Dracula in Love

Chapter Eight

5 September 1890

I arrived in Graz in the rain, thicker than our English showers, and falling from a disconsolate gray sky. Though it was afternoon, dark clouds entrapped the town, making it look as if night had fallen. The foliage had just begun to turn colors, with gold, brown, and burnished patches intruding upon the lush green landscape. I had been trying fruitlessly to find the hospital for about an hour. My nerves were prickly from the long journey, and every doubting voice chattered in my head. The language here, harsh, guttural, and incomprehensible to me, fell upon my ears like an assault, much like the rain that beat down on my hood. I saw nothing like the sort of English tearoom in which I would have taken shelter back home, warming myself and asking directions that would be delivered back to me in the language I spoke. Those words would fall now upon my ears like a mother’s nursery rhyme, bringing feelings of safety and comfort. How much we take for granted in familiar surroundings.

The fog that drifted from the mountains in great clusters of white glided over the city like ghostly watchmen. One such mass escaped from the crevice of a mountain and headed my way. I could not help but recall the eerie images of spirits in the Gummlers’ photographs. I had the disconcerting feeling that I was no longer alone, that perhaps the being that had informed me of Jonathan’s whereabouts had followed me here, as he had been following me everywhere else.

Sometimes, faithful reader, we are called upon to reconcile and live with mystery. Prior to the note he sent, I had been able to convince myself, albeit halfheartedly, that my savior was a figment of my imagination. But the note, with its accurate information, now made that impossible. He was real; he read my thoughts; he could find me wherever I traveled; and, apparently, he was omniscient. Moreover, though I feared him, he thrilled and fascinated me. And now, after having had his sorcerer’s hands upon me, giving me pleasure, I had to face my beloved fiancé, who was lying ill in a hospital in a foreign country.

I walked quickly along the quay of the river Mur, which wound its way through the town, its waters rushing past in foamy crowns. In the middle of the city sat the Schlossburg, a hill topped by a red brick ruin of an early medieval fortress with an adjacent clock tower. Though I had no idea where I was, I had the river, the fortress, and the tall onion-domed steeples shooting up from the town’s many churches as my landmarks. I asked each passerby, reluctant to stop in the rain, for directions to the hospital, which I am sure I pronounced dreadfully despite Seward’s careful tutelage. A man pointed me one way, which led to a dead end, where a lady pointed me back in the direction from which I had just come. I went through this exercise twice more with mounting frustration until a kindly gentleman walked me to the entrance of the hospital, which was tucked away (like many things in Graz, I later found out) off an Italian-style courtyard hidden from the street.

An attending sister wearing the white sail-like headdress of her order and a starched apron over her heavy black habit greeted me in the hospital lobby. Every word that Seward had taught me went flying out of my head in the face of her stern demeanor. Stammering, I took the telegram out of my pocket and thrust it at her. She read it with her lips moving slowly over the words. Then she nodded and led me through a hallway where stately sisters in the same habit glided silently like ships on a calm sea, their hands tucked in pockets beneath their aprons. We came to a small ward with beds separated by heavy unbleached muslin curtains for privacy. I attempted to ask her about Jonathan’s condition, but she answered me in her language, which I did not understand.

She pulled back a curtain revealing a thin man with a white streak like a lightning bolt through his brown hair and a lost, hollow look in his eyes. Only when the sister addressed him did I recognize my fiancé.

“Mina! Can it be?” He leaned forward, but as soon as I approached the bed, he withdrew. “Or are you some apparition come to toy with me?”

I was afraid to startle this haunted-looking person by coming too near, so I sat on the bed by his feet, which he quickly pulled toward his chest. He mumbled something in German. His eyes, always changeable, were now almost black, as if the irises had taken over the pupils.

“Jonathan, darling, it is your Mina. I have come all this way to see you and to take you home,” I said.

The sister whisked the curtain around the bed and went away. I could hear the quick march of her hard heels on the wooden floor as she left the ward. I was afraid to be left alone with this stranger who was inhabiting Jonathan’s body, this fearful man who had aged at least ten years in the eight weeks since I had seen him, and who looked dubiously at me.

“Is it really you, Mina? Come closer so that I may touch your hand and look into your eyes.” His voice returned to nearer his normal way of sounding. I slid closer to him and gently put my hand out, palm down, as one might do to a strange dog. He took my hand in his, which was terribly hot. He spoke in a confidential tone. “Forgive me, Mina, but I must be careful. Very careful.”

