Dracula of the Apes 3

by G. Wells Taylor

  Van Resen looked around the clearing, impressed with the results of their second day of hard work, and he was cheered—until his eyes fell upon the dark moringa.

  The castaways had asked him about the strange trees, and he merely told them to avoid the shadowed grove until it could be safely explored.

  Of course it was an unnecessary warning. No one dared approach the trees that had the unique property of drawing the eye while repulsing the mind. Despite the sunlight that flooded the clearing, the bright rays failed to penetrate the murk shifting between those greasy gray trunks.

  An unmistakable stink of decay drifted about the grove and kept the castaways at a distance and in time they avoided the wood altogether, so unsettling were the shadows that it threw.

  Van Resen encouraged their reluctance for he shared an instinctive aversion to the moringa and the threatening aura radiating from it. The scientist knew the mystery would eat at him until he had an answer, but first he had other duties.

  He was needed as each of them was, and each had much to do if they were all to survive. The scientist’s hands ached from use, and their many blisters stung and throbbed, but his spirits were high despite the toil and dangers that loomed.

  He would postpone his investigation of the moringa wood for without him, it would be left to Jacob, old Mr. Quarrie, Phillip Holmes and the women to continue until some impossible rescue came for them.

  They might not be able to live without him.

  The day wore down, and Van Resen watched as Lilly’s daydreaming was finally taken by the young Englishman to be rejection, and so his interest shifted to Miss Virginia James.

  The scientist chuckled to watch this lovely woman be cast as the second choice in Holmes’ pathetic romance for she was too proud to see the fickle shift as anything but the insult it was.

  Yet, Van Resen had to wonder if Holmes was responding to the change in environment. Were the man’s actions somehow indicative of his inner sense that they would not be rescued and therefore, Miss James’ value as a mate had improved, despite the fact she had no financial prospects at home? True, Lilly would inherit a fortune, but that would only occur if they returned to civilization. In the wild it had no value...

  Van Resen found the notion fascinating; Miss James did not.

  So the young man’s attempt at flattery fell flat and he was instantly rebuffed by the practical beauty. His sudden shift left him looking uncouth and grasping, and the governess delivered a burning gaze that promised a public flaying should he dare continue his pursuit.

  Lilly was exhausted by day’s end as they all were, and after a spare dinner they began settling down for the night.

  The castaways gathered by the fireplace where a low flame lit their faces—and there they remarked upon the peculiar items and incongruous additions made by the yurt’s former occupant. Their introspection was undoubtedly prompted as they ruminated over a busy day that had started with his funeral.

  Earlier, while delivering fuel to the fireplace, the scientist had emptied out a box that was in place and used by the previous owner to store wood. When Van Resen removed some old blocks he found several printed items hidden beneath them.

  These they now passed around in the lamplight.

  Van Resen held up a folded piece of yellowed paper. “A most unusual place for a library. Unless the former tenant only used the books for lighting fires.”

  “Illustrated newspapers,” said Jacob, opening a broadsheet. “The New-York Tribune 1892...far from home.”

  “And long in the past!” Mr. Quarrie remarked squinting as he shuffled a handful of paper relics. “Pages from the Daily Irish Independent dated 1890, and a section for clothing or fashion advertisement from an unknown publication. Several folded and partial pages with stories in French.”

  Mrs. Quarrie reached over her husband’s arm to flip through the pile. “There, Clive, something you’ll like. The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, and books there for me: Dickens’ illustrated A Christmas Carol, terribly water-damaged...” She opened the book. “But readable!”

  Van Resen hefted others from the box saying, “This one I’d swear has Cyrillic lettering, and pictures within depicting everything from street scenes to a farmer at his haying. An almanac, perhaps?” He lifted one from his lap, and steadied his eyeglasses on his nose. “All this flotsam has either washed ashore with the yurt’s former occupant or was collected during his stay—the combined dates suggest our host came to this place at the end of the last century—and died soon after.”

  All agreed that the previous tenant had been of European stock, and must have been marooned upon the shore like themselves. They’d found a small trove of coal beneath the yurt that must have come from a steamship, the door to the shelter had a nautical look, the walls were of reinforced canvas and the sailor’s tunic they’d discovered was self-explanatory.

  They all felt he had been shipwrecked.

  And his attempt to recreate a familiar setting?

  “A reminder, perhaps a testimony to another time, a better time...something he preferred,” Van Resen said.

  During the day, Jacob had found a long curved sword out in the tall grass; its rusty blade had almost tripped him up where it lay. He took the weapon out again and passed it around until the scientist brandished it overhead, laughing.

  “I see now! I see!” Van Resen’s eyes glittered. “Hungarian, I declare—to match the marks in the journal. My friends we are in a Cossack’s house!”

  CHAPTER 12 – The Winding Trails

  Gazda had returned to his tribe of apes that morning to sleep but managed little rest for his body still burned with desire and his thoughts whirled around the memory of “Lilly.”

  “Lilly” for so the young female had named herself in mind as they embraced.

  Lilly. The sweet scent of her blood and flesh still clung about his nose and lips.

