Dracula in London Part 17

Berserker

Nancy Kilpatrick

Here, it is so unlike your homeland. The land where your blood and that of your father and his father before him rusts the soil. Where you can rest untormented, and be at peace.

But this place! Even the brilliance of daylight cannot disguise an obscenity: the parody of life. Around you swells a perpetually flowing, ever-renewing river of unawareness from which you intend to slake your thirst at will. But rampant mindlessness offends you. Do they not deserve your scorn?

Such pathetic trees! Scrawny as the c.o.c.kney children racing by. Feeble roots cling to the island's soil. So bare, as if stripped of life's nourishment. These denizens of the modern have cleared and clipped the bushes as though natural, wild beauty is repugnant.

What a society! What a mockery! Cutting vegetation into the shape of animals! These mortals have too much time on their hands! Time is their enemy, even as it has become your friend.

So this is what you have read of, what the British call "civilization." A "park." You came to this place for several reasons, not the least of which is that you seek refuge, a temporary respite, a few moments where you may recapture for refreshment's sake the comfort of nature's calming familiarity. But it is a sham! An illusion. You have been tricked.

This is not the verdant growth of your homeland. The tight green carpet beneath your feet screams in distress. These short hairs resemble the preposterous mutton-chops stuck to the cheeks of the mortal males surrounding you. They look ridiculous, foolish, and yet these beings have the nerve to call your countrymen barbarians! Madmen! Once you have supped on their blood, and they have tasted your wrath, truly they will come to know what the word "barbarian" means.

"Good day!"

"Good day," you reply to the just-so gentleman in the summer frock coat, accompanied by a timid, plain woman and two frightened children.

He and his family stop, wanting to continue this pointless exchange with a stranger.

"The weather has turned for the better," he remarks.

"England possesses a most fortuitous clime," you comment."Yes," the wife responds nervously, glancing furtively at her husband as though seeking approval for her vocalization.

She is plainer, that is certain, yet she resembles Lucy-fair hair and eyes, arched brows, high cheekbones, long, slim throat...

The man leans upon his ivory-tipped cane, content with his lot in life, the world his oyster, it seems. "I take it you are from Europe." His face smiles, yet you are keenly aware of the distrust beneath this facade. He has encountered a foreigner. One alien. He must a.s.sess you rapidly, fit you neatly to a slot in order to "know" you.

"Indeed," you say, "you are correct. I am Transylvanian."

The woman, eyes dulled by incomprehension, stifles a gasp. The girl child a yawn. The boy his urge to run with the pack of children from the lower cla.s.s, their shirttails flying, short breeches dirty. Children his mother looks on with disapproval.

The man repeats, "Transylvania..." scanning a mental map. You see that he has pegged you. "Eastern European," he now says confidently. "Northeastern Balkans, correct me if I am wrong."

"You are not wrong," you inform him, although the satisfied nod is annoying. He feels he now has you cla.s.sified and can rest. He wears the mask of intelligence laced with safety and certainty. A veil of correctness that hides control. Control born of fear.

Perhaps you should inform him that this meaningless exchange will not a.s.sure that blood remains in his veins. That if you had a mind to bleed him dry like an enormous leech, you would do so, could do so. His destiny rests in your hands.

"James Holbrook," he says, extending a hand. "Barrister-at-law."

You shake his hand, the current custom here, adopted from North America apparently, and revel in the warmth of this mortal's flesh and the throbbing cauldron ablaze beneath that epidermis. These sensations cause you to tremble slightly with antic.i.p.ation. "Count Dracula," you inform him.

His thin eyebrows lift. He is impressed with your station, as he should be, and yet more relieved. Here he is, in the presence of what he deems to be his own cla.s.s, no, a cla.s.s to which he aspires. "My wife Elizabeth," he says informally, adding, "my son John junior, and my daughter Caroline," and he pats the little girl on the top of her head of yellow curls.

Caroline stares up at you with large eyes that provide no challenge, since she is already under the natural spell of childhood.

"It is a pleasure," the wife says, beginning a curtsy, which she curtails because of indecision. She is not quite certain what to do with foreign royalty.

In the distance, a familiar howl, one you recognize. The sound sends a shiver through the woman. She is as one entrapped behind a gla.s.s prison, a prison whose panes you could easily crash through and shatter-"I take it you are a visitor to our England," the man says crisply. "Am I correct?" He asks questions as if they are statements, as though he is in a courtroom, before a judge, arguing a case rather than engaging in a dialogue.

"I am."

