Dark Rebirth (2) It was in a dark and dusty corner of the house, a part I had never seen before despite my extensive explorations of the building. I can only presume that he did not wish me to find the articles until that day; or else I would most certainly have some upon it while searching for the elusive journal. I had packed Renfield off for the day to pick up my shopping - I was becoming decidedly less motivated to leave my establishment, a factor which did not concern me because I had not even noticed it - and intended to search the house from top to bottom in the hope of discovering the volumes which had commanded my full attention for the past few days. I began on the ground floor and worked my way to the attic; searching, seeking, poking into every corner, opening every cupboard and closet I could find - to no avail. I discovered nothing which even suggested a fearfully revealing document - well, apart from a thick book which I pulled out from behind a hidden compartment above the fireplace in my uncle’s study; I took it with hands which trembled with unconcealed excitement -at last, here was the answer I sought! But it turned out to be a copy of some vile gothic novel, a horribly grim story about the walking dead and creatures who fed on the lifeblood of innocent young women. I flipped briefly through the pages and barely suppressed a shudder; the hideous document made my blood run cold! No, this was not my answer - and it wasn’t until later, much later, that I was able to appreciate the irony of my discovery. It was after I had completed my excavation of the mould-infested attic, now filled with all the grimmer artefacts of my uncle’s which I really couldn’t bear but under the influence of his will was unable to throw out, that I dropped in despair onto a dusty crate and began to turn over in my mind all the recent events which had led to this frenzied search. They still failed to make any sense to me; and while it occurred that I perhaps was overreacting to what was ostensibly a natural response to a complete and stressful life-change, my unconscious remained stubbornly unconvinced of the rationalisations of my bewildered conscious mind. As I pondered - now, uncle, where could those memoirs be? I had a sudden unexpected flash of inspiration. I was so unaccustomed to such things happening to me that for a moment I failed to recognise the experience for what it was - a vivid memory of Renfield’s last remark to me before he had - rather reluctantly - emerged into the sunlight to fetch our supplies. “I will return shortly, Master, and while I’m out there I will replenish the supply of fuel in the basement.” The basement! Why had it not occurred to me earlier? It would be the perfect place to store a secret memoir! In vast excitement I leaped up from my crate and darted enthusiastically down the creaking narrow staircase towards my goal. Completely forgetting that although I knew of the cellar’s existence I had no idea of how to gain entry to it, I rushed to the ground floor in a lather of anticipation. The answer was at my fingertips! At last I would know the truth of my mysterious uncle’s secretive history! I did not find my uncle’s journal in the cellar. I did, however, find another article - a piece scribbled in an aged, dirty notebook. It was the daily diary of an inhabitant of a lunatic asylum in London, and as far as I could tell it was dated in the late nineteenth century. The morning has come again. I knew it would; although every night I am not sure that I will see a new day. He is staring at me again; reporting, cogitating, propounding his theories and making what he thinks are placations. Oh if I could only reach him through these bars, take hold of his broad shoulders and sink my teeth into that thick warm throat.... O what foolishness! As if I should ever be grateful for something as huge as that, he must have a gigantic and powerful soul. I would not want it haunting me for eternity. It would be just like Seward to haunt me too. He haunts me in life, after all. Another night is falling. The fool Seward making endless demands of me; dissecting me. He thinks he understands and that I don’t; he thinks he knows I am a lunatic and that I do not know that I am his “pet lunatic”. Childishness for one who walks with God. SHE visited me today! SHE! The one who walks with Him. His Bride. But she is a sweet and gentle woman, thought too stupid to heed my warning just like the rest of them. Damn these fools! Damn them!! Damn them!!! The moon is rising. The Master comes, I feel him! I can feel him....he is coming....O God, give me strength to survive this night....I must pray....my only hope know....pray for my soul, my life....O God do not forsake me! Forgive me! Forgive I read this testament to madness at first with pity, then confusion, and finally, stabbing alarm. It is quite evident, I am sure, which element disturbed me: the poor creature’s use of the word “Master”. Bewildered, seeing a connection the nature of which was as yet hidden to me, I rummaged urgently through the remaining papers which lay in the little niche in which I had found this tattered document. I found other notebooks, all with various degrees of newness; the last was clean and fresh, written on modern, neat paper; there were only a few dated entries on the first pages. It was then that my mind made the final logical leap which it required to piece everything together.... That evening I confronted Renfield. He out his head on one side and studied thoughtfully the papers I presented to him, then slowly nodded. “You have read everything, Master?” “Yes.” I eyed him coldly. “I want to know, Mr. Renfield, why you have kept this information to yourself.” He simply gazed back at me with his typical cringing expression; it infuriated me, and I exploded, “Damn it, man, why didn’t you tell me? What is going on here?” Renfield looked pained, concerned, but not surprised. On reflection I realise that his face bore an expression of one who has experienced an event many times before, but finds it no less wearying with each new occasion. Incensed by his quiet, thoughtful face, I stepped sharply forward, raising my hand. He gasped and ducked, cowering from me....and it was then that my temper slowly