CHAPTER IX (2/2)

von Arthur Conan Doyle

It wasn’t really that difficult, though there were moments that made my hair stand on end. The first half of the climb was easy, but after that, it became increasingly steep. By the last fifty feet, we were literally clinging to tiny ledges and crevices in the rock with just our fingers and toes. I wouldn’t have made it, nor would Summerlee, if Challenger hadn’t reached the summit first. It was impressive to see such agility in someone so large. He secured a rope around the trunk of a sturdy tree that grew at the top. With that as our anchor, we managed to scramble up the jagged wall until we found ourselves on a small grassy platform, about twenty-five feet wide in every direction, which marked the summit.

Once I caught my breath, the first thing that struck me was the breathtaking view of the landscape we had crossed. The entire Brazilian plain stretched out beneath us, fading into a hazy blue mist at the farthest edge of the horizon. In the foreground, a long slope scattered with rocks and dotted with tree ferns lay before us. In the middle distance, I could just make out the yellow and green mass of bamboos we had passed through, and beyond that, the vegetation thickened into a vast forest that extended as far as the eye could see, and for at least two thousand miles beyond.

I was still absorbing this incredible panorama when I felt the heavy hand of the Professor on my shoulder.

“This way, my young friend,” he said. “Vestigia nulla retrorsum. Never look back, but always toward our glorious goal.”

When I turned, I saw that the plateau was at the same level where we stood, and the green bank of bushes, with the occasional tree, was so close that it was hard to believe how inaccessible it remained. The gap was roughly forty feet wide, but from my perspective, it might as well have been forty miles. I wrapped one arm around the trunk of the tree and leaned over the edge. Far below, I could see the small dark figures of our servants looking up at us. The wall was completely vertical, just like the one facing me.

“This is indeed curious,” said Professor Summerlee, his voice creaking with interest.

I turned to see him examining the tree I was clinging to. Its smooth bark and small, ribbed leaves looked familiar. “Wait,” I exclaimed, “it’s a beech!”

“Exactly,” said Summerlee. “A fellow-countryman in a far land.”

“Not just a fellow-countryman, my good sir,” Challenger interjected, “but also, if I may expand on your metaphor, an ally of the highest order. This beech tree will be our savior.”

“By George!” Lord John exclaimed. “A bridge!”

“Precisely, my friends, a bridge! It’s not for nothing that I spent an hour last night focusing my mind on the situation. I recall mentioning to our young friend here that G. E. C. is at his best when his back is against the wall. Last night, you’ll agree, all our backs were to the wall. But where willpower and intellect come together, there’s always a way out. A drawbridge had to be found to span the abyss. Behold it!”

It was indeed a brilliant idea. The tree stood at least sixty feet tall, and if it fell the right way, it would easily bridge the gap. Challenger had taken the camp axe with him when he climbed up, and now he handed it to me.

“Our young friend has the strength,” he said. “I believe he will be the most useful for this task. However, I must ask that you refrain from thinking for yourself and simply do as you’re told.”

Following his instructions, I made cuts in the sides of the tree to ensure it would fall as we wanted. It already had a natural tilt toward the plateau, so it wasn’t too difficult. Finally, I got to work on the trunk, alternating with Lord John. After a little over an hour, there was a loud crack, the tree swayed forward, and then crashed down, its branches getting tangled in the bushes on the other side. The severed trunk rolled to the very edge of our platform, and for one terrifying moment, we all thought it was over. But it balanced itself a few inches from the edge, creating our bridge to the unknown.

Without saying a word, we all shook hands with Professor Challenger, who raised his straw hat and bowed deeply to each of us in turn.

“I claim the honor,” he said, “to be the first to cross into the unknown land—a fitting subject, no doubt, for some future historical painting.”

He stepped toward the bridge when Lord John placed a hand on his coat.

“My dear chap,” he said, “I really can’t allow that.”

“Can’t allow it, sir!” Challenger replied, his head tilting back and his beard thrusting forward.

"When it comes to science, I defer to you, since you’re the one with the expertise," Lord John said, his tone firm. "But when it’s my area, you need to listen to me."

"Your area?" Challenger raised an eyebrow.

"We all have our jobs, and mine is soldiering. In my view, we’re stepping into a new territory that might be crawling with enemies. Charging in without a bit of common sense or patience isn’t how I manage things."