  But it was fading. The stink of apes encroaching on Gazda’s senses had seen to that.

  An overpowering smell, and yet he had not seen a single ape.

  He had chosen a secluded sleeping place near where the shambling group of anthropoids had camped in the trees around a termite mound.

  Disgust clouded Gazda’s features when he later woke to find his tribe grooming each other in the midday light.

  Lilly! He could not push her flashing eyes or smooth limbs from his mind. Hairless, they were, and pliant.

  He moved unseen through the branches above the apes where he struggled with the urge to leave them outright—to go away forever—return to his lair, to the strange night apes and Lilly.

  Lilly.

  Her face and body were ever in his thoughts as he clung to the pleasures they had shared. His heart throbbed at the memory. Like mates they had been, entwined and coupled; he had been unable to resist the hot blood surging there beneath her skin.

  Had not her teeth scraped at his white flesh as well?

  She had bitten Gazda as their passion swelled.

  Lilly. She had offered everything, and in the transcendent moment of flesh and blood and pleasure, Gazda had come close to taking it...

  ...taking all she had.

  The light of day had left him thoughtful, and while he dwelled upon each soft, sweet memory, he grew more concerned.

  Gazda shivered at a memory and an image.

  Lilly’s blood dripped from small punctures in her throat—punctures he made with his fangs, and blood that he lapped with his red tongue. Still he remembered his desire for more, to set his teeth deep in her quivering flesh and drink away the heady mixture that she was. As he had mated with her—with Lilly.

  Yet, Gazda had pulled away near the end, steered clear of abandon.

  Though he doubted his strength of will would have been enough had the brown-haired female not grown restless in her sleep. Her beautiful brows had clenched upon her dreams and she drifted close to waking.

  So the night ape had retreated from the tree-nest, moving softly and smoothly, bu
oyed up by passion and obscured by the black fog that floated near.

  The night air had grown chill, and the shadows were filled with loneliness, so with arms closed about his great chest he staggered away from the lair, and the warmth of Lilly.

  Lilly...that he still craved.

  He did not trust himself in the dark with the black fog lapping at his knees, and so he had escaped the murk and sped back toward his tribe to fill his heart with company.

  Only to awaken with the smell of apes.

  His eyes fell on the she-ape Nuklo cleaning her daughter’s body with her long, red tongue.

  Beasts! The thought blazed in Gazda’s mind as he climbed down from the branches, as a hoot and warning call came from the greenery, as a blackback rushed out to challenge him.

  But, old Baho lumbered forward from the undergrowth where panting happily, he first received his king. The bull ape’s display was exuberant. With open hands he beat the earth, and ever nodding; he came to Gazda lurching sideways, grunting respectfully, and showing vulnerable ribs and belly as he moved. The former silverback panted and coughed his undying loyalty as his king’s knuckles brushed his offered palm.

  Baho’s behavior was then mimicked by loyal blackbacks who came forward from the trees, and their displays were copied again as the females hurried out, and again as the young came from their games to greet the king.

  As this warm welcome continued, the haughty night ape regretted his prideful disdain, for these apes reminded him of his generous mother and his life among their kind.

  So, as the tribe broke into little groups to feed and groom in the thick brush, Gazda sat with Baho who reported that blackback guards had glimpsed a strange bull ape. On two occasions the invader was seen in the distant treetops and on another glimpsed lurking in the undergrowth where he slipped from view.

  Neither Gazda nor Baho needed to say the name that most concerned them, for while the strange bull ape was described as any other, both thought of the would-be usurper Sip-sip.

  Baho was certain that the crippled ape would never dare return, and if it was the traitor, his being seen alone said Omag had been abandoned by the loyalists that went with him into exile.

  So isolation might have brought him back near to the tribe to draw from the remembered connections at a distance.

  For even evil apes were social creatures of family and tribe.

  Thought of Sip-sip caused a flame of anger to gleam in Gazda’s eyes and flare within his breast and he wished to go in search of the traitor...

  ...until he thought of Lilly.

  The jungle was a great and dangerous place. The strange bull ape had not been seen for many days, and so Gazda felt no need to investigate immediately. If it was Omag, he could have been miles from where the night ape sat with Baho, or may have realized his danger and retreated to his cave in the bone-face lands.

  And if it were another rogue ape, then Baho and the blackback guards could deal with him.

  Unless...and Gazda thought again of Lilly, his lair and the night apes that were within it. Would they be able to resist Sip-sip if the crippled ape came to take the tree-nest armed as he was with his axe-head cane?

  Worse it would be, if Omag had gone in search of females to start his own tribe...or if the traitor craved their living flesh!

  Lilly!

  In his youth, Gazda would have set after the stranger without delay, driven by a desire for vengeance and blood, but as king he had learned to bide his time and he had only just returned to his tribe. To leave them now would wound their hearts, and trouble his own.

  And the sun was high which meant the night ape’s powers were at their weakest, and if it was Omag—the cripple had already revealed the dangers of his cunning.

  Now that Gazda knew his old enemy might be near, he would begin to search for scent of him near nightfall. Baho agreed with this plan, though the pair of them could not resist a display of their displeasure at the trespass. Each yawned and snapped repetitively to show off their fighting fangs.

