Dracula Unbound

  As its face came close, its teeth showed, gleaming clean and fascinating as cobra fangs.

  Now was time for him to act. With enormous effort, he pulled the New Testament from his pocket and thrust it up before her eyes, its golden Cross outward.

  Bella hissed like a wild cat and drew back. For an instant, a massive black thing—something torn from the ground—stood there. Then it took wing and was gone, westward toward the grounds of the asylum, howling as it went.

  Bram Stoker emerged from the shadows behind the toolshed, tucking away a revolver with which he had armed himself.

  “Joe, old chum!”

  Joe had sunk down on the terrace and was holding his head in his hands. Stoker put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Now you believe. Now you see it works.”

  Joe laughed shakily. “Thank god I didn’t hold up a copy of your book.”

  “Faith, the bitch would have stood there reading all night, till the first rays of daylight penetrated her.”

  “Don’t talk about penetrating her. I shudder to think what was on my mind.”

  “You wouldn’t get much comfort on the nest there, me lad—it’s fuller of worms than a shroud.”

  “I know it.” He allowed Stoker to help him up. The two men looked at each other and laughed, clapping each other on the back.

  Dr. van Helsing emerged from cover, pale and shivering.

  “What a terrible apparition! You’re certain she’s gone, Mr. Stoker?”

  Stoker looked hastily about, pantomiming terror, and van Helsing retreated a step.

  “Fear not, Van, she’s gone, though I doubt very far. We’re a target for their attentions. You’ve just encountered a lamia, Joe. That’s what Bella was, a lamia, a vampire with special powers. Even the Un-Dead have their lieutenants. And their lieutenant colonels, I suppose. It’s capable of assuming the guise of either sex, male or female.”

  “Which is it?” asked Bodenland.

  “Neither. Neuter. That’s my guess.”

  “Can we kill it?”

  “Oh, I think we’d better be getting to bed, Mr. Bodenland,” said the doctor. “Think of your health—it’s late. The night air—”

  “My health would be much better if the world were rid of such horrors.” In a sudden burst of nervous irritation, he turned on the doctor.

  “How’s your scientific view of the world now, Dr. van Helsing? How well does Bella fit in with your beliefs?”

  “I’ll have to think it over … One is, after all, either dead or not dead—don’t you think?” He looked helplessly at Bodenland.

  Bodenland set his head on one side. “There may be many degrees between dead and Un-Dead. Doctor, in my time, I’ve been scuba diving below Antarctic ice two yards thick. There—twenty yards down on the sea bed, in unimaginable cold—things live. Animals. Crawling about, feeding, reproducing. In that most marginal territory, some of them—wood lice, for instance—grow much bigger than their equivalents in temperate zones. That is a continual source of astonishment to me. Maybe these creatures, vampires and lamias and the rest—maybe they live in a zone as yet unexplored, in some Antarctic ice floor of the spirit. They’ve fallen into a metaphysical abyss. If we knew all the facts, we’d probably feel pity for the creature that once was Bella.”

  “Pity? You’re talking nonsense, Joe,” said Stoker. “The pitiless deserve no pity.”

  “Is that what your father-in-law would have said?”

  Stoker walked to the edge of the terrace and stared into the night. He motioned Bodenland over, and said quietly, “Look, Joe, we can’t clear off tomorrow in quest of this Silent Empire leaving this horrible thing in the vicinity. I worry about Florence’s safety. The doctor would be as much good as a sick headache in any emergency calling for more drastic action than the insertion of a suppository.”

  “You’ve got stakes and mallets in the toolshed, I saw. I’m for finishing off the horror, count on it—but how do we track it down?”

  “I had occasion to visit the asylum recently. I talked to one of the madmen. Research for the novel and that kind of thing. The asylum’s built in the grounds of a ruined abbey, as I told you, and that abbey has a crypt still surviving, used by the asylum authorities on occasion. For instance, when they get outbreaks of influenza—when half the inmates meet a hasty end. I have my suspicions about that crypt.”

  “Why don’t we go visit it? Now?”

