A TASTE FOR ETERNITY
A Companion to Bram Stoker’s DRACULA
by Cedric Marc Klein
(c)1995


In homage to Dwight Frye

“Never yet have I found the woman I wanted
to bear my child, until I met this one, whom I
love. For I love Thee, O Eternity!”
Nietzsche’s Zarathustra




I: THE MASTER COMES

Purfleet, London, England
1887, September 25

Mad-
or aware?
Is there a difference?
I no longer know.
All I know is the Hunger- for Life.
And I know the food I need- the same food the Master requires.
Don’t be shocked. It’s in the Bible, “the blood is the life.”
But they call it madness. Lock me in Carfax Hospital. Commit me to the care of good
Dr. Jack Seward.
My name is Richard Manfred Renfield.
My goal is to preserve and extend life, to absorb Life, to become LIFE!
My hope is to sit at the right hand of the Master of Life.

From beyond the Eastern Sea, that borderland beyond the forest, he comes. On the wings
of the tempest, midst thundering winds and celestial fire, he has arrived. And I was the first to
welcome him to his new home. Oh, his appearance- ancient of days, flowing hair of awful
whiteness, piercing eyes of scarlet fire. Do you wonder why I fell before him? A warlord weary
of dull peasants, searching for a new empire to subdue. And such an Empire- the first to span the globe.
For months, I’ve heard his Call. Even before they locked me up. I labored- preparing
his way. Setting up the Carfax Abbey sale, which young Harker closed after my- detention.
How did I come to this cell? With the Call came the Hunger. I kept it at bay for a time,
with raw meat, insects, rodentia, birds. I sought a remedy at the Eucharist- but the mockery of
the priest, offering me pale weak wine as blood when the real stuff pulsed in his wrists- Is it any
wonder that I cast off all restraint?
So since the middle of May, I have been restricted to this diet of lesser lives. It will do,
for a while.
But regarding the Master- When a nobleman enters a land to take it, the first thing he
often takes is a woman of that land. The Master chose a young popular pretty miss named Lucy
Westenra. Delicious irony! (Sorry.) She was courted by Dr. Jack and his two best friends. She
had even picked Arthur Holmwood, a future lord. But in the end, the Master stole her heart from
them all- and sealed it with a kiss.
I had never met Miss Lucy when she was warm. But once she entered cold immortality,
he brought her for an introduction. I’ve never cared for pale people, all weak and placid, but she
was delightful, charming, even vigorous. And she had such hopes for the Marriage.
Those hopes are at the root of the mystery baffling the police. Toddlers with small bites,
telling of a “bloofer lady”. If they only knew-
Lucy only wants to bear him children.


II: THE MARRIAGE SUPPER

September 27

He was dead- and he is risen.
Praise to the Master.
A new bride he has taken.
Lucy was dead- and she is risen.
Thanks be to him.
They shall reign unto all ages- world without end- and I shall serve at their throne.
The infidels have joined against him- her jilted lover Lord Arthur, the Texan inventor
Morris, Dr. Jack- all led sheeplike by that old Dutch Wafer-worshiper Van Helsing. They loved
her, tried in vain to keep her from him, even poured their blood into her veins, and he feasted
well on it.
The heathen rage against him- and he laughs in derision.