"We are very proud of our city of London. And the gardens here. I hope you've been enjoying your stay in our fair land, taking in the sites, the marvels of the modern, civilized world." His hand sweeps with a gesture of ownership, as though he not only possesses but has created all of which he speaks.

You have been on this unfamiliar soil but a short while and yet you far prefer the ruggedness that is your heritage to the cultivated "marvels" he so obviously idolizes. In Transylvania, the harsh beauty reminds you that survival is always a struggle. The environment itself forces a warrior to be alert to danger, rather than lulling him into a torpor which leads to demise. This man is surrounded by a hundred dangers yet has convinced himself he is invincible. Your att.i.tude, the one you were born with, the one you died with, the one you continue to rely on in this existence is in tune with nature- for are not the animals, even the insects, on guard always, alert to predators? That is nature's way. What is wrong with these Englishmen that you can walk among them, speak with them, touch them, and their every sense is dead to danger?

They laugh and talk and ignore you, other than the odd glance or remark focused on your foreignness, which always fosters comments to prove they are superior. They delude themselves with silly thoughts that suggest supremacy. It is their weakness, and will be their downfall.

"Have you been to Piccadilly?" the wife ventures.

You stare into her faded eyes, a bold gesture, and watch as conflicting emotions dance within her- she is trapped by your gaze. Attraction and repulsion vie for position. Paralysis is the outcome.

The man instinctively feels this threat and takes her elbow, which causes her to look away. Her cheeks redden with embarra.s.sment.

"Well then," the man says. "We shall be off. The children want to ride the carousel, you know. And we would hate to impinge."

You feel a twinge of respect for him now. At least he has the sense to recognize peril in one regard.

He tips his hat, and you return the gesture, glancing at him, bowing slightly to his wife, who seems afraid to look at you again, and that causes you to smile. The distracted children are like barely ripe plums, not ready yet for the brandy maker. But the woman...

The family turns by rote at the cue of the man and begins to wander toward the carousel. You watch them stop at the cotton candy vendor. The children receive a cone each of pink sugar fluff. The wife surrept.i.tiously glances back in your direction."Yes, my lovely," you whisper. "I could easily shatter the walls of your prison and you would belong to me as you so long to."

A delicious look of l.u.s.t and dread flickers through her eyes, and she turns away abruptly.

You laugh, drawing stares from the crowd.

So many warm-bloods! Their numbers spiral to infinity, like drops of water in the ocean, stars in the sky. They bask in the sunshine, light which has, over half a millennium, become increasingly abhorrent to you. It would not surprise you if soon you can no longer tolerate these fiery rays and prefer to sequester yourself entirely in the indirect light of the moon. You are so unlike these mortals, who believe the light beneficent. Who have recently created sunlight in small globes of gla.s.s and this, like their other inventions, leads them to believe they are conquering nature. All in an attempt to master death. But it is you who are the Master of Death. And you have done this by adhering to your true essence, something these peasants cannot imagine.

That they should envision themselves greater than nature, that they believe they can control eventualities with their industries, both amazes and amuses you, the latter in a grim way. You survey the skyline of London, blotted with inky smoke from their factories, fumes that choke the air, and you wonder: are they insane?

They cannot breathe. They die of illnesses brought about by their own wicked habits, and yet they place such childish faith in science-even now, they believe they can replace the blood in the veins that you have drained, blood that calls to you as the lark calls to her mate. Oh, these straight-backed fools! The strict and serious men arrayed in silly top hats, the prim parasol-carrying women who believe themselves better than one another, their rosy-cheeked children skipping across the lawns as if they will never age. As if their blood will never cease flowing through their veins... and into yours.

You cannot even pity them. Are they not less worthy of compa.s.sion than these caged animals you approach? The mortals ignore their carnal instincts while you indulge yours.

They are to you as the beasts are to them-inferior. It is your right by virtue of your superiority to take them. They will become your eternal storehouse at which you will sate your hungers.

They call this park the London Zoological Gardens. To either side are structures the living have built to amuse themselves. Such romantic, pastel buildings, with domed roofs and arched wrought iron gates. There! Close up. The electrical carousel, the painted ponies dipping and lifting to the music, in imitation of the horses you once rode into battle. It amazes you that barely more than a decade ago, in your part of the world, a clever inventor generated electrical power for the first time and it is that which drives this frivolous machinery. This is yet one more indication of the inevitable downfall of this century.

At least there are the remnants of nature. The flora, though cultivated, inspires you.