  But as the day progressed, Gazda’s thoughts ever returned to Lilly.

  While tiny Yulu sat upon his shoulders and whistled at birds in the trees, while blackback friends gathered around him to groom, or when the females showed the king their strong young infants, always as the day progressed Gazda’s thoughts had drifted across the jungle to where Lilly’s tribe now lived within his tree-nest.

  His time among the apes had reminded him of his tribal duties, and within them was the task of protecting the young and weak, and in that notion grew a greater fear that he had hurt Lilly in his excess! As they mated, he had drunk her blood.

  So what had become of her?

  He had to know if his passions had harmed the female he yearned for, and whether she was well, and if she hoped to mate with him too—though he would never be so weak again.

  He would not feed upon her blood.

  The jungle teemed with animals for that use. Their blood was Gazda’s by right, even Sip-sip’s.

  But Lilly’s?

  If the crippled ape was still near and if he coveted the females in the tree-nest...

  Gazda was wasting time! He glared up through the canopy at the blazing sun that seemed to be set unmoving in the sky.

  How he longed to return to Lilly.

  Old Baho came to him later in the day and remarked upon the hunt he knew would follow the setting sun. He asked Gazda about his time away and whether he had slain many bone-faces, for the scent of them was heavy on the king.

  Gazda took no insult from the former silverback’s observation for he had accepted his relation to the Bakwaniri, and to the other night apes.

  However, being better versed in these things, Gazda had detected the many subtle differences between them. The night apes in the tree-nest, even the males, were free of decay, rot and illness.

  Yet Baho was a powerful ape, and wise, and Gazda respected his opinions, knowing they were proof of his lieutenant’s ability to lead the tribe in his absence. However, it was becoming apparent that his old friend was aging.

  Baho’s scarred face was wrinkled and bearded with white, and the top of his head bore only a few trailing hairs. The bull ape was still large and well-muscled, but he groaned when he rose from sitting, or while climbing a tree, and his aching joints made him walk stiff-legged in the morning.

  Baho might soon be replaced by one of the ambitious blackbacks that jostled for power in the tribe, and yet among them, their king saw none more ready for the task of leadership than Baho.

  Those thoughts soon came to vie with Gazda’s desire for Lilly. His return to the tribe of apes had awakened his sense of duty. He could not allow danger to befall those with whom he had lived his early life, those who depended upon his strength and ferocity now.

  They were his mother’s tribe, and he would protect them to the death.

  But a king needed a mate.

  As the day grew old and the sun sank lower in the sky, the night ape felt the first surge of his night-time strength, and with this and his desire for Lilly to fuel him, he was soon flying through the high green canopy on his way back to his female.

  Many miles south of the night ape, Harkon the huntress was breaking her own rules and following a large group of Bakwaniri that was headed toward the coast along an old elephant track. The sun had fallen behind the jungle wall, the shadows had deepened to black, and she had yet to find shelter for the night.

  But she was caught up in the chase. Harkon had already taken advantage of the darkness and picked off two stragglers with the bow and arrows that she had claimed from other victims.

  A feral grin was etched on her dark cheeks. The Bakwaniri would only find out later that their brothers were missing, and while it was not the first time she had whittled them down that way, the thought amused her still.

  She much preferred killing Bakwaniri with the long spear she carried slung across her back, but the arrows were better for this harrying hunt, and they were expendable if a shot
went wide, or was fouled in the trees as she ran.

  Of course, it was a dangerous thing to do at night for nocturnal predators would soon be out upon the hunt.

  And the Bakwaniri moved quickly through the jungle despite their infirmities and disfigurements, and she had to set a reckless pace to keep up. A pace that could easily put her in harm’s way if her quarry was to recognize its losses and lie in wait ahead.

  But, Harkon still wanted more tufts of hair for her belt, and she wondered again why the Bakwaniri were moving in such numbers and at night. Those she had glimpsed were younger and healthier—certainly the two she had killed were.

  But she could not imagine what force had compelled them to run so far, and so fast.

  Fury had burned in her eyes when she’d first seen the large group near sunset, and she had rashly contemplated finding a place ahead of them where she could wait in ambush. The right geography could give her the advantage, but in the growing dark, surrounded by thick jungle she could easily be outflanked and overpowered.

  If she wished to continue her quest to free those of her people that were Bakwaniri slaves—and her son—then she could not take the risk, even if it was sure to shed much enemy blood.

  She had followed the large group for an hour or more, and then watched as the hunters stopped and removed their skull-masks to eat and drink.

  Two disfigured men tattooed with bones and skulls stepped away from the others to converse in their harsh and roaring language. By their manner Harkon thought them leaders and had knocked an arrow to kill, before she’d set the weapon aside. Slaying them might break the group up, but it would turn one large enemy into many potential threats for her.

  After some moments more of resting, the Bakwaniri leaders had split their larger group of hunters into two. One continued west, while the other chose a trail that wandered north.

  Harkon chose the smaller of the two to follow upon the western course, for she had collected lots of arrows in her vengeance, and she hoped to slay many enemies along the trail.