CAVE ENCOUNTERS

Tara didn't need to urge the mare on. She made the horse feel how important their mission was and trusted that it would do its best. While the old druidess had learned to suppress fatigue and hunger for a while during her long life and retreat into a chamber of her mind to refresh herself, the mare had to conserve her strength. Tara didn't interfere and left it to the horse to choose its pace. And the gray mare understood how to adapt its speed to the terrain, conserving its strength. Only when exhaustion forced it did it stop in a meadow to graze and rest for a while, then it resumed its journey on its own. The two wolves stayed beside her. Only once did they disappear into the bushes to chase and bring down a weakened deer. They caught up with the rider who was descending a steep path at a walk. But in the valley, the ground was grassy and flat, and immediately the horse broke into a brisk trot. A pale crescent moon hung in the sky, reminding the druidess how few nights she had left until the new moon.

The expansive pasture narrowed down to a path. Sleepy sheep glanced over at them. The mare broke into a gallop and cleared the fieldstone wall at the end of the sheep pasture in an elegant leap.

"Great events are afoot when nocturnal riders roam the land!"

Tara reined in the horse and turned in the saddle. She hadn't seen the figure in dark fabrics and furs. The man emerged from under the old tree at the side of the road. The crescent moon cast no shadow over the path. Tara had the horse approach a little closer before she recognized him.

"Turlough, greetings to you. May the moonlight illuminate your path."

The old filí nodded. "I wish the same to you, Tamara Clíodhna. For now, the glow of the slender crescent grants you a safe ride through the night, but the shadows grow longer and shroud the land in darkness."

The druidess nodded. "Yes, I fear as much."

"It's the dark days that ripen great epics and dictate songs and stories for eternity to the poets. It is not shared memories and the treasure of poetry that hold a people together?"

Tara made a disgruntled face. "Perhaps you look forward to such times with eager anticipation, but I see my task as preventing them. It is the darkness of war that reaches for Ireland with its bony hand."

"Once again," said Turlough. "A war of men?"

"Perhaps, but I see mainly new struggles between werewolves and vampires."

Turlough shrugged. "They have always fought, sometimes more, sometimes less. They cannot unite in friendship and harmony; they are too different. It's like between Englishmen and Irish, between Anglicans and Catholics. Even if it seems calm on the surface. The fire smolders in secret until the flames find new fuel to rise high into the sky again. What fueled them this time?"

"A vampire and a werewolf whose love sought to transcend the boundaries of their kind."

"Were they killed? By the vampires or the werewolves?" The old filí nodded knowingly.

"He was killed, by whom, I cannot say. They did not let me see his body. It doesn't matter whether it was the vampires or the humans or even his own kind as punishment for his betrayal. What matters is that Áthair Faolchu wants what is right for his kind, but made the wrong decision."

"May I ask about your destination? You are headed north." The druidess nodded. "I am riding to Dunluce."

"To retrieve what you have vowed to protect," Turlough added.

She inclined her head. "You miss nothing."

"That's what makes a good filí. How else will he preserve the true heroics of his people in stories?"

Tara was about to reply, but the rush of wings made her look up at the sky. A shadow darted over them, and she instinctively reached out her arm. The eagle made one more loop and then landed on her forearm.

"Your messenger?"

Turlough remained silent as Tara nodded, giving her time to communicate silently with the animal.

"Bad news?" guessed the poet, reading her expression.

"Those I seek are no longer in Dunluce. They have sailed south to the Burren."

The poet raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Tara relayed to him in brief sentences what the eagle had conveyed to her in images. "I must hurry. I have lost much of the precious time that remains to us. Perhaps too much time." She waved her hand in farewell. "I must turn back and ride south. I wonder why he didn't send me a falcon." With that, she pressed her heels into the flanks of the horse, leaping back over the wall and racing across the pasture. The eagle flew above them, and soon they had disappeared from the poet's sight.

"Perhaps this story is worth witnessing with my own eyes," the filí murmured thoughtfully, then nodded. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned the mist, and moments later, a kestrel shot off after the rider.

The four young vampires looked at each other. "Your cousin? How could she come here?" Luciano asked. "That's impossible!"

"It's not impossible!" Ivy exclaimed, having followed Seymour around a wide pillar. The other three hurried to her. The two bats circled the figure sitting on a stone block, legs drawn up, knees clasped in both arms. The image formed by the echo signals was not sharp enough to make out the features, but they didn't need to. They could unmistakably recognize Anna Christina's scent. The vampire let out a cry and swatted at the two bats circling her ever closer.