I explained to him that I had traveled for days and days from the Yorkshire coast all the way to Graz to find him. He looked at me as if I were a riddle he needed to figure out. He beckoned me closer with his index finger and he whispered, “Women can change. They are not always as they seem.”

What brought on these ideas, I did not know. “I have not changed, Jonathan. I am as you left me.”

“I must be assured that you are not one of them,” he said. “They always feign innocence, just as you are doing now.” He leaned back against his pillow assessing me.

“Who feigns innocence? Remember when we said that we would keep no secrets from each other? Please tell me what happened to you.”

“I have been deceived, but I will not succumb again,” he said. “If you really are my Mina, then you will help me get far away from this place.”

I wanted to pursue this idea, but Jonathan was in no condition to speak rationally about whatever had befallen him. I needed to find his doctor. Perhaps confusion and paranoia were symptomatic of the disease. If only I had asked Dr. Seward more questions about brain fever, but I had been in such a hurry to come to Jonathan. Now I worried that I had arrived unprepared.

I kissed him gently on the cheek, which he allowed, and told him that I was going to find his doctor and make arrangements to take him home. But I could not find a doctor-or anyone for that matter-who spoke my language. Finally, the staff produced a petite, French-speaking nun from Alsace, Soeur Marie Ancilla. I asked her to speak slowly because I was not accustomed to speaking with French people, who generally spoke rapidly.

With great patience, the sister explained to me that Jonathan had been found wandering the countryside in Styria. Some peasant women who harvested pumpkin seeds for oil found him one morning as he walked out of the forest and into their field, calling out names. He did not seem to know where he was or who he was, and he was shaking, either from the chilly morning air or because he was in shock. One of the women gave him a mixture of herbs to drink to calm him and asked a farmer coming to market to drive him in his cart to the hospital in Graz. Groggy from the sedative, he slept, fevered and delusional, for several days. The staff doctor examined and observed him, and diagnosed him with brain fever. Finally, Jonathan woke and started to cooperate, taking food and drink and the prescribed medication. But it took him a week before he remembered his name.

“Did he ask for Mina?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “That name does not sound familiar.” She explained that no one understood Jonathan’s babbling. At first the sisters thought that he was praying, but they soon realized that he was having delusions. His body showed the signs of wickedness, she said, which let the sisters know that his rants were of an obscene nature. The nuns prayed for him, knowing that he was in the grip of the devil. In the past few days, however, he had been quiet and passive.

I questioned the sister on the use of the word obscène. She crossed herself and said that she was quite certain she was using the correct word.

“What do you mean that his body showed the signs of wickedness?” I thought she would deliver some superstitious nonsense, but she spoke with candor. “I grew up on a farm. The patient was like a bull in a meadow of cows.”

I knew what she meant, of course. Who had put him in this state of arousal? All my fears of his infidelity came rushing back. “If he was not crying out for me, was he crying out for someone else?” I asked.

She shrugged, declining to be specific, perhaps in the interest of discretion. “The imaginations of men can be terrible,” she said to me. “And fevers confuse the mind, making it easier for the devil to plant his seeds.” I wanted to ask her more questions, but I could tell that she was too uncomfortable to elaborate. Before she left I asked her to find Jonathan’s doctor and ask permission to bring Jonathan home.

I returned to the ward, where other visitors had come to see the patients. Conversations in languages I did not understand came from inside the curtained cells. I stood on the other side of the drape from Jonathan and his bed. It was quiet inside. I slid the drape open gently so as not to make a sound. Jonathan had dozed off. His skin glowed from the fever. His mouth was slightly open, and if not for the gray streak that had taken residence in his hair, he would have looked like my Jonathan having a nap. But then his brow furrowed, his breathing quickened, and his head began to move from side to side so rapidly that I thought he might injure his neck. Little moans escaped his lips as if someone were hurting him. Suddenly he grabbed the bed rail and thrust his hips upward, his manhood creating a tent in the middle of the blanket.

I stood very still, not knowing what to do and too embarrassed to call for help. I watched him in fascination and horror as he shoved his pelvis at the air. Chatter and laughter from the other patients’ cubicles drowned out his moaning. I threw the curtain closed behind me so that no one else could see inside and I waited and watched until Jonathan’s frenzy came to an end with a few loud moans of either agony or ecstasy, I could not be sure. Exhausted, he settled back on the bed.

I sat by his feet, not wanting to disturb him. When his eyes opened and he saw me, he hugged himself protectively. “They have been here,” he said. “They have come back.”

