II. Logistics and Diplomacy When Evading Rural Mobs

They drive along the dirt path with nary a word spoken between them. Dorian is at the wheel staring right ahead. Penelope fixates on her reflection in the window. Doctor Arthwitte thrums his fingers on the door every few minutes, sometimes coughing or clearing his sinuses. “Well, no use in wasting precious daylight when there’s work to be done.” He fishes in his trouser pocket and retrieves a cylinder of rolled parchment paper.

“I put the alchemy kit in the trunk,” Penelope says without turning.

“Blast your ruthless efficiency,” Doctor Arthwitte grumbles. He beats a paw on the shoulder of Dorian’s chair. “Pull over; I must begin preparation of another spagyric immediately.”

“If you’re going to stink up the car with that mushroom you bought in Paris, then I’m letting down the canopy.”

“A man just died in front of us,” Penelope says. “Are neither of you bothered by that?”

“A harrowing tragedy for which I extend my humblest well wishes and penitence,” Doctor Arthwitte replies. “Death is but a metamorphosis, grief is for those left to carry on.”

“He said something to me before he died. Did either of you hear him?”

Dorian spies a large wooden archway up ahead where the dirt road abruptly ends. The name, “Rukriz’ is carved into the face. A small cluster of homes dot the path past that. Far to the back is a large wooden estate. To the right are expansive fields, most of them gray and fallow.

“We’re here,” he says. “And it looks like we’re expected.”

Below the arch is a gypsy woman with a crooked nose and strange, ethereal agelessness despite multiple veins of white running through her hair. She clutches her shawl with one hand and holds two sticks tied together into a crucifix in the other. Next to her is a menacing bearded giant with a scar over one eye, a spade as beaten and weathered as his face sitting over his shoulder. In front of them is a teenager in naught but tattered linen pants, but perhaps the heavy chains around his wrists are the most questionable aspect of his attire.

Doctor Arthwitte leans in between the two front seats and furrows his brow. “I believe it prudent that the two of you remain in here at this juncture.” He steps out of the Black Beetle, nonchalantly checks his pocket watch, then tips his hat and approaches the villagers.

“Salutations and congratulations, for you stand upon the precipice of epiphany. I am Doctor Edward Mountebanc Arthwitte, certified alchemist with the International Alchemical Alliance, cryptozoological connoisseur, and misunderstood maven magnifique on oddities of an occult orientation. As expected, my associates and I have arrived in the nick of time to solve your vampire problem.”

“Heretic!”

“It appears there has been some misunderstanding. Allow me to reiterate: my name is Doctor Edward Mountebanc Arthwitte, certified alchemist with the International…”

#

“Oh no.”

Dorian winces and doubles over. “I think the frogs are back.” A cold sweat bubbles up on his forehead. He coughs once, then again, then a third time. Then he stops making any noise at all even though his mouth is still open.

“Are you choking?” Penelope asks.

A green amphibious hind leg pops out from between his lips, then tumbles out of Dorian’s mouth and drops onto the floorboard between his shoes. “You’d think it would stop tasting bad eventually.” He wipes his mouth on his pocket kerchief.

Penelope stares at our brother, wide-eyed. “That frog… that’s real?”

“You thought I was making it up?! Why do we have to run around the world chasing banshees and bugbears?” He leans forward and rests his head against the steering wheel. A croak from below signals him to open his door and let the amphibious stowaway free.

“Because I’m his research assistant,” Penelope says, unable to convince even herself. The last sane place for her is rolling across the continents in a rusty, dented jalopy expunging ghosts and hunting cryptids. My sister could study at any prestigious school with our family’s wealth and her aptitude. Despite Penelope’s burgeoning curiosity for the unproven and improbable, there is one singular reason for her choosing this life.

“You know why,” she mutters. Her head sinks. “Doctor Arthwitte is the last one, the last person who saw Olivia before she….”

“No, I know,” Dorian sighs.