  “Hang on to your Testament. Bella may well have a refuge there—a place to rest in daylight hours. We can cut through the woods.”

  “And your doctor can guard the house while we’re away.”

  The decision was taken coolly enough. But first Stoker took ahold of Bodenland’s arm and led him back into the warmth of the house. Sitting him down, he went to his drinks cabinet, to emerge with two glasses full of a dark liquid from which fumes rolled.

  “Not laudanum?” Bodenland said, raising an eyebrow and smiling rather faintly.

  “This is rum,” Stoker said. “What the British Army and Navy drink before going into action. Cheers, me boy! ‘What we’ve done before, we’ll jolly well do again.’”

  It was strong stuff, reeking of fighting spirit.

  When they had drained their glasses, they set out for the ruined abbey.

  The going in the darkness with only a storm lantern for illumination was not easy. They made their way through extensive woods and up a ravine where a stream tumbled, before ascending a slope and coming up to the high brick walls of the asylum.

  “We follow this wall round,” said Stoker, rather breathlessly. “There used to be gates and a carriageway in the old days.”

  Bodenland said nothing. For him, these were “the old days.”

  An owl was calling as they walked by the wall. Bodenland began to like the expedition as the rum counteracted the chilling effect of the lamia. He enjoyed the adventure of being back in Victorian England, and was pursuing a fantasy whereby, when this struggle was over, he brought Mina back on the time train to make a documentary of the period. He could also film the earlier San Francisco earthquake if he planned it right. As these dramas were running through his mind, they came on the wooden gates of which Stoker had spoken.

  They were of oak, tall and forbidding and bound with iron. The lanternlight did not shine to the top of them. Some miscreant had broken in a panel on one side and they were able to squeeze through into the asylum grounds.

  They plunged on through long rough grass, Stoker humming “Lilibulero” under his breath.

  Dark in outline against the night sky stood the massive structure of the asylum, refuge for the derelicts of society. Scarcely a light showed to punctuate its unwelcoming solidity. Nearer to hand, a more ragged shape presented itself. So they approached the ruin of the abbey. What was now a mere shell had once been an outpost of learning and reverence in the long abeyance of the Middle Ages. Only bats lived in what had formerly housed a thriving community. In these later days, no refuge was offered here.

  Circumnavigating a bramble thicket, the two men neared the ruin. Inevitably, a mood of solemnity enveloped them, engendered by old stones, lost faiths, and a sense of the ponderousness of time. Stoker fell silent. No sense of horror could be detected, rather the opposite—only an impression of the sanctity to which this ancient pile had originally been dedicated. Cromwell had gone. The gesture toward a purer life remained.

  They skirted holly trees. Here stood a more modern building, itself tumbledown, built within the decaying arms of the old by the founders of the asylum in the previous century—centuries congregated here—a repository for the corpses of those extinguished by various epidemics. A smell of cats was pungent in the nostrils. Stoker, holding the lantern out before him, pushed through nettles to the entrance of the ancient crypt.

  “Here we are. It’s mainly underground, I fear … You ready?”

  “Want me to go first?”

  “Joe, it’s my turn. ‘Into the valley of Death / Rode the six hundred.’”

/>   The original doors to the crypt had long gone. Later boardings-up had also collapsed. Now the lantern revealed only a piece of swinging board. Bodenland pushed it aside. They eyed each other, faces disembodied in the encircling gloom. Then Stoker took a deep breath and went ahead.

  The dark was darker in the old building, the cold colder.

  What had been flagstones were grown over by rough grass. Moving forward cautiously, they came on wide and shallow steps and started the descent, conscious that they moved into the maw of the tumbled building. The stone steps, crumbling and dangerous, led downward, bringing Bodenland an uncomfortable shard of memory. He had been here before … Wasn’t this the forgotten dream?

  He would find Kylie at the bottom of the stairs, in the crypt.

  They entered the subterranean chamber.

  The crypt was a hollow place, with echoes but without life or even the semblance of it. As Stoker came to stand close by him, Bodenland lifted the lantern above his head to survey the dismal scene. Tombs of long-dead abbots stood among thick pillars supporting the weight of buildings that once existed above. To one side on a damp wall was the stained glass window which had either escaped the ages or been restored by some dotty early Victorian antiquarian. Silence except for almost inaudible rat noises and the intermittent plop of water drops.

