Oxford countryside, where he liked to walk, leaning over a fence now and then to watch the cows chewing. His gentleness was visible in the shape of his big head, his meaty hands, and his soft brown eyes, so that he seemed rather bovine himself, or badgerlike, until that clever sarcasm of his suddenly stung the air. I loved to hear about his work, which he discussed in a modest but enthusiastic way, and he never failed to urge me on in my own pursuits. His name was-well, you could find it in any library, with a little poking around, since he brought several of England ’s literary geniuses back to life for the lay reader. But I will call him Hedges, anom de guerreof my own devising, to give him in this narrative the privacy and decency that were his in life.
This particular evening Hedges was to drop by my rooms with drafts of the two articles I had squeezed out of my work at Crete. He had read and corrected them for me, at my request; although he couldn’t comment on the accuracy or inaccuracy of my descriptions of trade in the ancient Mediterranean, he wrote like an angel, the sort of angel whose precision would indeed have allowed him to dance on the head of a pin, and he often suggested polish for my style. I anticipated half an hour’s friendly critique, then sherry and that gratifying moment when a true friend stretches his legs at your fireside and asks you how you’ve been. I wouldn’t tell him the truth about my rattled and still-healing nerves, of course, but we might discuss anything and everything else.
While I waited I poked up the fire, added another log, set out two glasses, and surveyed my desk. My study also served me for a sitting room, and I made sure it was kept as orderly and comfortable as the solidity of its nineteenth-century furnishings demanded. I had completed a great deal of work that afternoon, supped off a plate brought up to me at six o’clock, and then cleared the last of my papers. Dark was coming in early already, and with it arrived a gloomy, slanting rain. I find this the most appealing kind of autumn evening, not the most dismal, so I felt only a faint shiver of premonition when my hand, searching for ten minutes’ reading, fell casually on the antique volume I had been avoiding. I’d left it tucked among less disturbing items on a shelf above my desk. Now I sat down there, feeling with lurking pleasure the suede-soft old cover fitting into my hand again, and opened the book.
Immediately I became aware of something very strange. A smell rose from its pages that was not merely the delicate scent of aging paper and cracked vellum. It was a reek of decay, a terrible, sickening odor, a smell of old meat or corrupted flesh. I had never noticed it before, and I leaned closer, sniffing, unbelieving, then shut the book. I reopened it after a moment, and again stomach-turning fumes rose from its pages. The little volume seemed alive in my hands, yet it smelled of death.
This unsettling malodor brought back to me all the nervous fear of my return trip from the Continent, and I stilled my feelings only with a concerted effort. Old books rotted, that was fact, and I had travelled with this one through rain and storm. The smell could surely be explained thus. Maybe I would take it to the Rare Book Room again and get some advice on having it cleaned, or fumigated, whatever was required.
If I had not been studiously avoiding my reaction to this unpleasant presence, I would’ve dropped the thing, put it away again. But now, for the first time in many weeks, I made myself turn to that extraordinary central image, the wide-winged dragon snarling over his banner. Suddenly, with jarring accuracy, I saw something afresh and comprehended it for the first time. I have never been gifted with great sharpness in my visual understanding of the world, but some flicker of heightened senses showed me the outline of the whole dragon, his spread wings and looped tail. In a spasm of curiosity I rummaged through the package of notes I had brought back from Istanbul, which had lain ignored in my desk drawer. Fumbling, I found the page I wanted; torn from my own notebook, it showed a sketch I had made in the archives in Istanbul, a copy of the first of the maps I’d found there.
You will remember that there were three of those maps, graduated in scale to show the same unnamed region in greater and greater detail. That region, even sketched in my inartistic if careful hand, had a most definite shape. It looked for all the world like a symmetrically winged beast. A long river wound away from it to the southwest, curling back as the dragon’s tail did. I studied the woodcut, my heart fluttering strangely. The dragon’s tail was barbed, tipped with an arrow that pointed-here I almost gasped aloud, forgetting all the intervening weeks of recovery from my former obsession-towards the spot that corresponded on my map to the site of the Unholy Tomb.