Queen Lucy continues the hunt. But she is young in darkness, still a dainty maiden.
Wanting to give him children, but, like many of her tender age, she hasn’t yet gotten the nerve.
She has nipped the babes, sipped a little- not much. And if she cannot bring herself to
drink deep from them, even less can she bear to nurse them from her veins.
The Master hasn’t been around of late, but she has. Poor girl- she had his guidance in her
first three nights of rebirth, but now he neglects her for other business. She doesn’t understand
he must attend to his grand design- to win the British Isles first, then, gradually, the entire Empire to his blood covenant.
Left to himself, she stumbled, got a bad reputation, some notoriety in the press upon her
first night of new life. A foolish misunderstanding- she actually adores children. But now she
must be discreet. Yet she is too young in the Night to abstain from even one feeding. At her age, one evening’s fast would leave her too weak to leave her bed.
Lucy is distraught, irrational. She even considers visiting Dr. Jack, bestowing on him the
kisses she saved for Holmwood and instead devoted to our Lord. That would be most unwise
with the Dutchman lurking about.
I confide my own distress to Lady Westenra. Despite his word to me, the Master has not
sealed me to immortality. Thrice I broke free, storming his chapel, begging for his communion.
He promises, but never disposes. Yes, he has fed from me, and he has sent the lesser creatures
to satiate me. But they are so meager in comparison to that drink which he withholds.
Lucy smiles, relieved, having feared that my faith in our Lord might smother any sympa-
thy for her. We both revere him. We realize he must pursue his mission. But we should not be
so neglected! Would it be a betrayal of him to- minister to each other?
No.
It may even be his will.
And aesthetically, she is a much more pleasant fountain from which to sup.
I bow to her- humbly offering my wrist for her kiss. Only expecting her to feed me from
her delicate hand.
She laughs at such humility, takes my hair, bends back my head, and opens my throat to
her lips’ embrace.
Strange how girlish, how demure she had seemed, as she now drinks with all the fury of
Lilith. Well worthy of the three men and the god who contended for her.
Wondrous pain as her pointed pearl-teeth burrow under my flesh. Violent, violet torrents rage through my veins as she greedily consumes her first taste of strong adult blood.
Her lightly teasing tongue quickens the flow. The rich wine trickles bubbling into her purring
throat.
Pale blue petals of her undead mouth bloom to dawning rose onto dusky crimson as their
velvet caresses writhe to my ever-hastening heartbeat. Ravenous and relentless she feeds till the
sweet agony in my brain flares and subsides in oceans of mist.
She forces herself away. Standing over me- her flesh Heaven-carved marble beset by
magenta flame, her hair a cascade of silken sunset fury. She fears she may have taken too much
until I rouse from my blissful stupor.
“Dear Richard, good and faithful servant, enter now into our Kingdom...” She kneels,
cradling my head in her lap, folding back the bridal linen to allow me full access to the bounty of
her winepress. A delicate fingernail taps the spring beneath her maidenwhite flesh. Her fingers
entwine in my hair to press my parched lips to that inviting font.
And, with no further details I can, as a gentleman, give, she feeds me- Eternity.
Hail, Miss Lucy.
Thank you, Lord, for gracing me with her favors.
You have loosed this poor lunatic from the bonds of death and Hell.
Behold, the Marriage of our Lord has come. The Bride has made herself ready. Blessed
am I who am called to their Supper.


III: DESOLATION

September 30

Howl, you children of the night!
Wail- for the abomination that maketh desolate!
How long, O Lord, till the blood of your bride be avenged?
They sharpen a branch. They defile sacred wafers. They bring the dearest of all women
to a bloody frothing end!
Blast you, Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming! You loved her, betrothed yourself to her.
Were you so jealous she chose the Eternal One over your feeble lordship?
Curse you, Dr. Jack and Quincey Morris! You steadied him as he plunged the stake
between those breasts you desired.
And thrice-damn you, thick-headed Dutch Papist Doctor Abraham Van Helsing! You
have driven them all to unpardonable blasphemy.

Granted, she couldn’t behave. I thought to give her a taste for stronger stuff, to sway her
from childish things. Still, she would not abandon her little playmates.
Yet she did them no harm. Did it so disturb those men that their dearly departed lived on
at the side of another? Did they have to insure she was truly dead?
She wanted to kiss Holmwood into Life Eternal. Indeed, she would have happily brought
each one of them through, even Van Helsing. Lucy always did seem too promiscuous with her
feelings.
Those men, so manipulated, so emotionally broken by Van Helsing’s ravings, couldn’t
hear her entreaties. Rather, they could be little more than his puppets.
Abraham Van Helsing- a new Herod to greet the Return of our Lord, a modern Nero to
martyr the faithful. In the Age to Come, his name will be a profanity.
But one thing overshadows my contempt for him.
Why did the Master not defend her?
Did he not know?
Or didn’t he care?
Even worse, might he have wanted her dead?
Was her play getting too much notice? Was she too clinging to him? Or not servile
enough? Was he jealous? Did he regard her visit to me as infidelity?
Silence, Renfield! He had nothing to do with her murder. He also mourns her. He
must...

