1893
“An angel touched my brain once,” the patient says. Aside from his personal experience, dealing with madmen is not his specialty – he leaves that field of work to Jack Seward – but Abraham Van Helsing understands that attending physicians may either indulge or disabuse a patient’s delusions, and he merely nods, his expression neutral.
“You don’t believe me?”
“We have only met,” Van Helsing says. “I am hardly the man to judge your story. Tell me more.”
The patient smiles, showing off a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Well, your average rector will tell you that the prestidigitation of the universe upon the epithelium of the cerebral cortex is a glorious and beautiful thing, and they would be right. However, I can assure you that not a single one of them knows that of whence they speak – unlike myself, of course. What they won’t tell you, knowing nothing of the immense mystery of the divine, is that the beatific vision does not cohabit with the crude gray matter of flesh and bone.”
“Slower please,” Van Helsing says. “My English is not so good as yours. And tell me your name.”
“Of course! My name is Renfield. Robert M. Renfield. Or is it Richard? I don’t really remember anymore. To put it simply, when an angel touches your brain – as happened to me – your brain rots. And it is marvelous, though it resulted in the unfortunate incident with the cleaver. Or was it an axe?”
“What about the flies and spiders?”
“Do not believe Seward about the flies.” Robert M. Renfield, or perhaps Richard, scowls at him. “Seward lies.”
“I will keep that in mind. Your observations on theology are quite interesting, but I believe you wanted to discuss other matters.”
“Your case in London, the unfortunate young woman?” Renfield grins at the expression on Van Helsing’s face. “Seward talks, and he thinks that I can’t overhear. But the young woman, the touch of angels – not two different subjects. Indeed, I would say that she has been the object of divine visitation herself. This young lady, has she been weak… bloodless?”
“These are matters between the doctor and patient.” Abraham Van Helsing arranges his face so that Renfield does not see his shock. “I’m afraid I can say no more.”
“Of course not.” R. M. Renfield spends thirty seconds contemplating the tips of his fingers as Van Helsing waits. “But I think you can rest assured that her condition is not the result of some earthly malady, but the product of divine visitation. Of course, you can take your chances if you wish to disregard the words of a madman.”
“There is wisdom to be found in many places,” Van Helsing says, then adds after a moment’s hesitation, “Are you mad?”
“Heavens, no! After the unfortunate… incident, I was arrested and informed that I would be hauled before the court to stand trial. Having spent the night contemplating the horror of being dropped into the void at the end of a hangman’s rope, I proceeded – not due to insanity, but by means of a well thought-out and crafted plan – to free myself from the hands of the executioner in exchange for an indefinite stay under the loving care of Doctor John Seward, MD, PhD, Esq., etc., etc. Had I known then what I know now, I would have opted for the rope. Anyhow, I suspect that the young lady’s problems lie somewhat near at hand.”
Renfield casts an ominous glance through the window, toward the gloomy old ruin that is Seward’s nearest neighbor. The lunatic speaks in half-truths and riddles, but Van Helsing’s own exploration of spiritual matters, a desperate quest for consolation from Isaak’s (angel, he thinks, and the word dies as he looks at Renfield), leave him open to all possibilities. Some claim that madmen, their minds unencumbered by rationality, can see the next world more clearly.
“This angel.” Van Helsing stares with such intensity that Renfield looks away. “If such a being were afflicting my patient, how would I make contact with it?”
“Let me go, and I’ll take you to him.”
“For now, Doctor Seward has ordered that you remain confined.” He turns to leave. “However, we shall talk again.”
“Professor Van Helsing? A final word please.”
Abraham Van Helsing pauses in the doorway.
“For the record, I did not soil myself in court. I told you already that Seward lies.”