Dracula of the Apes 3

by G. Wells Taylor

  Van Resen reached into his pocket to draw out a scrap of paper and pencil. “While our survival stands paramount, I still must not forget to keep some record where time allows, especially... Jacob, we could be looking at a new breed of Moringa stenopetala that employs methods similar to the corpse flower’s mode of reproduction.”

  “I don’t like them,” Jacob said with a shrug, stepping back and turning with axe in hand to look across the clearing at the distant overgrown structure. “They don’t belong in all this green.”

  Van Resen lingered by the strange trees to jot something on the paper, peering between the trunks but never entering the wood saying, “To finish my thought on a personal note, if we were beetles you and I, this scent might very well surpass a rose.” The scientist laughed and wrinkled his nose. “I’m not fond of the color.”

  “Come away from there, doctor,” Jacob warned over his shoulder, his trepidation growing. “Could be something dead in the trees. Could be what happened to whoever built that hut.”

  “Ah, I see your train of thought. They may have ingested some part of these sickly moringa and died beneath their branches.” He moved to the black man and shook his big hand again. “Morbid, but excellent thinking, Mr. Raines. Perhaps we will have time to solve this riddle.”

  “I hope not,” Jacob said, shoulders slumping.

  “Now, we best pick up our pace, the others will be growing impatient,” Van Resen said, moving with Jacob through the long grass toward the vine-covered building, struggling when prickly vines growing among the blades caught at their pants.

  Halfway there the scientist began muttering to himself and then nodding he smiled and said, “I’m sure I’ve seen illustrations of such things as this in Eastern Europe—now that I’m looking at it.”

  “At what,” Jacob offered, “the hut?”

  “A hut, exactly, but it has definite congruencies of design—similarities—with the yurt’s used by indigenous peoples on the central plains of Mongolia. There are variations on the design found throughout Eastern Europe.” The scientist laughed, and clapped his hands.

  “Mongolia?” Jacob came to a halt ten feet from the structure and stared.

  “Of course, those were built to be easily carried...mobile, if you will. I have seen drawings of these dwellings that were circular in construction, while this is clearly rectangular—or is it?” Van Resen paced left and right, craning his neck at the vine-shrouded construction. “Do I see evidence of an octagonal shape beneath the verdure? So the basic ‘circular’ design I recognize is in place with modifications forced upon the builder by climate and need. This is a ‘fortified’ version of a yurt.”

  “Yurt?” Jacob repeated.

  “Yes.” The scientist turned in place to view the jungle that encroached upon all sides. “Traditional yurts are practically tents, you see, and you wouldn’t last long in a tent in this vicinity. Which is undoubtedly also the reason that it was built in the trees.” He started forward. “I wonder if the walls within are of reinforced lattice...”

  Jacob followed Van Resen to where grass grew plentifully around the base of aged trees with tangled branches and crowded trunks that had been used as pillars to support an elevated platform on which the yurt was constructed. From below, they could see the planed boards comprising the trusses.

  “Now look around us, Jacob,” Van Resen said, stretching up to touch the lowest plank. “Do you see a lumber mill?”

  “No, sir,” Jacob said, before scanning the edge of the clearing where the thick jungle grew like a wall. “Unless, there’s a town...”

  “Also an excellent notion,” Van Resen said, orienting himself by the lowest of a series of rough wooden rungs nailed up the side of a supporting tree trunk. “We will learn much more by going inside.”

  Once they had climbed the ten feet to gain the high platform, Van Resen quickly discerned the shape and location of the yurt’s only door. After pressing upon it, and inspecting the frame, he found a leather string leading out through a hole in the wall near the roof.

  “Should we knock?” Jacob asked, gripping the axe.

  “Most certainly!” Van Resen stepped aside to knock three times upon the door, and then with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he pulled the string and was answered by a hollow scraping sound as the door swung inward.

  “Wait for them to answer!” Jacob warned, holding the axe across his chest and sliding back a pace.

  “The yurt is abandoned.” Van Resen stood by the open doorway.

  “How do you know?” Jacob peered in but the darkness was complete.

