Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 31: Down, Down to the Tomb

These may be the last words I ever write in this diary, so you'll forgive me if I get a little prosaic. I slept till just before the dawn. When there was enough light to see, the villagers broke camp, done with whatever it is that Hannibal bade them do. Now, as I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes, with unknown freight inside. There is a sound of hammering; it is the box lids being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again along the courtyard, with many other idle feet coming behind them. Down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the villagers as they pass into the distance.

I'm going to try. Today's as good as any other and if Death comes for me, he'll find me ready.

I have to know. I have to understand. I've already given up on sanity and rationality and self-preservation.

I need to know who I am.

Will hid his journal at the first sound of Abigail's footfalls in the hallway, collapsing back under the blankets and feigning sleep. He listened for the key in the lock, but did not move or make any indication he was awake. He heard her come in and set down a tray, then approach him. Pressure on the bed, a hand on his shoulder. "Will?" He didn't move. She tried again. "Will?"

He moaned piteously and hid his face from the light.

"I'm sorry," she apologized quickly, drawing the curtains. "Is it bad today?"

"Abigail," he rasped, then pretended to drift off again, purposely breathing shallowly and playing up the wheeze in his lungs.

If his ambient pulse was to be believed, his empathy trusted, she was suddenly spiked with anxiety. "Here, let me get you some water." She tried to help him sit up. He feigned trying to help, but left her with his dead weight. She put the cup to his lips and he choked, wracking his body with coughs.

It was early morning; she wouldn't know what to do, and Hannibal was unavailable. Just as Will had planned.

"Let me get your medicine," she suggested, voice tight and thin.

"No more laudanum," he begged thinly. "It d-doesn't... it doesn't do anything..." He coughed again. "The bee lady. Her medicine. That... m-must be w-what... what helped l-last time."

"We don't have any more," she said, passing her cool hand over his forehead.

"Please," he managed before dissolving into another coughing fit.

"If I hurry, it takes over an hour to get there. Find the woman and come back...?"

He closed his eyes, contorted his face in pain. "It helped last time. My throat..." He coughed weakly. "If it wasn't... so sore, maybe I could eat more."

"All right," she relented. "I'll tell Peter to come up and sit with you."

"No, he's... morning feeding..." Will coughed again, accepting help with drinking and managing not to choke. He took several thankful breaths. "I'm... s-sleep... until you get back."

"I'll go as fast as I can." She patted his hand and left, locking the door behind her.

Will waited until her steps retreated down the hall. Then he got out of bed and crept over to the window. His legs were weak, but he was not as incapacitated as he'd led the girl to believe. Peering out, he saw her disappear briefly beneath the arch that would take her to Peter, then re-emerge, hurrying along with her skirts clutched up.

Will took a couple of bites of corn mash, forcing them down with some tea. He needed his strength. Dressing in trousers, boots, and shirt, he paused and dug around in his satchel. There it was, tucked in the corner of the bag beneath the edge of his legal files. Will slowly lifted the blue-beaded rosary out of the darkness and held it up to the morning light, examining the tiny silver Christ stretched on the cross that dangled from it.