Doctor Arthwitte has never revealed the reason I chose to fly over the roiling ice desert because I never revealed it to him. Encoded messages across my carrier pigeon network brought him to me at that little airport in Argentina. I chose him because I needed someone to lead my sister, to shield her, in case I failed. Despite his globetrotting hallucinatory research, my sister tracked him down. When she demanded that the old drunkard help her find me, he chuckled and accepted her as his assistant immediately.

I did not expect for my flight to go down over Antarctica. Had we known what slept in the frozen mountains, I would have revealed everything to her before leaving.

For now, I must atone for my regret as her guardian. Penelope always admired me, but from a young age I could see how she vastly outpaced me in intellect. How powerful she could become. What I bequeathed to her was not so she would remember me, but to set the stage for the day when she would surpass me.

It would seem odd, to the uninitiated, for mediocrity cannot resent a virtue it does not comprehend.

“Call it a hunch, but I believe the only way to find her is with Doctor Arthwitte, he – is that old woman yelling at our car?”

#

“Heretic,” the old gypsy woman shrieks. “Remove your devilry from village!”

Doctor Arthwitte has his hands out and in front of him as he slowly backs towards the car. “Now, now, I assure all of you that we are nothing of the sort. Why, we actually helped the Spanish State with their heresy problem a mere month ago. That’s the alchemist’s way; always happy to help the church–” He fumbles for his gun holster but can’t get his palm to stick.

“Get out,” the gypsy woman screams.

“And indeed, I shall with due haste, Madame,” Doctor Arthwitte says with one hand feebly reaching behind him for the car door. He has yet to turn around and see that he is quite a distance from the Black Beetle. “Through rain and sunshine, may all your roads lead to leylines.”

“Not you,” the one-eyed giant says with a spit. “She means witch boy.”

“You are crackpot hired to kill vampire, yes?” the old woman croons.

“Certified, licensed, and legitified,” Doctor Arthwitte says with a nervous bow. “Although I fear I may have left my official paperwork at the border.”

The old woman points at the boy, “This is one, he is source. Sense evil coming from him.”

Doctor Arthwitte leans in to inspect the child. A sniveling boy on the cusp of adulthood with long, tangled brown hair and woeful eyes. There are deep cuts in the shape of eldritch runes on his arm. He learned these symbols from me, but it is a stolen knowledge. I would never shine the Light’s splendor upon the Fallen.

“He seems perfectly normal to me,” Doctor Arthwitte quips. “Although he does appear dour as an old maid – is the boy shackled?”

“Is for protection,” the old woman hisses. “He is witch.”

“I’m not a witch,” the boy shouts.

“I thought you said he was a vampire.”

“He is witch,” the giant man says. “He creates vampire with witch magic.”

“Is old ritual,” the woman affirms. “Strike him down and rest will follow. Do now.”

“What a marvelous happenstance,” Doctor Arthwitte beams. “I happen to have my patented Unconsecrated Holy Water in the trunk. I shall fetch is and purify the lad of all the wickedness that potentially ails him.” He slaps Marcel on the back. “Buck up, old sport. You’ll be right as rain soon enough. At the least you’ll receive a much-needed bath. Wait right there, the three of you.”

“I don’t need a–”

“Marcel!”

A woman comes running down the dirt path that bisects the town. Asyncronicity incarnate, her bold emerald dress and hooded cloak are too refined and elegant, far out of step with the backwards world of this quaint agrarian village. Once she has reached them, she removes her hood and piles of flowing red hair spill out onto her shoulders.

She eyes Marcel, then his captors. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Mad-eh-moi-selle Ma-thers,” the one-eyed giant says with considerable effort, each syllable tumbling out of his mouth like a troupe of well-trained gymnasts, his accent the bars they must leap under or over. “Is best you go home. Will be dark soon.”

“I agree,” she says as she takes Marcel by his shackled hands.

Mami Hrobar inserts herself between them. “I am afraid I cannot let you do this, little andel.”

