In our next Gutteral scream,
John Ryan sinks his teeth into a classic.
John Ryan sinks his teeth into a classic.
Dracula and Johnny by John Ryan
“Did
you know my family is quite adept at viniculture?” the Count asked.
“Viniculture?
I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” Harker confessed from
the other end of the table.
The
Count smiled broadly and leaned towards the candlelight, his
beautiful teeth gleaming in even rows. He stuck his tongue between
them playfully. “I refer, of course, to the cultivation of grapes
for making wine,” he said. It took some effort to pronounce the w.
“Ohhh,
winemaking. Yeah, that’s great!” enthused Harker. “Can we have
some?” He had only drunk an ouzo-like spirit since arriving.
Disoriented by the train and carriage rides, the damp duskiness of
the castle’s interior, the Count’s creepily stuffy manner, and
now the effects of the high-octane drink, he failed at niceties.
“But
of course,” the Count rejoined. “Renfield!”
Harker
heard the chiming of a bell. However, from the other end of the long
mahogany table, he could not clearly see the Count’s hands. Were
they still flat upon the table?
“Yes,
master.” The obsequious servant's voice came in through a
wall-mounted megaphone.
“Some
wine for my guest and myself,” the Count commanded.
“Right
away, master,” Renfield croaked. The residual echo of his voice
died over the table.
Harker
was conscious of the great distance between himself and his host.
“Yes,
the Dragool Family have long inhabited this region, Mr. Harker.”
Harker
started. The Count’s lips had not appeared to move, but Harker
clearly heard his voice in his ears.
“I’m
sorry, but—did you just say—?”
“Oh,
yes, many centuries. Our red wines are, perhaps, the finest on this
side of the Transylvanian Alps. But, ah, we enjoy such limited
distribution. I would dare to say no one west of Budapest has quaffed
a glass of one of our varietals and lived to tell about it. Ha-ha! I
am speaking hyperbolically, of course.”
Harker
felt the Count studying his face and looked away nervously.
“Our
country is exquisitely beautiful, is it not?”
Harker
found himself nodding, even though the smeared window of the train
car had revealed nothing. The darkness of the countryside was
complete.
“You
passed many times over the River Olt but did not see it on your way
to the castle. It is like a giant’s slowly unwinding tunic
fluttering down off the tops of his shoulders, spreading over his
toes to tangle in the valleys below. My castle overlooks those
valleys. And I assure you,” the Count said, leaning in again, “that
the giant does not sleep at night.”
Harker
missed the meaning, his thirst getting the better of him. Loosening
his shirt collar, he undid his ascot and let the ends lie alongside
the opening, exposing a bit of neck. The Count’s eyes gleamed in
the candlelight.
“Tomorrow—if
you are so able—I will show you the grape terraces carved on the
southern bank of the river. Deep down in the ground are reserves of
oil and coal. Perhaps they are what impart the pungent acidity that
is the unique feature of our wines, the terroir.” He
pronounced the word like terror and waited for effect, but
none settled on Harker. The Count frowned. “Ah. As well, our oak
casks lie deep under the castle in natural caves. Nothing but the
wine. And the bats, of course.”
A
sudden stirring of the darkness behind the Count arrested Harker’s
attention. It might have been the mention of bats, but he could swear
that Renfield simply materialized there.
“The
wine, master,” Renfield said, decidedly corporeal beside the host.
He held two goblets in his hands, poised to give one to the Count.
“Please,
Renfield, serve our guest first.”
“Yes,
master.” Renfield shuffled down the length of the immense table.
Harker could hear only the servant’s labored breathing. Finally, he
reached Harker and, nearing exhaustion, announced, “Your…wine….
Sir.”
“Thank
you,” said Harker, waiting until the loathsome servant had resumed
his arduous journey back to the Count before picking up the goblet.
It was heavy, and the deep crimson liquid inside had legs, as they
say. Harker had seen less viscous oil in his time.
“To
your longevity,” said the Count, raising his own goblet, his eyes
catching a mischievous sparkle from the candlelight.
Harker
wasted no time in draining half his cup.
The
Count waited to sip from his own, savoring the sumptuous undulations
of Harker’s Adam’s apple and imagining the vital throb of blood
through his carotid artery. At last, he brought his goblet up, just
as Harker set his down.
“Wow,
Count, that is some wine. I’ve never had anything like it!”
Pleased,
the Count smiled. Then, as the liquid in his cup touched his lips, he
froze.
Oh,
no.
No,
that cannot be.
This
cup has…wine?
Renfield!
“Renfield!”
the Count bellowed.
“Master?”
came the meek voice of the lugubrious servant. He materialized at the
Count’s side as Harker gulped from his goblet again.
“Renfield!”
The Count quieted and pulled the servant’s head near his lips. “Did
you make a mistake with the cups?”
“No,
master, I swear!”
“You
lie!”
“Master,
mercy!” the servant quavered.
“Then
what is this?” the Count hissed.
“Wine!”
“Exactly!
Then what does he have?”
Realization
dawned on Renfield. He looked Harker’s way simultaneous with his
master.
Harker
slammed the goblet to the table with a clang. “More, Renfield,
more! Count, this stuff is amazing!”
The
Count released Renfield’s head and patted the top of it instead.
“Renfield, you will please excuse us now?”
“Yes,
master.”
“Good.
I am going to discuss…business with Mr. Harker.”
Jonathan
Harker had unwittingly given Count Dracula a new idea. He had never
prepared a guest with bloodmeal before, but then, why not?
As he clutched a terrified Harker in the air, the vampire plunged his fangs in, savoring the relaxed blood flow, the tang of Harker’s final escaping breaths, the exotic terroir.
As he clutched a terrified Harker in the air, the vampire plunged his fangs in, savoring the relaxed blood flow, the tang of Harker’s final escaping breaths, the exotic terroir.
