CHAPTER IX (1/2)

von Arthur Conan Doyle

"Who Could Have Foreseen It?"

Something terrible has happened to us. Who could have predicted it? I can’t see an end to our troubles. It feels like we might be stuck here, in this strange, unreachable place, for the rest of our lives. My mind is so muddled that I can hardly grasp the reality of our situation or the possibilities of what lies ahead. To me, the present feels overwhelmingly grim, and the future seems as dark as night.

No one has ever found themselves in a worse predicament. There’s no point in detailing our exact location or asking our friends for help. Even if they could send a rescue party, our fate will likely be sealed long before they could reach us in South America.

We are, in truth, as far from any human assistance as if we were on the moon. If we are to survive, it will depend solely on our own strengths. I have three remarkable companions—men of great intellect and unwavering courage. That is our only hope. It’s only when I look at the calm faces of my comrades that I see a flicker of light in the darkness. I hope I appear as composed as they do, but inside, I’m filled with dread.

Let me recount, as clearly as I can, the events that have led us to this disaster.

When I wrote my last letter, I mentioned that we were just seven miles from a massive line of red cliffs that undoubtedly marked the plateau Professor Challenger had described. As we approached, the cliffs seemed even taller than he had claimed—some parts soaring to at least a thousand feet. They were strangely striated, reminiscent of basalt formations, similar to what you might see at Salisbury Crags in Edinburgh. The summit was lush with vegetation, dotted with bushes near the edge and tall trees further back. Yet, there was no sign of life anywhere.

That night, we set up camp right beneath the cliffs—a wild and desolate spot. The crags loomed above us, not just vertical but curving outwards at the top, making any ascent impossible. Nearby stood a tall, thin rock pinnacle that I believe I mentioned earlier. It resembled a broad red church spire, its top level with the plateau, but a vast chasm gaped in between. At the summit, a single tall tree grew. Both the pinnacle and the cliff were relatively low—maybe five or six hundred feet.

"That’s where the pterodactyl was perched," Professor Challenger said, pointing to the tree. "I climbed halfway up the rock before I shot it. I believe a skilled mountaineer like myself could reach the top, though he wouldn’t be any closer to the plateau once he did."

As Challenger spoke about his pterodactyl, I glanced at Professor Summerlee. For the first time, I noticed a flicker of belief and regret in his eyes. His thin lips were no longer curled in a sneer; instead, he wore a gray, drawn expression of excitement and disbelief. Challenger noticed it too and reveled in his small victory.

"Of course," he said, his sarcasm heavy, "Professor Summerlee will understand that when I say pterodactyl, I mean a stork—just one without feathers, with leathery skin, membranous wings, and teeth in its jaws." He grinned and blinked, bowing slightly until Summerlee turned and walked away.

The next morning, after a simple breakfast of coffee and manioc—we had to conserve our supplies—we held a council to discuss the best way to ascend to the plateau above us.

Challenger presided over the meeting with the solemnity of a judge. Picture him sitting on a rock, his ridiculous straw hat tilted back, his piercing eyes surveying us from beneath drooping lids, his thick black beard moving as he carefully outlined our current situation and our next steps.

Below him, you could see the three of us—myself, sunburned and youthful after our trek; Summerlee, serious but still critical, clutching his ever-present pipe; and Lord John, sharp as a tack, leaning on his rifle, his eager eyes fixed on the speaker. Behind us were the two swarthy half-breeds and a small group of Indians, while towering above us were those massive, red cliffs that stood between us and our goal.

"I don’t need to say," our leader began, "that during my last visit, I tried every possible way to climb the cliff. Where I failed, I doubt anyone else will succeed, since I consider myself a decent mountaineer. I didn’t have any climbing gear with me then, but I’ve brought it this time. With the right tools, I’m confident I could reach the summit of that isolated peak. However, as long as the main cliff overhangs, attempting to climb it would be pointless. On my last trip, I was rushed by the impending rainy season and running low on supplies. Those factors limited my time, and I can only claim to have surveyed about six miles of the cliff to the east, finding no way up. So, what should we do now?"

"There seems to be only one sensible option," Professor Summerlee replied. "Since you’ve explored the east, we should head west along the base of the cliff and look for a feasible point to ascend."