“Excuse me?” Mademoiselle Mathers asks. “The boy is seventeen, he’s not going to be left out in the wild with those… those things out there.”

“He will be fine,” the bearded giant with an eye patch says. “He is king of vampires.”

“I told you last night I would hear no more of this. His wounds… are a psychological issue. He has – had doctors for this.” She walks over to Marcel and kneels down. “Undo these shackles and let Herr Raubtier tend to him before he gets an infection.”

“There is already enough infection in town,” Mami Hrobar says. “Boy leaves. Is end of discussion.”

“Marcel…” Mademoiselle Mathers takes his forearm. “Why did you do this to yourself?”

The boy concentrates on the dirt between the toes of his bare feet. Mademoiselle Mathers lifts his face by the chin until they are eye-to-eye. “Where did you learn about these symbols?”

“He says he found them in book,” Bapo Hrobar says.

“What book? Where did you find a book with these symbols?”

“I don’t have it anymore. It… it ran away.”

“Ran away?”

“He is warlock,” Bapo Hrobar says, more as a caution to Mademoiselle Mathers than as condemnation of the boy.

“That’s enough,” Mademosielle Mathers says, angrily. “We’ve been locked up watching everyone die around us. We won’t be descending into hysterics now.”

“He admits that he spoke to devil,” Bapo Hrobar says with a spit.

“Why would you tell Bapo Hrobar that you spoke to the devil?”

“I didn’t say it was the devil,” Marcel replies. “I just said it wasn’t God.”

#

Doctor Arthwitte backs into the rear door of the Black Beetle as Penelope steps out. “What are they doing?” she asks. “Are they telling us to leave? Are you the heretic or is it that boy?”

“It would appear that the swarthy young gentleman with a penchant for cutlery has been dabbling in ceremonial occultism of an infernal character,” Doctor Arthwitte whispers in her ear. “The locals believe him to be the source of these vampires.”

Dorian navigates the rough terrain between him and the front passenger seat of the Black Beetle, dodging agonizing peril at the hands of the gear stick. He rolls the window down with the manual crank and sticks his head out. “Wait, they think he’s the vampire? But he looks poor… and dirty. Have these people never read a single book about vampires?”

“What’s wrong with his arm?” Penelope asks.

“Those are muscles, Penny,” Dorian says. “Lean, powerful muscles that hold you and never let go. The beautiful ones always are the craziest. Very well, as your older brother I will pre-emptively seduce him, but I’m doing this to protect you.”

“How noble,” Penelope turns to Doctor Arthwitte. “What do you think?”

“To wit, those markings are quite… diabolical,” Doctor Arthwitte says, sizing the crowd up. “But these people seem like they’ve been driven to the point of blaming anyone and anything of being a vampire. Cabin fever. I’ve heard of this before: King William’s Island. Ship ran aground in the ice and the trapped men were driven into a cannibalistic lunacy. But it’s strange…”

“What?” Penelope asks.

“Those symbols… the’re too elegant to be Norse.” Doctor Arthwitte cleans his spectacles with a pocket cloth and makes a second attempt. “Perhaps Old Hebrew or Aramaic… but the principal influence appears more Sumerian.”

“We should help him,” Dorian says. “We can change him, make him a better version of what I want him to be.”

“We shall do nothing of the sort,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “I’ve yet to assess this situation adequately.” He unscrews the lid to his flask and takes another swig. “Any minute now…”

“Do you think the spirits will help tell you what those markings mean?”

“I’m not consulting those spirits right now,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “I believe it is best we wait.”

“You there,” Bapo Hrobar says with a nod to the doctor. “You are Doctor, yes?”

“Ah, fasten your nethers, children. It appears we’ve been rousted,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Salutations and congratulations. My name is Doctor Edward Mount–”

“We know,” Mami Hrobar says. “Are you scientists we sent for?”

