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Authors: Barbara Hambly
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struggling men, that the madman would hurl them all aside and disappear into the night.
Renfield bellowed and cursed, then screamed like an animal as Langmore twisted his arm, but Seward
thought the madman would have gone on struggling, letting the attendant break his bones, had not Hardy
struck Renfield a stunning blow on the head. The big man sank to his knees; Langmore whipped forward
the arm he held, and Simmons jammed it, and the other, into the sleeves of the strait-jacket they’d
brought.
Whatever momentary fears Seward felt about that blow dis-solved on the way back to Rushbrook
House. Renfield kicked, thrashed, howled like an animal until he was gagged; twisted like a man in the
throes of convulsions. At one point Seward feared that the lunatic would manage to tear himself free of
the strait-jacket, and when they got him into the house-with all the other patients setting up a cacophony
in sympathy like the howling of the damned in Hell-ordered extra bindings strapped around him before he
was chained to the wall of the padded room.
When Seward returned to his own bedroom, he was shaken to the bones: Dear God, and I once
harbored the delusion that I could bring Lucy to live with me in this place?
He sank down onto the bed, trembling. The transformation of a man whom he’d thought of as basically
harmless, to other human beings if not to himself or to any fly or bird that came within his reach, brought
home to him what his old teacher Van Helsing had said to him once: “We are the guardians of the frontier
of darkness, my friend. And that means that for the most part, we must stand our watches alone.”
Ah, Lucy, he thought despairingly, you deserve better than this-better than the danger
you would be in, living here with me, no matter what I could do to protect you. I
underestimated the dangers of that dark frontier: I will not do so again.
In the east-facing windows of his room, past the irregular darkness of Carfax’s broken roof-line, the
summer sky was al-ready staining with first light. Through the walls of his room Seward could hear his
patients howling. And above their cries, a powerful voice bellowed like that of a Titan in chains:
“I shall be patient, Master! It is coming-coming-coming!”
Seward injected himself with chloral hydrate and passed out without even removing his clothes.
***
Letter , R. M. Renfield to his wife
Undated (late August?)
My beloved,
I beg your forgiveness for not having written. I was unavoid-ably prevented, by the stupidity and, I
fear, downright malice of the men with whom I am forced to work in this place. Nothing but the most
urgent consideration would have kept my pen from paper, would have silenced the words of love that
every day dwell in my heart.
Tell our Vixie that her papa loves her, and will be with her again by-and-by.
Your own,
R.M.R.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hanging in chains on the wall of the padded cell, Renfield dreamed.
For three days he hung there, raving and sobbing at what he saw, at what he knew was happening,
would happen. They gave him laudanum to quiet him, forcing it down his throat when he twisted his head
aside in a vain effort to refuse further dreams.
Don’t send me back there! he wanted to scream at them. He is hunting her, stalking her as a
hunter stalks a doe! Waiting for her to come.
But these words he dared not say aloud, for Catherine’s sake, for Vixie’s and his own.
Wotan was near. Wotan was present, was there, not just in England but less than half a mile distant,
lying open-eyed in his coffin in the crumbling chapel of Carfax, blood-stained hands folded on his breast.
Waiting.
Peace came with nightfall and moonrise, for in those hours Wotan’s mind was elsewhere, occupied with
the business that men occupied themselves with during the day. The sense of re-lease, of relief, was
nearly unbearable. Renfield would lie on the floor of the padded cell each night when at Seward’s orders
he was released
Renfield bellowed and cursed, then screamed like an animal as Langmore twisted his arm, but Seward
thought the madman would have gone on struggling, letting the attendant break his bones, had not Hardy
struck Renfield a stunning blow on the head. The big man sank to his knees; Langmore whipped forward
the arm he held, and Simmons jammed it, and the other, into the sleeves of the strait-jacket they’d
brought.
Whatever momentary fears Seward felt about that blow dis-solved on the way back to Rushbrook
House. Renfield kicked, thrashed, howled like an animal until he was gagged; twisted like a man in the
throes of convulsions. At one point Seward feared that the lunatic would manage to tear himself free of
the strait-jacket, and when they got him into the house-with all the other patients setting up a cacophony
in sympathy like the howling of the damned in Hell-ordered extra bindings strapped around him before he
was chained to the wall of the padded room.
When Seward returned to his own bedroom, he was shaken to the bones: Dear God, and I once
harbored the delusion that I could bring Lucy to live with me in this place?
He sank down onto the bed, trembling. The transformation of a man whom he’d thought of as basically
harmless, to other human beings if not to himself or to any fly or bird that came within his reach, brought
home to him what his old teacher Van Helsing had said to him once: “We are the guardians of the frontier
of darkness, my friend. And that means that for the most part, we must stand our watches alone.”
Ah, Lucy, he thought despairingly, you deserve better than this-better than the danger
you would be in, living here with me, no matter what I could do to protect you. I
underestimated the dangers of that dark frontier: I will not do so again.
In the east-facing windows of his room, past the irregular darkness of Carfax’s broken roof-line, the
summer sky was al-ready staining with first light. Through the walls of his room Seward could hear his
patients howling. And above their cries, a powerful voice bellowed like that of a Titan in chains:
“I shall be patient, Master! It is coming-coming-coming!”
Seward injected himself with chloral hydrate and passed out without even removing his clothes.
***
Letter , R. M. Renfield to his wife
Undated (late August?)
My beloved,
I beg your forgiveness for not having written. I was unavoid-ably prevented, by the stupidity and, I
fear, downright malice of the men with whom I am forced to work in this place. Nothing but the most
urgent consideration would have kept my pen from paper, would have silenced the words of love that
every day dwell in my heart.
Tell our Vixie that her papa loves her, and will be with her again by-and-by.
Your own,
R.M.R.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hanging in chains on the wall of the padded cell, Renfield dreamed.
For three days he hung there, raving and sobbing at what he saw, at what he knew was happening,
would happen. They gave him laudanum to quiet him, forcing it down his throat when he twisted his head
aside in a vain effort to refuse further dreams.
Don’t send me back there! he wanted to scream at them. He is hunting her, stalking her as a
hunter stalks a doe! Waiting for her to come.
But these words he dared not say aloud, for Catherine’s sake, for Vixie’s and his own.
Wotan was near. Wotan was present, was there, not just in England but less than half a mile distant,
lying open-eyed in his coffin in the crumbling chapel of Carfax, blood-stained hands folded on his breast.
Waiting.
Peace came with nightfall and moonrise, for in those hours Wotan’s mind was elsewhere, occupied with
the business that men occupied themselves with during the day. The sense of re-lease, of relief, was
nearly unbearable. Renfield would lie on the floor of the padded cell each night when at Seward’s orders
he was released
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