His argument was too sensible to ignore. Challenger tossed his head back and shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Alright then, what do you suggest?"

"For all we know, there could be a tribe of cannibals lurking behind those bushes," Lord John replied, glancing across the bridge. "It’s wiser to gather some intelligence before we end up in a cooking pot. So, let’s hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Malone and I will head down again to retrieve the four rifles, along with Gomez and the others. One person can cross first while the rest cover him with their guns, ensuring it’s safe for everyone to follow."

Challenger plopped down on a cut stump, groaning in frustration. But Summerlee and I agreed that Lord John was the one to lead when it came to practical matters. The climb was easier now that a rope dangled down the steepest part of the ascent. Within an hour, we had brought up the rifles and a shotgun. The half-breeds had also made the climb, and under Lord John’s direction, they carried up a bundle of supplies in case our first exploration took longer than expected. We were all equipped with bandoliers of cartridges.

"Now, Challenger, if you’re really set on being the first one across," Lord John said once we were ready.

"I appreciate your gracious permission," Challenger replied, his irritation evident. He was never one to tolerate authority. "Since you’ve allowed it, I’ll gladly take on the role of pioneer this time."

With a leg dangling over the edge, his hatchet slung across his back, Challenger hopped across the trunk and soon reached the other side. He scrambled up and waved his arms in triumph.

"At last!" he shouted. "At last!"

I watched him anxiously, half-expecting some terrible fate to leap out from the dense greenery behind him. But everything was still, except for a brightly colored bird that took flight from beneath his feet and disappeared into the trees.

Summerlee was next. His wiry energy was impressive for someone so slight. He insisted on carrying two rifles on his back, ensuring both Professors were armed when he made the crossing. I followed, trying not to look down into the terrifying chasm below. Summerlee extended the butt of his rifle, and in an instant, I grasped his hand. As for Lord John, he simply walked across—without any support! He must have nerves of steel.

And there we stood, the four of us, in the dreamlike, lost world of Maple White. It felt like the moment of our greatest triumph. Who could have predicted it was just the beginning of our ultimate disaster? Let me briefly describe how the crushing blow struck us.

We had turned away from the edge and ventured about fifty yards into the thick brush when a horrifying crash echoed behind us. Instinctively, we rushed back the way we had come. The bridge was gone!

Peering over the cliff, I saw a tangled mess of branches and splintered wood far below. It was our beech tree. Had the edge of the platform crumbled and sent it tumbling? For a moment, that was the explanation we all considered. Then, from the far side of the rocky peak, a familiar face emerged—Gomez, the half-breed. But this was not the Gomez we knew, with his polite smile and blank expression. This was a man with wild eyes and a twisted face, filled with rage and the manic joy of revenge.

"Lord Roxton!" he shouted. "Lord John Roxton!"

"Yes, here I am," Lord John replied calmly.

A shriek of laughter echoed across the chasm.

"Yes, there you are, you English dog, and there you’ll stay! I’ve waited for this moment, and now it’s finally here. You struggled to get up; you’ll find it even harder to get down. You fools, you’re trapped, all of you!"

We stood there, too stunned to respond, simply staring in disbelief. A large broken branch lay on the grass, revealing how he had gained the leverage to topple our bridge. The face disappeared for a moment, but soon it reappeared, more frantic than before.

"We almost killed you with a stone at the cave," he shouted. "But this is even better. It’s slower and far more terrifying. Your bones will bleach up there, and no one will know where you lie or come to bury you. As you’re dying, remember Lopez, the man you shot five years ago on the Putomayo River. I’m his brother, and no matter what happens, I’ll die happy now because I’ve avenged him." He shook his fist at us furiously, and then everything fell silent.

If the half-breed had simply taken his revenge and slipped away, things might have turned out fine for him. But that foolish, irresistible Latin urge to be dramatic led to his own downfall. Roxton, known as the Flail of the Lord across three countries, was not someone who could be safely provoked. The half-breed was making his way down the far side of the peak, but before he could reach the ground, Lord John sprinted along the edge of the plateau and found a vantage point to spot his target. There was a single crack from his rifle, and though we didn’t see anything, we heard a scream followed by the distant thud of a body hitting the ground. Roxton returned to us, his expression as hard as stone.

