The Dark Missions of Edgar Brim Page 18

  “You are a master in this role,” Stoker says to him, lighting upon the stage as the scene ends. He gives Ellen Terry a wink. She smiles at him like a sister and offers Irving a different sort of look. Oh, that she would ever glow at him like that! He has Irving’s dressing gown in hand, had been holding it ready in the seats, and drops it gently over Irving’s shoulders. But the chief is barely paying attention.

  “Yes, yes, Stoker. I am going to my rooms and don’t want to be disturbed. Not even by Miss Terry. Please inform my lady, my good man.” His face is drawn and white. It is angular, the chin long, the forehead high and sloping. He isn’t really handsome, but there is something about him, something indeed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stoker had hoped to ask his boss about his novel. He wonders if the master has read it by now. He had deposited a copy on Irving’s dressing table, its lurid yellow cover and blood-red title looking perfect in the gaslight. It is his greatest work. He knows that like he knows he is living and breathing. He imagines them having a cigar and brandy in the wood-paneled Beefsteak Room and discussing it, Irving heaping it with praise, or talking it up during one of the dinners he convenes on the stage, attended by the glittering stars of London. There haven’t been many of those lately.

  “I don’t dare even open your new book, Uncle Bram,” says Ellen, approaching him. She likes to call him pet names. Her beautiful oval face and the gray eyes that entrance every man who sees them, smile at him. London has been at this woman’s feet since she was a girl. Audiences sigh when she enters. Her voice is sweet and slightly husky.

  Stoker shakes himself out of his reverie.

  “Why ever not, dear one?”

  “They say it is terrifying.”

  “It is my best.”

  “You say that with some conviction, not like you, uncle. But I’ve heard talk of it in my circles.” She caresses his arm. “I am proud of you.” Ellen is notorious—she flirts with everyone and they flirt back.

  “I spent years on it.”

  “Not like you either.”

  “Yes, I am a hack, but I wasn’t with this. It consumed me. Some sort of spirit ate me up.” He stares off.

  “Uncle?” she asks. “Are you in there somewhere?”

  “Sorry, just thinking. I must run. I need to speak with him.”

  “Why don’t you and I meet for a drink instead?”

  It is a tempting proposition. But he knows she will only talk of Irving.

  “He is a strange man,” says Stoker, turning toward the floor Sir Henry had walked upon when he headed for his dressing room.

  “Devilishly strange,” says Terry with a smile. “He said not to disturb him. Are you sure you want to?” Long ago, Irving’s wife had made a nasty comment about one of his performances and he had instantly left their carriage and walked out into the night and hadn’t spoken to her or been near her since: a stretch of some twenty-six years.

  “I shall take my life into my hands.”

  Irving, it seems to Stoker, has been growing even stranger and more disturbing lately. They had met long ago in Dublin when Bram was a theater critic. Irving had awed him. And lo and behold, the great man had liked him too. So much has happened since then. Stoker thinks of the chief’s many riveting roles—his blood-soaked Macbeth while the Ripper stalked London, his unusual Hamlet, his shocking Shylock, his Beckett and King Arthur. He thinks of his knighting by the queen. An actor! Irving had said he would be the first and he was.

  But Stoker also thinks of his master’s sinister ways: their days in northern Scotland on the moors as he became Macbeth before his eyes; their visits to the dead houses in Paris to see corpses, Irving grinning at them, learning for his art; their days on ships across the Atlantic when he won over America, standing on the deck in twenty-foot rolling waves, his arms crossed over his chest, smiling at God or the devil to have their way. Stoker thinks too of the conversations he has heard coming from Irving’s dressing room … when the master was alone in there. Sir Henry could encounter someone for just a few minutes and then become him. That had to be what it was—he was speaking to himself in there, taking on other voices for conversation. But Stoker had heard one voice over and over again—an old man, and foreign.