"Exactly," Lord John agreed. "This plateau can’t be too large, so we’ll circle around until we either find an easy way up or return to where we started."

"I’ve already explained to our young friend here," Challenger said, referring to me as if I were a schoolboy, "that it’s quite impossible for there to be an easy way up anywhere. If there were, the summit wouldn’t be isolated, and we wouldn’t have encountered such unusual disruptions to the laws of survival. Still, I admit there may be spots where a skilled climber could reach the top, but a heavy animal would struggle to descend. It’s certain there’s a point where climbing is possible."

"How do you know that, sir?" Summerlee asked sharply.

"Because my predecessor, the American Maple White, actually made such a climb. How else could he have seen the creature he sketched in his notebook?"

"You’re jumping ahead of the evidence," Summerlee countered stubbornly. "I accept the existence of your plateau since I’ve seen it, but I’m not yet convinced it holds any form of life."

"What you accept or deny is of little importance," Challenger replied dismissively. "I’m pleased to see that the plateau has finally caught your attention." He looked up at it, and to our surprise, he leaped off his rock, grabbed Summerlee by the neck, and tilted his face toward the sky. "Now, sir!" he shouted, his voice thick with excitement. "Do you see that the plateau contains some form of animal life?"

A thick fringe of green hung over the cliff’s edge. From this, a dark, glistening object emerged. As it slowly came into view, we realized it was a large snake with a uniquely flat, spade-shaped head. It hovered above us for a moment, the morning sun glistening on its sleek, sinuous body. Then it slowly retreated and disappeared.

Summerlee had been so captivated that he hadn’t resisted Challenger’s grip. Now, he shook off his colleague and regained his composure.

"I would appreciate it, Professor Challenger," he said, "if you could share your thoughts without seizing me by the chin. Even the sight of an ordinary rock python doesn’t warrant such treatment."

"But there is life on the plateau, nonetheless," Challenger replied triumphantly. "Now that I’ve made this point clear to anyone, no matter how prejudiced or dull, I believe we should break camp and head west until we find a way to climb."

The ground at the base of the cliff was rocky and uneven, making our progress slow and challenging. Suddenly, we stumbled upon something that lifted our spirits: the remnants of an old campsite. There were several empty meat tins from Chicago, a bottle labeled "Brandy," a broken tin opener, and various other bits of travelers’ debris. A crumpled newspaper revealed itself as the Chicago Democrat, though the date was unreadable.

"Not mine," Challenger said. "It must belong to Maple White."

Lord John was gazing curiously at a large tree fern that shaded the campsite. "Look at this," he said. "I think it’s meant to be a signpost."

A piece of hard wood had been nailed to the tree, pointing westward.

"Definitely a signpost," Challenger confirmed. "What else could it be? Realizing he was on a dangerous mission, our pioneer left this marker so that anyone following him would know the path he took. Perhaps we’ll find more signs as we continue."

We certainly did, but the discoveries were shocking and completely unexpected. Right beneath the cliff, there was a large patch of tall bamboo, similar to what we had encountered earlier on our journey. Many of these stalks reached twenty feet high, their sharp tops resembling formidable spears. As we walked along the edge of this thicket, something white caught my eye. Leaning in between the stems, I found myself staring at a skull, devoid of flesh. The entire skeleton was there, but the skull had separated and lay a few feet closer to the open ground.

With a few strikes from the machetes wielded by our Indian companions, we cleared the area enough to examine the details of this grim scene. Only a few tattered pieces of clothing remained, but there were boots still on the bony feet, making it clear that the deceased was a European. Among the bones lay a gold watch by Hudson from New York and a chain that held a stylographic pen. There was also a silver cigarette case, engraved with "J. C., from A. E. S." The condition of the metal suggested that this tragedy had occurred not long ago.

"Who could he be?" Lord John asked, his voice heavy with sympathy. "Poor guy! It looks like every bone in his body is broken."

"And the bamboo has grown through his shattered ribs," Summerlee added. "It’s a fast-growing plant, but it’s hard to believe this body could have been here while those canes grew to twenty feet tall."

