Immortality

***
Nineteen

Abraham lay in bed, trying not to think, but for a man of his intellectual disposition that was almost entirely impossible, and especially considering the circumstances in which he was currently to be found. His usual optimistic nature had been eclipsed by a feeling of almost total resignation due to his brother’s disappearance; everything for which he had planned now seemed doomed to failure, and though not ordinarily disposed to bouts of self-pity, it was in total, unabashed self-pity that he remained in bed. He was trying not to think.

He found that the harder he tried to clear his mind and lie there blankly, the more recent events sprang forth; most frequently he dwelt on his brother, Gabriel, and the great amount of reliance he had upon him to fulfil their vow to the Church and destroy Dracula. How foolish he had been to factor Gabriel so very strongly into his plans! There was and had never been a way to secure his participation with any certainty, though until his disappearance everything had gone more or less as planned. Now he was gone, the plan had failed. It had taken that failure to bring Abraham to the realisation that he should have learned to do without his brother long ago.

He wanted someone to blame. He could have blamed Gabriel, who had no memory of his past to speak of and who he could not even be sure believed that he was his brother. He wanted to blame Carl or the landlady of the village’s small inn in which they were lodged, but found that he could not; if he himself had not prevented Gabriel’s disappearance then how could he expect anyone else to have done it? He wanted to blame whatever agent had stolen Gabriel away, but though he felt sure that such an agent did indeed exist he had little evidence as to who or what it had been. And he wanted to blame Dorian Gray, though he could not say exactly why.

Lying beneath the blankets of his bed, he thought of Dorian. Though he had found intriguing, due to his rather unusual physical properties, he had never actually *liked* him and had definitely not trusted him. Considering all that he knew of him, how could he? Perhaps others were taken in by his looks and his grace and that strange air of innocence, but knowing what he did, Abraham had never been so taken in. Still, Dorian had served a purpose, bringing Gabriel to him though committing an act of betrayal in the process. He had hoped that given Dorian’s history with Gabriel he might have resisted, though he’d been almost sure that any faith put in him would have been severely misplaced. Still, suspicious of Dorian Gray as he was, he could not quite bring himself to believe that he was responsible for Gabriel’s vanishing. So, he could not blame him either.

In the end the moping was too much for his optimistic if ultimately weary soul, and he clambered out of bed. He sighed and washed and dressed and went down to breakfast at almost half past ten, and picked at his food distractedly. The innkeeper seemo beo be worried, though he barely registered this. Carl also seemed worried, judging by the anxious glances that he cast across the table and the strange silence to which he adhered, though Abraham felt that his worry was more for the younger Van Helsing than himself.

“We should go over to the other village, just to check that he isn’t there,” Carl said eventually, breaking the tense silence. Abraham sighed and then mutely nodded his agreement, though he felt very little enthusiasm.

They left, the two of them, and spent the rest of the morning finding the best place to cross the river, then riding to the village that housed the manor of the Valerious family. The villagers were glad to see Carl and told him in exaggerated whispers of Dracula’s return, but not a one of them had seen Gabriel. Carl thanked them as Abraham looked silently on, and then they left again to return to the inn before dark, Carl assuring the villagers as they rode athatthat soon Dracula would bother them no more. Abraham felt, sagging in his saddle, that Carl’s words had been misleading.

But they found when they returned that several of the inhabitants of the village where they were staying were waiting for them in the inn. Carl, who had been biting back his bitter disappointment since they’d found that there was no word of Gabriel, seemed suddenly brimming with enthusiasm. Though still sceptical himself, Abraham had an idea why.

“I just wish that I’d had the time to make more solar grenades,” muttered Carl, mostly to himself, as he ushered Abraham to a table the villagers crowded round. Not that Abraham had any idea what a solar grenade actually was, but Carl’s renewed optimism was nevertheless extremely obvious, and he supposed that, at least, was somewhat heartening.

