Mina (20 page)

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, wishing
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.

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 impassible. A train with nearly a
hundred passengers was stranded in the mountains for three days while the storm
raged around it.

One of the
German passengers, 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 passengers 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 pass. 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 passed, 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 passing 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
passengers 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 passengers 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 passes 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 ship 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 passenger. 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 superstition 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.

He took the letter and locked it in his desk then went on with his
work. Within a day, the memory of its contents, like the journey itself, was
carefully closed off. He would not think of it, dared not consider that Van
Helsing might have written the truth. His sanity required that he forget that
the letter even existed.

Abraham Van
Helsing-doctor, writer, psychologist, and expert in obscure diseases of the
soul-had spent the last two months in

Romania and in that time had
learned nothing new about vampirism, and little about Dracula that he had not
guessed already.

Yet he sensed that their ordeal was
not yet over, for, as with Mina and the others, night brought him little rest.
Instead he had terrible dreams of the three vampire women and how they had
moved so lewdly before him, tempting him with their bodies. Often he woke with
his hands pressed against his neck, his lips bloody where he had bitten them as
he thrashed in his sleep.

Less than a month after the others
left him, Van Helsing had moved from a hotel to a little house near the center
of town. He had it blessed, sprinkled holy water on the doorstep and around
the windows, slept with blessed hosts beside his bed. Nothing helped.

The dreams continued, growing
ever more vivid until he became convinced that his memories would drive him
mad.

Days were no
better. In spite of the winter storms that had closed the mountain roads, he
fought a terrible compulsion to go back

to the
castle where he had beheaded the concubines and watched their master crumble to
dust. Often the compulsion seemed justified. The more he learned about Dracula
the man, the more convinced he had become that Dracula would not have been destroyed
so easily.

Many natives from the region around the Borgo had settled in
Galati, and Van Helsing sought them out. He gained their trust slowly, for
they were suspicious of strangers. Once he knew them, however, they were quite
open with him. They did not like foreigners, they said, because foreigners
were stupid and laughed at their warnings.

"About
what?" Van Helsing had asked.

"About everything." "About the Borgo Pass?" "They
are fools. What do you know of the Borgo?" "I have been to the
castle," Van Helsing replied.

"Ah,
then you are different. You went and they let you go." The speaker had
clasped Van Helsing's hand as he said this, holding it

as if Van Helsing had somehow
been blessed by the monsters.

"Why
did you tolerate them in your midst?"

"Our
ancestors lived in peace because of them. We owe a debt and we are
protected," he said and refused to comment any

more except to offer Van Helsing another glass of slivovitz, the
plum brandy of the region, which brought its own kind of forgetfulness.

Then he read
the account of the attack on the train.

He had
little difficulty locating the German who'd written the account of the storm,
but even when the right questions were put to

the man, he could add nothing
to his tale.

"The
wolf howls sounded strange," he said. "I thought I saw a figure in
the swirling snow ... It was dark by then. How can anyone

be certain?"

Possibilities. Nothing more. How
could Van Helsing tell Jack Seward to leave his work for possibilities? How
could he pull poor Lord Godalming from his mourning? Jonathan Harker from his
firm? And dear Madam Mina! What could he tell her to put her mind at rest?

Nothing
until he went there and saw with his own two eyes that the castle was empty.

Luck was with him. A few days after he wrote Jack Seward and Mina,
a sudden spring-like break in the weather opened the pass, allowing Van
Helsing to reach the castle. He walked its musty halls and visited the lower
chamber where the women had taken their daytime rest. Their headless bodies
had been burned but not destroyed by the fire. The flesh that remained had
frozen