Color splashes the lawns, the flowers still as the dead, their brilliance enhanced to your eyes by the growing darkness as the sky following you becomes overcast.Ahead, an abomination! You are a.s.saulted by sounds and smells. Caged wildlife! A horrifying concept. You see one animal familiar to you. You reach back into your memory where this furry humped spitter emerges from a time long ago when your father offered you and your handsome brother to your mortal enemies, the Turkish Ottomans. He betrayed you to save himself, abandoning you in a foreign land with strange customs and intense cruelties. You learned a lesson well at a vulnerable age, one you have carried with you all of your long existence-none are trustworthy!

A pachyderm from India is chained to a spike. This enormous beast you have read of, have seen sketches of, yet have never before experienced. Dusty grey flesh, pig-like eyes, ears that could be wings, a snout functioning independent of the rest of its body.

And the scent! Sharper than that of the camel. This beast emits a strong mix of the hay it consumes and the natural result of that consumption. It bays, but not like a horse, more like a horn. This giant of a creature even now recognizes you in the crowd, turns towards you, rearing back on legs like tree trunks, then kneels before you...

You pa.s.s by quickly. There are other, stranger sights here, and you have a mission.

Birds of all sizes and colors flutter in the aviary. And the lion, ruler supreme of the jungles of the world, roars in your direction, shaking its mane, bowing, prepared to relinquish his reign to one supreme.

These wild beasts that once roamed free on the earth are now caged in s.p.a.ces far too small for such majestic life. If you were capable of pity, you would pity them. Where h.o.m.o sapiens invade, the extinction of a species follows.

This is the natural extension of Darwin's theory. He is an Englishman, one of their own, and yet you know they have not paid heed to his work. But you have. The origin of the species is linked with natural selection. These feral creatures are doomed. Only the strongest survive, and you know in your heart that you prevail absolute over humanity, even as they rule the beasts.

The animals are fearful. They sense you. Sense the danger. Their muscles lock in terror, their eyes bulge. The felines pace with tension and the airborne take frantic flight. These reactions alone make them superior to the stunned men surrounding them.

Your acute hearing identifies a sound you heard but moments ago, so familiar. It is the reason you have ventured so far into the land of the living on this sun-drenched day. The low panting emanates from the far end of a row of hideous metal cages. He is confined, the area cramped for one of his proud nature. You have command over all animals, including this kindred spirit-he will do your bidding.

The wolf pauses, sensing your approach. He turns to face you. His nostrils flare. He recognizes a species akin to his own, but not of his pack. Indeed, he has no pack, no mate.

Like you, he is far from home soil. He is alone.

"All the way from America, they brought him, they did." The keeper, a fat man with a suit official but too small, looks at you, hoping to impress you with his knowledge."Fearsome beast, ain't he? Tore a man's heart right from his chest in a minute, he did."

"Is that so?" you say calmly.

"Oh, absolutely! That's the wolf for you. They've rid the continent of them a hundred years ago for that very reason. That's why they had to bring this one over the ocean."

The wolf glares at the keeper and growls low in his throat. Clearly he understands the meaning of the human's words. His feral odor becomes sharp to your nostrils, betraying his fury.

The gray wolf of the timberlands stares at you, savvy to your understanding. The glint in his eye tells you that his wild nature has not been tainted by years in captivity.

"Name's Berserker," the keeper interrupts your thoughts. "On account of his being so deranged and all."

"A fitting name," you say, "for clearly he is not predictable."

The wolfs ears p.r.i.c.k in your direction, for he knows you speak of him and to him. He knows you know him deeply. The madness in his eyes is the spark of pa.s.sion that aligns with your own.

Suddenly, the keeper reaches for a wooden pole. He jams it between the bars.

Berserker growls low, and snaps at the wood, his large teeth gouging the birch.

"See what I mean?" the keeper says, jabbing at Berserker again with the pole. The wood slams hard into the animal's furry side, causing him to yelp. Fear and fury claw the airwaves as his savage scent turns sharp with this provocation.

Patience, I tell him. Your revenge will be sweet.

"In Transylvania," you say, distracting the keeper, "such beasts freely roam the forests still."

"That right? Well, this one shoulda been shot long ago. He's a menace, he is."

You survived Europe's encroaching civilization. Planned destruction forced these wondrous animals further back into the wilderness until their numbers became few. You know intimately of their habits, though, for you have spent centuries among them. They are not the werewolves of mythology, nor the killers of legend, but gentle, timid mammals, akin to the dog-indeed, you have kept them as pets on occasion. It is rare they kill anything as large as a man, and then only out of desperation. They nurture their young, travel together for protection, the strongest male with the strongest female, working in tandem to defend the pack and its territory.

