CHAPTER I

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

13 October. During the early morning boost to my constitution as I walked along the Exe, cocooned snugly in my greatcoat, the gloom of the overhanging gray nothingness, the hallmark of Exeter, dulled the surroundings. When I could see the horizon in those too few breaks of tree cover, the ground, and the sky were a perfect seamless merge. I was at peace with the gloom, or, I guess what I think other people would consider gloom.

The low ceiling of clouds, more a thick flat mist, clung to the ground and created a dead, condensed space in-between land and sky. In-between heaven and earth. I love these days though I know that some don’t cherish them as much as I do. I don’t mind the dullness the colors take on or the chilly hint of bleakness that is around the corner as winter prepares a frosty onslaught. I do not find the gray as depressing as others do.

Through some trick of the light, the mist along the river seemed to be following me. I caught a glimpse in my peripheral vision; billowing ribbons of smoke playing in the wind. When I turned for a more thorough study, the mist hugged the ground. I thought it odd that the mist was shy.

As I continued, the cloud divided with each step I took, as if to make a path. I’m sure it was the trickery of light and shadows; the way mist does not seem visible directly before your eyes; however, a foot or two away, it can become quite dense. I saw the breeze creating eddies, and as I moved forward, the mist parted. Again, when I turned to look behind, more from curiosity than any uneasy feeling of being followed, or watched from afar, the milky haze closed the path in a showy swirl as if guided by some grand magical hand.

A chill grazed the surface of my skin. I shook it off with ease and tightened the closure of my wrap.

The river was quiet, yet with an occasional gurgle that seemed to be another tick. One moment the gurgle is off to the right, just over your shoulder and behind your back, then the next moment there’s a gurgle a few steps ahead hidden behind some reeds. I have absolute belief in hobgoblins jesting behind your back, chuckling, passing judgment, making snide comments about your shoes, your wrap, the way you walk or the weight you carry.

The trees have taken on color so quickly this season, and they’re already dropping leaves. The wildflowers and the weeds are turning brown and brittle. It won’t be long until there’s a forest of dead stretching to scratch the sky. I do take pleasure—odd word to use—in the design of death and re-birth that Mother Nature offers yearly for our edification in all matters concerning a cycle of life. I enjoy watching vibrant autumn cruelly surrender into heartless, cold winter. I hang in anticipation as spring stubbornly demands to reawaken, brimming with new life. These are precisely the feelings I harbor inside. I feel as if there’s something inside me that has a great desire; a Want, a Need, and a Must to thrive voraciously if I could only find a way to let it out.

This morning my journey took me along City Wall past Cathedral Close, through Bedford Circus and eventually into the peaceful and serene Rougemont Gardens.

I think the impending winter will be cold and bitter because the red squirrels I spied along the path were fat; tails fluffed-out in downy splendor, ear tufts flowing and the Scurry was still anxiously collecting the fallen autumnal bounty of nuts.

How exciting it is to catch a fleeting glimpse of their bright ginger coats. They are particularly vibrant this year and seem to be tamer than usual. I had bits of stale bread with me to feed the brave ones who venture near. I’m sure Mrs. Brady had pudding earmarked for those stale bits, but I felt benevolent this morning and filled my pockets.

I took a rest on the new wrought iron benches the park installed over the summer.

It was unnaturally quiet. I’ll even go as far as say "supernaturally still." I saw leaves moving on nearby branches, but it was silent movement.

The first crow materialized as I glanced up at the two remaining windows of the crumbling gatehouse. The iridescent, large-sized bird stared at this human as if it were sizing me up. I felt very much under scrutiny. I took some stale bread from my pocket and broke it in half and tossed a bit towards the crow.

The wingspan of the creature had to have stretched past a meter and, I’m certain, the creature weighed, at least, one and a half stones if not more. Healthy scavenger, I thought to myself. The crow held no interested in my stale bread. I broke off a few more bits and did my best to pummel the dumb bird, but the bits didn’t carry much weight and fell short, and this made me feel foolish under the crow’s black-eyed gaze.