“I am a certified alchemist and this gifted coquette is my assistant, Pen–”

“What is all-keem-ist?’” Bapo Hrobar asks. Each syllable clumsily bounces off his tongue, richochets off his teeth, then crashes to the ground at his feet. “You mean chemist, is same as chemist?”

“Ah, no,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Although knowledge of the base substrates of matter are fundamental to alchemical practice. A knowledgable layman might liken alchemy to the father of chemistry–”

Mami Hrobar tilts her head to the side. “Is not chemistry?”

Bapo Hrobar taps the end of his chin then snaps his fingers. “No, I know this – is not chemist, is like physics.”

“In a way,” Doctor Arthwitte says with a wave of his hand. “I do investigate matters in the hope of producing effects in the here and now, but with special attention paid to the esoteric and metaphysical which lies below, weaving empirical science with mysticism to–”

“That does not sound like scientist,” Bapo Hrobar says.

“That sounds like warlock,” Mami Hrobar says.

“Yes,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “There are those in this so called ‘modern era’ who claim that alchemists are not proper scientists. These alleged experts have become tragically mired in the here and now. Perhaps it is a curse of the calling. However, I assure you that all of my theories are grounded in demonstrable and oft-proven perception. But I have forgotten proper formalities: allow me to introduce my assistant, the youngest theoretical physicist alive today: Penelope Theophania MacLaine.”

“Your assistant is little girl?” Bapo Hrobar asks.

“Excuse me,” Mademoiselle Mathers says. “What did you say your name was? Arthwitte?”

“Doctor Edward Mountbanc Arthwitte, certified alchemist and prestidigi-orator,” he says. “And you are?”

“Angelica Mathers,” she says. “No titles.”

“Mathers?” Doctor Arthwitte asks. “By chance are you related to one Samuel McGregor Mathers?”

“Yes,” Angelica says, surprised. “He was my grandfather. You knew him?”

He tosses his cane up and catches it as if proposing an expedition to the Serengetti. “An old acquaintance, one whom we must reminisce upon once we are safe. Shall we retire to our lodging first then begin our assessment of the situation? I fear we’ve less than an hour before nightfall.”

“Yes,” Angelica says. “Once we’re behind the wreaths Mami Hrobar set up we will be safe. Marcel, let’s draw a hot bath for you and have Herr Raubtier bandage your arm.”

“Please, little andel,” Mami Hrobar begs. “Do not fall for devil’s lies. He is playing like child to trick you. Is likely always been devil in secret. You knew his father...”

“Much better than you,” Angelica bites back.

“Perhaps it is best that we give the boy a proper examination before sentencing him as a devil,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Or the Devil. Quite the sensitive and sullen type, but an eager conversationalist if there ever was one.”

“Iodine,” Penelope says.

“And perhaps some iodine as my assistant suggests lest the lad’s arm become gangrenous.”

A high-pitched, shriek of murderous torment bellows over the forest canopy. Where it comes from, no one can tell, yet it reverberates everywhere and from nowhere at once. It vibrates every tree, rings back from the distant mountains in hollow agony. Evn the clouds seem to amplify it back in a cacophonous echo that overtakes the senses.

“Dear lord,” Doctor Arthwitte says in hushed awe. “It can’t be…”

“What?” Penelope asks.

“Yes, it’s unmistakeable. The Aztec Death Whistle. I was at a presentation on world religion in 1894. A shaman from Mexico gave a presentation on ancient tribal ceremonies. They built giant pyramids called ziggurats with altars at the top where they would… lay the sacrifice on the stone, then… cut out the heart while they were still alive. That sound… it is the same as that whistle, the whistle the priests blew to drown out the screams of the… aherm, the departed.”

Another torturous shriek from beyond brings Marcel to his knees. His eyes roll back in his head and his shoulders begin to convulse, limp arms flailing droplets of blood on the dirt.

