Complete Works of Bram Stoker (357 page)

It was a merciful relief to me when, in groping my way forwards through the darkness, I struck against some portion of the furnishing of the church.  Fortunately I was all strung up to tension, else I should never have been able to control instinctively, as I did, the shriek which was rising to my lips.

I would have given anything to have been able to light even a match.  A single second of light would, I felt, have made me my own man again.  But I knew that this would be against the implied condition of my being there at all, and might have had disastrous consequences to her whom I had come to save.  It might even frustrate my scheme, and altogether destroy my opportunity.  At that moment it was borne upon me more strongly than ever that this was not a mere fight for myself or my own selfish purposes  —  not merely an adventure or a struggle for only life and death against unknown difficulties and dangers.  It was a fight on behalf of her I loved, not merely for her life, but perhaps even for her soul.

And yet this very thinking  —  understanding  —  created a new form of terror.  For in that grim, shrouding darkness came memories of other moments of terrible stress.

Of wild, mystic rites held in the deep gloom of African forests, when, amid scenes of revolting horror, Obi and the devils of his kind seemed to reveal themselves to reckless worshippers, surfeited with horror, whose lives counted for naught; when even human sacrifice was an episode, and the reek of old deviltries and recent carnage tainted the air, till even I, who was, at the risk of my life, a privileged spectator who had come through dangers without end to behold the scene, rose and fled in horror.

Of scenes of mystery enacted in rock-cut temples beyond the Himalayas, whose fanatic priests, cold as death and as remorseless, in the reaction of their phrenzy of passion, foamed at the mouth and then sank into marble quiet, as with inner eyes they beheld the visions of the hellish powers which they had invoked.

Of wild, fantastic dances of the Devil-worshippers of Madagascar, where even the very semblance of humanity disappeared in the fantastic excesses of their orgies.

Of strange doings of gloom and mystery in the rock-perched monasteries of Thibet.

Of awful sacrifices, all to mystic ends, in the innermost recesses of Cathay.

Of weird movements with masses of poisonous snakes by the medicine-men of the Zuni and Mochi Indians in the far south-west of the Rockies, beyond the great plains.

Of secret gatherings in vast temples of old Mexico, and by dim altars of forgotten cities in the heart of great forests in South America.

Of rites of inconceivable horror in the fastnesses of Patagonia.

Of . . . Here I once more pulled myself up.  Such thoughts were no kind of proper preparation for what I might have to endure.  My work that night was to be based on love, on hope, on self-sacrifice for the woman who in all the world was the closest to my heart, whose future I was to share, whether that sharing might lead me to Hell or Heaven.  The hand which undertook such a task must have no trembling.

Still, those horrible memories had, I am bound to say, a useful part in my preparation for the ordeal.  They were of fact which I had seen, of which I had myself been in part a sharer, and which I had survived.  With such experiences behind me, could there be aught before me more dreadful? . . .

Moreover, if the coming ordeal was of supernatural or superhuman order, could it transcend in living horror the vilest and most desperate acts of the basest men? . . .

With renewed courage I felt my way before me, till my sense of touch told me that I was at the screen behind which lay the stair to the Crypt.

There I waited, silent, still.

My own part was done, so far as I knew how to do it.  Beyond this, what was to come was, so far as I knew, beyond my own control.  I had done what I could; the rest must come from others.  I had exactly obeyed my instructions, fulfilled my warranty to the utmost in my knowledge and power.  There was, therefore, left for me in the present nothing but to wait.

It is a peculiarity of absolute darkness that it creates its own reaction.  The eye, wearied of the blackness, begins to imagine forms of light.  How far this is effected by imagination pure and simple I know not.  It may be that nerves have their own senses that bring thought to the depository common to all the human functions, but, whatever may be the mechanism or the objective, the darkness seems to people itself with luminous entities.

So was it with me as I stood lonely in the dark, silent church.  Here and there seemed to flash tiny points of light.

