CHAPTER NINE - Base Camp

 “…friend John, am I to take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me-for I am a student of the brain-how you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought-reading?”

Dr. Seward’s Diary,

Dracula,

By Bram Stoker

1 August, 1914 - Base Camp

Pain told him he was not dead, but there was no comfort in that, as every inch of his body complained in a most excruciating manner if he made any effort to move.
Even the dreams were painful; if they were dreams. Swirling scenes racing through his head; oddly familiar, but not of any place he could recall. Liquid faces watched him; their expressions continually changing and drawing closer, providing no escape; not even behind closed lids.
If they came too close, a flicker of fear, far back in his mind, swiftly consumed all thought, precipitating waves of nausea, and a strange feeling of an invading ‘other’. When he could not prevent being drawn into that mind, he screamed, until that now familiar prick, and welcomed sensation of enfolding oblivion reached him.
So time was marked for him by terror and oblivion.
The only variance was an occasional interlude of overheard conversations, and, over time, those conversations coalesced into words, and then meanings, and, finally, he dared open his eyes. But the world greeted him through a multi-vision prism; two, or sometimes three, distinct scenes overlaid each other, giving Jonathan a headache if he tried to sort it out, followed quickly by vertigo which caused him to slip back into unconsciousness.
Then there were those moments, all to few, when he woke out of his stupor; thirsty and hungry. He could see he was in a tent, and some one was always on hand to offer him drink before he fell back into something resembling sleep.

It was time to get up. The dreams no longer held terror for him, and his body was itching to move. He stretched, keeping his eyes closed; silly, but he wanted to make this moment last a little longer before he had to face whatever was waiting for him.
A wet scraping on his hand forced him to open his eyes.
Lupa!
Sabina appeared at the opening almost immediately; Jonathan looked at Lupa.
“Snitch!” he said with a smile. Lupa did not change her position, nor in any way, acknowledge his remark as Sabina knelt beside him.
“Feeling better?”
“I’m alive. Where am I?”
“Still in the tent at Base Camp.”
“What are you and Lupa doing here?
“We were asked for when news of your accident reached us.”
Jonathan snorted at the reference to his accident.
Sabina ignored his response.“Food or drink?”
“Drink please, my throat is dry.”
Dr. Van Helsing came rushing in, waves of relief, guilt, and concern, washing over his face as he scrutinized Jonathan. He took the cup of water from Sabina and handed it to him, neither one of them speaking.
At the sight of the Professor, Jonathan experienced a rush of anger towards him. That confounded him, and he was not sure what to make of it.
“May I?” The doctor pulled out his stethoscope.
Jonathan nodded, noting that his anger still lingered. While being examined, Quincey and Karoly came in, “Well look at that, he’s sitting up,” Quincey drawled. “Look at them bones. You must be hungry.” As if in answer, he heard his stomach growl. He smiled sheepishly as the others laughed.
The Professor asked, “Can you make it outside?”
An unexpected, and inexplicable fear took hold of him, but seeing the lit lanterns beyond the tent opening, and the darkness beyond, he relaxed.
“I’m not sure. I’ll need some help.” He was astonished at how weak he was; still wrapped in a blanket, he had to stand quietly until his disorientation lessened; but with Quincey on one side of him, and Karoly on the other, he made it to the campfire.
Sabina placed blankets on a rough hewn chair, and Jonathan was lowered in and wrapped with more blankets. He closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh air, while trying to draw strength back into his body.
“Try this.” The aroma of hot soup thrust in his face reminded him how hungry he was. He slurped a little and could not remember having ever tasted anything so good.
“How long have I been here?”
“This is the second night since we left the castle.” The Professor sat on one of the camp stools nearby, “Do you remember anything while you were… convalescing?”
Jonathan shook his head, determined to finish the soup before answering any questions. But the request started him thinking, especially about the dreams. While lapping up the last sips, he attempted to recall any of the haunting scenes, or apparitions. He was surprised how quickly they surfaced again, with no apparent loss of detail; but, at least, this time, he felt less terror; just a sense of loss that drained him of the little vitality he had left.
Someone else was joining them at the campfire. He looked to see who it was.
“Bacsi!” The old man waved his hand while settling on the ground nearby. He made much of fixing his blankets and adjusting the saddle that he was using as a support for reclining.
“It is very good to see you out of bed and enjoying the night air,” Bacsi responded.
“Bacsi, I did not know you spoke English.”
A frozen silence fell over the group. Jonathan was at a loss. He looked around to find everyone staring at him.
“I do not speak English.”
“But I can understand you.”
“I can see that.”
He felt faint, he could feel his gorge rising, but he fought it, he was tired of his body betraying him.
“Jonathan, you were speaking Hungarian.” Sabina said softly. “Several times, while you slept, you spoke in different languages.”
“Languages? More than one?”
“Yes.”
His head fell forward, his arms limp at his sides. Sabina helped him lie back in the chair.
“There were several,” she hesitated, “voices, that would cry out, as you slept, and, to stop the agitation to your body, we spoke to them.”
“Them?” he responded hysterically.
Sabina turned to the Professor.
He sighed, “When you were asleep, these, voices, made themselves heard. I mesmerized as many of them as I could. It was the only way I could gain you some comfort.”
The enormity of what the doctor said slowly penetrated into Jonathan’s consciousness. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was contaminated, his mind was contaminated, and he knew not why or how. He turned his head to the side, Sabina fussing with his blankets.
“Leave me alone.”
Nothing was said. He closed his eyes against the tears, silently weeping until he could no longer fight his weariness.

