed the woman's disapproval and thought it odd considering how many of his drawings Millicent possessed. "It was on a Sunday. He said the pastime helped him relax."

Millicent handed her drawings of Jonathan's father and his mother, and one of herself when she was younger. She had far too round a face to be beautiful, but Jonathan had accentuated the candor and intelligence in it.

"I'd like to set some of these on the sideboard in the parlor, if you would not mind."

"Your things belong there, Mina."

"And they are. But I have so few treasures and nothing of Jonathan when he was young. Spare me one. This one." She reached into the back of the display and pulled out one photograph of Jonathan when he was about sixteen, standing in front of Millicent.

Millicent's dress was light, and there was a rose pinned to the collar. From the look of it, this must have been the picture from which he had done the drawing.

"It was taken on my birthday," Millicent said softly. "Jonathan gave me the flower. I treasure it so much."

An idea came to Mina, a way of mending their bad start with each other. "Aunt Millicent. This picture of Jonathan is so precious.

Would you part with it for a little while? Jonathan's birthday is next month. I can have the picture of him turned into a painting to hang above the parlor mantel. It can be a surprise from both of us."

She saw the natural thriftiness in Millicent's eyes and went quickly on. "In the Westerna house there was a delightful picture of Lucy's father when he was a young man. They had it hanging in the dining room. All good families pose their children. We're lucky to be able to do it after the fact."

"All right." Now that it was decided, Millicent was eager to begin. "Where can it be done?"

"There are portrait artists here, but I don't know much about them." An idea came to her, one absolutely daring. "Jonathan told me of one in London. Very good, and quite reasonable. I'll have to take it there personally. I wouldn't trust this to the post. What if Jonathan misses me?"

"If you make it a day trip, Jonathan will never have to know you've gone. If the train should be late getting back, I can say you are at Mrs. Beason's."

"Jonathan always works late on Tuesday. I'll send a wire today and make certain the man will be there."

On the way to the train station, Mina stopped at a local artist's studio and dropped off the picture. With the order complete, she went down to London and to meet with Lord Gance's acquaintance at the Audley Bank in Mayfair.

William Graves was a huge man, naturally muscular in spite of his sedentary job, and slovenly in appearance. If his eyes had not been so clear, Mina might have suspected him of drunkenness. He certainly looked as if he had slept in the suit he wore.

The intent way he examined the book reminded her of Van Helsing. "I'm sorry, I can't help you," he said after looking at a number of sections of it.

"Can't?"

"You see, this is not Hungarian. I think it may be a Rumanian dialect, or possibly a dated version of the language, perhaps written by a scholar who wanted to ensure his privacy. What do you think this book might be?"

"A novel in diary form I was told. I purchased it on a trip through Hungary,"

"Ah! Well, in that case, I am doubly sad I cannot help you. Most of my work is so dry. Lord Gance wrote that you were from Exeter. Is that correct?"

"It is,"

"A pity. I know of no one there. On the other hand, there was a small bookstore in Bloomsbury run by a Romanian family. The son, James, was born here and does not speak Rumanian, but his father was quite a scholar in his own country. If he is still alive, Ion Sebescue might be willing to help you."

"Do you have any idea how I might find him now?" "Start in Bloomsbury. For all I know the family might still live there. The shop was called Guggums Imported Books and was on the east side of Huntley Street near Bedford Square." He handed back her book slowly, as if reluctant to part with it. "I wish I could do more, if only because I would like to read this. I'm fond of old things."

For the first time since she came to see him, Mina smiled. He returned it. "What do I owe you?" she asked.

"Nothing. It's been a pleasure, Mrs. Harker. Good luck to you."

Luck, indeed! she thought as she left the bank. There wasn't time to visit Bloomsbury today, which meant another clandestine trip to London. She considered other means. In spite of Van Helsing's warning about keeping their journey east private, she could think of only one way to find a translator.

She stopped for lunch and, while eating, wrote a pair of letters, one to the bookstore and the second to Ion Sebescue, care of his son, James, and addressed both as simply Huntley Street, Bloomsbury. As exactly as she was able, she made two copies of the first two sentences of the journal and enclosed them as well.

Twenty words in dated Rumanian would hardly attract a fanatic, if they were even a real concern in London. Yet the return address had its own problems. Jonathan would not read her mail, but Millicent would be sure to question any reply. In the end, she decided to use Winnie Beason's name and the hospital address. Winnie would certainly understand. She posted them both then hurried to the station to catch the train that would take her home. The rocking of the train lulled her seductively to sleep.

... The day was cloudy, with a chilly wind blowing from the southwest. There were only a few hardy souls touring the cathedral or walking around the gardens, where even the evergreens seemed miserable and impatient for spring. He had been sitting on one of the wooden benches, one arm holding the sketch book steady while he drew. Curious, she walked behind him. The picture was of an old woman, her face concealed by shadow, her thin, lined hand stretched out, dropping seeds for the birds.