Crows number two and three arrived with the same magical nonchalance: the same blank, dumb stares.

I was beginning to feel that perhaps I had intruded on their roost, and they were exhibiting an admirable tenacity of silent stares to let me know I had invaded their private space, and they weren’t going to put up with it. I broke more bread and offered my gifts to no avail. Their gaze made me feel completely unsettled. There was a rustling behind me, which I assumed was more of the Murder passing judgment behind my back.

"They’re here because of the witches." The voice wasn’t unknown to me. It was gruff and wheezy and tainted with a thick Devon accent passed down from generations of land workers. The owner wasn’t a large-framed man. He was hunched at the shoulders, and that made his actual height deceptive, but I’m sure the two of us were shoulder to shoulder at some point in time. It’s my guess he hadn’t straightened to his actual height in years. It is also my guess that even as a young man, he was one of those souls that looked older than his years and now as an old man, he had settled into his body. He steadied himself with an Irish Blackthorn sporting a rather lovely patina. He dressed for the bitter winter (as he always was whether spring, summer, or fall) in several layers of ratty knitting. In the summer months, this knitting—well-nourished with sweat and bacteria—took on an earthy bouquet that was more pungent than his fall and winter scents. His hair was white and taking on ochre tints, sticking out of his wool cap like dirty straw. I tried not to stare even though his lips curled inward, drawing attention to the foul tear that is his rotting smile. His eyes were the color of rain, and like the crows, he just stood there staring at me, bracing on his handcrafted stick. I knew him, as all residents and visitors to the gardens, to be Ol’ Liam Somners. He was one of the former gardeners whom I think was ousted by the Exeter City Council when they purchased the Rougemont Gardens with the intention of uniting it with the Northernhay Gardens in the hopes that creating an ample open space would bring tourism to the area.

"They’re certainly disconcerting this morning," I said, glancing at the crows. I was not anxious to engage in any conversation with Mr. Somners. With assurance from the general sentiment of all visitors to the gardens, when Mr. Somners was spotted, strolling became something more resembling exercise than a leisure activity.

"Aye, that they are. This lot likes to get in close. Always has. They’re smart like that, you know. They know how to spot trouble. They can tell the difference between a sportsman with a gun and an old man with a walking stick."

Here he made a point of jabbing his stick into the air while gritting his black teeth to look fierce — a rather gruesome effect.

A glance at the crows confirmed that they were not interested in Mr. Somners.

"They are very used to the people here at Rougemont, but, I am surprised they’re not snatching up those crumbs. I’ve never thought crows to be picky eaters."

"This lot doesn’t seem interested in eating at all. I’m wasting my crumbs. I don’t believe I’ve ever been this close to a crow. They’re almost tame."

"I think they’re studying you."

"Studying me, Mr. Somners? There are certainly far more interesting
subjects—"

"Mrs. Harker, ya don’t give yerself much credit. They have secret senses, and you’re hiding many interesting things. They know me. They’ve seen me every day. They know what I’m hiding. You don’t come to the gardens so much. You’re a curiosity to them. They’ve been watching you. Today you decided to take a rest on this bench and today’s the day they’ve chosen to come in for a closer look." He cocked his thumb towards the castle gatehouse. "The Murder traditionally assembles for the Bideford Witches."

I knew the folklore associated with the Bideford Witches; however, sharing my knowledge would do me no service. I was in for a long story because Liam Somners had the anxious eyes of someone who wanted someone, anyone to listen to him. He was one of those sad old folks that most of us don’t care about or don’t wish to take the time to notice. Hygiene problems aside, Liam Somners was a living apparition. It would only cost me some patience to listen to his story. My generous act would purchase the old man a piece-of-mind for a small measure, and stave off his hunger for some company a short while.

Before I could speak, before I could be polite and offer a seat, he sat on the bench beside me. Thankfully, downwind.

A few more crows joined the Murder.

"I have a strong belief in the supernatural and of supernatural beings." He let that remark hang in the air. I wasn’t sure how I should respond, so I politely nodded. "Do you believe in supernatural beings?" he continued.