In the same way the silence began to be broken now and again by strange muffled sounds  —  the suggestion of sounds rather than actual vibrations.  These were all at first of the minor importance of movement  —  rustlings, creakings, faint stirrings, fainter breathings.  Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from the sort of hypnotic trance to which the darkness and stillness had during the time of waiting reduced me, I looked around in wonder.

The phantoms of light and sound seemed to have become real.  There were most certainly actual little points of light in places  —  not enough to see details by, but quite sufficient to relieve the utter gloom.  I thought  —  though it may have been a mingling of recollection and imagination  —  that I could distinguish the outlines of the church; certainly the great altar-screen was dimly visible.  Instinctively I looked up  —  and thrilled.  There, hung high above me, was, surely enough, a great Greek Cross, outlined by tiny points of light.

I lost myself in wonder, and stood still, in a purely receptive mood, unantagonistic to aught, willing for whatever might come, ready for all things, in rather a negative than a positive mood  —  a mood which has an aspect of spiritual meekness.  This is the true spirit of the neophyte, and, though I did not think of it at the time, the proper attitude for what is called by the Church in whose temple I stood a “neo-nymph.”

As the light grew a little in power, though never increasing enough for distinctness, I saw dimly before me a table on which rested a great open book, whereon were laid two rings  —  one of sliver, the other of gold  —  and two crowns wrought of flowers, bound at the joining of their stems with tissue  —  one of gold, the other of silver.  I do not know much of the ritual of the old Greek Church, which is the religion of the Blue Mountains, but the things which I saw before me could be none other than enlightening symbols.  Instinctively I knew that I had been brought hither, though in this grim way, to be married.  The very idea of it thrilled me to the heart’s core.  I thought the best thing I could do would be to stay quite still, and not show surprise at anything that might happen; but be sure I was all eyes and ears.

I peered anxiously around me in every direction, but I could see no sign of her whom I had come to meet.

Incidentally, however, I noticed that in the lighting, such as it was, there was no flame, no “living” light.  Whatever light there was came muffled, as though through some green translucent stone.  The whole effect was terribly weird and disconcerting.

Presently I started, as, seemingly out of the darkness beside me, a man’s hand stretched out and took mine.  Turning, I found close to me a tall man with shining black eyes and long black hair and beard.  He was clad in some kind of gorgeous robe of cloth of gold, rich with variety of adornment.  His head was covered with a high, over-hanging hat draped closely with a black scarf, the ends of which formed a long, hanging veil on either side.  These veils, falling over the magnificent robes of cloth of gold, had an extraordinarily solemn effect.

I yielded myself to the guiding hand, and shortly found myself, so far as I could see, at one side of the sanctuary.

In the floor close to my feet was a yawning chasm, into which, from so high over my head that in the uncertain light I could not distinguish its origin, hung a chain.  At the sight a strange wave of memory swept over me.  I could not but remember the chain which hung over the glass-covered tomb in the Crypt, and I had an instinctive feeling that the grim chasm in the floor of the sanctuary was but the other side of the opening in the roof of the crypt from which the chain over the sarcophagus depended.

There was a creaking sound  —  the groaning of a windlass and the clanking of a chain.  There was heavy breathing close to me somewhere.  I was so intent on what was going on that I did not see that one by one, seeming to grow out of the surrounding darkness, several black figures in monkish garb appeared with the silence of ghosts.  Their faces were shrouded in black cowls, wherein were holes through which I could see dark gleaming eyes.  My guide held me tightly by the hand.  This gave me a feeling of security in the touch which helped to retain within my breast some semblance of calm.

The strain of the creaking windlass and the clanking chain continued for so long that the suspense became almost unendurable.  At last there came into sight an iron ring, from which as a centre depended four lesser chains spreading wide.  In a few seconds more I could see that these were fixed to the corners of the great stone tomb with the covering of glass, which was being dragged upward.  As it arose it filled closely the whole aperture.  When its bottom had reached the level of the floor it stopped, and remained rigid.  There was no room for oscillation.  It was at once surrounded by a number of black figures, who raised the glass covering and bore it away into the darkness.  Then there stepped forward a very tall man, black-bearded, and with head-gear like my guide, but made in triple tiers, he also was gorgeously arrayed in flowing robes of cloth of gold richly embroidered.  He raised his hand, and forthwith eight other black-clad figures stepped forward, and bending over the stone coffin, raised from it the rigid form of my Lady, still clad in her Shroud, and laid it gently on the floor of the sanctuary.