  Stoker had used the master in his novel. Irving was the villain. He wouldn’t apologize for that. It just made sense. When he had first gone up to Cruden Bay on the Scottish coast three years ago to write it, the waves coming off the coast like cannonball shots, spooky Slains Castle nearby, a supernatural undead man had come to him like a dream, a nightmare, and he had begun to put a story down as if it had been handed to him by Satan. When he saw Irving’s face in that character, the story deepened. Inventing that terrifying world had been an almost erotic experience. It was art—he was sure of it. He, Bram Stoker, had conjured up art! It was of the sort the master created on stage. It had seemed real to him. It told a truth about life, though he wasn’t even sure what it was. He had written as if mesmerized, as entranced as when he watched Irving perform.

  Stoker walks along the corridor behind the stage at the Royal Lyceum: his Lyceum and his master’s. He needs to see him. As he approaches, he hears voices: Irving apparently conversing again, speaking with the old, foreign man. The character sounds alive!

  Back on the moors, Edgar Brim plucks the novel out of his jacket pocket and enters its pages, in order to steel himself for what he must face. In the book, he is the hero again, home with his wife, traumatized by his terrifying experience in the eastern European castle. His wife’s beautiful friend has died and the circumstances scare them. An old professor helps them investigate and develops a frightening theory. Now something is preying on the hero’s own wife as she sleeps. She is fading and growing paler. One night, Edgar encounters someone in their bedroom, bent over his wife. There is blood on both of them. It is the freakish man from the castle in eastern Europe!

  Edgar can’t take any more. It is so vivid. But at least it is fantasy, while what is outside their door at the college is real. His nightmares have come to life.

  A strange thought arises. What if the thing that is after them is like the creature in the book? But that is nonsense. Do not be afraid, he reminds himself.

  Driver should be back from his trips to the train station by now, long since back.

  “One of us should go into the hallway,” says Lear. “We need to see if it is there or outside. We need to know what it is doing.”

  Jonathan and Tiger step forward.

  “It should be me,” says Lear.

  “Grandfather, no,” says Lucy.

  “I’ll do it.” Edgar Brim walks up to the door.

  “I think it is best that I—” begins Tiger.

  “Professor Lear has made it clear,” counters Edgar, “that this beast wants him and me more than any of you. It makes the most sense that I go. If it sees me perhaps it will do something rash and you all can act.”

  “All right,” says Lear, “pull back the desk.”

  Lucy gives Edgar a longing look; Tiger walks away. But Edgar is focused on his task as they move the desk. Jonathan hands him his pistol and claps him on the back. The door creaks as Edgar opens it a crack. He puts his face close and searches the hallway.

  “It doesn’t seem like there’s anyone about.” Before the others can say anything else, he swings the door wide, darts out and closes it behind him. He hears the bolt snap back into place.

  He stands still with all senses alert. Soon, he hears the winds blowing across the treeless grounds making the building creak here and there. It is still afternoon and the light is coming through the windows at either end of the hall. Thinking their enemy may approach from behind, he moves cautiously over to the big window at the back and looks down over the grounds. There are the playing fields where he had so many confrontations with Fardle, where Tiger was undressed; there is the graveyard, the ancient black stones sticking up, little Newman’s grave toward the rear. It appears deserted.

  Edgar turns and wa
lks up the hall to the front window. He sees the stable near the gate on the lawn—Driver’s domain, where he lives with the horse William Wilson. The sun will begin to set in an hour. He stays off to the side watching for a while. Nothing. Where is the creature?

  He stands before the center of the window, easy to spot from the outside. Draw him out, wherever he is, Edgar thinks. Something is moving now in the bleak distance, coming toward the college at a steady pace. Edgar squints. Driver is just now returning from his last trip over the moors! Edgar examines him as he comes nearer: slim like a skeleton, his face, as usual, barely visible in his dirty red hood, the reins of his black horse held in his left hand. Edgar remembers the rumors about this man, this creature … found out on the moors, speechless and deaf. Found.