"Get away from me. I didn't call for you."

Ivy pulled the lamp out of her pocket, unwrapped it from the oilcloth, and lit the wick. In the dim light, they stared at the Dracas, who met their astonished gaze with haughtiness.

"What's the matter? Why are you staring at me like that? Disappear, I didn't summon you!"

"What are you doing here?" Alisa blurted out. "Who have you met with?"

"Have you lost your mind? I have fled the unbearable Lycana and the vermin they proudly call the heirs!"

Franz Leopold stepped forward and grabbed her wrist, causing her to cry out in shock and pain. "I don't believe you. You want to convince me that you crawled through a water-filled passage just to avoid being with the others in a cave? How stupid do you think I am? So tell me: Who have you met with here? Did he come through the hole up there?"

Anna Christina stared up at the hole, confused. Either she was a good actress, or she really didn't know what Franz Leopold was talking about.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Don't lie to me! This is no game, in case you haven't realized."

He only let go of her when Ivy placed her hand on his arm. "She didn't dive through the water," she said firmly, pointing to the hem of Anna Christina's garment, which had darkened from moisture. But the rest seemed dry.

"That's not proof," Franz Leopold argued. "Our clothes are almost dry again."

"But not our hair," Ivy said. Despite her protest, Franz Leopold reached into his cousin's dark curls and reluctantly admitted that they were dry.

"How did you get here, if not through the water?"

"Through some passages or something," she retorted snappishly. "Should I draw a map or what?"

"That would actually be helpful," Luciano said, earning a contemptuous look.

"We'll find the way, as long as your trail is fresh," Ivy said.

"At least if you haven't been wading through water constantly," Alisa added.

"Yes, go and look for my tracks, but leave me alone now," Anna Christina hissed.

"You should come back with us," Ivy suggested in a friendly tone. "It's getting late. Look up, the sky is brightening."

"I'll go when I want to," the Dracas grumbled, but she got up and followed the others. Until the water hole they had emerged from, they could not make out Anna Christina's trail, but then the ground became drier, and her scent still rose from the stones she had touched.

"So we crawled through this water hole for nothing," Luciano grumbled.

"Not just us," Franz Leopold suspected, but the others didn't respond. A noise came from a side passage, sounding like a voice. They fell silent and listened. A clattering, as if something had struck against a boulder, and then an English curse.

"Isn't that Malcolm's voice?" Alisa took the lamp from Ivy's hand and hurried into the side branch.

"Malcolm!"

He stopped rubbing his shin and blinked at her. "Alisa, the gods of the night send you. How can it be so dark!"

She couldn't help but smile. "Wasn't this the first time you bumped into something?"

"No, damn it!" he said, rubbing his forehead, where a bump had already formed. Additionally, the fabric on his elbow was smeared with mud.

"Then it's not going so well for you with the bats yet," Alisa concluded.

He shook his head with a tragic expression. "No, and I wasn't thoughtful enough to bring a lamp."

"That was Ivy's idea. Although we actually didn't need the lamp urgently. We found out that it's easier with the bats when you team up," she explained.

"And so you teamed up with Ivy?" 

"No. Ivy went with Luciano, and I summoned a bat with Franz Leopold, just like we practiced today under Catriona's guidance," she replied.

"Don't bother, it's not for you," Franz Leopold interrupted, addressing Malcolm. "Only those who have a talent for reading thoughts and penetrating the mind of another, like us Dracas, can do it."

"And the Lycana," Luciano added.

A strange expression came over Malcolm's face, one that Alisa couldn't quite interpret. "What are you doing so far away from the main cave?" she asked him.

He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "I, well, I was looking for Ireen," he said after some hesitation. "She, like many others, has been wandering around a bit, and I started to worry."

"And then he got lost," Franz Leopold taunted, but no one paid attention to him.

"And where are Raymond and Rowena?" Alisa continued. "Why didn't they accompany you? Rowena mastered her bat unusually quickly today. She could have been a help to you in the dark passages."

"Yes, probably, but I haven't seen the two of them." Again, that expression. Was this all just an excuse? Why?

"Wouldn't you like to help me search?" Malcolm asked, looking into Alisa's eyes with his terribly beautiful blue eyes.

