Stokers Shadow by Paul Butler Page B

dovelike movement of the curtains, carried along by the gorgeous fantasies in Dracula, and the heady, succulent images of blood and death. One passage is replaying in her mind: Jonathan Harker peering out of a castle window at night only to see the Count slowly crawl like a lizard down the sheer vertical wall, his cloak spreading around him like great black wings. She thinks of the disbelief that must accompany such a sight, and the abandon it must take to weave such ideas into a story. She looks into the soft, magical darkness and thinks of Mr. William Stoker
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    William is floating on the undulating breeze. He does not quite recognize the garden around him which abounds with midsummer life: squirrels, rabbits, swifts and swallows darting from tree to tree. But the bright starlight and the intoxicating scent of wild roses seem to echo a world from his childhood, a mythic forest of paradise and plenty which seems to have been always beyond the rim of his imagination. He wafts effortlessly past the grand cedar tree with its levels of luscious green from which heads and tails of squirrels appear and disappear as though lost in the ecstasy of endless discovery. Although the moon is out, there is sunlight too. Day and night interchange constantly like brightness and shadow beneath a half-clouded sky. Patches of the garden dance joyfully in pools of gold, just as others glisten in the silver-blue of night. Each is the equal in beauty to the other; in both moonlight and sunlight every blade and leaf dances with the impossible, glorious happiness of perpetual life and motion
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    A pale brick wall comes into view with ivy trailing upwards like a river. William follows spirit-like, inhaling the white ivy blossom as he reaches it. He finds his outstretched hand is touching the cool moist stone, and slowly his hands and feet join onto the wall and brush against the ivy leaves and branches as he begins to ascend. His fingers ease effortlessly into the wall as though it were putty and he feels a sweet sensation as if his hands and fingers have gained the ability to taste. A hummingbird whirs at his shoulder and he lifts himself higher, enjoying the sweet moisture from the brick as it seeps into his skin. He raises himself from sunlight intoa patch of glistening moonlight and becomes aware of soft ringlets of gold suspended above him. He ascends further and feels the silken joyous texture of golden hair tumbling upon his forehead and cheeks, like delirious, sparkling rain. He caresses the hair with his hands and whispers tenderly the name: “Mary, Mary,” as her face comes into view before him
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    A second later things have changed. Mary is in Middle Ages costume again and William is standing in a dungeon with his back against a dripping wall. William looks into her bright smile and ocean-blue eyes. She pulls the black shackles from his hands, letting them drop like licorice. Mary comes closer, her lips so close to his neck that her warm breath touches. “Mary,” William murmurs again. Darkness closes around him and he notices that everything has turned to a horizontal position and that the dungeon wall has become soft and hollow, obeying the contours of his back. He calls her name into the darkness once more and then sees the window and dressing table in the indistinct moonlight
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    He shoots up in bed, aware suddenly of Maud’s warmth beside him. He watches her dark shape closely making sure his wife is asleep
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    S HE MAKES A low primal groan which subsides into a slow exhalation. William assumes she must be in a deep sleep. Reassured, he gazes towards the moonlight-brightened curtains and remembers last night’s vision. He feels drawn to the impossible, to the idea his dreams are part of a message in cipher, something that will lead him ultimately into the gardenof paradise he keeps glimpsing – towards the notion that his father’s spirit might be a messenger leading the way, telling him where he took a wrong