Jonathan bolted upright, hands locked to the chair arms. It was sunrise! He could feel it. He froze, staring straight ahead; aware of Bacsi rising from his blankets and leaving. He could feel the fear inside him, but not arising from him. He was, …inspecting the fear.
The Professor rushed over, “Jonathan, what is it? Are you in pain? I need your assistance if I am to help.”
Still staring straight ahead, he answered, “I am not in pain, but there is some fear about the sun rising.”
The Professor waved his hand, “Somebody, please get me a blanket.”
Jonathan sat transfixed, now more interested in some inner struggle taking place within him. When the Professor attempted to put a blanket over him, he waved it away, “No.”
He continued to watch; if that was the right word, the internal fright building up inside, separately, from his thoughts. As each minute passed,the anxiety increased, and, after a while, he too began feeling that same anxiety. Fright gripped him now; something outside of his own thoughts could control him! He gulped down his panic; some part of him aware that running would do nothing to stop this madness.  
Perspiration built up around his forehead, he fidgeted, unable to keep still any longer. Turning to face the sun’s rays, just beginning to peek over the mountains, he leaned back, to try to shake off any lingering confusion.
Sighing, he drew in a much needed breath, looking around at everyone who had made their way to the campfire. Varying looks of concern greeted him, and he smiled wanly in response. “I will be all right, I just need a few more minutes to, sort things out.”
They continued to look at him, not moving until Bacsi grabbed the coffee pot and went towards the stream. That seemed to release the rest as they resumed their camp chores.
He looked toward the sun again, observing the consternation within him, fighting down his own revulsion of these invading thoughts. Stubbornly, or stupidly, he hung on as the turmoil raged within him, reaching its height when the rays finally bathed him with its warmth. The panic was palpable now, and unrelenting. Gripping the arms of the chair, forcing himself to breathe, he stayed seated, lest he run off and lose himself. How much could he take of this? He felt a loss of control, along with the loss of what little strength he had managed to regain.
In a burst, the tension disappeared; in its place, a remnant of confusion remained, but hardly noticeable. Jonathan felt relief; it was as if a battle had been won. He looked around and saw only the camp, the people, and more importantly, saw them through his own eyes.
He attempted to get up, because his bodily functions were announcing they needed caring for. He loosely wrapped one of the blankets around him, noticing he wore no clothes. He began to wonder just how he was cared for while sick, and decided not to follow that train of thought. He stood there, still trying to recover some of his depleted strength.
Karol and Quincey strolled over. “Need some help?”
“Yes, I could do with a trip to our outhouse.”
Quincey laughed, it was their private joke regarding their primitive conditions, and so they made their way to a group of boulders near the camp.
“Then some clothes and food.” Karoly confirmed.