"Me? But I'm not sure if I can manage to connect my thoughts with yours..." Alisa trailed off, feeling compelled for some reason to lower her gaze to his shoes. She felt Franz Leopold in her mind and tried to shut him out from the Dracas. She didn't want to hear what he had to say.

"If we took the lamp with us, we wouldn't need a bat," Malcolm suggested.

"Give him the lamp and then come! We don't need it. But hold it up. I want to see his dumb face when you make the suggestion!"

Alisa ignored him. "I'd be happy to come with you to search for your cousin," she said, stepping to his side. "You go ahead. We'll be right behind you," she called to the others, then quickly strode down the corridor before Franz Leopold could make one of his mocking remarks.

"You'd better hurry," Ivy called after them. "Even though it stays dark in here, sleep will overpower you at sunrise!"

Alisa didn't reply. With the small lamp in hand, she walked beside Malcolm and enjoyed the feeling of being alone with him. They turned right and then left. She followed him and listened to his voice as he spoke of London and his family. It took her a while to realize that she couldn't detect Ireen's trail at all. There was only Malcolm's scent.

"She wasn't here!" 

"Who?" 

"Ireen! I can't sense the slightest trace of her." 

Malcolm didn't look her in the eye. "Then I must have lost her. It was perfectly clear three junctions further ahead." He took the lamp from her and led the way. With quick steps, he guided her through the passages. Alisa followed him. Thoughtfully, she watched his back and tried not to be distracted by how gracefully he moved and how beautifully his body was shaped.

Something was odd. If only she wasn't so tired. A leaden exhaustion, familiar to her, gripped her limbs and her mind. She wouldn't be able to resist it for long.

"Here's the trail again," he said with a sluggish voice. He blinked drowsily, as if a weight was pressing down on his eyelids. Alisa swayed. Malcolm caught her and pulled her close to him, so she could lean against his chest. It felt nice. Her head was so heavy, and his shoulder so inviting. His arm encircled her waist, giving her support, while he balanced the lamp in his other hand.

"We're almost there," he said indistinctly. "I remember where we are now. We have to go this way."

"Can we make it?" Alisa asked the fog that enveloped them. She only felt Malcolm's hand very clearly, and his scent permeated her like freshly sparkling blood.

"Yes, we can make it. Lean on me. I'll take you to your coffin."

It really wasn't far. Still, every step felt like a mile to Alisa. The lamp went out. Shadows danced before her eyes.

"A bat wouldn't be a bad idea right now," she mumbled, trying to imagine the creature in her mind. She could hear faint whistles, and the darkness seemed to clear before her eyes. A gentle breeze, as if from small leathery wings, brushed her face. Then suddenly, she could make out a warm glow, and the corridor ended in the dome-like hall. Seymour came bounding towards her with his tongue hanging out, Ivy following behind. She squeezed between Malcolm and Alisa, grabbing each by an arm. Malcolm sank into his coffin. "It's a pity I found you so late," he murmured. Then he fell back with closed eyes. The lid slammed shut. Ivy escorted Alisa to the coffin, which stood right beside hers.

"Has Ireen returned?" Ivy nodded. "Yes, she was already here when we arrived. Where have you been for so long?" "Somewhere in the tunnels out there," Alisa yawned and let herself sink back. The lid closed, and the comforting darkness enveloped her as the sun flooded the land with its morning light outside.

A final thought crossed Alisa's mind. How had Anna Christina managed to venture so far from the main cave without a lamp? Except for Franz Leopold, the Dracas had so far refused to participate seriously in the exercises. Their performances were even worse than those of the Nosferas, who at least made an effort. If not even Alisa or Franz Leopold had managed to use a bat alone, then Anna Christina certainly hadn't. Could she have felt her way through this labyrinth? Or was someone with her, helping her? If so, why hadn't they noticed his trail?

Rigor mortis overtook her before Alisa could ponder further.

"Do the gentlemen wish to travel?" the guest asked as the butler ushered him into the hall, where several suitcases and hat boxes were stacked. The butler nodded. "Yes, as far as I am informed, the carriage is due to arrive in two hours." The visitor understood that the butler would not divulge anything about the purpose and destination of his employers' journey, as this was the mark of a good butler. Thus, he had to wait with his question until the butler had led him into the breakfast room, where the mistress of the house and her son were sitting down to a late breakfast. The magnificent Georgian house on Merrion Square was one of Dublin's premier addresses. The guest approached the elderly lady and gallantly bent over the hand she extended to him.