  “Nothing,” Stoker said in a whisper. “Let’s go back.”

  “Wait.”

  Something drew Bodenland’s attention beyond the circle of light cast by the lantern. He crossed the floor to a stone coffin lying on an ancient catafalque. Its lid was slightly out of true with the body of the coffin. Fearing what he might see, he heaved the lid to the floor.

  The body of a man lay there, swollen and black, one hand clutching the dress it wore. He recognized it as Bella without a wig. Only for a moment was it a corpse. It awoke. Its eyes blazed up hatred from the place where it had taken refuge. The vampire sign on its forehead smouldered.

  With a snarl, it stretched up, talons grasping at Bodenland’s throat. Bodenland jumped back. He snatched up a broken fragment of the coffin lid. Engraved on it was the Holy Cross. He held it out. The creature fell back snarling and steaming, struggling to escape from its confinement.

  Stoker thrust a mallet and a wooden stake into Bodenland’s hand.

  “It’s the only way, Joe!”

  He groaned. But the creature was rising again. He drove the stake down. With a savage blow of the mallet, he penetrated the thing’s rib cage. It cracked like a rotten plank. The thing shrieked—more in fury than pain—and grasped Bodenland’s wrist with both hands. He was pulled forward. It was bringing up its naked head to bite his upper arm, venom in its mouth.

  Bodenland struck again, with his free arm, bashing the mallet against the blunt head of the stake. Black blood welled forth. He struck a third blow and the creature’s shrieks kept time. It doubled back in agony, raising its clawed hands in a parody of prayer. Another lusty blow with the mallet, more blood, gouting from the wound. Sharp teeth bit pallid lips in agony. The hands fell back.

  As it died, writhing, a faint treble voice shrilled—“Thank you, sweet Jesus!” Gradually, the distorted countenance transformed itself into the lineaments of peace and was recognizable as Bella again. Momentarily, a placid child face stared up at them. But it aged even as the torment left it. An old and withered thing lay there, resting in a shallow bath of blood. Bodenland stood helpless, mallet in hand, long after the disgusting transformation was complete.

  He came to himself.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Stoker said, “Your train driver’s in the toolshed. Now there’s this old girl here. That’s two bodies, and how to account for them? The police will be round questioning Flo, and I can’t possibly have that.” He clutched a pillar to control his shaking.

  “I see what you mean. If we put them on the train tomorrow, we could lose the bodies somewhere in the wilds of time. How do we get this horrible thing back to your place?”

  “We can’t carry Mary Jane as she is. There’ll be a pauper’s coffin in the outbuilding. We’ll use that.”

  The outbuilding had a stock of pauper’s coffins, awaiting eventual burial in the asylum cemetery. With trembling hands, they put the remains of the lamia in one of the coffins and screwed the lid down, before carrying the cumbersome burden back with them, beyond the ruins, through the broken gate, across the fields, through the wood, and home.

  Surprisingly, Florence Stoker awaited them, bundled into a pink quilted dressing gown and a nightcap. She asked no questions beyond inquiring if they had carried out their maneuver successfully. She was grim and efficient, bolting the door behind them and then, as the men warmed themselves at the kitchen range, preparing a posset. Her movements had a military precision about them.

  The hot milk was flavored with strong ale and various spices. Bodenland and Stoker lodged themselves on the edge of the table to drink the mixture, casting their vision downward.

  The kitchen table had been much scrubbed over the years. The grain of the wood stood out like the coat of a polar bear newly emerged from Arctic water. It resembled what the rough beverage tasted like.

  The men did not look at each other. Although they knew well enough they had undergone a horrendous experience, the exact nature of what they had done eluded their memories. Where recollection should have been was only a barrier of oblivion. The entity calling itself Bella had gone, leaving no trace behind.