Of course, I did. I had first-hand knowledge of the most supernatural of beings. However, I couldn’t reveal the truth, for telling the truth would mean speaking the name, and that name is not to be spoken. Has not been spoken for years, and never again will pass over these lips.

He considered the crows as if they held the answer. "I can tell you do," his voice was raspy. He was chewing on something imperceptible, his jaw moving, the muscles tightening, his teeth tapping together. After a long moment, he said, "You don’t get to be all my years without learning how to read folks. I learnt how to read folks way back when I was a lad. Back then, I learnt it is in the eyes—where truth and deception cannot hide. Folks try to hide their falsehoods. It’s something silly, but still, we do it. I can tell you believe in the supernatural. Your eyes betrayed you."

Some of the crows had settled and made cozy in the grass. Some were picking tasty mites from their wings in a bored demonstration of avian grooming. Others just stood there, dumbfounded. Their number had increased by several, and I found myself wishing I had started a headcount.

I placed my hand gently on Liam Somners’ knee, "Mr. Somners, I’m expected soon. Ladies and tea, you know," hoping that fabricated excuse would offer an opportunity to make a getaway. I do not understand why people who are bores do not know that they are boring. I do not believe that they are entirely oblivious. On some level, they have to realize their captive audience is being detained against their will.

Unexpectedly, I was flooded with the memory of the Weird Sisters from Jonathan’s Journal, as they materialized from dust in the moonlight. My memory returned as clear to me as if those events had transpired mere moments ago. Abraham crumbling and scattering the Holy Communion wafers around us . . . I saw the campfire making long indigo shadows in the snow as sparks cracked and damp kindling hissed. The horses were tearing at their tethers, their big eyes filled with terror and madness. From out of the haze of coldness and smoke, the three Weird Sisters emerged with their sharp white teeth and voluptuous ruddy lips. The beckoning, the desire, the temptation to join them so strong, nearly unbearable were it not for the fact that we were protected in that ring of holy wafers. The Sisters’ taunting lasted a lifetime rather than hours, or was it minutes, during that bleak and black night at the Borgo Pass. When their desires were unfulfilled, they frightened our horses to death . . . to leave us stranded until we became their feast. Thankfully, dear Abraham found the Trio in their unearthly tomb later that morning. He drove stakes through hearts and cut off their heads, restoring their souls to heaven’s eternal life. I have always wondered how difficult was it for him to destroy something so dark and so very, breathtaking.

When I returned my attention to the garden, to the bench and the crows in the yard, Ol’ Liam Somners chewed his cud, considering me with his tired eyes.

I don’t believe that I’ve ever seen so many crows gathered in one place. I’ve seen trees filled with their black bodies, but never such dense ground cover. I could sense tension building in their small frames. Something brooded behind glinting onyx eyes.

I felt the flush on my cheeks. A cold chill shook my shoulders followed by that eerie sensation I’ve come to recognize; I knew I was about to heat up as if I were a stove stuffed with too much coal. I didn’t want the embarrassment, nor the humiliation, of soaking my bodice with perspiration. I wanted to be on my way home and on my way out of my clothes.

When I stood, the Murder released a series of guttural caws, flexing wings as sharp stretched talons scared the lawn.

"Mr. Somners, I don’t mean to be rude," was all I managed to say for that’s when a crow swooped from behind and snatched Liam’s wool cap.

Feathers brushed my cheek.

The crows transformed from dumbstruck creatures into black beasts, their beaks, and claws eager for carnage, single-mindedly fixated with bloodthirsty ambition.

Mr. Somners rose from the bench, wielding his Blackthorn in a wide arc.

I ran towards the gatehouse. The door pushed open easily. I turned towards Mr. Somners to call him to safety.

Mr. Somners’ walking stick smacked and jabbed the attacking creatures with a lack of reserve. With each contact of Blackthorn and bird, I involuntarily winced.