"As for the man's identity," Professor Challenger said, "I have no doubt at all. Before I reached you at the fazenda, I made thorough inquiries about Maple White. They knew nothing at Para. Luckily, I had a solid lead—a specific picture in his sketchbook showed him having lunch with a priest in Rosario. I managed to track down that priest, and although he was quite argumentative and took offense when I pointed out how modern science challenges his beliefs, he ultimately provided me with useful information. Maple White passed through Rosario four years ago, two years before I discovered his dead body. He wasn’t alone then; he had an American friend named James Colver who stayed in the boat and didn’t meet the priest. So, I believe we are looking at the remains of James Colver."

"There's also little doubt about how he died," Lord John said. "He must have fallen or been thrown from the top, which explains the broken bones. How else could he have been impaled by those canes that tower over us?"

A silence fell over us as we stood around the shattered remains, absorbing the weight of Lord John's words. The cliff loomed above us, its jagged edge hanging over the bamboo thicket. He had definitely fallen from above. But had it been an accident? Or—dark and terrible possibilities began to swirl in my mind about this unknown land.

We moved on in silence, continuing to skirt the line of cliffs, which stood tall and unyielding like the vast Antarctic ice fields I had seen depicted in books, stretching endlessly and towering above the masts of exploring ships.

After five miles, we saw no breaks or openings. Then, suddenly, something caught our attention and filled us with renewed hope. In a hollow of the rock, sheltered from the rain, there was a rough arrow drawn in chalk, pointing westward.

"Maple White again," Professor Challenger remarked. "He must have sensed that someone would follow closely behind him."

"He had chalk, then?" I asked.

"A box of colored chalks was among the belongings I found in his knapsack. I remember the white one was worn down to a stub."

"That’s definitely good evidence," Summerlee said. "We should follow his lead and head west."

We had gone about five more miles when we spotted another white arrow on the rocks. This time, it marked a spot where the cliff face split into a narrow cleft. Inside that cleft was another guiding mark, pointing upward, the tip raised as if indicating a location above ground level.

It was a solemn place; the walls were so massive, and the sliver of blue sky above so narrow and obscured by a double layer of greenery, that only a dim, shadowy light reached the bottom. We hadn’t eaten for hours and were exhausted from the rocky, uneven trek, but our nerves were too heightened to allow us to stop. We decided to set up camp, leaving the Indians to handle that while the four of us, along with the two half-breeds, ventured up the narrow gorge.

The entrance to the gorge was no more than forty feet wide, but it quickly narrowed into a sharp angle, too steep and smooth to climb. This was clearly not what our guide had meant to show us. We turned back; the gorge itself was only about a quarter of a mile deep. Just then, Lord John’s keen eyes spotted what we were looking for. High above us, in the shadows, there was a patch of darkness that seemed deeper than the rest. It had to be the entrance to a cave.

The base of the cliff was littered with loose stones, making it easy to scramble up. When we reached the opening, all our doubts vanished. Not only was it a genuine cave, but there was also the familiar arrow symbol etched into the rock beside it. This was the spot, the very place where Maple White and his unfortunate companion had made their ascent.

We were too exhilarated to head back to camp; we had to explore right away. Lord John pulled out an electric torch from his knapsack, and we used it as our only source of light. He led the way, casting a bright circle of yellow light ahead of him, while we followed closely behind in a single file.

The cave had clearly been shaped by water, with smooth walls and a floor covered in rounded stones. It was just wide enough for a single person to fit through by stooping. For about fifty yards, it ran straight into the rock before sloping up at a steep angle. Soon, the incline became even steeper, forcing us to crawl on our hands and knees over loose rubble that slipped beneath us. Suddenly, Lord Roxton let out an exclamation.

“It’s blocked!” he shouted.

We crowded behind him and saw, illuminated by the torch's yellow light, a wall of broken basalt reaching up to the ceiling.

“The roof has collapsed!”

We tried in vain to clear some of the debris, but our efforts only dislodged larger rocks that threatened to roll down and crush us. It was clear that the blockage was far beyond our ability to remove. The path Maple White had taken was no longer accessible.

Feeling defeated, we stumbled back down the dark tunnel and returned to camp.

