JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

(Kept in shorthand.)

29 June.—To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can look as he said:—

"To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula." I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:—

"Why may I not go to-night?"

"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission."

"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once." He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick behind his smoothness. He said:—

"And your baggage?"

"I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time."

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:—

"You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our boyars: 'Welcome the coming; speed the parting guest.' Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it. Come!" With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he stopped.

"Hark!"

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under the bâton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew then that to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and as a last chance I cried out:—

"Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!" and covered my face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:—

"Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!" There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am dear!

I’ve not read everything that sci-fi/fantasy author Lois McMaster Bujold has written, but from what I have read, she sure loves to set a fantasy world in a key site of the emergence of the modern racial structures whilst trying to imagine what it might have been like if they’d been good, actually. Her Chalion/World of the Five Gods novels are set in a fantasy version of Reconquista Spain, where the conflict between Catholics and Muslims has become a conflict between those who worship a fivefold God (Father, Son, Mother, Daughter, Bastard) and the Ragnari, an invading and enslaving people who insist on divine fourness, refusing to recognise the divinity of the fifth person of the Quintarian divinity. While the Ragnari exist as a vague threat in the background of some of the Chalion stories, the real threat is the conflict within and between the Quintarians, who must learn to trust in providence, find the good in demons, and accept their mortality.

Bujold’s Sharing Knife novels have, as far as I can tell, come in for a fair amount of online criticism due to the problematic age gap between the novels’ protagonists, 18 year old farmer-girl Fawn and 55 year old Lakewalker Dag. The world of the Sharing Knife books is more or less the American frontier of the 19th century North America, with the farmers  — gradually spreading out into the new-to-them-world  — standing in for European settlers and the Lakewalkers — ancient nomadic inhabitants of the land in possession of magical powers — for Native Americans. Here the age gap, as well as being a romance genre trope, stands in for the different relationships of the two peoples to the land. Despite their great differences in age, Fawn and Dag are meant for one another: she, while lacking his magical powers, and threatening to dilute the purity of his bloodline, brings a youthful energy and a home-making capacity which Dag, old and tired, and a little weary of his life of tents and travelling, very badly needs. The two must overcome not only others’ qualms about their gap, but also the longstanding hostility between farmers and Lakewalkers. Their union becomes, both symbolically and in real terms, the beginning of a reconciliation between the two peoples, as they unite to face their common enemy: the malices or blight bogles which are found scattered around the land.

The malices are a pure evil of unknown origin, lacking any ‘ground’ of their own and so parasitic of the ‘ground’ of others, Ground here is something like life force, form, or being. The malices begin as shapeless entities which, as they suck the life from the world around them, gradually begin to take form and intelligence from the beings whose life they consume, beginning with small animals and usually working their way up to roughly humanoid forms. Eventually they begin to capture real human beings, here always farmers rather than Lakewalkers, ‘enslaving’ them so that they lumber around, lacking much in the way of intelligence but able nonetheless to do a lot of damage. If the malice is destroyed in time, it’s possible to free these hapless and subjugated souls, but the malice ‘can’t make life at all, really. Only death.’ The malices, that is to say, are a figure for blackness: located, like maroon communities, in the swamps and at the frontiers of North America during colonisation; threatening always to undermine the coherence of the social order, to suck the life from both indigenous people and settlers, who must therefore band together to defeat them; neither human nor non-human animal but something even more uncanny; figures of as Jared Sexton has it, ‘the affectable, the derelict, the monstrous … the unimaginable loss of that all too imaginable loss itself (nothing for no one)’; not the magical and intuitive Lakewalker connection to the land but ‘the slave’s inhabitation of the earth’ which ‘precedes and exceeds any prior relation to land … no ground for identity, no ground to stand on … the landless inhabitation of selfless existence.’

