“These devils don’t look positive to me,” Mr. Quarrie added as a pair of sturdy savages shouldered the pole to which he was tied.
Van Resen had smiled wearily for he was in full agreement.
The scientist remembered still having the strength then to study their captors. Understanding the disease that afflicted them might have offered some advantage to the castaways.
So as the savages had prepared for the journey, Van Resen performed a visual examination. Ongoing skin and tissue degeneration scarred and produced open sores; and while the men appeared hail and hearty enough, their limbs and extremities—though well-muscled—showed sign of bone deformity similar to what he had seen in leprosy patients, though of a less severe pathology.
A comparison of the older and younger savages had indicated that the disfigurements were more advanced on the mature men, suggesting a congenital affliction that worsened with age.
They had all interacted as though nothing were wrong, so this told him that their illness was their “normal” state. It was logical then to assume that they were born with it—and that it might have been triggered by the onset of adolescence.
Finally, whatever the actual pathology, it was clear that the worst afflicted among them was still too hale and hearty to be much slowed by the disease so the scientist had found little to exploit.
Van Resen remembered that after eating and drinking, the group had formed a long line with him, Holmes and Miss James near the middle separated from the bound and suspended castaways who were carried at the rear.
The savage leaders had extinguished their torches and started humming a coarse tune that rumbled from the back of their throats. A repetitive tonal cycle began that was synchronized one savage with the other, before an order from the leader sent them jogging out of the clearing and into the east.
As they ran their humming had turned to an irresistible beat aligned to the rhythm of their pounding feet, but the slow and steady pace wore at the castaways who dripped with sweat and reeled blindly on.
The scientist never guessed how their captors found their way without light for he had been too weary to give it thought.
An hour into the ordeal the bitter liquid was passed around again, and Van Resen had encouraged the others to drink deeply of the energizing substance.
After the others had had their portion, Van Resen even encouraged them to pick up and sing with the masked men—and later through a haze of exhaustion he recalled singing along, pausing only to mumble: “It’s a sea chanty—I’m sure of it!”
The scientist and his friends ran through the night, and only from that potion had they been able to continue. The castaways often stumbled in the dark, nearly strangling themselves with the connecting rope and they frequently ended up in a heap. They ran as far as they could, and if someone lagged, a savage would drop back to entice them with a leather whip or stick.
They stopped at intervals to drink the potion or water and catch their breath, and it was then they had found that those who were bound and carried fared little better. All had been bruised from jostling, and Mrs. Quarrie’s wrists had worn right through the skin.
“They’re knocking me to pieces, too, Abby,” her husband had consoled, before accepting water from a skin.
Van Resen laughed at the memory, at the trees high overhead—and then he stopped.
Lilly had remained unconscious throughout their journey, though her appearance had continued to improve. Her skin had a warm, pink hue, and her hair was lustrous—glowing even. Her full lips and body had grown more voluptuous, alluring—irresistible.
A masked savage stepped over the scientist then, and in the better light he was able to see the metal anklet about the muscular leg and its design struck him so sharply he sat up.
“The iron bands! Like Gazda’s,” he cried, as the savage joined his fellows.
“I have seen, doctor,” Miss James answered to the far side of Phillip Holmes’ sleeping form. She heaved herself onto one elbow. “He must have found them.”
Van Resen smiled, considering the coincidence. He had yet to show his fellow castaways the skull-mask and shield that he and Jacob had found at the yurt and hidden beneath it. They were the very duplicates of those used by their captors.
A suspicion had newly dawned upon the scientist that this tribe of masked savages might well have raised Virginia’s friend Gazda, or if Van Resen were to draw upon his darker knowledge—the wild man may very well have enslaved them!
As the governess struggled into a sitting position, a spray of ferns spread over her shoulders like wings. Her clothing was ragged and sweated through many times. Her skin was pale, and there was darkness around her eyes that spoke of weariness and pain.
Van Resen noticed that a bag of food had been thrown by them, so he dug into it, and offered the woman a piece of fruit that she accepted with bound hands.
“You spoke of Gazda’s medallion,” Miss James whispered, sweat-soaked hair pasted to her forehead. She pressed the fruit to her teeth.
“Men of the house of Dracul swore an oath to the symbol that was upon it. The Order of the Dragon,” he muttered, searching through the bag and pulling out a celery-like stalk. “To that and the shield-shaped device of Basarab we saw upon the buried book. I recognized them from his notes.”
“Notes?” the governess asked. “Whose?”
“The man of letters I spoke of earlier—the scientist,” Van Resen explained. “A doctor whose family and peers shunned his accomplishments and denied him as a madman.”
“What did he write?” Miss James said.
“Portions of his account made it to the popular press—and tracts were even fictionalized. The report was never official or sanctioned by any institution; but the scientific community could not deny their curiosity. We