“I think that your fever is causing you to have bad dreams,” I said, though after my conversation with the nun and what I had just witnessed, I was sure of nothing.

I put my hand on his forehead as Headmistress had taught me to check the girls for fever. Jonathan’s skin was cool to the touch. “The fever has already broken. I will soon be able to take you home.”

“Oh, Mina, I thought I was lost forever. Thank God you have come.” He opened his arms to me and I went to him and let him hold me tight.

A doctor interrupted us. He was youngish, just a bit older than Dr. Seward, with dark hair slicked back with some sort of oil. He had a thick, impeccably combed mustache, and wore a somber, tight black jacket and vest with a skinny tie in a bow at the neck. His manner was formal and his English was hesitating but easily comprehended. He explained to me that he could not give permission to someone who was not a relation to move a patient who was not quite ready to be discharged.

Jonathan objected. “No, I must go home. I must get away from here, Mina. Bad things will happen if we do not leave here at once.”

“You are very safe here, Mr. Harker,” the doctor said. “Have the sisters not taken good care of you?” He turned to me. “Miss Murray, can you stay with us in Graz for a few more weeks while we treat Mr. Harker?”

Before I could answer, Jonathan spoke up. “Mina, if we marry here in Graz, then we can leave at once.” The doctor and I both looked at him, and then at each other, surprised. “Is that not correct, Herr Doctor? If Mina is my wife, then on what authority might you demand that I remain in this hospital?” I was astonished at the change. If I closed my eyes, I would think that I was listening to a barrister in a courtroom, when moments ago, he had seemed so confused.

“Yes, I suppose that if Miss Murray is your wife, and she wishes to take you home, I will not have the authority to keep you here. But I wish you would heed my advice and wait.”

“Perhaps we should listen to the doctor, Jonathan,” I said sweetly. “Why don’t we wait until we are certain of your recovery?”

Jonathan’s arms were folded across his chest, but he reached out with one hand to take mine. “Please, Mina. If you love me and if you came here to help me, you will marry me as soon as possible. If you do not get me away from this place, there will be no recovery.”

A few hours later, I left the hospital to find an inn to freshen myself and to get something to eat. I was walking through the courtyard when I heard someone call out from behind me. “Fräulein!”

I turned around to see the nun who had greeted me upon my arrival hurrying toward me. She took me by the arm. “Let us walk together,” she said.

“Why didn’t you say that you spoke English?” I asked. I was both embarrassed and offended that she had earlier left me to flounder, stammering in mispronounced German, when she might have helped me.

“I did not want to speak to you. But I went to the chapel and prayed upon the matter, and I feel that I must. It is my duty before God.”

She introduced herself as Schwester Gertrude and told me that she was born in the Styrian countryside just south of Graz. Her father was a winemaker who had many daughters. “By the time I was ten years old, my six older sisters were married, and the money for dowries had run dry. That is when I came here to the convent. I know this country and its people. I know its secrets too, the things that people do not like to speak of.”

We walked out of the courtyard and onto the wide street. The sky was clear and the town seemed cheerful to me, with many ornate and gilded medallions on the buildings’ façades. Colorful coats of arms and statues of Baroque ladies dressed as pagan goddesses graced the grander structures, and complex wrought-iron arches decorated the doorways. We walked through a narrow alley where all the light seemed to drain from the city and, at its end, found ourselves in front of a grand cathedral.

“Come with me into the house of God,” she said. I was too curious to resist her. The entrance was adjacent to a mausoleum for some Holy Roman Emperor, where angels-tall soldiers of God-holding olive wreaths guarded the door to his tomb. I found it ironic that symbols of victory adorned a mausoleum; no one, including the emperor inside, achieved victory over death.

The sister led me into the dark and chilly church, lit only by two dim lamps flanking the altar and a small table of candles for offerings. Schwester Gertrude dipped her hand into a marble urn of holy water at the rear of the church crossing herself extravagantly, and I followed her as she genuflected before the altar with great piousness and then entered the back pew, where we sat down.

“Now you must listen carefully. I am telling you this before God. My immortal soul depends upon telling the truth.” Dread rose in me as she began to speak in portentous tones. “I come from the hills where Herr Harker was found wandering. It is a land inhabited by beings, some who are human and some who are not. Herr Harker shows all the signs of being touched, so you must take great care in seeing to his recovery. It is not just his body but also his soul that must be tended. You must pray; pray for him and with him.”

“What do you mean by beings who are not human?” I asked.

