Dracula’s Miracles

Suddenly and silently, Jerry stopped moving. I nearly ran into him as I watched for tricky steps in the fading sunlight. He came to a halt at the edge of a small mesa, completely clear of the brush we had climbed through. In the center of the clearing was the telescope. It surprised me to see it, I suppose I had assumed it was still in the bed of my truck, but here it was.

I looked toward Jerry and he returned a thousand-yard stare. I looked at the telescope and back at Jerry. He was impassive as ever, so I slowly continued moving forward in the direction of the telescope. The wooden stand and bronzed exterior of the telescope were all familiar to me, but nothing else was. Looking around at the scenery, it seemed like I had travelled for months, over incredible distances, to get to this point. The only things I recognized were the telescope and Jerry, behind me, standing stock-still.

A telescope sitting alone on a mesa, assembled and pointed toward the heavens, is an invitation. It’s a formal invitation, delivered by snail mail, printed on linen paper with the pointless piece of tissue paper that flutters out of the envelope when you open it; the kind it’s nearly impossible to refuse. Who was I, then, to deny this telescope?

I lowered my head to the eyepiece and gazed through the lenses and mirrors out into the vast space, millions of miles away. I saw nothing, however. Just darkness within the telescope. I pulled back, checked the front of the telescope for a lens cover, and, finding none, looked into the eyepiece again.

Once more I was greeted by nothing but darkness, a black as black as any I had ever seen. When I pulled back from the telescope I found myself enveloped by the same impenetrable darkness. The mesa, Jerry, the forest, the night sky -- all gone. My surroundings were like a sensory-deprivation chamber, or at least what I imagined that to be. There was the blackness, myself, and the telescope.

Just then I heard something behind me, a knocking. I turned around and saw a door with faded white paint. I took a couple steps toward it and pulled it open, sticking my head outside. The blackness around me was replaced by twilight again, but I was not on the mesa with Jerry and the telescope. Instead I stared out at three children with beautiful black skin under ragged clothes, one wearing a “Cleveland Indians 2016 World Series Champions” t-shirt.

“Mr. Ulloa,” the tallest child said. I looked to either side of me, looking for another man, then back at him, staring expectantly at me.

“Yes?” I said hesitantly.

“Do you have any more meat for our family?”

I didn’t know how to respond. Did I? Why would I? Where was I?

“Not right now,” was all I could think to say. The kids turned, sadly, and retreated down the narrow street. I looked after them, noting the surroundings. In the distance I saw snow-capped mountains, in gaps between mud houses I could see a fertile river valley, and everywhere I saw people, Africans, going about their business, into and out of homes, crossing streets, and cutting between buildings.

I pulled myself back inside, half expecting the nothingness again, only to find myself in a small, rectangular, one-room dwelling. The room was actually a converted shipping container with a door at either end; inside I had a hot plate, cot, books, small television, and bottles of water, among other things in various bins and such. The “back door” was more of a curtain, behind which was an area covered by an ad hoc awning. The back had what I would graciously term a bathroom -- a three-sided curtained off area with a bucket and a water hose -- and a table, upon which a dead goat lay.

I did not linger at the back, retreating back into the hut instead. I set myself down on the cot and noticed a name tag next to the bed. I picked it up and immediately noticed my picture. The surprising part, however, was the Médecins Sans Frontières logo and the name: Drake Ulloa.

Then it hit me. I was living my novel: Dracula’s Miracles.

Drake Ulloa was Dracula’s vaguely Spanish pseudonym. Things were clicking now: the goat out back was not a goat, but a kudu; the village was somewhere near Homa Bay; I was in Doctors Without Borders. These things came back to me easily. I had researched them what I considered extensively, written and rewritten compulsively, and edited and pondered obsessively; the details I had created were ingrained in my mind. But I could not remember where I had left off.

Laying back on the cot, I tried to replay the most recent writing I’d done in my head. It had been a while since I had written anything. So long that I was struggling to remember the last time I’d put pen to paper. It was before Michaela had left, but how long before? The story had hit a lull after villagers discovered the drained kudu. My ideas of what would happen after that just failed to flow; my creativity was dammed up.

This was probably to be expected, as I knew so little about anything I was writing. I had not been to Africa, nor had I been any closer to Africa than the eastern seaboard of the United States. Ocean City, Maryland, was still more than 7,000 miles from Homa Bay, so my frame of reference was lacking, to say the least.

I did not lay back on the cot long before I heard a noise in the back. I stood, walked to the curtain, pulled it back and saw the children, drowning in their incorrect championship attire, poking at the kudu on the table. They were speaking rapidly, but not in English, in Bantu or Nilotic, I couldn’t remember, or, more accurately, had no way of knowing -- my rudimentary research couldn’t help me here. Their chatter got more excited and they leaned in close, they obviously had never seen the animal drained of nearly all its blood, nor were they familiar with the marks on its body from my teeth. They hummed with a nervous excitement until a small boy noticed me and screamed, turning on his heels and running away from my residence as fast as he could.

The other boys looked up and shot looks of sheer panic my way before following their friend, flying away in old Nikes, some without laces. I watched the boys flee and felt the blood drain from my own head as I realized they’d tell their parents or other adults and bring them back here, where they would question me and would no doubt become upset at my lack of adequate answers. I didn’t want to find out what would they might think to do after the questioning, so I grabbed a water bottle and went out the front at a brisk walk.

I strode with purpose down the dusty brown streets, looking all around me for signs of anything untoward, but avoiding staring at anyone thing for too long. I turned at corners randomly, only making sure I was not going in a circle and headed away from the direction the boys were running. The humid air, my pace, and my nerves took my breath from me quickly, leaving me panting and dripping sweat as I walked randomly.

My meandering course eventually wound to the business district of town, where the color of my skin stood in stark relief to the natives. I felt extremely conspicuous and slowed my pace, passing the market and bank at a more comfortable click while I tried to control my breathing. A group of men gathered outside the mosque before afternoon prayers gave me a sideways glance, but none came forward to halt my progress.

As the busy section of town started to fade out around me, I felt a little more at ease. I could see the bay of Lake Victoria ahead of me, with its green-brown water lapping gently at the beach, a noise that drew me toward it. At the beachhead I veered hard to the west and found a secluded spot under the cover of some scrubby plants to sit and rest for a moment. I opened my water bottle and greedily chugged at least 10 of its 20 ounces in a couple deep glugs.

Thirst contented, I laid back in the brush and looked into the sky. I tried to tell time by the sun, but I had no idea what day it was, nor where the sun typically was this close to the equator. I knew it was after noon, but that’s all I knew. A soft breeze rustled the brush around me and cooled my skin and surrounded me with the fragrance of mud and aquatic plants. The fertile field around me swayed in the breeze, providing a white noise that eased my nerves. I was not wholly confident I hadn’t been followed to my peaceful lakeside spot, but I allowed myself to close my eyes anyway.

I don’t know how long I laid on my back, but after some time I was awoken by a gruff yelling.

“Over here! He’s over here!”