  “Oh, my God,” whispers Edgar. He shivers. Do not be afraid, he tells himself. He turns and walks forthrightly down the hall to the lab door and knocks. He hears the bolt being pulled back and enters.

  “It’s here,” he says. Jonathan locks the door again, shoving the bolt back into place. “It’s on the front grounds.” No one speaks again for a while.

  “I really wonder,” says Lear finally, “what it can do.” He puts his hand on the barrel of the cannon. “What if this can’t kill it?”

  Yes, thinks Edgar, what if the creature is almost unkillable, just like the one in his book? How did the man who wrote it conjure up such a monster? Did he have a model for it? Did he see it?

  Bram Stoker is in the hallway behind the stage of the Lyceum Theatre in London at that very moment, pushing himself to stride right up to Irving’s dressing room and knock on the door. He needs to confront him about the novel. Has he read any of it?

  Stoker dares not stand too close to the door. Were he to put his ear to it and Irving were to find him there he would never forgive himself. The chief is not a violent man, but he is sometimes given to violent words, and one does not want his disapproval.

  Stoker hears the sound of the other man’s voice again, speaking in hushed tones to Sir Henry, his accent foreign, eastern European. Stoker smiles. Irving is known for being absolutely dedicated to his art. At age fifty-nine, knighted and renowned, he still practices in his dressing room. Stoker can only make out a few words. The two voices seem to be speaking of history, mesmerism and art.

  Stoker knocks gently. The voices stop.

  “Who is there?” asks Irving.

  “Stoker, sir.”

  “Give me a minute, my good man.” But it is more than that before the door swings open. In it stands Sir Henry, a little makeup on his face: his brows darkened and his lips glossy red. “What do you want?”

  “Might I come in?”

  Irving hesitates. “All right, but not for long.”

  This sort of attitude makes Stoker sad. Gone are the days when they stayed up all night talking. He enters the room and glances around. It is dim, just the gaslights around the dressing table and mirror glowing. Irving still paints his face with watercolors, not greasepaint, producing an eerie look. The great man stands near him, declining to sit. The novel is nowhere in sight, though Stoker had left it right on the table.

  “Have you had a chance to read it yet, sir?”

  “Read what?”

  “My novel?”

  “You have another one, do you, Bram? They haven’t done well, have they? Though, I dare say, it is a nice sideline for you.”

  Stoker feels like shouting at him, but controls himself: “This one may do better. It has been published for more than a week or two. I left a copy on your dressing table the day it appeared. You were in the building when we did a reading on the stage to copyright it and I believe you heard some of it peripherally.”

  “I don’t recall. What is it about?”

  “One would term it a sensation novel, rather frightening.”

  “Ah, like Le Fanu or Wilkie Collins or that monstrous Drood thing The Inimitable was working on when he died? Collins was mad, you know. He thought there was two of him. He is known to have held long conversations with himself and feared the other Wilkie.”

  “Like you, sir?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Irving fixes him with a glare. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Well, there is certainly more than one of you.”

  Irving smiles. “I see, quite right.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?” Irving is impatient. He walks to the door and puts a hand on it, as if to begin ushering his assistant out.

  “My novel.”

  “Must be here somewhere.”

  “You may recognize things in it.”

  “Oh?” Irving is trying to stifle a yawn. Stoker notices the painting hanging on the wall just behind him. The master used to have several of his own portraits here: all the artists want to paint him. But now he has just this. Stoker’s favorite paintings are of Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth and one he has just seen this week, inspired by his new novel, both of beautiful women in erotic poses, strong and enticing, yet somehow vulnerable. But he wishes Irving wouldn’t hang the one he has on his wall now. It both draws and disturbs him.

  “You are keeping that picture, sir?”

  Irving turns to it. “Yes. Why do you ask?” He looks a little guilty. He had first placed it here about a decade ago. It depicts Vlad Tepes, the ruler of Wallachia near Transylvania in the Carpathian Mountains in the fifteenth century. The face is frightening, almost sallow, and the smile cruel. The subject was known as Vlad the Impaler. Irving had long since told Stoker the whole story.