Penelope rises to her feet but a wall of fog billows in from all sides, engulfing them. The town of Rukriz vanishes with everyone inside it as the ominous clouds of smoke tumble over everything, leaving Penelope awash is a sea of grey and green. The air is humid and thick, and a heavy sinking feeling that starts in her stomach then drains down her legs informs her that the air pressure is steadily dropping.

Space itself begins roil around her, the earth slides up then capsizes over her head with her feet never leaving the ground. Vertigo gives way to confusion and Penelope is lost in the murk.

“Dorian,” she calls out. “Doctor Arthwitte?” The ectoplasmic syrup sits heavy in her chest, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. Something about the water in the air is wrong, stagnant like a swamp and putrid with death’s musk.

“Penelope,” Doctor Arthwitte responds. “Where are you?” Right arm swinging over his left leg, he clumsily stumbles out of the mist. His eyes are bleary and wide with fear, as if he can sense the living dread which surrounds them.

“Doctor Arthwitte,” Penelope says, running to meet him. “Where is Dorian?”

“In the car.” He pats his hands on his coat pockets then casts a nervous glance in both directions. Taking in a gulp of air, he adds, “I think.”

“You think?” Penelope asks. “Isn’t the car behind you?”

“Eh, I um…” Doctor Arthwitte’s eyes dart from side to side, weighing his next words carefully. “It would appear that… in my haste to follow your voice, I have also misplaced or, shall I say… lost him, the car, both of them.”

“Lost them?” Penelope asks. “He should be right behind you.” She walks past Doctor Arthwitte but freezes when he grabs her by the arm.

“Don’t,” he commands. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find you again if you wander out of my sight, and I know you will not find the car or your brother if you go that way.”

“With all due respect, you have been drinking all day,” Penelope says. “Wait here and I’ll–”

“How long have you been in the fog?” Doctor Arthwitte asks.

“I don’t know,” Penelope says. “A few minutes? Why?”

Hands shaking, Doctor Arthwitte reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out his pocketwatch. The hour hand ticks like a minute hand in reverse while the minute hand careens clockwise at a furious spin as if they are barreling headlong into the past and the future simultaneously. Is it a malfunction of the doctor’s timekeeper or a disquieting signal that the space which they inhabit is no longer governed by the laws of time?

Doctor Arthwitte clears his throat. “I ran… for what felt like an hour… but I never saw anyone. You, your brother, the villagers. I fear we’d best remain at one another’s sides for now.”

Penelope agrees. “What do you think this is?”

“I’ve never encountered anomalous time before,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Admittedly it’s not a part of… traditional vampire myths.”

“What about those other people?”

“We’ve more to fear out there than the townsfolk,” Doctor Arthwitte says. He scans their surroundings as if there was anything visible three feet from their faces. “Best get your pistol ready.”

A sonorous roar, sick with rage and a snarling hunger, echoes throughout the mist.

“That wasn’t the same as that death whistle,” Penelope says. “It sounded like some kind of animal…”

“Yes,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Takes me right back to the swamps of Louisiana and the Case of the Acadian – damn that fool brother of yours, his vernacular has imprinted upon me.”

The fog swirls like a soup of grey-green egg yolks floating atop the air. My first time witnessing it, deep beneath the stone palace, I recoiled in fear at the face looking back at me. Penelope feels that same inescapable fear and trembling now: the warped space and time, the suffocating stench, it is a putrid trap set for prey in the bowels of the universe.

Tendrils of liquid smoke writhe away like moss in the sun, parting to reveal two glowing red eyes and the sunken face of a creature long dead. Its mouth hangs open, jaws extended and lips shorn off. Elongated canines protrude from his maw – it was a man, before the change, a metamorphosis that ripped his clothes to tatters and left him emaciated and pallid.

Ribs, far too few for a human, protrude from his gaunt form. Arms and legs elongated and gnarled like haunches, he stands frozen, transfixed by her. He stares at my sister, his mouth open, long tongue hanging limp to the side like a dumb dog. As if in mockery of the divine, the holy crucifix dangles at his chest on a rosary.