  “Thick grass at the base of the trees. Moss and fungi growing unmolested on the ladder rungs. There was no path worn in the approach to the structure,” Van Resen said matter-of-factly. “And the smell that I detect issuing from within.”

  Jacob sniffed at the air wafting from the open door, and he quickly glanced back at the moringa grove. “It smells like those trees!”

  “Similar,” Van Resen answered, leaning in to sniff the dark interior. “But quite different. This aroma is of mildew and dust, decay of wood, rotting cloth—and some flesh, I’m afraid...”

  “Some flesh?” Jacob stuttered, looking into the shadows.

  “But primarily it is neglect that we smell,” Van Resen said and holding the butcher knife before him, he walked under the lintel, and stopped. “Ah, the master of the house!”

  “Where?” Jacob groaned, peering over the scientist’s shoulder before he gagged.

  Just across from them a human skeleton sat propped up in a chair, the remains of its clothing nothing but rotten rags draped over bone.

  “God save us!” the black man cried, and grabbed at his companion with a free hand.

  “Careful, Jacob.” Van Resen half-turned, pushing the man back and rubbing at a tender place between his shoulder blades where the axe-head had made contact.

  “No need to worry... He is quite dead.” The scientist gestured to his own facial hair and to that which straggled over the dried skin clinging to the skeleton’s jaws. “And he is also old enough that he cannot be the cause of the smell that is so apparent.” Van Resen took a step into the room and looked around in the dim.

  There was a table beside the skeleton’s chair and to the right of that was a narrow bed. Animal skins had been piled at its foot.

  “Think he skinned those animals?” Jacob blurted, eyes casting about the place.

  “No, he is in a more advanced state of decomposition than the hides.” Van Resen peered around and took another step, and a distinctive cracking sound came from underfoot. “Oh dear!”

  The scientist dropped to a knee and then nudged Jacob aside so the light from the open door could enter.

  Jacob gasped, “Oh, they’re baby bones!”

  “Drat it! And I have stepped on them.” Van Resen studied the specimens. “Tiny bones of a baby—human? But the skull. Wait! More breaks and fractures there, evidence for the cause of death, and that the bones have been disturbed before.” He glanced up at the skeleton in the chair and hummed worriedly. “So sad—or is it?”

  “Dr. Van Resen...” Jacob was shocked. “Of course it’s sad.”

  “Of course, and yet,” the scientist said indicating the small bones by running a fingertip over the protruding jaws on the little skull. “There is much to be considered before assigning any judgment.”

  “Wait now!” Jacob said. As his eyes had continued to adjust, the wall to his right had taken shape. “A fireplace, and a grand one at that.” He pointed. “And a big armchair.”

  Van Resen looked over.

  “And hunting trophies, I see.” The scientist gestured to the colorful fur pelts, sets of horns, antlers and skulls adorning the wall. “Most curious.”

  “Is this his place?” Jacob jerked his thumb at the skeleton in the chair. “So...he’s dead and... We can stay!”

  “I should think so,” Van Resen answered, moving across the room to the pile of smelly skins. “However, someone else
has been here.” He knelt to peel up the top few hides and larval bugs tumbled out of the poorly tanned skins. “These are of various ages indicated by their different states of decomposition.”

  Jacob nodded.

  Van Resen rose and stood by the rough bed and mattress beneath the hunting trophies where he bent to lift a coarse woolen shirt from the floor.

  “There is dust upon and beneath this sailor’s tunic. So it has been moved over time, perhaps recently—and from this angle, the light from the door shows that the open floor space is relatively clean, though cobwebs, dust and dirt there is aplenty in the corners of the room. Someone was living here at a time after our skeletal doorman came to his end. Could he be a castaway like ourselves—or a victim of a shipwreck?” He looked at the tunic in his hands, and then his eyebrows shot upward as something beside the bed caught his eye.

  “Wait now...” He dropped the garment and leaned over the mattress to reach down between it and the wall. There was a hard knocking and scrabbling sound, and then he lifted a large wooden mask into view. It had been skillfully shaped to resemble an oversized human skull with a pair of long bones crossed tight beneath its chin.