Later, that same day

I’ve dreamt of her. Glorious. Beautiful beyond that of her resurrected life.
“Why mourn?”, she asks. “I am not here. I’m alive. Unbound.”
Unbound? From what?
“You drank, Richard, but you still thirst. I now drink of His spring, never to thirst again.”
His spring? The Master’s?
She turns away, “Not that Master...”
Not him, then who?
A whisper, “Him, Resurrection... and Life.”
But isn’t our Master the Resurrection?
Even more faintly, she replies, “Not Resurrection. Not alive. Not dead... Nosferatu.”
What is it? My own doubts- or a message? Even with her transfixed to the grave, does
our union live on? Does her blood truly call from the ground?
Dr. Jack saw me earlier. Soon after my dream. I was calm and happy, then- just having
seen her again, not yet recalling all she had said. And now that I’m all perplexed, he informs me
that I have a lady caller.
Lucy? Surely not! But who?
Just a visitor, passing through the house, meeting everyone, claims Dr. Jack.
Very well, then. Just as soon as I tidy up. Thus, I consume my zoo. I sit quietly, savoring the thrill as their lives absorb into mine. Now, Dr. Jack, you may bring in whomever you wish.
Not Lucy, though I could testify that she’d suddenly passed through the cell. Instead, this
is a dark, serious genteel lady, near Lucy in physical age, far older in aspect.
“You’re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you?”, I blurt, hastily correcting
myself. “You can’t be, you know, for she’s dead.”
Mad and idiot self! I’ve hurt her in my bafflement. She smiles, blinking back tears, and
introduces herself as Mrs. Harker.
Yes, Lucy had told me of her dearest friend, Mina. Also the wife of him who sold Carfax
to the Master. Strange how it all ties together. While I try to sort it out in my mind, Dr. Jack is
doing the same in his, demanding to know how I knew of his beloved. I hastily concoct a tale of
hospital gossip, the impossibility of keeping a secret from the patients. I babble on about philosophy, about my own pathology, which I refer to in the past tense. She confounds me, recalls my affection for Lucy, and transfers it to herself. But she has no awareness of her effect
upon me.
Dr. Jack knows something is amiss. He finds a way to excuse himself and the lady,
probably fearing my prattling will quicken into ravings.
She bids me farewell, as I wonder if my feelings about her could be shared by the Master.
But that might not be in her best interests.
Even my own feelings might endanger her. I have even injured Dr. Jack to get his blood.
How might I harm her when the Thirst attacks?
“Good-bye, my dear,” I gasp, “I pray God I may never see your sweet face again. May He bless and keep you.”
No, I swear before God that Mrs. Harker, Madame Mina, shall suffer no harm from me.
Nor from the Master.



IV: HE MUST INCREASE, I MUST DECREASE

October 1, 4 a.m.

God will not damn a poor mad soul.
Will He?
But am I mad?
To know good, but not do it- that is sin.
By that law, I am not mad.
But I am damned.
Christ have mercy on a weak man. Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from him.
He is- so strong.
I must see Dr. Jack!

A company of witnesses God gathers to assail me. The lovers and slayers of dearest Lucy.
Holmwood, whose father I had known long ago in the Windham Gentlemen’s Society.
Morris, the scholar-adventurer who plays at being a rough cowboy.
Harker, beloved to Madame Mina and pawn in the arrival of the Master.
And Van Helsing, Lucy’s murderer and redeemer.
I only wanted my doctor. Why must her other men come to torment me?
They say nothing of her. Why should they? They know nothing of what we shared. They regard me as but a mere curiosity.
Except for Van Helsing. He suspects something, though even he is not aware of who
enslaves me, and I can not tell him.
I implore Dr. Jack to release me, bound, shackled, straitjacketed, if need be, but do not let me remain here!
I flatter them. I strive for rational discourse. I appeal to the benevolence of my intentions. Just let me depart this place before I invite disaster!
But I can not tell them why, for I am not my own master.
They will not listen. They do not comprehend that I beg for the sake of another. That not only my soul but that of their beloved and living hope is at stake.
But I may not tell.
“Let me go!
“I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting for my soul!”
They turn away.
Remember later, Dr. Jack, that I did all I could to warn you.

