The Elixir Read online

  “Are you Harker?” the man asked.

  “I am,” Jonathan replied. “And you, sir?”

  “Unimportant,” the man replied. “I would take your bag. We must go.” The man held out a gloved hand, and Jonathan handed him his bag. The man took it and spun around, walking toward the coach.

  “Might I have your name?” Jonathan asked again.

  “We need to hurry,” the man said in reply.

  “Is our path not a safe one?”

  “It is never safe to travel into the mountains,” the man replied curtly, “regardless of hour.”

  “Would it not be safer, then, to wait until daylight?”

  “No,” the man replied, “night is our best hope of reaching the castle unseen.”

  “Unseen?” Jonathan asked.

  “Do you not find it more difficult to identify someone in the dark?”

  “Yes, but who would be looking for us?”

  “No one for us by name,” the man replied. “They are looking for anything that moves and has breath.”

  They reached the coach and the man loaded Jonathan’s bag. He held the door for Jonathan to enter, still keeping his head low.

  “Then what hunts us?” Jonathan asked, pausing at the door.

  “I am grateful you came on your schedule instead of getting here early, as your colleague did,” the man said.

  “Mr. Hawkins said the count was anxious to complete the transaction,” Jonathan said.

  “Once learning of the fate of your Mr. Renfield, we should have considered another way,” the man said. “We are grateful he made it home safely, and had we known, we would have sent word not to send another representative, but at the same time that we learned of his fate, we also learned of your timetable.”

  “He did not return entirely unscathed, I regret to say,” Jonathan said. “He was consigned to permanent care on account of his not being entirely in his right mind.”

  “He has his faculties, though?” the man asked with unnatural interest.

  “He has occasion to make sense at some times and not others,” Jonathan replied.

  “But he speaks?”

  “He does,” Jonathan told him, finding this line of questioning odd. He finished boarding the coach and sat down. “Is that important to you somehow?”

  “The night is cold,” the man said ignoring the question, “and my master, the count, bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz and some blankets underneath the seat, should you require them.”

  “Thank you,” Jonathan said, and the man closed the door. Jonathan heard the door lock and realized the windows of the coach were fixed, which would serve well to keep the chill out, but he retrieved a blanket from under the seat all the same.

  The man climbed into the driver’s seat in the front, snapped the reins, and the coach lurched forward. After a few bumpy minutes, the ride smoothed to the point that without the landscape passing by him outside the windows, he would have guessed they were completely stopped. The coach occasionally hit a bump or two, but for the most part, it glided along like a sled on freshly packed snow.

  The coach weaved between the trees as it passed into the valley Harker had seen earlier. He pressed against the window to see what he could, and he saw the horses running at a good speed against the rising moon. Gauging their speed by how fast everything passed outside the window, he knew they were moving at an incredible pace considering they pulled a coach behind them, and looking at the ground beneath them, he was dumbfounded as to why the ride was so smooth.

  The only sound he could hear besides the hooves of the horses against the soft ground outside was something like a soft hum. Once he thought about it, Jonathan began to wonder what the sound was. He put his ear to the floor of the coach and was certain the hum was being produced by something underneath it. Some sort of machinery, he had no doubt, but that hardly explained the speed and ease of their ride. He knew he should be buffeted about the cab at this speed on this terrain.

  Suddenly, the horses turned, and they began their ascent of the mountains toward the castle which was nestled on a small plateau of one of the peaks overlooking the little town they had just left. He expected the pace to slow, and while it did, the reduction was negligible. The horses moved like they weren’t pulling anything.

  Jonathan finally relaxed and watched the trees go by. As they rose up above the valley, the light of the moon illuminated the ground below into a beautiful view. He wished he could do more than just describe it in his diary where he kept a detailed narrative about his journey. He certainly had little else to do while they traveled, and he would have no trouble writing.

  He heard a dog wail from somewhere down the mountains, and the sound was taken up by several others borne on the winds around them as they climbed ever higher creating an atmosphere of fear and trepidation. The howling grew louder until the horses began reacting as well to the sound slowing the coach down. He could tell the driver was using his strength to keep the horses from bolting away, and eventually, he stopped entirely and climbed down to pet and soothe them.

  Jonathan listened carefully and heard the man whispering softly to them despite the turmoil that he was certain had erupted from wolves living in the mountains. He was clearly skilled with the horses for as long as he remained with them, they were calm. While the coach was stopped, Jonathan noticed the hum that had accompanied their ride so far had also ceased. He put his ear to the floor again, and it was completely silent. After a few minutes, he heard the man climb back onto the coach. The hum resumed, and he snapped the reigns to continue their journey toward the castle, though not at the pace they had gone before.

  Soon, they traveled down a path between walls of trees that stretched over them like a canopy creating a tunnel through the forest. He could feel the temperature dropping the higher they went, and at one point, when they passed out from under the trees, the wind whistled loudly over them. He was grateful to be sealed within the carriage while at the same time, he felt sorry for the driver sitting at the head of the vehicle exposed to such elements.