However, before we left the gorge, something significant happened that would have consequences later.

We had gathered in a small group at the bottom of the chasm, about forty feet below the cave's entrance, when a massive rock suddenly tumbled down, whizzing past us with incredible force. It was a narrow escape for all of us. We couldn’t see where the rock had come from, but our half-breed servants, who were still at the cave's entrance, claimed it had flown past them and must have fallen from above. Looking up, we saw no signs of movement among the dense green jungle that topped the cliff. Yet, it was hard to shake the feeling that the stone had been aimed at us, suggesting that there was a human presence—hostile, no doubt—on the plateau.

We hurriedly retreated from the chasm, our minds racing with the implications of this new development. The situation was already precarious, but if nature's obstacles were compounded by deliberate human interference, our mission seemed even more hopeless. Still, as we gazed up at the lush greenery just a few hundred feet above us, none of us could bear the thought of returning to London without exploring it thoroughly.

After discussing our options, we decided our best course was to continue circling the plateau in hopes of finding another way to the top. The cliffs, which had significantly decreased in height, began to curve from west to north. If we considered this as part of a circle, the entire circumference couldn’t be too large. At worst, we figured we’d be back at our starting point in a few days.

That day, we covered about twenty-two miles without any change in our prospects. Our aneroid barometer indicated that since leaving our canoes, we had climbed to three thousand feet above sea level. This altitude brought noticeable changes in both temperature and vegetation. We had finally escaped some of the dreadful insects that plague tropical travel. A few palms and tree ferns remained, but the Amazonian trees were far behind us. It was refreshing to see familiar plants like convolvulus, passion flowers, and begonias, reminding me of home amid these harsh rocks. I even spotted a red begonia that was the exact same shade as one I kept in a pot at a certain villa in Streatham—but I digress into personal memories.

That night—still the first day of our journey around the plateau—a remarkable experience awaited us, one that would forever silence any doubts we might have had about the wonders that lay so close.

As you read this, my dear Mr. McArdle, you might finally understand that the paper hasn’t sent me on a wild goose chase. There’s an astonishing story waiting to be told, one that the world will only see when we have the Professor’s permission to share it. I won’t dare publish these articles unless I can return to England with my evidence, or I’ll be labeled the greatest journalistic fabricator of all time. I’m sure you feel the same way, and you wouldn’t want to risk the Gazette’s reputation on this adventure until we can face the inevitable wave of skepticism and criticism that such articles will attract. So, this incredible incident, which would make a fantastic headline for the old paper, must remain tucked away in the editorial drawer for now.

Yet, it all happened in an instant, leaving no aftermath except for our own beliefs.

Here’s what took place. Lord John had shot an ajouti—a small, pig-like creature—and after giving half of it to the Indians, we were cooking the other half over our fire. The air was chilly after dark, and we had all gathered close to the flames. The night was moonless, but a few stars twinkled above, allowing us to see a little way across the plain. Suddenly, out of the darkness, something swooped down with a sound like an airplane. In an instant, we were enveloped by a canopy of leathery wings. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a long, snake-like neck, a fierce, greedy red eye, and a massive beak filled with sharp, gleaming teeth. Just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone—along with our dinner. A huge black shadow, twenty feet wide, soared into the air; for a moment, the monster’s wings blocked out the stars, and then it vanished over the edge of the cliff above us. We sat in stunned silence around the fire, much like the heroes of Virgil when the Harpies descended upon them. It was Summerlee who broke the silence first.

“Professor Challenger,” he said, his voice solemn and trembling with emotion, “I owe you an apology. Sir, I was wrong, and I ask that you forgive me for what I’ve said before.”

It was a gracious gesture, and for the first time, the two men shook hands. So much had changed with our first sighting of a pterodactyl. It was worth a stolen dinner to bring those two together.