  “Most interesting,” Van Resen said, frowning at the mask. Then he bent to reach into the space again and lift out a wooden, leaf-shaped shield. Upon its polished surface were still more skulls.

  “Savages!” Jacob hissed, stepping back. “We should leave.”

  “And go where, my friend?” Van Resen said, rising with a glance toward the open door. “We have no choice but to collect the others and our possessions and stay here. We would not long survive unprotected in this jungle.”

  “But the mask and shield!” The butler’s face was desperate.

  “The evidence is provocative,” Van Resen agreed. “But there is still enough here to suggest that it might not be a savage who calls this home.”

  Jacob moved cautiously across the yurt before halting by the door to peer out. “And if he comes...”

  “Then, we will avail ourselves of his Christian kindness,” Van Resen said, coming forward to set a comforting hand upon the man’s shoulder. “And failing that—consider joining his religion.”

  Jacob looked anxiously at the mask in the scientist’s hand.

  “Come now, we have shelter—I know it will lift our friends’ spirits,” Van Resen said reassuringly. “Certainly Mrs. Quarrie will consider this the work of providence. Whoever lives here has already offered us sanctuary and hope—though I admit he is unaware of his charity. Savage or not, he knows how to hunt, so if our meager rations run out; he might be convinced to extend his generosity to feeding us.”

  They left the yurt and hurried back toward the beach. The sun was rising higher still but the day would go quickly, and then come the night.

  CHAPTER 4 – Better than Steerage

  Clive Quarrie looked around the unusual cabin and nodded his head at the animal skulls, horns and colorful pelts that had been hung on the wall. Then with a sidelong glance at his wife, he clenched his hands behind his back and moved over to the fireplace.

  “Damned fine, Abby!” he said, smiling at her and gesturing broadly. “If it wasn’t for the shape and rustic character of this place I’d say it was a Texan who built it. Look there are his hunting trophies, and he’d stand here by the mantel with a glass of bourbon and a cigar.” He pantomimed holding both. “Yurt sweet yurt!”

  “Clive, please,” his wife scolded. “Hush your foolishness.”

  “It isn’t foolish, it’s hopeful, my dear,” he said, walking toward her and taking her hands. “I cast about and see the work of a civilized man in all this jungle, and I’m encouraged.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Quarrie,” Dr. Van Resen said, carrying in one side of a crate opposite Phillip Holmes. “Your theory is admirable and your attitude most conducive to survival.”

  Van Resen knew that optimism was the key to success. If it did not see them home, then it would see their dignity remained intact until the end, whatever form that took.

  The scientist had also pondered the decoration inside the yurt wondering if it was the work of a man who intended to return to the culture he had copied, or if he had lost hope altogether and only clung to its memory until he died. The skeleton in the chair had been a difficult thing to deny—but there had been no explanations forthcoming.

  And the skins piled by the bed. Who had collected those?

  After telling the group about their find, Van Resen and Jacob had returned to the yurt ahead of the others where the scientist quickly convinced the manservant to assist him in rolling both skeletons up in an old blanket so they could be carried outside for a proper burial later.

  They hid the grisly objects where thick vines covered the ground beneath the platform. Van Resen insisted they do the same with the skull-mask and shield so the women would not be exposed to the gruesome artifacts. The rotting skins were set in a shallow depression there and earth was heaped over them to keep the smell down.

  They’d cleared the vines and leaves away from the structure’s two windows, and left the door open to air the place out while they joined their friends at the beach.

  The castaways spent the rest of the afternoon bringing everything they could to the yurt, before dragging the lifeboat well away from the shore and tipping it over so it could act as a temporary shelter for those things they’d run out of time or space to move.

  Van Resen still chuckled at the memory of the sweat-streaked Holmes dragging a good-sized crate over to the yurt where its lid was pried off to reveal...

  “A phonograph!” the Englishman had snapped, as he caught his wind. “I nearly broke my back dragging that here!”