As it turned out, the villagers were there to offer their support, and not of the moral variety; they were ready to take up their scythes and their pitchforks and storm Dracula’s castle all by themselves if need be. It seemed that all it took to have them rally round was a leader they saw as strong and knowledgeable, such as the elder brother of the infamous Van Helsing, and he assumed that Gabriel’s previous, though temporary, success had also had an effect. Kill Dracula once and suddenly you have whole villages at your disposal, or the majority of the able-bodied men of *one* village, at least.

At first, though swayed somewhat by their zeal, he remained unconvinced that they could succeed. The villagers took that as a sign that he just required more enthusiasm on their part, and their hastily elected spokesperson went into a rather rousing speech on how Dracula had terrorised not only the village where the Valerious family had lived but several villages up and down that stretch of the river, including theirs. Following Gabriel Van Helsing’s previous triumph and the subsequent peace, they felt they could not go back to living in fear, wondering who would be the vampires’ next victim. So, in the great tradition of the Transylvanian village lynch mob, they were willing to band together and storm the castle, risk life and limb to put down their local terror once and for all.

Abraham listened mutely from behind a mug of ale. He wasn’t sure that one rather small and raggedy mob of villagers, no matter their zeal, could defeat the unholy undead, but then Carl pointed out that he hadn’t exactly been overflowing with optimism for the success of their previous plan, either. He sighed, finished off his ale and conceded the point. Then he nodded solemnly and told the villagers that they’d be leaving at daybreak, and to gather with their weapons by the well in the square. They would be going after Dracula.

Then the mob dispersed. They filtered from the inn with their perplexingly high spirits and left Abraham alone at the table with Carl. He called for more ale – he had a feeling that he’d need it.

“This is not a good plan, Carl,” he said, rubbing at his silver-grey three-day beard.

“No, I suspect that you’re right,” Carl replied. “But it is, however, the only plan that we have.”

Abraham smiled vaguely and nodded. “Yes, you’re right,” he said. “For a friar you have remarkable sense.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Which is as it was meant.”

The ale arrived, along with two bowls of stew, piping hot, and a plate of bread. The landlady, who was a surprisingly good cook, disappeared into the kitchen and from there to her own part of the building, and Abraham and Carl ate in silence for a while. It was an amicable silence without any of that usual awkwardness, and Abraham wondered just when it was that he’d come to respect the overly optimistic yet also inexplicably sensible Catholic friar. After all, it wasn’t as though he had much faith left in the Catholic Church; once upon a time he’d had all the faith in the world, all the zeal of the villagers, all of Carl’s upbeat disposition toward life, but now he was tired. He’d been tired for a very long time. He just wanted to rest.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he said, more to himself than to Carl, as they walked across the room to the chairs by the fireplace. There was a good fire blazing and he settled down to warm himself by it.

“Exactly how old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?” Carl peered at him inquisitively as they took the chairs and settled back.

Abraham smiled and crossed his legs. “Old enough,” he said. “Rather older than my brother.”

Apparently Carl knew not to push, and nodded instead. “But Van… Gabriel *is* your brother?”

“Oh yes.” Abraham nodded, looking Carl in the eye as the twinkle returned to his own. “Half-brothers, yes – Gabriel is the son of our father’s second wife, and I his first, but we were raised as brothers. I love him as a brother and should his memory return I should hope that he would say the same of me.” Then he grew silent, and could see from the look on Carl’s face that he knew what he was thinking.

“Perhaps we’ll find him,” Carl said. “I’m sure he’s alive. Perhaps Dracula took him and we’ll find him there.”

Abraham nodded. “Yes, I’m sure that you’re quite right,” he said. “But that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Carl seemed ready to question him but remained silence as Abraham’s expression closed in markedly. He sighed and drank his ale and hoped that they would all live to see the end, but there was little hope. Some if not all of the villagers would surely die. Perhaps Carl or himself would die, also. Perhaps Gabriel was already dead. And if he wasn’t, well… Abraham reached up and touched the spot on his shirt that lay over the cross that he wore around his neck. If not, then God help them.

***