As I shouted to Mr. Somners, he turned towards me and our eyes connected. Ribbons of blood oozed from the gashes those claws made on his face. Birds kept soaring in and attacking. His hair turned pink. A strip of flesh hung from his jowl where a razor claw grazed his cheek. As we made eye contact, his right hand clutched his chest, the veins in his neck thickened, and his whole body quivered. Ol’ Liam Somners’ face turned scarlet as his eyes rolled to white. His knees buckled, and he collapsed on the ground.

The crows swirled into a single mass of inky black. The screeching ended, yet there was still a lone soldier cawing out the final command.

I slipped into the gatehouse to settle my nerves and collect my thoughts. I was burning from the inside out. If there had been ice nearby, I’m sure it would have melted. I slipped a finger between my neck and collar, careless about the buttons, and yanked. That small breath of cold air felt heavy against my skin.

I peered through the crack between door and frame, working the buttons on my bodice. A large crow stood on Liam Somners’ chest. The old man—his face a bloody mess of shredded flesh, his features indistinguishable and raw—was hardly breathing.

In defiance, the crow turned towards the gatehouse. His hideous caw chilled my spine. He ruffled his feathers and puffed his breast, and, eye to eye, we consider each other across the distance. He stuck his beak into Mr. Somners’ eye, and with a mighty tug, plucked it from the socket. Then, with a quick and violent twist of his head, the bird flung the orb with such force, that it smashed against the gatehouse door before I knew what had happened.

Then I heard again that shrill, unearthly caw, inciting the horde into a frenzy to finish their murderous deed. Mr. Somners disappeared beneath a writhing mass of iridescent, carnivorous creatures vying for flesh and blood.

I watched the gory feast until I could watch no longer. My eyes felt heavy, and the dark gatehouse that once held witches waiting for execution began to soften and slump around me. Darkness encroached, and I felt my legs give away.

* * *

CUTTING FROM The Dailygraph, 8 August (pasted in Jonathan Harker’s journal)

BACCHANALIA AT GRIMSTHORPE.

The annual Lammas celebration at Grimsthorpe Castle has been the largest gathering of the aristocracy during this summer’s glittering party season.

This year’s abundance of polished and sparkling motorcars outnumbered the usual flotilla of horse and carriage, which, to some of the elder collective, is still the preferred means of traveling. The increase of conspicuous consumption could clearly be seen in the dominant mode of transportation with Rolls-Royce Limited’s Silver Ghost setting a precedent in beauty and elegance.

Royals, Royals everywhere and not a drop to drink.

Certainly, if The Dailygraph were to continue listing the titled, there wouldn’t be any room for other, perhaps more important news for at least a week.

Always an extravagantly costumed affair, this year’s theme embraced the rites of prosperity, generosity, and fruitfulness with gorgeous, sumptuously gilded, rhinestone-encrusted confections that certainly reflected the prosperity and fruitfulness of the titled set. Generosity, however, remains a fleeting mistress when it comes to the Manor born. As Lord Dittisham, also in attendance, and who had been so famously quoted during last winter’s tenant debacle on the Dittisham estate, said, "It’s not what I do with my money, but what I say I do with my money that’s important." A prevailing attitude some would say, or a mantra destined to be embellished on an aristocratic needlepoint pillow.

Many of the extravagantly handmade costume confections were imported from specialty shops catering to such frivolities located in Paris, Venice, and Vienna. Never have the colors orange, yellow, brown, and green in all their shades and hues glittered, glimmered or sparkled as in the frothy incarnations of the various God of Grains, Jack Barleycorns, Demeters, and Ceres; the personifications preferred by the elder set.

The "by invitation only" celebration slowly progressed from "playful afternoon, early evening revelry" into a Saturday to Tuesday Bacchanalia of glorious debauchery with drunken nobles prancing and slurring bawdy songs while engaging in wanton acts of shame.

It is shocking to note, especially with the gap between class distinctions in the Empire becoming such a massive chasm that the cost of a simple party frock would pay the salary of 1 Butler, or 4 Footmen, or 8 Maids (3 House, 5 Scullery) for a full year’s employment. With a guest list of hundreds, this blatant squandering becomes as obscene as the drunken revelers themselves.


Next Chapter: CHAPTER II