Jonathan had to admit, he liked the clothes. For one thing they fit him better than his own, and they definitely allowed him a larger range of motion. He had been going through a growth spurt over the last year, and sometimes his clothes would shrink overnight, so this new set of clothes lifted his spirits somewhat. He kept looking at his boots, they were very similar to his own, but not as tight fitting; he could see why his friends did not bother to take them off until night. He put down his plate, careful not to finish it off too fast; he already had one bout of distress from eating too much too fast, and he did not feel like repeating that ordeal again.
Bacsi was in his regular spot, drawing on a long thin pipe, curls of smoke leaving his pursed lips. Both watched Quincey and Karoly engage in a friendly competition with whips.
Not for the fist time, Jonathan noticed the similarity between the American cowboy and these Hungarians. He was gratified that they all accepted him as an equal because of his riding ability and his knowledge of horse husbandry. He could thank Charlie for that!
But he certainly was no cowboy as he watched them trade whips, and this time, at Karoly’s urging, trade hats for their next competition. Stefan and Nicolai started laughing at Karoly’s imitation of Quincey’s cowboy swagger, which elicited a smile from Jonathan.
Bacsi tapped his pipe on a nearby boulder, emptying the contents into the small breakfast fire.
“They came with the horses.”
“Sorry?”
“Karoly, Stefan and Nicolai came with the horses.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They are from the puszta, the plains. They are gulyas from the eastern plains of Hungary; horse breeders. We had a bad winter a few years ago and lost many of our livestock and horses. We traveled to the plains to replenish our stocks. We bought many horses and these three gulyas did not have the heart to part with their herd, so they came back here with the horses. Which was good fortune for us.”
“We now train our horse stock for the military. See how they ignore the noise of the whips? It is like the sound of gunfire, and in this way, these trained mounts are very valuable for our military. We sold our first group of three year olds this year.”
Jonathan had to admit it was impressive to see the horses munching on the short meadow grass while around them the, gulyas, and Quincey, were practicing with their whips.
But his own personal problems colored the scene. How can anything be normal while he was contaminated. There was a wall now between him and everything else.
“You have questions.”
Jonathan emitted a quick exhale. “Yes, why me?”
Bacsi continued to clean his pipe and prepare it for a new smoke. Jonathan felt himself turn red; having now uttered his foremost thought, it sounded so whiny to his ears.
“Well, let’s see, I suppose the Professor would have been…”, Jonathan gasped at the thought.
“No? Well then maybe Karoly? He is a strong young man.”
Jonathan was silent. It was obvious what Bacsi was doing. If not him, then who?
As if reading his mind, Bacsi repeated his thought, “He nem te, akkor ki?” Concentrating on the smoke, he continued, “I wonder how any of the others with you might have fared.”
Again, his ploy was obvious, but it was effective. Jonathan did wonder what would have happened if any of the others had been smitten. What would they do? He spent some time imagining their possible reactions, and was forced to come to the conclusion that he could not wish his predicament on anyone, and, in all likelihood, they, in turn, would not wish this situation on him.
“I may be of some help.”
Jonathan, a bit surprised, looked at him.
“Why do you think Dr. Van Helsing sent for Sabina and for me? He did not understand all the dialects you were speaking.”
This reminder of his dilemma brought him up short, after all, here he was, speaking Hungarian with Bacsi. Nothing had gone away. He did want to know, but he was afraid. So he said nothing.
“We could hear you as we rode into camp, you were shouting mostly Hungarian phrases, but I heard a little German, and Russian.”
Jonathan felt faint. He leaned forward.
“Most we could not understand; just words here and there; “trapped”, “darkness”, “forsaken”, and a few prayers, repeated over and over again.”
“After many attempts to soothe the, voices, the professor was able to, I think he used the word mesmerize, some of the voices; or to at least quiet them; that took time, one voice at a time.”
“How many were there?!” Listening to Bacsi, he felt the terror creep back.
Bacsi drew in a long breath, slowly releasing it along with a spiral of smoke, which to Jonathan’s eyes, bore a strong resemblance to the sárkány a tűz.
“It is difficult to determine what we heard and from whom; we are trying to find words to describe something beyond this world. We must tread cautiously.”
“There are many ancient legends about prophets and such speaking in tongues,” he smiled at the look of astonishment on Jonathan’s face, “but I do not think you need to worry about being a prophet.”
“But, we have little time, so all of it is precious, and we first need to get you back to Watch Mountain before the next storm moves in. Can you walk?” Bacsi stood up with a native grace that belied his years.
“ A little.”
“Come, we will walk and talk,” extending his hand to help Jonathan stand up, and waiting patiently as Jonathan steadied himself.
Competing scenes swirled in front of him. Bacsi grasped onto his arm, “You look weak.”
“I’m not sure of my step, nothing is in focus. If I move, I’m not sure what I will step into.”
“Then come toward me and hold my hand.”
He did as instructed and was relieved to see Bacsi and the others gain more permanence than the other intruding scenes. That gave him the courage to continue, and soon he was able to view the familiar surroundings with no dizzying distractions.
“The professor says to share all my thoughts with you; that you are fond of truth, no matter how harsh, and want to be told everything,” Jonathan flushed at this reminder of his past conversation with the professor, “and so, I say to you that you and I, and the professor, will travel a strange road together.”