evaporated, to be replaced by a kind of bewildered exhaustion. “Renfield....” I murmured. “You must tell me the truth.” Slowly I sank onto the settee, he timidly moved to sit beside me, wringing his hands. I took them between my own and prevented their anxious movement. He smiled worriedly at me, then closed his eyes briefly and began. “The documents you have read, Master, are all genuine and dated correctly. And yes, they are all my own writing, as I believe you suspect.” “But that isn’t possible! That would make you....” I performed a swift calculation, “not less than ninety years old! And yet you clearly are not above thirty-five.” “Master, I hope that the reasons for this will come clear to you in time.” His tone was soft, but I detected an incongruously scratchy note in his voice. In the lamplight, his quiet face was pale, the cheeks flushed, his eyes slightly glassy. He closed them briefly again before continuing. “I would like to verify and clarify the events in the journals you have read. The earliest dates back to my initial profession; I worked for a firm owned by a Mr. Harper. This was before my....incarceration.” “Why? Why were you committed to the asylum?” “All in good time.” For an instant, the cringing deference vanished from him; he spoke with quiet but firm authority. “My doctor was Jack Seward - a prince among doctors! He was a kind and gentle man, and never failed to treat me with respect and patience - perhaps more than I deserved, at times. I was his pet, his favourite study. He died just five years ago, you know. He was almost a hundred.” I nodded impatiently; this narration was most interesting, but I strongly desired to reach the facts which I considered important. “You will find little in the way of information in my humble journals, Master; they were kept for my own sake only, not really to be read. I still keep a journal, as you see. There are further volumes, of which the author was not myself; these will, I believe, throw some light on your current investigation.” He finished speaking, and smiled tremulously. I leaned towards him eagerly. This was the moment! “Renfield - you have my uncle’s journals? The memoirs of his life for which I had been searching?” He tilted his head, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “No, Master. No such document exists.” “Then what....?” Slowly he rose, and walked the length of the room, pausing before a large portrait of a young, very beautiful woman, whom I recognised as the likeness of my cousin, Mina. Renfield touched the face of the painting very lightly with a slim finger, then seizing the frame pushed it aside. To my astonishment, the picture swung aside, revealing a dark compartment within! My companion reached into this space, brushing aside a spider’s web to do it; I saw his eyes flicker as an especially large, long legged variety scuttled rapidly across his hand, but he did not quiver; he finally withdrew a thick bundle of papers, worn with age like his own journals had been, but tidily typed so that the appearance given was almost that of a book that one might purchase in a modern store. He returned to his place beside me and proffered the manuscripts. “These are the collected journals of all the individuals who are important to your investigation of the old Master’s recent life. Besides these documents are newspaper cuttings, letters and the logs of a ship, the Demeter. You will find in there,” he added with a wry smile, “the transcribed reports of Doctor Jack Seward pertaining to my mental condition. I ask you to note that rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Goodnight, Master; I trust you will find in these documents the answers which you seek.” And with that, he left me. At five o’ clock the next day, as sunlight began to filter its way through the high dark windows of my uncle’s suddenly fearful house, I threw the manuscript in the fire. Two hours later I stormed into Renfield’s quiet, musty basement room. I was surprised to find him still sleeping, and it increased my rage to think that he should have so little consideration for my feelings as to rest so peacefully while my mind and heart were in tumult. As such I shook him fiercely; he opened his eyes slowly, with a soft groan. “Master?” His voice was weak and throaty; he sounded dreadfully ill, but in my anger I made no attempt to perceive his weakness. “You deliberately withheld the truth from me,” I hissed. “why?” “Oh, Master.” With an obvious effort he pulled himself to a sitting position; I noticed for the first time the unhealthy pallor of his face, the yellow tinge to his eyes, the flushed cheeks. But all I said was: “You know what I’m talking about, damn you! Don’t try to deny it! All this time you have deceived me!” “No....never.” He tried to get to his feet but weakness stopped him; he fell back with a moan, and it was then that my searing anger began to abate as I sae that he was indeed ill. Concern overwhelmed my rage; I was after all still fond of the man, and from what I had read a horrible guilt had descended on me, as though I were somehow responsible for the callous way in which my ancestor had treated his faithful servant who, after all, had acted only with decency despite his bewitchment. Softening my voice, I leaned over him. “Renfield, what is it? What’s wrong?” He shook his head, closed his eyes briefly; when he opened them, they were filled with tears; not of pain or self-pity, but of anguished remorse. “Master,” he whispered faintly, “I’m so sorry.” “Renfield.” Anxious now, I took his hand in mine. “Look....I don’t blame you, I’m not really angry with you. It is my uncle for whom I hold contempt and despise.” To my astonishment this seemed to worsen his temper; he lowered his head with a pained whimper the source of which I could not then understand. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?” “You don’t know everything, Master. I should tell you everything, it’s time now. But you have decided already on my fate and yours; perhaps it would only cause you further pain to explain the rest.” “Regardless, I most certainly should hear the full story - though I know not what further horrors it could possibly hold. But what do you mean - your fate and mine? I don’t understand. I understand even less how you could have possibly survived the injuries you suffered, or indeed how you should appear to be as you are now, when surely,” I calculated quickly, “your age must be at least in the region of seventy years!” He smiled vaguely at me, then murmured, almost to himself, “Yes....the Master gave me immortality, of a kind. Not in the way he promised, but still....still. And now it is over, all over.” “Don’t say that!” I implored. “I’ll fetch you a doctor....” He smiled weakly at that. “Master, dear Master, no doctor can cure mortality. My life, you see, depends on the Master - the true Master - and his on me.” I pressed him, gently but with rising agitation, to elucidate, and he nodded calmly. “Yes, it is time you knew all.” And he proceeded to tell me a tale which surpassed even the stretches of imagination it took to accept what I had read from the journals of Jack Seward, Mina and Jonathan Harker, and Abraham van Helsing. The Ritual began in the 1890s, shortly after the supposed destruction of my uncle - the dark prince Dracula. In desperation, he clung to the only opportunity for continued survival, his massive ego refusing even then to accept defeat. He did not care for revenge, for he still loved Mina; but his will was strong: he determined to live, and to bring her back to him some day as his bride. There was only one option available to my uncle - to take refuge in a human form. He chose the most appropriate and ultimately poetic, and when Mina Harker bore a son, Dracula was after all present. The boy grew without his mother realising his true nature (until her death twenty years ago ); but Dracula, in secret, recruited his faithful servant Renfield, the only man whom he knew he could trust, winning him with the promise of immortality. He had kept that promise, and Renfield kept his: he would, after each generation, prepare for his Master’s return, and would receive continued life as long as the Master should live, through the generations, from person to person. I was only the third, for the piece of the puzzle which I knew from the beginning but until the end could not place, is this: I am the son not of Quincey Harker, but his sister, Lucy; my uncle, who changed his name due to persecution from those who suspected him - the sons of Jack Seward and Arthur Godalming - had lived his life in peace as a recluse. Now I was expected to carry on the line, as it were - for the dark prince was in my blood and my soul. I was born and bred for this moment - and in the instant that I knew, I hated it. I refused it, resented it; the though repelled me, and anger mixed with anguish filled my soul. Such evil - such endless evil! It must stop here; I was determined that never again should Dracula roam the earth to persecute poor Mina; for my cousin had been, I discovered, not his ward but his lover. I would condemn Dracula - for Mina, for myself, and for the good God. This I told my companion, who gazed at me - though his eyes were dim and glassy now - wit a startling respect. “I understand, Master.” He croaked. “I would not wish that you should sacrifice yourself. It is not for you to suffer, Master, and the Mistress has after all her own husband, Jonathan.” Amazed and humbled by the sheer compassion of this poor, tortured creature, I could only clasp his hand and assure him: “My friend, I have no wish for you to be sacrificed, either. There must be some other way to ensure your health, besides the fulfilment of this cruel ritual.” “There is none, Master....Mr. Senwick. My life has been long and well-appointed; I have been of service as has been required of me. Now it is over, and perhaps I will find some comfort in the knowledge that the dear Master has found peace at last.” As he said this, the reality of my situation struck me fully for the first time, and I flung myself with a cry of anguish upon him. “Dear, faithful soul! How can I condemn you? My companion, my friend, my protector - after all you have suffered in the name of my uncle!” He merely smiled at me, and rested his hand on my head in a tender, soothing gesture. “Hush.” He murmured. “I have no fear of death, Mr. Senwick.” But I feared it; and equally I could not bear the thought of my life stretching out endlessly in loneliness without Renfield’s quiet presence to keep me sane. I wept unashamedly on his breast; and as the night drew on I remained with him still, anguished, my heart torn in two, unable to face the hideous decision, for a choice of the worst kind was before me. As the last of the light seeped away, my companion slipped into unconsciousness, and I though my heart would burst as he whispered softly “Master”. In an instant my life flashed before my eyes - my dull, aimless, pointless, wasted life - and I felt a whole tumult of new emotions tearing into me. With a roar signifying the greatest torment a mortal soul could bear, I threw myself on my friend, and as the last fluttering heartbeats began to fail, sank my teeth into the dying flesh. I felt him writhe beneath me as hot blood poured into my soundlessly screaming mouth, over my white lips, gushing to my throat; I was filled with a new sensation, an ecstasy I had never known, the world exploding inside my mind, my body, as the dark dismal room was lit up by a brilliant flash of blue lightning....forcing my lips away from Renfield’s throat, I tore the flesh of my wrist and pressed it tenderly to his mouth. For five full minutes I allowed the healing blood to restore him; then, exhausted emotionally and physically in a way I had never experienced, I rested my aching head once more on his breast, and closed my eyes. Thus I have recounted a story unknown to mankind until this moment - at least, from my perspective, the only one, surely, which is sufficiently accurate. I understand now that it is the task of my current incarnation to complete the work which I myself sought - the story of my life. Soon - within perhaps another century - the tragic story of my life will be laid bare for all to see and experience, from the view of one who has seen the world like no other living being - from the vantage point of death. It will truly be my dark rebirth.
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Copyright © 1999 Kerry L. Schofield |