There is only one way to kill a malice, and that is to strike into it a knife which has been infused with the power of a Lakewalker’s death. As a Lakewalker is dying, either they or someone else must take a bone knife (cut from the thigh bone of a dead Lakewalker) and plunge it into their chest before they breathe their last. They must share their death with the knife, that is, in order to share their death with the malice. A malice, for all that it lacks being and substance, is nonetheless unable to die because it does not know how to do so, and must be taught. Only the Lakewalkers can do this, because of their mystical connection to being. Where the farmers’ existence is justified simply by the fact of their existence, by their wholesome and comfortable way of life, which seeks nothing more than to carry on making babies and planting crops, the Lakewalkers’ existence, dangerous and lacking in creature comforts, must adapt itself to the ever-changing threat of the malice’s. Here the Sharing Knife novels repeat what Shari M Huhndorf describes as the ‘primary cultural work’ of narratives of ‘going Native: ‘the regeneration of racial whiteness’; ensuring that ‘European Americans’, as figured by Fawn, ‘are the proper heirs of “Indianness” as well as of the land and resources of the conquered natives’: here conquered not (as in reality) by the brutality of mass slaughter, broken promises, and the violent separation of children from their parents, but by that most deadly of Christian fantasies: by love.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

(Kept in shorthand.)

25 June, morning.—No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the earth.

Let me not think of it. Action!

It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man's death is not a calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!

Same day, later.—I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs around the building on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I knew pretty well the direction and distance of the Count's window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did not feel dizzy—I suppose I was too excited—and the time seemed ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one corner—gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and stained.

At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended, minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, I made a discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which—for the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death—and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think....

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

(Kept in shorthand.)

24 June, before morning.—Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away muffled sound as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some ruthless villainy.

I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me.

It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a criminal's right and consolation.

I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aërial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp was burning brightly.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the Count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without—the agonised cry of a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:—

"Monster, give me my child!"

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and she was better dead.

What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear?

Après une première édition en 2025, nous renouvelons l'opération cette année.

Nous vous donnons rendez-vous le mercredi 29 juillet à partir de 18h30 au bar Chez Jean-Claude, 9 rue Vandamme, Paris 75014 (site internet : https://www.chezjeanclaudeleretour.fr/).

Y'aura à boire, à manger et sûrement des autocollants wallabag 🦘

Si vous pensez être de la partie, pensez à remplir le sondage de participation : https://beta.framadate.org/polls/b6cede884d27340afff1.

Si jamais le lieu devait changer (parce que nous serions trop de personnes ou pour toute autre raison), nous mettrions à jour ce billet de blog et nous communiquerions sur notre compte mastodon https://fosstodon.org/@wallabag.

As the video is in French, the rest of this blog post is in French too.

Il y a quelques jours, avec une partie de l'équipe, nous avons pu participer à la première édition de la Clinique du Libre, organisée par la communauté Logiciel Libre de Designers Éthiques.

Designers Éthiques est une association qui explore les pratiques de conception numérique. Nous travaillons à la capacitation des designers et des professionnels du numérique pour produire un numérique émancipateur, durable et désirable. La communauté Logiciel Libre a été créée en 2026 par Émilie Nguyen Van Yen et Nathalie. Son objectif est d'aider des projets libristes sur le plan de l'UX design.

L'exercice était plus qu'intéressant : une heure de direct durant laquelle des expertes UX design nous ont remonté des anomalies sur notre projet. Aucun jugement, uniquement des retours pratiques et parfois assez simples à corriger.

Grâce à leur travail, nous allons pouvoir améliorer wallabag.

Vous avez raté le direct ? La vidéo est disponible sur leur Peertube.

Hello! Editor Matt here; this is Dracula Weekly, Week 7...ish?

We previously had a whole week without updates, and this past week we heard back from two of our correspondents.

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18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

(Kept in shorthand.)

17 June.—This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard. With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a shock: my door was fastened on the outside.

Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they laughed. Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away. The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.

Recently, we decided to merge the documentation repository into the wallabag code repository. This will greatly simplify contribution workflows by avoiding to maintain and contribute to a separate repository.

This change will also enable us to easily maintain documentations dedicated to minor versions.

The documentation for the current release is still accessible on https://doc.wallabag.org/. Contributions can now be done on https://github.com/wallabag/wallabag/tree/master/doc.

Finally as a consequence of this merge, we will archive the former doc repository.

Hello! Editor Matt here; this is Dracula Weekly. A quiet week this week… but it’s about to get even quieter.

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