  “The music settles Granby’s nerves,” Lilly sang from where she stood upon the raised platform, her lilting tones causing Holmes’ fury to cool. “Please don’t disappoint her.”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you,” he chortled, smitten by her eyes, though when she disappeared inside the hut he had muttered, “Firewood or food might have been more worth the effort.”

  “Had we known such a detour would be part of our trip, we could have packed a brawny set of teamsters,” Lilly’s governess Miss James had said, overhearing him and winking at Van Resen who was helping her sort tins of food.

  “Yes! Yes, Mr. Holmes do not despair. Music might just make the difference and...” Van Resen’s voice had trailed off as he gauged talk of soothing “savage breasts” inappropriate to the situation and company.

  “Come now,” Miss James had encouraged, eyes roving over a clutter of bags and boxes set in the grass. “We are not in London, and will have to do for ourselves.”

  “I will help you lift your burden into the yurt, Mr. Holmes,” Van Resen had said rolling up his sleeves and moving forward. “There your efforts will be well-received.”

  Dr. Van Resen had already marked the presence of a pair of glass lamps. One would have looked at home in a gentleman’s drawing room, while the other had a distinctly rugged appearance with its sturdy glass chimney protected behind a fitted steel covering. The scientist was cheered by the find and when he set about searching the place for fuel, he was quickly rewarded.

  A partial tin of lamp oil was hidden amongst boxes that contained various useful items: carpenter’s chisel and hammer, nails, string and rope. These supplies were piled with others against the wall by yet another chair behind a well-stained butcher’s block that stood to the right of the entrance.

  Also in the pile were a few unopened bottles of wine in a wooden case upon which other items had been stacked; but none of the castaways wanted to attempt the grape, thinking that with the heat it had surely spoiled.

  The scientist used his own matches to light both lamps.

  Mrs. Quarrie did what she could to help move the castaways in, as did her husband, but their age and the excitement of their situation had fatigued them; so she had taken up the rough chair across from the door, complained about its awful smell and then set to thumbing through
a handwritten journal that had been in place on the table beside it. There the dried-up inkwell, pen and remnants of exhausted candles suggested it was a diary of some sort.

  “I cannot make sense of this writing,” she said to her husband who shifted his eyeglasses onto his nose after pulling the large armchair up beside her.

  “Not even with your studies? That’s a shame,” Clive Quarrie cleared his throat to get Van Resen’s attention.

  “French and Latin,” he said. “Abby is schooled in both.” Then he laughed and pointed at the journal in her hands. “I can’t make head or tail of this gibberish!” The old fellow suddenly looked around the shadowed room while pulling at his shirt collar. “A little cramped in here, isn’t it?”

  Both of the elder Quarries were more used to their sprawling mansion back home, but their spirits had lifted once they’d got the yurt’s roof over their heads.

  “In our current situation any yurt is a home, dear,” his wife reminded him. “See, I listen whether you’re a fool or not.”

  “Yes, yes...” Mr. Quarrie managed a weak smile. “Doctor, other than a former occupant’s ‘remains’ as you described them, you said that there was evidence someone might still live here. Perhaps he’ll tell us what the writing says.”

  Van Resen glanced over Mrs. Quarrie’s shoulder. “The letters are of Eastern European origin—runic in design—and I would hazard a guess at an old Hungarian form.” He sighed wistfully. “If only I had studied languages.”

  “To hold an explanation right here in my hands, but find it unreadable,” Mrs. Quarrie said, turning a yellowed page. “It is frustrating.”

  “Undeniably,” Van Resen agreed, moving to take up one end of the bed, while Jacob lifted the other. “But we will find our answers.”

  “Before they find us,” the black man added cryptically, regarding him over the bed.

  They moved the table and chairs to sit opposite the fireplace and set the bed to run along the wall across from the door. Then, they used several of Mrs. Quarrie’s linen sheets and a large tablecloth to form a partition that divided the space in two so the women could sleep separately from the men. Mrs. Quarrie would use the bed, and the younger women made up a pallet of their own blankets where their pillows would butt up against its side.