Still before dawn, the men leave the house, leaving only the patients and the staff, and
Madame Mina.
And now him, needing me to admit him.
Why, Master? There are only poor mad souls from which to feed.
He has his reasons, his needs to satisfy, and he bids me open his way. But he laughs at my reticence, and makes me promises.
I look out upon the lawn. From behind the bushes, out of the trees, from everywhere- rats! Rats!! Rats!!! Myriads of rats, and dogs and cats to eat them, all compounding years of
life for me!
“All these lives, and more, and greater, will I give you, through all ages, world without
end, if you but fall down and worship me.”
A bloody mist envelops me, a pillar of cloud and fire, as I genuflect.
“Come in, Lord and Master.”
From now on, he no longer needs me to make straight his highway.
But what could he seek here? Who would be a worthy prey, midst all these unfortunate
lunatics?
No.
Not her. Please.
But he has his reasons. His ways are not mine, and he is so strong.
Forgive me, God..., Lucy.
...Mina.


V: A PLAGUE OF SOULS

October 1, afternoon

He ignores my warning, my plea to be removed. Now he wants to see me once more.
Damned thick-headed Dutchman with his idiotic brain-theories!
Why waste any words on him?
I know my only recourse.

Now comes his pet, Dr. Jack, no doubt in wonder why I rebuffed his esteemed mentor.
But Dr. Jack does wish me well, not just interested in how I can demonstrate some theory. Except that he wants to know why I no longer bother with flies.
I mock him with pseudo-profundity, which he does not comprehend. “The fly... it’s wings typify the aerial powers of the psychic faculties.” What rot. “The ancients did well to
typify the soul as a butterfly.”
Good analytical Dr. Jack, he finds the point that concerns me, and drives it home.
“Oh, it’s a soul you want now?”
No! Not souls. Life alone, but not the souls. And I have all the life I need.
“So you are a god, commanding life?”, he supposes, condescendingly.
I return his condescension. “Not at all. God’s realm is spiritual. Mine purely earthy,
though I occupy the terrestrial position that Enoch occupies spiritually.” As Enoch “walked with
God”, I walk with one of His contemporaries.
The doctor does not follow the Enoch analogy, and I cannot enlighten him. Thus, he
returns to the issue of souls and lives, and my casual attitude towards both.
Why would I want souls? I cannot eat or dri- absorb them. Regarding life, I have all I
need. With good friends, like Dr. Jack, I shall never lack.
Why did I tell him that? I have given far too much away. He notes my smirk at my own
stupidity. I cannot continue this exchange. He departs as I fall into a sulk.
Why did I speak as if the good doctor were only part of that great chain of being at which
I feed? I would never want to do him harm. I regret my attack on him over two weeks ago. Even less would I want his soul, anyone’s soul, anything’s soul.
Lives, souls, are they inseparable? Miss Lucy gave the Master her new life, did he also
take her soul? Did she regain that soul when her men staked her? Will he take Madame Mina’s
soul? Could she ever regain it?
What of the lives I’ve taken? Do I possess their souls? Am I their keeper- a god to the
souls of flies and spiders, birds and rodents? Is my soul a hybrid of them all?
What of the human souls I might deliver up to him? He took Lucy without my aid. Yet
he needed my cooperation to get to Mina. Will her soul also plague me in the Aetherial realms?
Doctor Jack returns! How glad I am to see him.
“What about souls?” I ask.
“What about them yourself?”
“I don’t want any souls!”
“You like life, and you want life?”
“Oh yes! But that is all right. You needn’t worry about that.”
“But how might we get a life without the soul also? A fine time you’ll have out flying
with all the insect and bird and cat souls about you. You’ve got their lives and you must deal
with their souls.”
Damn him and his constant prattle of souls. Much as I try to avoid it, it never ceases to
agitate me. I turn away till he offers me sugar for my flies.
I laugh, “Flies are such poor things after all. But I still don’t want their buzzing souls
about me.”
“Spiders?”, he suggests.
“What good are they? Not much to eat or dri-, consume... ‘Small deer’... I’m past all that. You might as well ask a man to eat molecules with chopsticks as to interest me in lesser
carnivora, when I see what I have before me.”
“Ah, big things to sink your teeth in? An elephant, perhaps?”
“Ridiculous nonsense!”, I mutter. Yet he wonders what an elephant soul might be like.
“I don’t want any souls, elephant or whatever! Damn you and your souls! Isn’t there
enough to cause me pain and worry, to distract and bother me, other than souls?”
He signals the keepers for the restraints. I must behave. I cannot afford to be bound, lest
he appear tonight.
“Forgive me, Doctor. There’s no need for help. I’m so worried I tend to be irritable. If
you knew the problem I must work out, you would understand. I must think freely, and can’t do
so when bodily restrained. Please. I know you’ll understand.”
He relents.
“Thank you, Dr. Seward, for your consideration. I am very grateful.” I shake his hand,
clasp his shoulder. He starts, but realizes I intend no harm, and so, he departs.
Flies. They do sound good now. I’ll need all the strength I can get.
Doctor Jack returns with Van Helsing. I am too occupied to bother with them.

