Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 16: Doth He List to My Cry?

"What happened to your neck?"

Will paused, lifting an unconscious hand to press the pads of his fingers against the injured place. "Cut myself shaving," he said.

"Ah." Count Lecter held a branch of brambles aside so Will could slip past them without the thorns snagging his clothing. They were deep in the forest, having hiked further down the mountain. The promise of spring sang between the bare trees, many of them budding or unfurling tiny leaves. Here and there they passed wild crab apple trees and flowering pussywillows. Already the undergrowth had woken from the clutches of winter, adding green to the landscape. "Seems you accomplished the task, regardless."

Will rubbed his smooth face. "Wasn't easy. I, uh, dropped my shaving mirror."

They made their way down into a little dell inhabited by an ancient, twisted tree that listed to the side, half-uprooted. The sun beamed down in full force, warming the glade with golden light. A little stream flashed silver nearby, filling the air with its clear song. Will's heart swelled. Natural places like this were a treasure, and it seemed like Hannibal's lands were full of hidden gems like this.

They broke the treeline, making for the exposed roots of the old oak, in no hurry at all, letting the sun tickle their backs. "W-why aren't there any mirrors?" Will asked tentatively as Hannibal knelt to examine a crocus that had burst up through the patchy grass, a lone flag of purple and ivory. "I mean, in my room, and the library, other places I've been..."

Hannibal straightened, the small flower between his fingers now, brushing imaginary grit from his knee with his free hand. "I fear you'll find my explanation borders on the ridiculous. I know you're a man of sense. England is a hub of science and industry. I hesitate to explain something that is rooted entirely in emotion and superstition."

"Transylvania isn't England," Will reminded him. "And I'm not in any place to judge you. Wouldn't want to."

Hannibal stepped closer. Will held his breath as the count threaded the delicate flower through his buttonhole. "In our traditions here, mirrors trap the souls of the dead if left uncovered after someone dies in the house. Smashing them, presumably, might be even more effective in preventing the soul from transitioning to the afterlife."

"I'm sorry," Will said reflexively.

"Will," Count Lecter said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Please don't apologize for trying to understand me. It's a welcome gift."

"I don't like bringing up things that make you..." Will shrugged helplessly as the hand on his shoulder glided down softly to his elbow, then traced beneath his forearm to clasp his hand. "I don't know. I don't know what to say or-or not say about..."

"About my husband," Hannibal finished for him.

Will nodded, pressing his lips together, looking down at the flower attached to his waistcoat, not at the count.

"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Why is a mystery to any of us. It could be part of a plan. It's easier to see farther along a road from a high seat, and Heaven must be the highest seat of all." The count squeezed his hand reassuringly, a cool press of flesh. "Or, as I've come to think, He is erratic because there is no master plan aside from his whims, which can be generous or cruel, depending on His mood."

Will tried to grasp the thread of what Hannibal was saying to him. "God took your husband from you...?"

"Many tend to cling to the things he takes away. But we would all do well to remember that he giveth, and can give generously." The count's other hand rose slowly to push aside a lock of hair from the side of Will's face where the gentle breeze stirred it. "Though He is not constant. Not as impartial or balanced as Nature herself." He paused, looking at the gnarled, half-collapsed tree. "Shall we see some of her precious bounty?"