She looked from the sketch to the grounds in front of them. There was no woman there. As she glanced at the artist once more, she saw that he was watching her. "She was here yesterday. I'm drawing the memory."

"Wouldn't that be simpler somewhere warmer?"

"But this is where she was." He grinned, and all the seriousness seemed to vanish from his face. "Well, it's how I work anyway."

"Are you a professional artist?"

"No. A law clerk. Head clerk, actually, for Peter Hawkins. This is just a hobby."

"You're very good. May I?" She took the pad and studied his other drawings-the cafe on Exe Street, the great oak on Lord Summer's estate, a dull still life, a boat on the river. He had a sense of movement and a sensuality to his work that made him intriguing. If she had not seen the book, she would have thought the dark-haired young man far too straitlaced to be interesting.

He bought her coffee. Afterward, they walked to the river and watched fishermen setting their nets. He looked so distinguished in his black coat and trousers, and he looked at her with such love in his gray eyes that she silently blessed the impulse that had had her walk this way rather than toward the center of town.

"Mina," he whispered, pulling her close. "Dear Mina." The pressure of his arms was like a vise. She could not breathe in them, could think of nothing but escape. As he tried to kiss her, she turned her face away. He called her name, his voice insistent now, demanding. "Mina."

What choice did she have? She would not submit, not even to the one she loved. How many times had she done this in the past?

She could not remember even one, and yet her arms tightened as his had. Her lips pressed against the side of his neck, warmth against warmth. "Jonathan," she moaned and bit deeply into his flesh.

All the bright red blood flowing over the white lace of her dress, the white linen of his carefully pressed s.h.i.+rt. Someone was screaming. Jonathan! Her. . .

"Miss! Miss, wake up!"

Someone was shaking her roughly. Mina opened her eyes. The pounding of the train, the uniform of the steward, the faces of those who shared her car told her where she was, "I'm so sorry. I had a dream," she said.

"Enough to wake the dead!" a woman exclaimed.

How perfectly she put it. Mina smiled. Then, realizing how out of place it must seem, she placed a hand over her mouth to hide it.

"I'll be all right," she said to no one in particular. "How far are we from Exeter?"

"Two more stops, miss." The man who had shook her spoke kindly, afraid, no doubt, to upset her further. "If you like, I can arrange a carriage to take you home,"Mina shook her head. "Thank you for your concern," she added, and picked up the magazine she had been reading. The crowd around her slowly dispersed. When she was alone once more, she leaned her head back and stared desolately at the countryside flowing by outside her window, wis.h.i.+ng there were some way to exorcise her memories.

"Jonathan," she whispered aloud, unaware of how hard her hands gripped the arms of her seat.

As she had expected, Jonathan had worked late that night. Millicent met her at the door and handed her a note that had come from Van Helsing that afternoon. She slipped it in her pocket and carried it upstairs to read in private.

Nothing Van Helsing could have written her would have shocked her more than the single statement on the card enclosed: Dear Madam Mina. All is well. Van Helsing.

"Well!" she whispered and thought that perhaps it was better that she had read this statement in her room. Millicent would never have understood why she felt so compelled to laugh.

FOURTEEN

I

Dr. John Seward had tidy compartments for his memories. Some were always open. Some were usually locked. A terrible few could be contained only with effort. He thought of his weeks on the Continent with Van Helsing and the others as little as possible, but try as he might, he could not bury the memories.

They came to him when he was alone, so he plunged into his work. Even then, they haunted him, and with them came the disquieting knowledge of how much a man's sanity depended on others' belief. If he told anyone what he had helped do to Lucy and Dracula, he would be locked up with his lunatics. A new man would be placed in charge of his asylum.

His entire future depended on his silence. Like Jonathan, he hid his turmoil well, so well that not a single soul in his employ had the slightest idea where he had gone so suddenly, or what he had done.

The envelope sent by Van Helsing from Romania irritated him. He dismissed the emotion, locked the door to his study and opened the envelope. A letter and news clipping from a Budapest paper were inside. He began with the letter, dated in early December.

My good friend. I have sent Madam Mina a note telling her all is well. Indeed, it seemed so at the time. I even heard that some brave thieves had gone to Dracula's castle and looted it. Later I discovered that the thieves went by light of day to be certain they would escape alive. Even so, there were no reprisals on the villagers nearby. I felt heartened then, but I am not so certain since I read the news account I have enclosed. I translate for you- Though winters in the Carpathians are known for their sudden storms, none in memory have equaled the one that swept down from the mountains three days past. The snow fell so quickly that the railroad tracks from Galati to Buhusi were impa.s.sible. A train with nearly a hundred pa.s.sengers was stranded in the mountains for three days while the storm raged around it.

One of the German pa.s.sengers, who asked to remain anonymous, has given us the following account.

"I have seen the devil at work first hand. Its name is snow.

