Old Friends

An old man, incredibly old and maybe no longer a man, but a vigorous man, if such he were, for all of the centuries. He walked the halls of his grand palace and reveled in melancholy, a growing affliction of his spirit.

Castle Dracula was a huge edifice—the North Wing alone extended three quarters of a mile out from the Grand Hall and stood eight stories high by a hundred yards wide. A maze of ballrooms, terraces, stairways, galleries and alcoves, baroque details, stone carvings and elaborate woodwork created an intricate texture of niches and recesses; vaulted ceilings, archways and colonnades pulled the eyes to long distances and deep dark spaces. Automated lighting accented viewlines and cast dramatic shadows, turning on at his approach and blinking out as soon as he passed. It was a long walk, he could have made the journey much more quickly by riding the sliding floors and elevators in the parallel, efficient network of service corridors. But he wanted to think and he felt like indulging the luxury of newly precious time—with only a few hours left to a thousand years of existence, spending twenty extra minutes traversing the palace felt sweet and decadent. And, if truth were told, he was more than a little apprehensive of his mission.

At last he descended the final narrow stairway—below the wine cellars—and came to the heavy iron doors leading to the dungeons. This had once been an important center of his existence but his days of pleasure in tormenting his enemies were long in the past. He took a large ring of keys from his pocket and began trying the different ones in the lock, finally finding a fit with the seventh key. It took him some minutes to open a doorway that had once stood wide, guarded full-time by twenty heavily armed professional sadists. The lock was sticky and he struggled to turn the key, fearing it would break off. Hinges groaned rustily as he pulled the half-ton valves open. The lights from here on were no longer automated and he had to locate the master panel in the dungeon control room. In fact he needed no lights to find his way but he was accustomed in recent ages to operating under custom spectrum lighting to maintain the tone and texture of his skin, and so, not remembering which circuits would be needed, he switched on the lights all throughout the prison.

It was yet a further long walk upon a clattering metal stairway that spiraled downwards for six levels. There was a landing at each level and he had to unlock a barred door at both ends of every landing. Each door had a separate key and he fidgeted impatiently at the succession of locks and keys, resisting an impulse to smash through the doors and rip them from the jambs, not wishing to vandalize his own castle—not yet.

There was one final door at the bottom of the stairs and past that a long corridor with no lights. At the dark end he came to a simple unlocked wooden door that led to five descending stone steps. He was in a crypt, hidden lights filled the room with a warm, reverential glow. At the center of the space was a single granite sarcophagus, a plain coffin unadorned except for a simple cross carved into the top surface of the lid.

Count Dracula regarded the symbol of his ancient foes for a moment, briefly indulging bittersweet memories before bending to the task of lifting the lid and setting it aside. Inside the coffin was the desiccated mummy of a man, intact but brittle as a twig. The coffin itself was of the finest appointment—velvet lined and with a silk pillow beneath the corpse’s head. The mummy wore a dark gray woolen suit and a white silk shirt.

The Count leaned over and undid the buttons on the mummy’s shirt exposing the leathery brown torso. He had a bottle of orange fluid with him and he opened it up, poured a few drops onto the corpse’s lips, then poured a little more onto the torso. He massaged the fluid into the body—the skin was so dry that the liquid was absorbed in seconds. He poured out a little more and continued rubbing it into the chest and abdomen.

He felt the skin softening under his fingers and worked more fluid into the mummy, dripping a little more onto the lips which absorbed them and parted slightly, swelling. He bent over, gave the mouth a gentle kiss and blew a slight breath into the body, then he let a few more drops of the fluid into the opened lips. He poured some onto the sunken eyes and turned to working more into the chest, concentrating on getting the fluid deep into the heart. His touch was loving, a caress for a dear friend newly returned from a long absence.

          The skin of the mummy’s chest had become supple and Dracula moved to work on the face again. A few more drops into the lips, more on the eyes and now he began working the thin orange fluid into the forehead. The corpse began to breathe, first with a gentle sigh and then a succession of slow shallow breaths that barely stirred the man’s breast.

          The Count stopped massaging the brow, from here on the revival process took care of itself, he had merely to wait, and it wouldn’t be long. Indeed, it was only a moment before the man’s eyes fluttered open and he tried to raise his head, but his neck only flailed weakly. Dracula lifted the head and brought the bottle of fluid to its lips. The man took several gulping sips and backed away from it.

          “Dr. Van Helsing,” Dracula said. “Welcome back to the world. It is good to see you again. Believe it or not, but I have missed you.” He spoke in German, but with a strange accent and a stiff manner as from lack of practice.

          “Am I to be tortured again? Don’t you ever tire of cruelty?” His voice was a tired scratchy whisper, breathless and barely audible.

          “I did in fact grow tired of it—long ago, now. And you have been allowed to sleep for many ages.”

          Van Helsing was struggling to sit up but his strength failed him. Dracula offered a hand. Reluctantly, Van Helsing took it and pulled himself upright. “So why have you brought me back?”

          “I have come to offer you release.”

          “And how could you possibly release me?”

          “The same way you once attempted to release me. Or if you wish, you may simply go free. Allow me to explain myself, then make a choice. You must be hungry, come with me to my kitchen and let me feed you. It is simple vegetarian fare and I think you will find it quite wholesome.”

          Dr. Van Helsing stared incredulously at the Count.

          “There is much in the world that has changed, I will make all clear. Let me assist you from your coffin.” The Count bent over and worked his arms under Van Helsing’s body then lifted him from his resting place, setting him upon his feet and keeping gentle hands on his shoulders to steady him until he felt his balance.

          Once Van Helsing was able to hold his feet Dracula gave him the bottle of fluid. He drank lustily and would have drained it had not the Count restrained him.

Dracula pocketed the bottle in his cloak then took Dr. Van Helsing’s arm and led him carefully up the steps and out the hall to the metal stairs. The Count had left all of the doors open but it was still a daunting struggle to guide his weak companion up the six flights. He paused at the fourth landing and gave his companion the remainder of the orange fluid.

          They came out of the dungeon’s entrance and Dracula turned to an elevator, leading Van Helsing into the wood and brass cage and pressing the button for the topmost floor. They came out into a service passage, straight, white, efficient and antiseptic as a hospital corridor. The Count said, “You must be very careful here, the floor ahead will start to move when we step on it—I don’t want you to stumble.”

          “How can the floor move?”

          “You are the man of science—I wish you could explain it to me. Suffice that it is a mechanism that you have never encountered before and do, please, step with caution.”

          Even so warned, when the floor began to slide under his feet Dr. Van Helsing could not resist his reflexes and jumped backwards, landing on his rump.

          The Count could scarcely suppress his mirth. “Are you hurt?” He extended a helping hand.

          Van Helsing took the assistance. “Thank you, I’m fine.”

          “Shall we try it again?”

          “Of course.”

          This time, and with Dracula’s assuring hand on his shoulder, Dr. Van Helsing stayed on the moving floor. The sliding central strip was fast and it was only a couple of minutes before they came to the far end.

          Dracula used the time to talk to his companion. “By the old Gregorian calendar the year would be reckoned as 2459—I think—this is not the planet Earth we are on but a world many light years distant and computing the relative time factor is difficult. The last time I had you awake was around 2367—but you wouldn’t have been aware of time then—not after the centuries of torture you endured. I do not know how I can even begin to apologize for the horrible treatment I subjected you to. I can only say that I was quite mad then—the blood lust and hatred boiled in my veins—but that is no excuse. I knew, even than, that I owed you a debt, for our encounter introduced me to the perils and promises of the world of science.”

            There is more to the story, tune in again soon...