The visual resemblance between the two images was too striking to be coincidence. How had I not noticed, in the archive, that the region represented on those maps had exactly the brooding, spread-winged shape of my dragon, as if he cast his shadow over it from above? The woodcut I had puzzled over so deeply before my trip must hold a definite meaning, a message. It was designed to threaten and intimidate, to commemorate power. But for the persistent, it might be a clue; its tail pointed to the tomb as surely as any finger points to the self: this is me. I am here. And who was there, in that central point, that Unholy Tomb? The dragon held up his answer in cruelly sharpened talons:DRAKULYA.
I tasted an acrid tension, like my own blood, at the back of my throat. I knew I must hold myself back from these conclusions, as my training warned me, but I felt a conviction deeper than reason. None of the maps showed Lake Snagov, where Vlad Tepes was supposed to have been buried. Surely this meant Tepes-Dracula-rested somewhere else, someplace not even legend had recorded reliably. But where was his tomb, then? I grated out the question aloud, in spite of myself. And why had its location been kept a secret?
As I sat there trying to fit these pieces together, I heard the familiar sound of footsteps along the college hall-Hedges’s shuffling, endearing walk-and I thought distractedly that I must hide these materials, go to the door, pour out sherry, rearrange myself for convivial talk. I had half risen, gathering papers, when I suddenly heard the silence. It was like an error in music, a note held one beat too long, so that it arrested the listener in a way no definite chord could have done. The familiar, good-natured steps had stopped outside my door, but Hedges hadn’t knocked, as he usually did. My heart echoed that perceptibly skipped beat. Over the rustling of my papers and the spat of rain on the gutter above my window, now darkened, I heard a hum-the sound of my blood rising in my ears. I dropped the book, hurried to the outer door of my rooms, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
Hedges was there, but he lay sprawled on the polished floor, his head thrown backwards and his body twisted sideways, as if a great force had hurled him down. I realized with a thrill of nausea that I hadn’t heard him cry out or fall. His eyes were open, staring hard past me. For an endless second I thought he was dead. Then his head moved and he groaned. I crouched beside him. “Hedges!”
He moaned again and blinked rapidly.
“Can you hear me?” I gasped, almost sobbing with relief because he was alive. At that moment his head rolled convulsively, revealing a bloody gash in the side of his neck. It wasn’t large, but it looked deep, as if a dog had leapt up and torn at the flesh, and it was bleeding profusely down his collar and onto the floor by his shoulder. “Help!” I shouted. I doubt anyone had so violently broken the hush of that oak-panelled hall in the centuries since it was built. And I didn’t know if it was any use; this was the night when most of the fellows dined with the college master. Then a door flew open at the far end and Professor Jeremy Forester’s valet came running, a nice chap named Ronald Egg who has since left the house. He seemed to take everything in at once, his eyes bulging, and then he knelt to tie his handkerchief over the wound on Hedges’s neck.
“Here,” he said to me. “We’ve got to get him sitting up, sir, elevate that cut, if he has no other injuries.” He felt carefully up and down Hedges’s rigid body, and when my friend didn’t protest, we propped him against the wall. I supported him on my shoulder, where he leaned heavily, his eyes closing. “I’m going for the doctor,” Ronald said and vanished down the hallway. I kept a finger on Hedges’s pulse; his head lolled next to me but his heartbeat seemed steady. I couldn’t help trying to call him back to consciousness. “What happened, Hedges? Did someone strike you? Can you hear me? Hedges?”
He opened his eyes and looked at me. His head listed to one side and half his face looked slack, bluish, but he spoke intelligibly. “He said to tell you…”
“What? Who?”
“He said to tell you he will brook no trespasses.”
Hedges’s head fell back against the wall, that big, fine head that sheltered one of England ’s best minds. The skin crawled on my arms as I held him. “Who, Hedges? Who said that to you? Did he hurt you? Did you see him?”