The moronic keeper grabs up a slab of raw meat in his fist and slaps it through the bars. Berserker sniffs at the stale flesh, then licks it twice for the blood. He stops, raises his head, and stares at you, the insanity in him the result of incarceration. Soon, you a.s.sure him, you will have fresher flesh, and dine with a lost hunger borne of exertion.Berserker nods. He bows his graceful head slightly, ears pressed back against his skull.

His tail droops between his legs. Now, he haunches down on all fours, watching you, waiting.

"See the way it is?" the keeper says. "Let 'im know you ain't scared. Show 'im who's the master, ain't that right gov'ner?"

"As you say," you tell the stupid man, whose flabby throat you would tear out yourself were there not the crowds still littering the grounds.

Berserker is a n.o.ble brute. He is so much like you, frustrated by his fate. He longs to find purpose again. He longs for the hunt. He longs for revenge on the weak and the stupid, and to bring down the brazen. Given a fair altercation between the two, this keeper would not survive. All three of you know that to be true.

Berserker stares into your eyes, his yellow orbs speckled with hope and despair. You watch the pupils dilate then contract, and again. He bares his teeth, but just once, then you hear the whimper of submission as he bends his head even lower, muzzle resting on the floor of the cage, eyes still fixed on yours.

You laugh in delight, thrilled to find one unbroken here, amidst the tamed.

The keeper jerks his head around to stare at you, askance.

"A storm approaches," you say. "One that will devastate this city of London, and this country, leaving dead and near dead in its wake."

The keeper's small eyes turn fearful. He follows your gaze to the blackened sky.

Lightning cuts through the darkness, diving toward the ground near his feet, startling him.

Thunder rocks the earth you stand on.

The mortals scurry for cover. The keeper turns to run, crying after him, "Best to find safety!" and then he is gone.

Every animal in this evil zoological garden responds to the elements. The pungency of their scents clog the air as the storm rampages towards you. You hear them screech and roar in terror and hope. The finches in the aviary fly hysterically, like bats. The larger animals pace and stomp, trembling. Berserker twitches, on his feet now; you have captured his soul. He and the storm become aligned in agitation. You see the ruthlessness in him and it cheers you.

These animals have more sense than the men fleeing for cover. They know where danger lies, and where it does not. The mortals have much to learn from what they deem inferior life-forms. But they are prideful, willful. And alienated. These traits spell their doom.

"We will stake our claim to their thin blood!" you cry, and Berserker throws back his head and howls in tandem.

Your laughter equals the explosion of thunder. Oh, how the dark rage buries the blinding sunlight! Berserker paces, races back and forth in his prison, excited, eager forfreedom. His wild eyes are alive, brilliant with awareness of your authority. The earth trembles as if in awe, sensing he will do your bidding.

In the century in which you were born, the French deemed what lay above as the macrocosm, the greater world or universe, reflected here on this tiny earth as the microcosm. You are in touch with this reality that equates the inner with the outer, the small and insignificant with the grand and incomprehensible. It is the source of your strength and to draw from it is your right.

You contemplate the earth itself, so abundant with the flicker of warm-blooded creatures. Their metallic scent seeps through their wet pores, wafting along humid air in a tantalizing manner- the scent of steaming blood! In the blackness that has descended, you see them here and there, glittering stars with the added dimension of being aromatic.

You have always acknowledged nature. Respected her. You know you are her equal.

Nature is, perhaps, all you respect, for you believe only in the natural order. You are the culmination of Darwin's evolution. The one who has evolved over time to become the most advanced life-form on the planet. You are master of this terran universe. The English naturalist would have been thrilled to meet you.

These mortals would declare that such notions disease the mind, although you do not permit dis-ease to infiltrate your crystal awareness. Berserker is a worthy a.s.sistant because beyond all else, he is like you: adaptable and cunning, dominant traits imbedded in your genes as Herr Mendel discovered when he played with peas. Dominant traits which are the foundation of potency and preeminence!

The storm crashes around you, drawn to you, for you are the source of division.

Berserker leaps at the bars that confine him, as if crying "Death or Freedom!"

Over 400 years of existence have developed your organic talents. You will adapt to England. But England will never adapt to you. You will infect these bleeders as the Frenchman Pasteur predicted. You will spread through the population like a germ, a plague darker than black, leaving them helpless, unable to resist. Imprisoning them in their own weakness.