  Suddenly, there was a light off to their left like a campfire burning just out of sight. As soon as Jonathan acknowledged it to himself, the driver stopped the coach. He jumped down and a few moments after he passed into the trees toward the light, Jonathan thought he saw and heard the man unsheathe a sword, though part of him felt that was rubbish since no one in this day and age would possibly use a sword.

  The silence of the night was deafening. The hum had ceased again almost as soon as they had stopped, and all he saw was the glow of the fire beyond the tree line a short distance from the road. Moments later, shadows danced around the flame before it was snuffed out entirely. With the firelight gone, Jonathan noticed other objects moving in the darkness much closer to his coach. They had been all but invisible against the trees with the fire going, but with darkness enveloping the mountains again, his eyes had adjusted to a large number of these shadows gathering and closing in on him on all sides. As they drew closer, Jonathan saw it was a large pack of wolves, some of whom looked thin and famished. They sniffed at the door of the coach, and he felt it rock slightly as they nudged it. He wondered if he should cry out, and if the driver would hear him. After all, the flame the driver had chased was gone, so surely he would return shortly. He morbidly wondered if he were brought out here to die, and perhaps, this was what had happened to poor Mr. Renfield.

  One of the wolves lunged at the coach, bumping its head against the wall. Jonathan yelped and instinctively jumped away from the impact. The wolves growled as they circled the coach, and another one jumped against the door. Then, the driver appeared and jumped into the middle of the pack, swinging an actual sword and killing a few of them in a single blow. Startled, the rest of them took flight and disappeared into the trees. Undoubtedly, they would return shortly to cannibalize their brothers, for as hungry as they looked, they could not afford to waste what could be used as food of any kind. The driver boarded on
ce again, the ever present hum started back up, and the coach continued its strange journey.

  They eventually crossed a bridge to arrive at the large, wooden outer doors of the Poenari Castle. The driver jumped down and surveyed the area carefully before he opened both doors wide enough to permit the coach to enter. The horses entered of their own accord, stopping just inside the gate, and the driver closed the doors behind them. Looking at the immense size of the doors along with the groaning sound they made while opening, Jonathan was certain the driver possessed prodigious strength, for he did not use a hand crank, pulley, or any other machine to open them. He walked the horses by hand to the main doors of the castle before he opened the coach door to allow Jonathan to exit. He held out a hand for support, and Jonathan noted firsthand not only the man’s grip, but the coldness of his fingers. The air was frigid at this altitude, which may have contributed to this, but even so, the man’s hand was uncommonly cold.

  Without another word, the driver retrieved Jonathan’s bag from the coach’s luggage compartment in the back and set it on the ground next to his feet. He remounted his seat, snapped the reigns, and the coach sauntered away into the darkness of the castle grounds, leaving Jonathan to stand awkwardly in the shadow of the massive wooden doors that led into the castle’s living area.

  The doors before him were ancient with thick, wooden planks and large iron nails set into a massive stone frame. Any army would have trouble getting through these doors much less the other pair they had passed through upon their initial entrance. Poenari was definitely a fortress.

  He wondered if he should knock, but there was no sign of a bell or knocker of any kind. He doubted anyone would hear him if he did. He considered yelling at one of the window openings but as large as this place was, it was unlikely anyone would hear him that way either. He wondered if this was typical of a solicitor’s profession: to explain a London estate to a foreigner. Before Mr. Hawkins had to send him out here, he was simply a clerk, but he had passed his examination just before leaving making him a full solicitor. Official or not, however, he would have to survive this adventure before learning what was normal, for this was bordering on a nightmare. He tried knocking on the door anyway, but the huge wooden door barely acknowledged his tiny hand.

  The wind tore over the ancient walls and he noticed a good part of the wall to the north was missing allowing even more of the frigid wind to bite through his insufficient clothing. He hoped he would not be waiting out here till morning for he feared he would not survive it.

  The clattering of chains and bolts told him his wait was over before he heard the grating sound of a key turning in a long-disused lock. Light glinted through a growing crack, and he perceived a shadow standing before him which materialized into a frail-looking old man who held an old, silver, oil-burning lamp.

  Jonathan could not fathom the man’s age, but he was tall and clean-shaven with only a white moustache and thin hair. He was clad like a gentleman from head to foot in a grey three piece suit, black tie, and white shirt, perfectly tailored to his frame. He pulled the door completely open and gestured Jonathan inside.

  “Welcome to my house,” the old man said in excellent English with only a slight accent of the region, “Enter freely and of your own free will!” Jonathan watched him for a moment and noted he made no other move after his greeting, but simply waited for Jonathan to enter. As soon as Jonathan crossed the threshold, the old man closed the door behind him, and shook his hand. Jonathan winced in surprise. Like the driver, his host’s hand was freezing. He had known older people to have cold hands for one reason or another, but this man’s were cold as if he had spent the day outside and his extremities never recovered.