I felt it a grace that at that instant the dim lights seemed to grow less, and finally to disappear  —  all save the tiny points that marked the outline of the great Cross high overhead.  These only gave light enough to accentuate the gloom.  The hand that held mine now released it, and with a sigh I realised that I was alone.  After a few moments more of the groaning of the winch and clanking of the chain there was a sharp sound of stone meeting stone; then there was silence.  I listened acutely, but could not hear near me the slightest sound.  Even the cautious, restrained breathing around me, of which up to then I had been conscious, had ceased.  Not knowing, in the helplessness of my ignorance, what I should do, I remained as I was, still and silent, for a time that seemed endless.  At last, overcome by some emotion which I could not at the moment understand, I slowly sank to my knees and bowed my head.  Covering my face with my hands, I tried to recall the prayers of my youth.  It was not, I am certain, that fear in any form had come upon me, or that I hesitated or faltered in my intention.  That much I know now; I knew it even then.  It was, I believe, that the prolonged impressive gloom and mystery had at last touched me to the quick.  The bending of the knees was but symbolical of the bowing of the spirit to a higher Power.  When I had realised that much, I felt more content than I had done since I had entered the church, and with the renewed consciousness of courage, took my hands from my face, and lifted again my bowed head.

Impulsively I sprang to my feet and stood erect  —  waiting.  All seemed to have changed since I had dropped on my knees.  The points of light about time church, which had been eclipsed, had come again, and were growing in power to a partial revealing of the dim expanse.  Before me was the table with the open book, on which were laid the gold and silver rings and the two crowns of flowers.  There were also two tall candles, with tiniest flames of blue  —  the only living light to be seen.

Out of the darkness stepped the same tall figure in the gorgeous robes and the triple hat.  He led by the hand my Lady, still clad in her Shroud; but over it, descending from the crown of her head, was a veil of very old and magnificent lace of astonishing fineness.  Even in that dim light I could note the exquisite beauty of the fabric.  The veil was fastened with a bunch of tiny sprays of orange-blossom mingled with cypress and laurel  —  a strange combination.  In her hand she carried a great bouquet of the same.  Its sweet intoxicating odour floated up to my nostrils.  It and the sentiment which its very presence evoked made me quiver.

Yielding to the guiding of the hand which held hers, she stood at my left side before the table.  Her guide then took his place behind her.  At either end of the table, to right and left of us, stood a long-bearded priest in splendid robes, and wearing the hat with depending veil of black.  One of them, who seemed to be the more important of the two, and took the initiative, signed to us to put our right hands on the open book.  My Lady, of course, understood the ritual, and knew the words which the priest was speaking, and of her own accord put out her hand.  My guide at the same moment directed my hand to the same end.  It thrilled me to touch my Lady’s hand, even under such mysterious conditions.

After the priest had signed us each thrice on the forehead with the sign of the Cross, he gave to each of us a tiny lighted taper brought to him for the purpose.  The lights were welcome, not so much for the solace of the added light, great as that was, but because it allowed us to see a little more of each other’s faces.  It was rapture to me to see the face of my Bride; and from the expression of her face I was assured that she felt as I did.  It gave me an inexpressible pleasure when, as her eyes rested on me, there grew a faint blush over the grey pallor of her cheeks.

The priest then put in solemn voice to each of us in turn, beginning with me, the questions of consent which are common to all such rituals.  I answered as well as I could, following the murmured words of my guide.  My Lady answered out proudly in a voice which, though given softly, seemed to ring.  It was a concern  —  even a grief  —  to me that I could not, in the priest’s questioning, catch her name, of which, strangely enough,  —  I was ignorant.  But, as I did not know the language, and as the phrases were not in accord literally with our own ritual, I could not make out which word was the name.