She continued: “There are creatures in these mountains that are in partnership with evil. They know things about men, and that is why they are able to tempt even the pious into sin. By making pacts with the devil, they can cure a man of disease or make him rich. Child, there are women in those hills who can make flowers bloom in the dead of winter. They promise old men that they will be young again, and ambitious young men that they will be wealthy.”

“Why do you think that Jonathan has had anything to do with these creatures?”

“He is not the first, nor will he be the last. The women who found him said that he was crying with great desperation for his lover. We have seen these victims before and have heard tales from our mothers and grandmothers of the young men who have been seduced by these witches. The men of the Church tried for hundreds of years to rid our countryside of them, but they persist. The devil helps them to survive even the flames. They appear to burn to ashes, but somehow they live to haunt the hills of Styria.”

“I do not believe that any of this applies to Mr. Harker,” I said. Why did old people feel the need to spread these kinds of tales? “My fiancé has been diagnosed with a fever of the brain by a doctor of medicine. I wish you would not try to frighten me with these stories!”

I stood up to leave, but she grabbed my arm, pulling me back down. “The explanation for what happened to Herr Harker is not in the medical books. It makes no sense to an educated lady like you, but there are many things in this world that are beyond the understanding of men. Marriage, a holy sacrament, to a righteous woman, will help Herr Harker to recover. You must trust in God and be patient. I am praying to St. Gertrude for his soul and for you.”

She stood up and left the pew, crossing herself and genuflecting again before the altar. Without looking back at me, she left the church.

I sat back and took a deep breath. I had never entered a Catholic church in London. In truth, I was Catholic by birth and by baptism, but when my mother sent me away, she advised me to adopt the Church of England as my religion and never mention my Catholic roots. “Your suffering will be greatly diminished if you do this,” she said. I remember asking her what I had to do to be Anglican, and she said, “It is all the same, Mina. Only some of the words used are different. Just keep your mouth closed in these matters and pretend piety.”

It seemed easier to let my eyes flow over the cathedral’s ornate magnificence than to absorb what the nun had said. I must admit that something stirred in me as I looked over the blinding glimmer of the gilded pulpit and opulent chandeliers, the golden statues of saints and cherubs, and the marble sculptural relief above the altar, crowned with an exquisite representation of Mary. I was either moved or awed or both. I needed to take comfort in something, and I looked up to see God’s angels above me, blowing golden trumpets. Above them, the statue of a benevolent, bearded saint raised his hand in a gesture of peace. I stared up at him, anxious to receive his proffered comfort, but soon realized that he was not going to provide any answers to the many questions darting about in my mind.

Outside the cathedral, I stopped to look at a mural painted when the city was suffering under a trio of plagues-the Black Death, a Turkish invasion, and locusts destroying the crops. In the scenes below, the townspeople shrank from this multiplicity of horrors, watching as their loved ones were carted off in coffins. Enthroned above were the pope, the clergy, and the saints, presumably those who would intercede with God and save them.

How nice it would be if a deus ex machina would swoop down from above and save us all from the chaos and woes of human life. I was desperate for some being with superior knowledge to explain the strange chain of events that had begun this past summer and did not seem to be ending. Now Jonathan, who I thought would be my salvation, was being subsumed into the mystery.

As I walked through the streets, I passed a wedding party standing outside a municipal building under a sculpture of the Roman Lady of Justice. The bride wore a simple dress, but her face was radiant as her handsome groom toasted her with a flute of rosy red wine. I walked quickly past them, the scene only reminding me that Jonathan’s demand that we marry immediately meant that my dreams of an Exeter wedding would never come to fruition. Feeling terribly sorry for myself, I decided to make the climb up to the top of the mountain to see the ruins and to gather my thoughts.

The climb up the stone steps to the Schlossberg must have taken twenty or thirty minutes of labored breathing. My thighs burned with the effort, but it kept me from ruminating on my troubles. Reaching the top, I paused to look out over the great expanse of the city with its tiled roofs and the mountains beyond that rolled out like curved, slumbering bodies. An elderly gentleman with a scarf of crimson wool and a jaunty cap nodded to me as he passed by, reminding me of the old whaler, but I did not smile back. I had heard enough stories today. I found a bench and sat down, though the rain was about to fall. My stomach began to convulse as if I were going to be sick. The awful feeling rumbled up through my chest and into my throat, finally combusting behind my eyes and spilling out in a stream of tears.

What was I to do about all the strange things that were happening? Yes, I had found Jonathan, and yes, he still wanted to marry me. But how I came to discover his whereabouts was as puzzling and frightening as the state in which he was found. I looked up to the heavens. “This is not fair. I have worked so hard, so hard, to try to make a good life for myself. Why are you doing this to me?”