  “Welcome to my house,” he said again, “Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring!” The grip with which the old man gripped his hand also reminded him briefly of the grip the driver had once he had exited the coach, and he wondered if these two might be the same person considering how long it took for the door to open.

  “Count Draculya?” Jonathan asked. His host bowed before him.

  “I am Draculya,” he replied, “and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in, the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest.” He took his Jonathan’s bag from his hand before Jonathan could stop him. Jonathan tried to take it back, but Draculya held up his hand.

  “Please, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available. Let me see to your comfort myself.”

  He carried the bag and led Jonathan up a great staircase and along a hall, on whose stone floor their steps rang heavily. At the end of this hall, he opened a door on their right into a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished, flamed and flared.

  Jonathan was greatly refreshed by the mere sight of the warmth and meal, but Draculya urged him onward. He crossed the dining room to the left and opened another door which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened another door and gestured for Jonathan to follow. Jonathan felt even better at the sight of a great bedroom which was well-lit and warmed with another log fire with a fresh log on the top, sending a hollow roar up the wide chimney. Draculya placed Jonathan’s bag just inside the door.

  “You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself,” Draculya said. “I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, join me in the other room, where you will find your supper prepared.”

  Draculya left Jonathan alone in his room. The warmth of the room coupled with the count’s courteous welcome dissipated all his doubts and fears. Having a moment to relax after the tense night he had gone through so far, he found he was half-famished with hunger. He left his room for the dining hall where he had seen the spread earlier. He found Draculya standing to one side of the table waiting for him. He waived his hand over the table.

  “I pray you, be seated and sup how you please,” Draculya said. “You will I trust, excuse me that I do not join you, but I have dined already some hours ago.” Before taking his seat, Jonathan handed to Draculya a sealed letter that Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to him. The count opened it and read it gravely. Then, with a charming smile, he handed it to Jonathan to read.

  “I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come. But I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend to your business needs during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters.”

  Jonathan smiled and looked back to Draculya who was smiling in return.

  “Telegrams are a wonderful way to convey a brief and rapid message, but they lack the fullness of an old-fashioned letter,” Draculya said. “I trust you find his words pleasing.”

  “I do,” Jonathan admitted. “It is always a happy moment when you find yourself in a position where you are trusted by another.”

  Draculya removed a cover from one of the dishes on the table as Jonathan sat down. Before him was placed an excellent roast chicken served with some cheese, a salad, and a bottle of old Tokay, of which he had two glasses. The count asked about the journey, and Jonathan told him all about everything he had experienced on the way.

  “These superstitions about this area,” Jonathan asked, “where do they come from?”

  “This land is very old, and over much time, legends will rise,” Draculya explained. “You know of some of the history of this castle, but much of it remains shrouded in mystery and for good reason. There are some things people cannot know.”

  “Can you say why they regard you with such fear, then?” Jonathan asked. “It certainly seems unfounded by what I’ve seen so far.”
/>   “Who can say?” Draculya responded. “You called me a count, and yet, I have seldom held any title in my years. I have lived here in this castle for most of my life, but I more or less have always been a servant to the rulers. Once alone, I believe they felt I deserved some sort of title that did not infringe upon anyone else, and so conte, or count in your tongue, served that purpose. There was once a time I was called a warlord, or leader of warriors. In my native tongue: a Voivode.”

  “Voivode Draculya?” Jonathan asked.

  “Yes,” Draculya replied. “I never was a true chosen Voivode of my own people, but of another I tried to help once. They mispronounced it somewhat, however. Where my own tongue pronounces it as ‘voy-vo-da,’ these people rendered it as ‘vo-ee-vo-day.’ A compliment all the same.”

  “What happened?”

  “It is a tale of some length, and your journey has been long. Perhaps you would indulge me with something of yourself instead of my dusty old tales.”

  “I am certain my simple life cannot compare with your colorful history,” Jonathan admitted. “This trip will likely be my most exciting adventure, for I look forward to a quiet life as a solicitor in Exeter with my fiancée, Mina, whom I will marry as soon as time permits.”

  Jonathan produced the photograph of Mina from his pocket for Draculya to see. He looked at it curiously.

  “How technology has advanced over the years never ceases to amaze me,” Draculya said. “When I was a young man, painting was the best we had. Such things as this were only made possible by the most skilled of artists. She is a very pretty young lady. If her appearance reflects her persona, then you are a lucky man, and I wish you the best.”

  “Thank you,” Jonathan said, placing the photograph in his pocket. “If I may sir, how do you wish me to address you?”

  “My name is Miraslav,” Draculya offered.

  “I’m sure I would not presume to call you by your first name,” Jonathan said uncomfortably.