"Lady Wilde, it's a pleasure," he said. She smiled graciously. Even seated, she was an impressive figure with her extravagant attire and conspicuous jewelry. But when she rose to her full six feet, often crowned with an extravagant headdress, she commanded every gathering. Whether this had offended her late husband, with his rather average height, the visitor did not know.

"Bram Stoker, how lovely to see you again," said the lady with her deep, melodious voice. "Please, sit. Charles will set another place. How is the charming Florence?" Bram thanked her and quickly changed the subject. He knew that Lady Wilde was a bit miffed at him because last year Florence Balcombe, whom her son was also hotly pursuing, had given him her hand in marriage. He couldn't help it - he had fallen in love with her just like Oscar had. But it had been Florence's decision!

Bram greeted his friend Oscar and then sank into one of the sumptuously upholstered chairs.

"Charles, bring wine for our guest!" the lady called, and the servant hastened to obey. "Or perhaps tea? Or hot chocolate?"

Bram opted for wine. As he sipped his glass, he thought that Sir William Wilde's widow certainly knew how to live. He had been the leading physician when it came to diseases of the eyes and ears, had written numerous medical books, and founded the first clinic for these ailments in Ireland. Even Queen Victoria had sent for his advice some years ago and then elevated him to the knighthood, which brought the family wealth and a place in high society.

"What brings you to us?" Lady Wilde's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"Henry Irving has given me a few weeks off after a strenuous theater season, so I'm taking the opportunity to visit home. And since I heard that Oscar is also in Dublin, I decided to call on you. But enough about me. I couldn't help but notice the luggage in the hall..."

"I'm going to travel," Lady Wilde explained. "And my son Oscar has kindly offered to accompany me."

Bram Stoker thought he saw displeasure flash across Oscar's face. "And where are you headed, if I may ask?"

He didn't know what he had expected. Perhaps one of the seaside resorts, even though it might have been a bit late in the year for that, or a trip to Paris or to the still warm South. In any case, he hadn't expected the answer the Lady gave him.

"To Connemara? To the west of Ireland? To the bogs of Connemara? Is there something there worth the arduous journey? When I think of Connemara, I only imagine lonely expanses, thin sheep, and poor tenants warming their hands by stinking peat fires."

"We have a country house on Lough Corrib," said the Lady. "Has Oscar never told you that he and his brother sketched caves, stone circles, and other relics of the past for the archaeological guide my husband wrote about Connemara?"

"And besides, you can fish and hunt wonderfully there. You should try the partridges!" Oscar rolled his eyes with pleasure. "I may be a lousy rider, but I know a thing or two about hunting."

"Then you go hunting?" Doubt tinged Bram's voice. It was already difficult for him to imagine his dandyishly dressed friend in a hunting lodge in the vastness of the bogs; but his mother first? Mother and son exchanged a quick glance. There was something strange, mysterious in the air. Bram had a sense for that. It was about more than just trout and partridges. He sat up straight in his chair.

"I would be honored if you considered me a friend of the family," he said, looking at the Lady, who regarded him with a stern expression.

"I don't mean to offend you, Mr. Stoker, but there are things that should remain within the family. I hope you understand that."

"Mother, he knows about your pseudonym and your work at the newspaper," Oscar interjected. "I told him."

His mother looked at him in surprise, but quickly regained her composure and displayed the indifferent expression expected of a lady of society.

"Well, if you want to confide in your friend, I won't object. You must know whom you trust."

Bram was sure she was thinking of Florence at that moment, but Oscar, it seemed to him, had long since moved on from that. Yes, he even seemed a little relieved that she had rejected his proposal and showed no haste in turning his attention to another lady. "We, that is actually Mother, have been approached by a circle of young men from the West, asking if she would lend her writing talent to their cause," Oscar began. His mother began to object, and Oscar immediately corrected himself. "No, not lend her talent to their cause, that's wrongly worded. To support the endeavor with her talent."

Bram looked from mother to son. "What men? And what exactly do they have in mind?"

"They are descendants of the old comrades of the Young Ireland movement of the 1850s," the Lady said after some hesitation, "supported by some Fenians whose fathers once emigrated to America."

