“Of what?” Mr. Quarrie piped up. “What is this nosferatu?”
“A myth,” Van Resen answered, and laughed. “That I believe was responsible for a misdiagnosis in that situation that eventually led to a young woman’s death, and that drew considerable negative attention to her doctor’s career thereafter.” He smiled without humor. “Attention that I do not intend to bring upon my own.” He grimaced. “No. I am still determined to be rescued and see civilization again, so I will need my reputation intact when I return.”
He saw that he had disappointed his listeners. “I only use that doctor’s story as an example to show that while an open mind is required when confronted with any problem, be the puzzle medical or scientific in nature, it is wise to use logic and truth to bar the door to superstition.”
“I wish you’d had a more encouraging tale to tell,” Mr. Quarrie said, where he stood by his wife rubbing her shoulder. The woman was pale, and the skin around her eyes appeared darker.
“You knew this other doctor?” Miss James asked. She had also blanched during the story.
“Intimately,” Van Resen said, hesitating a moment. “Or so I thought...” Then he perked up. “I believe his brilliance was flawed by his Catholicism. To be a scientist of renown at the beginning of the 20th century, arguably one of the most pivotal times in scientific history, and to hold to such primitive dogma as Creation? Mein Gott! as he would say... Creation?”
“Really, Dr. Van Resen!” Mrs. Quarrie sighed, face flushing. “Now the church! There is no end to your provocations.”
“We need answers,” Phillip Holmes rasped, “and all he gives is riddles!” The young man did not notice the annoyed look his comment received from all in attendance.
“I do not say this to provoke anything but rational thought, for such a thing is needed at this time,” Van Resen answered harshly. “Young Lilly requires a scientific answer, not Creation, salvation—Heaven or Hell. I illustrate the danger that caused this scientific mastermind, of which I speak, to lose his footing.” The scientist’s voice raised in pitch. “When he should have been prescribing hemoglobin he treated his patient for hobgoblins!”
“Please, Dr. Van Resen,” Mr. Quarrie grumbled, walking toward the scientist like he would block his wife from the man’s words. “Is there not some more rational direction to steer our conversation.”
“Indeed there is,” Van Resen said, tipping his head to Miss James. “Perhaps, the good governess would tell us of her incredible time in the jungle, and of the remarkable man who saved her, and who is now in the process of finding our friends Captain Seward and Jacob Raines.”
Miss James raised her eyes to Van Resen, a haunted look clouding her features.
Phillip Holmes’ shoulders squared and his eyes beamed eagerly while the Quarries looked on sadly.
“If you would be so kind,” the scientist said, bowing formally.
Virginia spoke quietly of her rescue at the hands of her “forest angel” as her fellow castaways listened spellbound. Mrs. Quarrie sat in one chair, while her husband took the seat beside her. Phillip Holmes leaned against the table, and Van Resen stood with one elbow hooked over the mantelpiece.
The governess blushed as she spoke of Gazda’s battle against a monstrous, misshapen beast, and colored further when she described the rustic sanctuary he had found for her, where he “tended to her every need...”
According to Miss James the man had super-human powers, and was capable of unbelievable feats of strength and agility.
At one point Phillip Holmes and Mrs. Quarrie had asked about the sleeping arrangements within the jungle bower, but the governess reddened and turned the conversation in another direction.
To push past the query or explain her actions, Miss James spoke of the irresistible intelligence in the man’s eyes, and his apparent ability to know her thoughts and learn her language at incredible speed.
As she chattered, Van Resen slowly moved toward the door and opened it muttering something about “a breeze.” He lingered there looking out.
From that position, he could see across the clearing to where the dark moringa grove stood against the green jungle; its many shadows leeching into the long grass.
“One rushes to understand,” he said, turning to look at the governess as her tale came to an end. “Your friend Gazda, the forest angel, wore a medallion of some interest to me.”
Van Resen reached down and picked up the curved sword that they had set by the door. He walked over to the table and touched the abandoned journal’s leather cover with its tip.
“The entries in this were made in an unknown language, yet the runic symbols and annotations resemble the Hungarian tongue.” He held the sword up. “And here a Cossack’s blade.”
“This cabin—this yurt, was fashioned after dwellings built by nomadic peoples who live in Eastern Europe and Mongolia. All of these elements indicate that its builder and occupant came to Africa from somewhere in those lands. He came here, yet willfully remembered what he left behind.”
Gesturing with the sword he turned about in the room. “There the fine fireplace, and here across from it a wall of trophies. Memories of a greater life that was lost as would be the case if the previous inhabitant was a castaway like ourselves, but I ask you, my friends, who else goes far from home, and is forced to have only memories to replay?”
“Travelers?” Mr. Quarrie shouted, before his wife cried: “Soldiers...”
“Excellent!” Van Resen said. “Though I am thinking something else. The diary, the mementos and these reconstructions. It is evidence of someone trying to remember a place he did not want to leave.” The scientist opened the journal to the first page and pointed at the date. “From the very day of departure did he mark his time away...until the entries ended 18 years ago.”
Van Resen’s gaze slid from one pair of expectant eyes to the next as he looked around the room. “If he was not a castaway, I believe