All through the day, unto the night, not even a blow-fly. He enters without a word, even
a glance to me, with no resistance from me. I can do nothing but pray; the spirit willing, the
flesh so weak.
Later, as he leaves, he doesn’t even smell the same.
I almost thought Madame Mina had arrived.


VI: WRESTLING UNTO DAWN

October 2

I could not resist last night.
I must tonight.
Doctor Jack has fetched Madame Mina for me. I must be assured that she is well,
unharmed.
But she is so white, so diluted. Has he fed so much from her already? She’s become one of those pale people so repulsive in their listlessness. The Beast has kissed her, but has yet to feed her.
God willing, he never shall.
I treat her tenderly, holding back my affliction of the mind, working to be sane and strong for her sake. I can’t warn her of the coming darkness. She could not bear it and he still will not let me.
As she departs, I grab her hand. She does not start. She knows I would never hurt her. Rather, she motions for Dr. Jack to leave me be as I kiss her hand and, for the last time, request the Lord’s blessing upon her.
She will see tomorrow. I likely will not.
But I mean to take him with me.

I have eaten well. Not just my standard fare of lives, which has been plentiful, but even the typical meal served all the patients. Madmen are said to have great strength, and I shall need it all.
Jacob held onto the Angel till dawn and became Israel.
I shall hold the Demon till dawn and become redeemed.
“Even though he slay me, yet will I trust God.”
Not exactly what Job meant, but near enough.