I had no idea who I was accusing. Did I really believe that I was God’s victim? If we give thanks to God for whatever good comes our way, then why should we not blame Him when our carefully formed hopes and dreams are dashed?

Despite the ominous clouds, rain did not fall. I looked up to see a tiny ray of sunlight begin to split the sky, a knife slicing through the pervasive gloom. And then, as if the sky were nothing but an artist’s canvas and the rays of the sun were drawing me a picture, the purple clouds dipped and then rose again, forming a creature with great wings and a long tail. In a few moments, it looked as if a dragon was hovering over me to protect me beneath his majestic span.

I felt a growing sense of calm, as if all were well in the world, as if nothing could harm me, no matter what my present circumstance. My mind settled, and I began to think clearly. I saw that if I took things one small step at a time-marrying Jonathan, getting us home, helping him get back to work-I could navigate us out of these troubles and back into the life we had planned to live together.

The gentlest rain began to fall, a drop here and there. The wind picked up, rattling the trees and shaking clusters of leaves into the air. The mighty beast above lost its shape, its wings now simply the clouds that would soon pour more rain upon the town. I put my shawl over my head for protection and began the walk back down the steep incline.

Chapter Nine

11 September 1890

The hospital in Graz was in a former mansion built in the Italianate style for a Venetian merchant. The attached family chapel was still intact, and the sisters used it for their daily worship. They kindly offered it to us for our wedding. With our passports for identity, we procured a license, and within a week, I found myself trading my long-held dreams of a proper wedding for being married in a ceremony in Latin in a strange country, with an inexpensive lace mantilla covering my hair, and wearing a dress I had owned for three years. Rather than Lucy in a gown of silver, two nuns in black served as my witnesses.

Jonathan had been released from the hospital, and we spent our wedding night at the inn. After a small, quiet supper together, we retired to the room. I had no idea what to expect. I changed into a nightdress and lay quietly beside him in the bed. I watched the candle’s flame make quivering shadows on the wall, waiting for him to undress me, because that was what I had heard that men did. I had tried to gather information for this occasion. I wanted to please my husband, and I wanted our marital life to begin properly. When we were courting, I yearned for his touch and the pleasure that would come to us through intimacy. Though he had been sick, I still expected that he would want what all men wanted from their wives once the marriage has been celebrated. I thought that the light in the room might be inhibiting him-that he was concerned for my modesty or for his-so I asked him if he would like me to blow out the candle.

“No,” he said. “I do not care for the dark.”

I wondered if the brain fever had taken away his ability to engage in the act, and then I remembered watching him in his sleep as he made love to someone in his dream. But I also knew that I had to be patient. He had been through some kind of ordeal, which I still did not fully understand, and had contracted a disease from which he was not yet entirely recovered.

“Darling, I want you to know that I love you, and I know that when you return to familiar surroundings, you will quickly recover, and we will be the happiest couple in all England,” I said. I rolled over and kissed his cheek, caressing the other cheek with my fingers. His warm body felt good against mine, and I put my hand on his chest, letting it rest there.

He turned to face me, scooping me into his arms and pressing me hard against his body. I lifted my face, and he kissed me, at first tenderly and then harder, until I let my lips open. I felt a thrill as his tongue passed my lips and entered my mouth for the first time. He tightened his hold, and I wrapped my leg around his hip as if it was the most natural thing in the world for me to do. Comfortable and snug around him, I began to relax, giving in to the pleasure. Though I had given up my dream wedding, I loved the feeling of finally being married and in my husband’s arms. I was less nervous than I had anticipated and eager to experience what was to come. He put his hand under my nightdress, running it up my thigh, over my hip, and to my breast. A little murmur escaped my lips. Then, without warning, he let go of me and turned away, giving me his back. “It’s no use,” he said.

“Jonathan?” I asked. “What is it?”

“I have waited for this moment since I first saw you. I have dreamt of it every day, looked forward to it, lived for it. And now it is ruined, and it is because of me and my weakness. I have wronged you, Mina. I must confess my sins to you or they will eat me alive and drive me to utter madness!” Unable to face me, he said all this to the wall.

I had feared Jonathan’s infidelity ever since those long weeks in Whitby when I had had no word from him. I knew that this confession would be a tremendous relief to him but a burden to me. Such information, once shared, can never be retracted. I wanted to tell him to keep his secrets to himself, but when he finally turned to look at me, I saw in his pained eyes that the admission of guilt was necessary if he was to mend. Very calmly, I said, “I am your wife now. We must have no secrets.”