  “He was the most brutal ruler the world has ever known,” he had said with a strange smile. “He is a portrait in evil. He impaled his enemies upon stakes, you know. Were you to cross him or were he to simply not feel the best about you, he would spit you upon a stake outside his castle. There are accounts of hundreds of writhing people on his grounds, not just men, but women and children too. It is historical fact. I shall share further details someday, if you like!” He had laughed. “Lovely man!” Irving had leaned closer to Stoker and added: “Someone has informed me that he is a distant relative of mine, maybe a direct forebear. Can you imagine? Perhaps that is where I get my reserves for dark characters, my good fellow. I find it fascinating! One must do what one must for art! When I need inspiration for a little evil, there it is!” He had directed a finger at the portrait and fixed Stoker with an expression that caused him to step back.

  Irving revels in his ability to take his work where other actors are frightened to go. He once played a villain murdering a child while patting a horse.

  “Well, sir, perhaps you might find the time to read the novel soon? I should like to discuss it with you.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Stoker, I shall give it my undivided attention at the first opportunity.” Irving motions for his assistant to leave. As Stoker walks back along the hallway, he hears the two voices again.

  26

  His Father’s Son

  “We must confront this thing. Gather up the guns.” Lear grips Edgar by the arm. “I need a moment with Master Brim before we leave.”

  The two of them step aside.

  “We are facing death today, my boy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have something to tell you. I promised you earlier.” Lear pauses and gathers himself. “About thirty years ago, I had another remarkable student who was as remarkable as Erasmus Scrivener and almost as extraordinary as you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “He was here not long after Scrivener and stayed for just part of a year. His parents wanted to toughen him for the world, but much to their credit, soon saw that this college was too hard on some children. They were good people. The other professors have forgotten this boy, but I have not.” Edgar wonders why he is telling him this at this desperate moment. “As you know, I taught literature in those days. He was an excellent student, imbued with an artistic nature that was unique. I admired him deeply. And so, I told him—” He stopped for a moment.

&nb
sp; “Told him what?” Edgar is beginning to feel anxious.

  “I … I asked him, more than once, if he thought the demons in the stories we studied might be based on something real. I said I had a theory about it. I told him about my paper. I should not have done so.” He is talking faster now, glancing at the door. “It was a dangerous thing!” he says in a raised voice. “You know that, Edgar.” The professor has never used his Christian name. “This sensitive boy, I think he may have believed it. He asked me about it several more times, but thinking better of it, I said no more.” He glances at the door again. “The monster was about, my boy! We know that now. It was here on the moors watching whom I befriended, listening to things I said, and to whom I said it!”

  “Who, sir, was that student?”

  “His name was Allen Brim.”

  Edgar freezes—his father had been in these halls!

  “But the monster didn’t get him, sir. He left the moors healthy. He must have. He met my dear mother. They had me and he raised me. You need not feel badly.”

  “No, I should.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Need I tell you?” Lear seems like he may weep.

  Edgar thinks back to that horrible day at Raven House seven years ago, the day after his father attended the theater to see that Henry Irving play. He remembers waking in the morning to a deathly quiet house. He walked up the stairs from his room to his parents’ where Allen Brim had read those stories that came down through the pipe. He saw his father lying on his mother’s side of the bed, absolutely still, eyes wide open.

  “It was a mysterious death,” whispers Lear.

  My father! Edgar had known it deep down. His heart! “It killed him!” he shouts. Tiger and Jonathan look over.

  Lear lowers his head. “I fear so, my boy. I am sorry.”

  Without warning, the hag grips Edgar Brim and tries to knock him to the floor. He staggers and drops into the chair behind him. She climbs on top of him and presses her legs into his chest, pinning him down. He can’t breathe. He hears his father’s voice. I am with you. Do not be afraid. Edgar has had enough. He swings at her and knocks her flying.