After those words, she didn't need to explain the plan anymore. While the various movements may have differed in their methods, the goal had always been Ireland's emancipation from England. And that these men, meeting in the bogs of the West, were not seeking to achieve this through diplomatic means was immediately clear to Bram.

"It was a mistake that we postponed the start of the uprising in 1848, when fires of revolution were burning across Europe," Lady Wilde said.

"It was the year of the Great Famine," her son interjected. "Starting the uprising in the middle of harvest season would have caused even more deaths."

"You don't have to tell me that!" his mother exclaimed sharply. "After Duffy's arrest, I edited The Nation and tried everything to keep the fire burning until after the harvest, but it turned to ashes - also because the hoped-for support from America and France never materialized. And then the chance was missed."

Bram Stoker leaned forward in his chair and looked piercingly at the Lady. "And you believe it can work this time? Aren't you afraid that you and your family could bring disaster upon yourselves if this planned uprising - like so many before it - ends in a ridiculous damp squib? Forgive me for speaking so openly, but your husband didn't only have admirers! Many of his detractors would be rubbing their hands."

For a brief moment, Bram thought the Lady would show him out of the house, but the brief flicker in her eyes faded.

"I promised not to do anything that could discredit my sons. And yet..." There it was again, that warlike spark. "No one can stop me from putting my thoughts on paper. And if these articles help to foster the right mood to pave the way for a successful uprising, then it is my duty as an Irishwoman to use my talent for that purpose. My alter ego Speranza is back, and let me tell you, she has lost none of her power over the years!"

Bram glanced covertly at Oscar, who didn't seem particularly happy. He understood that his friend was only accompanying his mother on this trip because he hadn't been able to dissuade her, and now he hoped to keep her out of trouble, not because he himself wanted to take up arms and join the rebels. He was not someone who got physically involved in political affairs. He was an aesthete who reveled in the sound of his own sonnets. And even though he enjoyed hearing himself speak, it was among like-minded individuals who were interested in art and beauty, not on the political stage. However eloquent his friend might be, Bram doubted whether he would succeed in this case. Lady Wilde did not seem like someone who would let anyone meddle in her affairs.

They ate and drank in silence for a while. The servant poured wine and then left the room again. Bram's thoughts wandered westward to lonely moors and brave men ready to fight with wild determination for a free Ireland. Suddenly, an idea struck him.

"May I accompany you?" Mother and son stared at him equally surprised.

"What?" said Oscar eventually. "You want to come with us to Connemara? Do you intend to prove yourself as a revolutionary? Be careful! One can easily lose one's head in such endeavors."

Bram touched his neck with a wry grin. "Thank you for the warning, my friend. I plan to keep my head on my shoulders for many more years. I admit, I am curious about the conspirators, but also about the wild west of Ireland with its barren landscapes, where the English once displaced our great clans, gradually robbing them of their power and starving them. It is the land of our history - of myths and legends. Aren't there said to be werewolves in the moors? Fairies and witches and blood-sucking vampires?"

Oscar shook his head. "But of course! Your stories accompanied me as a child before falling asleep. I still hear my mother's voice when she mimicked the banshee or a witch!" His mother laughed.

"Mr. Stoker, you are obviously a fantasist as well. I wonder how you manage to run Irving's theater in London when fairies and vampires haunt your thoughts. Wouldn't you prefer to devote yourself more to literature like Oscar? I believe that would suit you."

Bram sighed and put on a tragic expression. "Nothing would please me more, Lady Wilde, but I have a wife to support and probably soon a couple of children, so I must also focus on such prosaic matters as earning money."

Lady Wilde didn't pursue the topic. Such matters were not discussed in polite society. Instead, she smiled graciously at the guest. "We would be delighted if you accompanied us westward. When will you be ready to travel? We plan to depart around noon. My carriage has already been ordered. Oscar will ride. He cannot bring himself to keep his mother company in the carriage."

Bram Stoker jumped up. "I can be back in an hour with my bag. I won't need more. However, I'll need to procure a suitable horse."

"You are most welcome in my carriage, Mr. Stoker!"

So they agreed to take turns riding. In Connemara, they could still look for another horse if necessary.

"Then I shall take my leave now, so as not to delay the departure," said Bram, bowing over the Lady's hand. He looked at his friend.

"See you in an hour then!" He hurried out lightly. He felt the travel fever quicken his heartbeat. The spirit of adventure had seized him, and he sensed that this journey would hold many surprises for them.