He breathed uneasily, trying to stanch the flow of tears. He began at the beginning of his tale, when he arrived at the Count’s castle in the Carinthian mountains. He was received in splendor, with a kind of lavishness to which he was unaccustomed. “I was blinded by their opulent living, Mina. Food and drink such as you have never seen, the quality and quantity overwhelming. The Count imported wines and ingredients from Italy and France, spices from the Far East, and plate and crystal from the finest makers in the world. In this manner was I greeted and entertained by him and his household.”

Jonathan completed the business transactions with the Count in a few weeks, whereupon the Count left him in the castle to see to his affairs abroad. “He invited me to remain in his abode if I wished. I had been entertained in the evenings by his nieces who lived with him, ladies who could sing and dance and play instruments and recite poetry. I admit to you, with some shame, that they dazzled me from the start, one in particular who gave me all her attention.

“I was taken in by this foreign siren, Mina. I had no intention of betraying you. But after the Count departed, in the course of one evening of feasting and drinking wine and watching these women perform their exotic dances, I succumbed to what were the most overt advances. I am not proud of myself, but I daresay that any man would have lost control under the circumstances.”

I saw through his strategy of simultaneously apologizing while making excuses for himself. I laughed to myself at Schwester Gertude’s story that my husband had been enchanted by a witch, when like any other philanderer, he had simply had an affair behind my back. “How many men have used the language of enchantment to excuse their indiscretions?” I asked. “Is this not what all men say? ‘I fell under her spell’?” I sat up, pulling the covers to my neck. “And so you succumbed to her charms. Whyever did you leave? Did you tire of her so quickly?”

He put his head down, shaking it slowly. “I don’t know what happened.”

I had to exercise control to not scream. “But you were there, Jonathan. What do you mean?”

“I mean that one moment I was in the throes of seduction and pleasure, and the next, I found myself wandering through fields and orchards. I was alone and lost, with only my clothes on my back and a small rucksack. They turned me out, or I escaped-I cannot be certain. I had money in my pocketbook and my identification papers, but my memory of those last few days was gone. I wandered, but for how long I do not know. The rows of plants in those fields were a labyrinth to my addled brain. The light in the valley was so soft, as if someone had draped a veil over it. It seemed like some magical place. I remember staring into a pond at my own face and not recognizing myself. I had no idea where I was or who I was. I walked and walked, and I stumbled into the field where women were picking the seeds out of split pumpkins. I stood there, watching their quick hands dip into the fruit and gather up the seeds. Something about the way the slime dripped from their hands sickened me and I started yelling things. I am not even certain what I was saying. That is when I was given a mixture to drink, which obliterated me. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital with a German-speaking nun standing over me asking me questions.”

He leaned back on the pillow as if this confession had exhausted him. His lips were dry, and he kept licking them and biting his upper lip with his lower teeth. He looked altogether distraught.

“Jonathan, you began by telling me of an infidelity. But you speak of the women in the plural. Did you bed all of them?”

He looked straight ahead, refusing to meet my eyes. “I am ashamed to admit this to you, Mina, but they shared me among them.”

My body went cold, but he turned to me with a look of ferocity. “You must understand. They were not like ordinary women. I have never known women devoid of the simple principles of goodness. I am the most wretched of men, but I felt as if I had no choice in the matter, that my will was entirely suppressed. I was innocent until they got hold of me.”

He put his head in his hands. What could I say? This was beyond anything I dreamt I would ever hear. My Jonathan, whom I loved and trusted, and upon whom I pinned all hope, had participated in orgiastic play with strange women.

“I am not worthy of you, Mina,” he said. “I cannot even meet your eyes.”

He rolled over on his side, again giving me his back. I lay watching the shadows on the wall until the candle burned itself out. Soon, I heard a gentle rumbling from Jonathan, a sign that he had purged his conscience enough to retreat into his dreams, probably aided by the chloral that the doctor had given him for sleep. I, on the other hand, knew that my night would be spent reviewing everything that he had confessed. I slipped out of the bed and opened Jonathan’s valise, extracting the medication. I mixed a small amount into a glass, which I filled with water from the pitcher on the nightstand, and drank the bitter liquid down. I climbed back into bed and fell asleep to the sound of Jonathan’s rhythmic breathing, trying to forget the many sweet fantasies I’d had for my perfect wedding, yearning for the exquisite touch I had anticipated from the man I loved, and wondering if I would ever have it.