  10

  The light of dawn was as soft as Joe Bodenland had ever seen it. Stoker’s elegant house sprawling on the crest of its low hill, the pleasant flower gardens, the ornamental pool stocked with fish—all were bathed in a calm that held for him a special period flavor. He was about to say goodbye to the nineteenth century. Although he knew something of the injustices it contained, he had to fight down a poignant feeling of regret. Whatever else the British had done, they had developed an intense regard for nature and its cultivation.

  The gardener, Spinks, had elected to accompany Stoker and Bodenland, claiming the former needed someone to look after him. Spinks was a husky young man, brown and shiny, with an eager look in his deep-set eyes. When Stoker had hesitated, warning there might be danger ahead, Spinks had remarked that he would like a spot of adventure. And Stoker had scratched his beard and said, Oh, very well …

  Florence accompanied them out onto the lawn. She had had the maids pack a wicker picnic hamper, which loaded treasure she pressed on her husband before kissing him goodbye. He embraced her warmly.

  “Look after the garden, dear old girl.”

  “I shall work twice as hard while you’re away with Spinks.”

  “I know you will that. You’ll miss him more than you will me.”

  “Come back soon, my darling. And remember what Daddy would have said—‘Chin up!’”

  On impulse she turned, put her arms round Joe’s neck, and kissed his cheek.

  “I have only myself to blame for Bram’s everlasting restlessness,” she said in his ear. “But some aspects of marriage are not always to a lady’s liking. Look after him—he’s very dear to me.”

  “Of course I’ll look after him, Mrs. Stoker.” He kissed her powdery cheek, liking her for all her prejudices. He thought to himself, They’re a couple of good people, and I’m leading him into danger. There is an element of destructiveness in me, right enough.

  The two men set off down the lawn, Spinks following and van Helsing somewhere tagging along. They looked back and waved. Florence stood by the gazebo, using her handkerchief. She waved it in response, like a good soldier’s daughter.

  The shadows were still long as the sunlight slanted through the trees to the flanks of the time train. The two coffins, containing the driver and Bella’s remains, were already loaded.

  The men were about to get in when van Helsing stepped in front of them.

  “Mr. Stoker, may I appeal to you? Stay at home. Foreign places are not for you.”

  Stoker breathe
d deep. “I appreciate your concern, Van. Just remember the psalmist’s words, ‘The earth is the Lord’s, and all that therein is.’ Look after Florence.”

  Van Helsing made as if to argue, then bit his bottom lip and turned away. Bodenland stood and watched him go, unable to grasp why he was moved as the frail figure disappeared among the trees in the direction of the old house.

  He thought to himself, My life makes sense to me, good sense. Yet how rarely I take the sense of other lives.

  And the copse, which had seemed such a friendly place, took on a different aspect. This was the life of trees, of nature, of the great vegetable world, a world of proliferation without brain or aspiration to brain. It had a presence. Suddenly he felt it—the personality of trees: not so much indifferent as obtuse, enduring. All these pretty little trees contained within them the ambition to be forest giants, and to eclipse all the neighboring trees. If he stood here long enough, they would rise and suffocate him. They would grow through him if he did not move.

  Together with Stoker and Spinks, Bodenland climbed into the cab and slid the door closed. He turned to the controls, conscious of how inexpert he was. When he switched on the main power, the generators roared reassuringly. Somewhere, somehow, immense quantities of future solar power were being consumed.

  He set the controls for 2599. Global coordinates would take a little more calculating. He bit his lip, still not entirely able to believe what was happening, yet eager to have his experts back home examine this miraculous piece of machinery. Behind him, Stoker spoke in his usual unruffled, genial tones.

  “Faith, the dear old girl’s packed us a bottle of champagne.” He raised the magnum, swathed in a linen napkin, for Bodenland’s inspection. “Let’s the two of us drink to A.D. 2599.”

  “A.D. 2599—and the Silent Empire!”

  Silent Empire indeed! Many hours had passed when the train emerged in real time again. They found themselves in a place of blazing heat and light, without movement or sound. No Carboniferous this time—it appeared that Bodenland had got the measure of the controls only to make the train materialize somewhere that resembled an abstraction.