"I was one of over a hundred pa.s.sengers on a train to Galati. When we stopped to take on coal and water in Buhusi, the sky was gray but there was no sign of snow. All that changed when we reached the high mountain pa.s.s. The wind howled like some animal in pain, the snow fell so thickly that our train moved at a crawl then finally stopped, our engineer coming through the cars to tell us that he feared going any farther until the storm abated. We all moved into the car closest to the engine, and from there the porters were able to bring in pails of coal for the little stove. We took turns huddling around it as the storm raged.

"Night pa.s.sed, and the better part of another day, and still the snow continued. We did not despair though the hours grew tedious. We had no dining car and hence no food but what we had brought, and that was soon gone. Afterward, we contented ourselves with tea and coffee which we made by heating water on the stove and pa.s.sing around three cups which the porters used for water."When the snow stopped, the engineer dug his way through the drifts then came back and announced that in a quarter mile the snow was much diminished, no doubt due to the heavy wind. He sent the coalmen and porters out with shovels. I and some of the other pa.s.sengers agreed to relieve them if necessary. We never had the chance.

"At dusk, we heard the howling of wolves, louder even than the constant and terrible howling of the wind. The men clearing the tracks were unable to return to the train before we were surrounded.

"The animals acted bolder than any wolves I have ever seen. They threw themselves at the train's windows. They waited outside the doors so that we were unable to go out for more snow to melt or, sadly, to go forward for more coal for our stove.

"As it grew darker, it seemed that some of the animal's eyes glowed with a fire of their own. Though this was undoubtedly caused by some reflection from the train itself, I have no way of knowing why only some of the animals had this appearance as all of them were watching us intently.

"As it grew darker, many of the dozen or so Romanian pa.s.sengers became restless and huddled together for protection though it was clear the wolves could not enter the train.

"And then, above the howling of the wind and the howling of the wolves, we heard a high-pitched and terrible cry, like a child or a woman shrieking in pain. I thought of the work crew and feared that the wolves had attacked them. The Romanians apparently did as well, for they crossed themselves in the Orthodox manner, right shoulder to left, and split into three groups, heading for the exits to the car.

" 'They cannot go out there,' I cried. 'Someone tell them that they must not go!'

"In that instant, I heard a beating on the side door, not of a wolf throwing its body against the car, but the insistent, steady pounding of human fists.

" 'Open the door!' I called. 'Let the man inside.' "One of the Romanians seemed to understand German, for he looked directly at me and shook his head. 'The door,' he said in German and pointed at the lock. The door had not been bolted. If that were indeed a man pounding on our door, all he had to do was open it.

"The pounding went on, booming through the car. It amazed me that the wolves, so bold toward us, had not attacked the man outside. Presently I heard another shriek and saw a dark human form moving on hands and feet through the drifted snow toward the front of the train. The wolves followed.

"Thankful for the respite from their attack, we brought in more coal and huddled around the stove until morning.

"At dawn, I and some of the others struggled through the newly formed drifts to where the work crew had apparently been shoveling last. We found their tools and two ravaged bodies in the snow. There had been five men. The others had perhaps fled the wolves and perished in the storm. More likely their bodies had been dragged off by the animals. We will never know.

"Railroad workers rescued us by evening, and we traveled on to Galati, where the railroad officials had prepared a feast for us which, sadly, few of us were up to consuming. The warm baths we all had afterward were far more welcome.

"The following day, I went to the local police official to see what would be done about the missing men. They all seemed unconcerned. The pa.s.ses are high, one, of them told me. The cliffs fall into raging cataracts. There is nothing to do but shoot the wolves, which villagers do anyway, and hope that the men's bodies may someday be found."

When we embarked on our mission, my friend, we thought there was only one vampire. We found three more besides our Lucy already turned. There may be more, many more. Here, undoubtedly, for this was his home, but perhaps even in England. Was the captain of Dracula's s.h.i.+p treated as Lucy was treated." And Renfield?

Seward put down the letter and began to laugh-loudly, nervously, like one of his inmates. If Renfield were one of the walking dead, Seward would certainly know of it. All of London would know.

I intend to go and find this pa.s.senger. I know the questions to ask n/ him to see if he saw one nf the beings we so fear. If what I believe is true, I will go to the vampire's lair myself to he certain that the v are indeed dead. Do not alarm poor Madam Mina until I have more certain news. But if she should die .soon, do to her as we did to Lucy or, if Jonathan will not allow it, put her body in a crypt and reverently watch over it to be certain that corruption begins. We have no other choice, my friend. I wish it could be otherwise.

Try not to alarm her? Seward thought. What of the rest of us? He read the account once more. Had Van Helsing ever been among frightened men? Men half-frozen, fighting to stay awake lest they freeze while they sleep? The superst.i.tion of the Romanians had most likely played tricks with the writer's mind. It was possible for a frightened imagination to conjure up anything in swirling snow.