But if prehistoric life existed on the plateau, it was scarce, as we saw no further signs of it over the next three days. During that time, we crossed a barren and inhospitable landscape, alternating between rocky deserts and desolate marshes teeming with wildfowl to the north and east of the cliffs. From that direction, the area was nearly inaccessible, and if it hadn’t been for a narrow ledge at the base of the cliffs, we would have had to turn back. Many times, we found ourselves waist-deep in the muck and slime of an old, semi-tropical swamp. To make matters worse, this place seemed to be a breeding ground for the Jaracaca snake, the most venomous and aggressive snake in South America. Again and again, these terrifying creatures slithered and lunged toward us across the rotting bog, and we could only feel safe by keeping our shotguns at the ready. One funnel-shaped depression in the swamp, a sickly green from some festering lichen, will forever haunt my memory. It seemed to be a nest for these vile creatures, and the slopes were alive with them, writhing toward us. The Jaracaca is notorious for attacking humans on sight, and there were too many for us to shoot. We turned and ran until we were exhausted. I’ll never forget looking back and seeing the heads and necks of our horrifying pursuers rising and falling among the reeds. We named it Jaracaca Swamp on the map we were creating.

The cliffs on the far side had lost their reddish hue and were now a deep chocolate brown. The vegetation was more sparse along the top, and they had dropped to three or four hundred feet in height, but we still couldn’t find any point to climb them. If anything, they seemed even more impossible than when we first encountered them. Their sheer steepness was evident in the photograph I took over the rocky desert.

“Surely,” I said as we discussed our situation, “the rain must find a way down somehow. There have to be water channels in the rocks.”

“Our young friend has moments of clarity,” Professor Challenger said, giving me a pat on the shoulder.

“The rain has to go somewhere,” I repeated.

"He has a solid grasp on reality," I said, trying to keep the mood light. "The only downside is that we've conclusively shown, with our own eyes, that there are no water channels running down the rocks."

"Then where does it go?" I pressed.

"I think it’s safe to assume that if it doesn’t flow outward, it must flow inward."

"So, there’s a lake at the center?"

"That’s what I would guess."

"It’s quite possible that the lake is an old crater," Summerlee added. "The entire area is clearly volcanic. Regardless, I would expect the surface of the plateau to slope inward, with a significant body of water at its center, which might drain through some underground channel into the marshes of the Jaracaca Swamp."

"Or evaporation could keep things balanced," Challenger interjected, and the two of them fell into one of their usual scientific debates, which sounded like a foreign language to me.

By the sixth day, we had completed our first circuit around the cliffs and found ourselves back at our original camp, next to the solitary rock pinnacle. We were a disheartened group; our investigation had been thorough, and it was clear that there was no spot where even the most agile person could hope to scale the cliff. The area that Maple White had marked with chalk as his entry point was now completely inaccessible.

What were we supposed to do next? Our supplies, along with our firearms, were holding up well, but we knew the day would come when we’d need to restock. In a couple of months, the rains would arrive, and we’d be washed out of our camp. The rock was harder than marble, and any attempt to carve a path up that height was beyond our time and resources. It was no wonder we exchanged gloomy looks that night and crawled into our blankets with hardly a word. I remember drifting off to sleep with the last image of Challenger squatting by the fire, his massive head resting in his hands, lost in thought, completely unaware of my goodnight.

But the next morning, Challenger greeted us with a different energy—one of satisfaction and self-pride radiated from him. As we gathered for breakfast, he wore a mock modesty that seemed to say, "I know I deserve all the praise, but please spare me the embarrassment of hearing it." His beard stood out triumphantly, his chest was puffed up, and his hand rested confidently on his jacket.

"Eureka!" he exclaimed, his teeth flashing through his beard. "Gentlemen, you can congratulate me, and we can congratulate each other. The problem is solved."

"You’ve found a way up?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"I believe so."

"And where is it?"

He pointed to the spire-like pinnacle to our right.

My heart sank as I looked at it. We had his assurance that it could be climbed, but a terrifying chasm lay between it and the plateau.

"We can never get across," I gasped.

"We can at least reach the summit," he replied. "Once we’re up, I might be able to show you that the resources of an inventive mind are far from exhausted."

After breakfast, we unpacked the bundle containing our leader's climbing gear. He pulled out a coil of strong, lightweight rope, one hundred and fifty feet long, along with climbing irons, clamps, and other tools. Lord John was an experienced mountaineer, and Summerlee had done some rough climbing before, so I was the real novice when it came to rock work. However, I hoped my strength and agility would make up for my lack of experience.