I was lying on a soft bed of fallen leaves, their crunch unmistakable beneath me as I twisted and writhed. The air was cool, but he was beside me, keeping me warm. He was as familiar to me as my own breathing, yet I was aware that his was not a simple human touch. His presence was less dense than the human body’s but more powerful and able to engulf me. I took in the ambrosia of his hot scent-wood, leather, and ancient spices-earthy, in contrast to the feel of his being. I opened my eyes and saw that we were lying in a grove of trees with golden leaves beneath unfamiliar stars that blazed across an immense velvet sky. The wind tossed about a single glistening leaf, which rose and fell at the air’s will. I watched it dance with the breeze as my lover flooded my senses. Eventually, it fluttered beside us and fell to the earth.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“We are nowhere, Mina. You have met me in the river of time. It flows backward and forward, and we are adrift in it. We can meet here anytime, if you are willing.”

“Tonight is my wedding night. I must be with my husband.”

“There are many ways to be married. You and I have done it a dozen times.”

“But now I am married to Jonathan,” I said.

“Not in this realm but only on the temporal plane. Here, you are mine. I have followed you through decades, centuries, trying to lose your scent and the memory of you, but I cannot do it. Can you not look into a mirror, or into your own bank of memories, and remember who you are? Who we are together?”

His voice was rich, full of the promise that I have dreamt of a dozen times. Though he was barely touching me, his mere proximity thrilled me. It was as if our spirits were entwined, dancing together, though our bodies were not joined.

“But who am I?”

“You are the woman with viridian eyes, the color of a rare stone worn by the immortals. I have not seen such eyes in one hundred years. Are you ready for me, Mina? I have waited a long time for you to be ready. It is only fitting that your true husband makes love to you on your wedding night.”

He kissed me with agonizing languor, and I quivered with anticipation of what was to come.

“Yes, I am ready,” I said, eager for whatever bliss he would bring. Between his lush kisses, he whispered to me, his words tumbling into my open mouth:

By the ravenous teeth that have smitten

Through the kisses that blossom and bud,

By the lips intertwisted and bitten

Till the foam has a savor of blood.

“Blood is the true love potion. Remember?” He twisted my long black hair around his hand, sweeping it from the curve of my neck, where he buried his face. His lips worked their way up to my ear. “There is no going back, Mina, not this time. I am answering your call. And you have answered mine.”

“No,” I said. “No going back.”

I knew what he was going to do because he had done it before. My body remembered the sensation of it, and my every nerve heightened with expectation. I knew the danger and the pleasure, but there was no turning back now.

“What will I taste like?” I asked.

He inhaled deeply at the base of my throat. “Sweet and pure,” he answered, “like white lilacs.” With the intensity of a wolf tracking its prey, he began to explore my body. I felt the electricity of his mouth on my skin as his teeth searched for their point of entry. I waited, breathless, anticipating this thing that I both feared and longed for.

“You are sure, Mina?”

“Yes, I am sure. Please, please do it.” He waited until I asked again and then once more, teasing me until I was begging. Finally and with haste, he bit deep into my neck, breaking the skin in a single clamp of his jaw and attaching himself to me. I cried out in exquisite pain. I was his host, feeding him with my very essence, with my life force. I was no longer a body at all but a vehicle to serve him, to make him stronger, and to make me a part of him.

But that was only the beginning. He pulled my hair tighter until my ear met his mouth again. “Wherever there is pulse, Mina, that is where I want to be. I want to drink in the very life of you. I want to feel and know the throb of your body.” He let go of my hair, unwinding it from his hand, freeing me, but all I wanted was to be his captive. He read my thoughts and he answered me with his mind.

I am not finished with you.

He lifted my arm to his mouth and nipped at the inner part of my elbow and my wrist. At each pulse point, he broke my skin, and I felt bits of my essence flow from me and into his mouth. With my heart pounding inside my chest and my legs quivering, he ran his lips down the side of my body, where his beautiful and treacherous mouth bit slowly into one side of my groin and then the other, sucking to his pleasure, taking mouthfuls of me. Each time my insides tensed and then exploded with ecstasy. He turned me over so that my face was in the soft pile of leaves, and I breathed in their earthy aroma as he broke the skin at the backs of my knees. I cried out, but he paid no attention and slithered down my legs, biting me behind my ankles. I howled, arching my back in a blinding fit of rapture.

“The sounds of your pulses are like celestial music, Mina. The body sings. Can you hear it?”

