The Demeter nears England, but so few crew remain.
30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling me that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship.
Moon Phase: Waxing Crescent
Dracula must be absolutely gorged at this point.
With some projects done, and others on hold (Basic Bestiary. Waiting for more art), I started a new project over my extended weekend.
The High Witchcraft Tradition
Well..."new" might be the wrong word.
I have a lot of notes from other projects that didn't quite fit or didn't get developed enough to get added. Plus this is a book I have been picking at for a while and have been calling my "Last Witch Book." If it is that remains to be seen, but I do have some great ideas.
Here is the shape of the book so far.
High Magic
It will include the use of High Magic, so magic that invokes spirits, demons, angels and the like. I would also like to include High Magic options for Magic-users. A bit like my Hermetic Mage Prestige class I did for 3.x.
Advanced
This book will be my first "true" book for the Advanced era. So compatibility with OSRIC, Advanced Labyrinth Lord, and Old-School Essentials Advanced is implied. Originally this book was going to be part of my "Basic Witch" series and focus on how I mixed AD&D 1st ed with the Expert set back in the day. I still might do that. I have a lot of ideas for that sort of play, but this is not the book for that.
Plus I will freely admit I am not as enthusiastic for D&D's future as I once was. I will buy D&D 5R, I will even likely play it a few times. But as much as I love digital and online games, that is not my preferred mode.
So instead of endlessly complaining about it, I am just going to focus my efforts into the types of games I DO enjoy playing. If you are looking for ragey click-bait, you won't find it here.
Best of the Old, Best of the New (Maybe)
I love my old-school games. I also am rather fond of new-school games as well. For me it has always been about maximum fun. So I would love to go back over some of the newer developments in games and see what can be ported back over. This one is not a guarantee. My focus first and foremost is a witch book from circa 1986.
Cover Art
For this book I am going to commission some original cover art. I have already been sending out emails to artists I want to work with and ones I have worked with in the past for this. And as much as I love the Pre-Raphaelite covers I have used in the past, I have something specific in mind for this one.
Waterhouse's "The Magic Circle" above was one of the ideas I originally had. I am, of course, sad not to use it for this book, but I also want something new.
I want this book to be really good. I want it to challenge my writing ability and game design ability. Plus I also want it to be able to cover any "so-called" witch written about in the "Advanced-era." If someone else's book/game/adventure set in the same era with the same or similar rule system and they have a witch character, I want my rules to be flexible enough and comprehensive enough that you could play that character using my rules. Lofty? Maybe. Do able? Certainly.
Potential High Witches
I have been tossing this idea around for a few years now. I finally hit a critical mass of notes to make it a real book. For me as much as for you, here are my posts about it.
Links to relevant posts
The Demeter suffers more deaths.
29 July.—Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.
Moon Phase: Waxing Crescent
Dracula is hungry, and he will make himself appear younger by using the blood and life of this crew.
The Demeter travels through storms.
28 July.—Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours’ sleep. Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier.
NotesMoon Phase: Waxing Crescent
These storms are caused by Dracula. Both to weaken the crew and speed his journey to England.
Still no news from Harker.
27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him, though why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost that anæmic look which she had. I pray it will all last.
Moon Phase: Waxing Crescent
The plot, unbeknownst to our heroes is moving forward.
The Ring is the Holmwood Family estate.
Mina is getting increasingly worried about Jonathan.
26 July.—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan; I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood—he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming—is coming up here very shortly—as soon as he can leave town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he arrives.
Moon Phase: Waxing Crescent
So Lucy is walking in her sleep. Sleepwalking was of great interest to the Victorians both from the Spiritual and Scientific frames of mind. It was believed that the sleep walker was "between worlds" and had access to knowledge or wisdom.
Debate goes on. Was Lucy sleepwalking because she was under Dracula's thrall already, OR was she more susceptible of Dracula because of her history of sleepwalking? I believe it was the latter. Her father had it and Lucy represents the "Old World" of England vs. Mina's New World of England. So Lucy still has a foot in that other, older, and more spiritual world.
This also hints at the duality of Lucy. The innocent bride to be now and later the horrifying "Bloofer Lady" to come. This too was part of Victorian pop-psychology of the time. See the "Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" for a more developed example of this.
There is a solid implication here. Lucy, in her innocence, makes her a "tasty" target for Dracula. We have seen in many movies that while Lucy is Dracula's appetizer, Mina is the meal. She is described by Van Helsing as being "remarkable" and having a "man like mind." All Victorian for Mina is smart and shrewd. So. What sort of Vampire would Mina have been? Terrifying to be sure. I think this is a bit that Alan Moore grabbed onto in "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen."
We are really just getting introduced to Mina still. But she is, as I'll show, the real star and the real hero of this tale.
Mina has another encounter with the old fisherman and his friends.
25 July Whitby*—I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not admit anything, and downfaces everybody. If he can’t out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement with his views. Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a beautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends, and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it down:—
“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be, an’ nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ barguests an’ bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women a-belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an’ all grims an’ signs an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome beuk-bodies an’ railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful to think o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content with printin’ lies on paper an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant—simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote on them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all of them, an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all; an’ the memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or another! My gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an’ tryin’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them trimmlin’ and ditherin’, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippy from lyin’ in the sea that they can’t even keep their grup o’ them.”
I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was “showing off,” so I put in a word to keep him going:—
“Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not all wrong?”
“Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here; you come here a stranger, an’ you see this kirk-garth.” I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church. He went on: “And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be happed here, snod an’ snog?” I assented again. “Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun’s ’bacca-box on Friday night.” He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. “And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!” I went over and read:—
“Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, æt. 30.” When I came back Mr. Swales went on:—
“Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast of Andres! an’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above”—he pointed northwards—“or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey—I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in ’20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777**; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ an’ jostlin’ one another that way that it ’ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’ tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.” This was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.
“But,” I said, “surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really necessary?”
“Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!”
“To please their relatives, I suppose.”
“To please their relatives, you suppose!” This he said with intense scorn. “How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?” He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. “Read the lies on that thruff-stean,” he said. The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read:—
“Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son. ‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’ Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!” She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
“Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that’s because ye don’t gawm the sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk’d—a regular lamiter he was—an’ he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin’ the crows with. ’Twarn’t for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to addle where she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate”—he hammered it with his stick as he spoke—“a pack of lies? and won’t it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin’ up the grees with the tombstean balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!”
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up:—
“Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide.”
“That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There’s the clock, an’ I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!” And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.
The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly; they run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of a donkey’s hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he were here.
Moon Phase: Waxing Crescent
*Note. The text of Dracula lists this day as August 1 and the next day as July 26. I have corrected it here.
**Another misprint. This should be 1877. I kept it here to make it clearer.
Swales argues that most of the graves here are empty since he knew some of the sailors they belonged too and he knows they are at the bottom of various seas.
Mina is getting worried about Harker. She was supposed to have heard from him by May 16 and it is now July 25.