The sun is long set. I perch on my window ledge, watching the ruined abbey through the newly reinforced bars. I would have small chance of breaking these. What chance have I of breaking him?
Fog breathes from the earth, creeps through the ruins into the hospital garden. A casual observer would see nothing amiss, but for a curious occasional flash of red. “Only a will o’ the wisp,” they’d think.
But I know his eyes.
I retreat to the far corner, bowing down. Streams of mist flow through the bars, merging in a dark lupine sea. He no longer requires my welcome. As his cloud fills my cell, I spring to those scarlet sparks in its midst and grab for his throat.
I feel his response, a mixture of rage, and amusement, and wonder, and even a little
admiration. Fog withdraws into form to do battle with me.
How long do we contend? Long enough to further enrage him. Long enough that I wonder if I might win.
Until I err, and look into his face, and see his eyes, and see what he has seen. Four centuries of Hell.
Seas of blood, midst piles of flesh shredded under his saber. Forests of Turk-bearing stakes. Disemboweled mistresses and incinerated beggars. All while he was just mortal.
As he lay dying, encompassed by his Mohammedan foes, he bargains, not with them, but
with Hell.
Hell consents. It will not take him from the Earth.
He shall bring It here.
Four centuries, he has languished in his homeland. Broken battlements and peasant
superstitions shielding his paltry household of two mistresses and a cousin, a countess named Elizabeth Bathory. All ruling a meager Rumanian cattlepen of terrified dullards.
Little wonder he came here.
Soon as he felt strong enough to travel.
Six months in England has yielded almost as many children here as did 400 years there.
Soon he will reach for Buckingham, then the globe.
I know full well whom I now fight.
He is not the Devil
But he sits at the right hand of that Prince.
He flows through my arms like water, or blood.
One thing more I realize.
“You never intended to grant me life!”
He laughs, “Always there will be weak souls at my command. Why grant one my
immortality?”
“That was why you let Lucy die!”
“Your faculties of reason are becoming impressively clear, Herr Renfield, as your passion overrides your madness. Yes. The little fool could not stay out of the kindergarten. Once public notice arises, there must be extreme remedies. Still, I would have sheltered her, till she whored her gift to a foolish fly-eating old man. That crime had to be punished. The vigor of her blood had to be broken.”
“So that the power of Undeath in my own blood might be stilled.”
“Quite correct. Now step aside and I shall have mercy.”
“Not quite, Impaler Vlad, Count Dracula!
“For Lucy, for Mina, for Christ Himself!”
I entangle my arms in his cloak, to delay him, so I might call for help.
Crimson fury propels me upward, storms through my brain. Skull and spine shattering.
“God! God! God!”
The Angel of Death slithers out to mate. Pray God my screams reach them before he
reaches her.

October 3, past midnight

A horrible dream. I awaken. Doctor Jack and Van Helsing hover about, with surgical
tools. Take off my bonds. I cannot move. So weak. Such pain.
A sip of brandy alerts me. Morris and Godalming stand round. No dream, but horrible
reality.
Dying, at least my brain is. Before I die, or worse, I must confess my cowardice, my
surrender to his lures, and my delivering a new bride to his embrace.
They bolt out. Dear God, let them be in time.
No. My words only delayed them. My testimony only gave him time to consummate the
marriage.
Communion is served.
She is sealed to the Beast.
Communion- if only Van Helsing had remained to give me last rites. He has- a dispensation.
Serve it to Mina, rather, that Eternal Blood purify undead bile.
Kyrie eleison.
Lord Christ, mercy.
For my idolatry, my gluttony, my service to Thine ancient foe.
Take me back.
Cleanse my soul of his mark.
Miss Lucy, pray for me, that I die sane and Christian- and that Madame Mina escape your fate.
And that, after I die, I rise only at that Last Day, and not before.
Dreadful and gracious Jehovah, guide Van Helsing. Strengthen the hands of Harker and
Morris as they strike him whom I now know to be Anti-Christ.
Sweet Jesus, into Thy hands-
Ah, Lucy-










POSTSCRIPT

From the desk of Dr. Jack Seward, not included in
the phonograph diary or in the materials given the
Irish writer, B. Stoker-

1887, October 3

Mrs. Harker defiled, the Count escaped, poor Renfield dead.
His look of sane repose convinces me that he had died as he had hoped, a sane man who
had won back his soul. The grace of God shine upon him and grant him peace.
Now to insure he is truly free...
Van Helsing drains the body of blood, diluting it with holy water, pouring it onto the ground of St. Andrew’s churchyard, where the body shall be interred.
I sever the head from the body, searing the wounds, and applying garlic to both halves ofthe neck. We remove the heart, cremating it in a fire of garlic, wild rose, and hawthorn, cooling the ashes with Van Helsing’s blessed water, and casting them also in the churchyard.
Finally, we do bury him, the Host in his mouth, a crucifix clasped to his chest.
He rests, I pray. He is the first to die in our cause, but I fear, not the last. God have mercy on us all.
Of the many questions about Richard M. Renfield, two perplex me most:
Did the Count incite his madness or merely exploit it? But more bothersome-
How did he know about Lucy?


THE END