I heard nothing because nothing outside him or outside this experience existed for me. I was in communion with him, giving myself over to him, letting my essence drain into him, and I thought that nothing of me was going to survive except what had gone into his body. Kneeling over me, he pulled my hair again, arching me toward him, and he bent down and lunged into the other side of my neck, taking his fill. I exploded inside, pounding with the bliss of immolation.

“I am dying,” I said, the words staggering out of my mouth.

“No, you are dying into me. And if you die into me again and again, I promise you will live forever. Do you want to live forever?”

“I do, my love, I do. I want to be with you forever.”

“You will not turn me away again? You will not sentence me to enduring your cycles of birth and death while I wait for you to remember who and what you are?”

“No, my love, I am yours.”

“We are wedded, Mina. You must leave the rest behind.”

Suddenly, I felt as if I were being torn in two. All went black, and for some time I was lost, and I was sure that I must have ceased to exist. Then, in a flash, I was floating above my body. Looking back, I saw my mortal form on a bed of gold leaves, tiny rivulets of blood breaking the monochrome of the snow-white skin on my naked body.

The next morning, I was surprised to wake to the sound of doves cooing outside the window and the smell of the fire burning in the parlor of the inn. Morning light streamed through the lace curtains, dappling the walls. I fully expected that when I rolled over, I would see my dream lover instead of my husband. But Jonathan was lying next to me on his side. His big hazel-brown deer eyes looked as startled to see me as I was to find him in the bed.

We could barely look at each other as we dressed, gathered our belongings, and walked to the train station. I had asked Jonathan if he wanted to stay at the inn for a few days to regain his strength, but he wanted to go home. His mood improved as the morning wore on. The color in his face was good, and he walked with energy and confidence, carrying my valise, opening doors for me, and helping me into the train, probably doing these small things to show that he intended to compensate for his infidelity. For my part, I was grappling with the bizarre dream of the night before. I tried not to think of it, but the delicious memories crept into my mind, titillating me to the core. At those moments, I felt myself blushing against my will and I had to turn my face away from my husband.

The rolling hills we traveled through were lined with rows of crisscrossed crops-apple and pear trees, vines of grapes, and maize-creating bafflingly precise geometries. In the forested areas, the branches on the trees drooped lugubriously like the long sleeves of Druid priests.

Jonathan pointed to the curved roads that cut through the hillsides and valleys. “Forged by Romans, Mina!” he said. “So many civilizations have come and gone on this land-Celts, Romans, Normans, Mongols, French. Who knows how many more?” He smiled at me, but I turned away, wondering if he had learned the region’s history from his Styrian lovers. Had his sordid tale inspired my dream?

“My world would be immeasurably better if we could look each other in the eye,” he said. He took my chin with his hand and turned my face around to meet his. “I want you to know that I love you, and that my love for you is far above these horrible and decadent acts in which I have participated. I can be a good and faithful husband if only you will give me the chance. Men can be tempted, Mina-that is why we must have the love of a good woman. Otherwise, it is too easy for us to get lost.”

I turned away from him, looking out the window at the rows of crops on the hillsides in lines so perfectly straight. Humans were capable of goodness and perfection, but our behavior seldom matched those qualities. Was it our destiny to sling stinging betrayals at each other? I thought of Lucy and wondered if she had lost her mind and confessed her sins to Arthur. Lucy had seemed possessed by the same passions that had consumed Jonathan and left him howling in the fields of Styria. How could that be love? And what about me? A man had made dark, unnatural, earth-shattering love to me in my dreams on my wedding night, but he was not my husband. What bizarre part of my psyche continued to invite these scenes?

Mr. Darwin demonstrated that we-male and female alike-were descended from wild animals. Women, held high in men’s esteem and given the task of living up to a higher moral standard, seemed as capable as men of bestial behavior. Jonathan claimed that the women seduced him. It made sense, I suppose. It wasn’t as if men evolved from beasts and women evolved from angels. But if women too gave free rein to our base wants, as I did in my dreams, what would happen to our society? There would be no order in the world. And I craved order. That is what marriage, particularly ours, was supposed to provide-blissful, predictable order against the chaotic and unpredictable nature of human life.

“You must give me time,” I said. “In time I believe I will be able to forgive you. After all, you are my husband.”

Time. What was time? Time is a river that flows both forward and backward. How could that be true?

He took my hand. “Your response is more generous than I deserve, Mina. I need time too. I am not worthy of you. I must find a way to purify myself.”

We both must purify ourselves, I wanted to say. But I did not think that I could carry through with an explanation.