"I’ve been a blind fool," he said bitterly. "It’s my stupidity that has brought all of you into this mess. I should have remembered that these people have long memories for blood feuds and been more cautious."

"What about the other one? It took two of them to push that tree over the edge."

"I could have shot him, but I let him go. He might not have been involved. Maybe it would have been better if I had killed him, since he must have helped in some way."

Now that we understood his reasoning, we could all recall moments when the half-breed had acted suspiciously—his constant curiosity about our plans, his arrest outside our tent when he was eavesdropping, the furtive glances of hatred we’d occasionally caught from him. We were still discussing this, trying to wrap our heads around the new reality, when a strange scene in the plain below caught our attention.

A man in white clothes, undoubtedly the surviving half-breed, was running as if Death were chasing him. Just a few yards behind him, the massive figure of Zambo, our loyal servant, was bounding after him. As we watched, Zambo leaped onto the fugitive’s back and wrapped his arms around his neck. They tumbled to the ground together. Moments later, Zambo stood up, glanced at the fallen man, and then, waving joyfully at us, came running in our direction. The white figure lay motionless in the vast plain.

Our two traitors were gone, but the damage they had caused lingered. There was no way for us to return to the pinnacle. We had once been part of the world; now we were trapped on the plateau. The plain stretched out toward the canoes, and beyond the violet, hazy horizon lay the river that led back to civilization. But the connection between the two was lost. No amount of human ingenuity could bridge the chasm that had opened up between us and our former lives. One moment had changed everything.

It was in that moment that I truly understood the character of my three companions. They were serious and contemplative, yet possessed an unshakeable calm. For now, we could only sit among the bushes, waiting patiently for Zambo to return. Soon, his honest black face appeared over the rocks, and his powerful figure emerged at the top of the plateau.

"What should I do now?" he called out. "You tell me, and I’ll do it."

It was easier to ask than to answer. One thing was clear: he was our only reliable connection to the outside world. We couldn’t let him leave us.

"No, no!" he insisted. "I won’t leave you. Whatever happens, you’ll always find me here. But I can’t keep the Indians. They’re already saying too much Curupuri lives in this place, and they want to go home. Now you leave them, and I can’t keep them."

It was true that our Indians had shown signs of fatigue and a desire to return. We realized Zambo was right; it would be impossible for him to keep them.

"Make them wait until tomorrow, Zambo," I shouted. "Then I can send a letter back with them."

"Very good, sir! I promise they’ll wait until tomorrow," the negro replied. "But what should I do for you now?"

There was a lot to do, and our loyal companion tackled it all with impressive dedication. First, under our guidance, he untied the rope from the tree stump and tossed one end over to us. It was as thin as a clothesline but surprisingly strong. While we couldn’t use it to build a bridge, it would certainly come in handy if we needed to climb.

Next, he secured his end of the rope to the supply package that had been brought up, allowing us to pull it across. This gave us enough provisions to last at least a week, even if we didn’t find anything else. Finally, he made his way down again and brought up two more bundles—one containing ammunition and a few other essentials. We managed to get everything across by throwing the rope to him and hauling it back. By the time he climbed down for the last time, it was evening, and he assured us he would keep the Indians occupied until morning.

So here I am, spending nearly our entire first night on the plateau writing about our experiences by the flickering light of a single candle lantern.

We had our supper and set up camp right at the edge of the cliff, quenching our thirst with two bottles of Apollinaris from one of the crates. Finding water is crucial for us, but I think even Lord John had enough adventure for one day, and none of us felt eager to venture into the unknown just yet. We decided against lighting a fire or making any unnecessary noise.

Tomorrow—or rather today, since dawn is breaking as I write—we’ll take our first steps into this strange land. I have no idea when I’ll be able to write again, or if I ever will. For now, I can see that the Indians are still where they were, and I trust that our faithful Zambo will come by soon to collect my letter. I just hope it reaches its destination.

P.S.—The more I think about it, the more desperate our situation seems. I see no way for us to return. If there were a tall tree near the edge of the plateau, we could drop a bridge back down, but there isn’t one within fifty yards. None of us could carry a trunk that would serve our purpose. The rope is far too short for us to descend by it. No, our situation is hopeless—completely hopeless!