CHAPTER X

von Arthur Conan Doyle

**The Most Wonderful Things Have Happened**

Incredible things have happened, and they keep happening to us. My entire collection of writing materials consists of five old notebooks and a bunch of scraps, and I have just one stylus. But as long as I can move my hand, I’ll keep recording our experiences and impressions. Since we are the only people in the world to witness such extraordinary events, it’s crucial that I document them while they’re still fresh in my mind, before the fate that seems to loom over us actually catches up. Whether Zambo can finally take these letters to the river, or whether I’ll somehow manage to carry them back myself, or if a daring explorer might stumble upon our trail, perhaps aided by a perfected monoplane, I know that what I’m writing is destined to become a classic of true adventure.

The morning after we were trapped on the plateau by the villainous Gomez marked the beginning of a new chapter in our journey. The first incident wasn’t exactly reassuring about the place we had wandered into. As I woke from a brief nap after dawn, I noticed something strange on my leg. My trousers had slipped up, revealing a few inches of skin above my sock. There, resting on my leg, was a large, purplish grape. Confused, I leaned forward to remove it, only to be horrified when it burst between my fingers, spraying blood everywhere. My disgusted shout brought the two professors rushing to my side.

“Fascinating,” said Summerlee, leaning over my shin. “An enormous blood-tick, I believe it’s still unclassified.”

“The first fruits of our labor,” Challenger boomed in his usual pedantic tone. “We simply must name it Ixodes Maloni. The minor inconvenience of being bitten, my young friend, surely pales in comparison to the glorious privilege of having your name immortalized in the annals of zoology. Unfortunately, you’ve crushed this fine specimen just as it was enjoying its meal.”

“Disgusting creature!” I exclaimed.

Professor Challenger raised his eyebrows in protest and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“You should learn to appreciate the scientific perspective,” he said. “To a man of philosophical temperament like myself, the blood-tick, with its lancet-like mouth and distended belly, is as beautiful a creation of nature as the peacock or, for that matter, the aurora borealis. It pains me to hear you speak of it so dismissively. With a little effort, we can surely find another specimen.”

“Absolutely,” Summerlee said grimly, “especially since one just vanished behind your shirt collar.”

Challenger jumped up, bellowing like a bull, and frantically tore at his coat and shirt to get them off. Summerlee and I laughed so hard we could barely help him. Finally, we revealed his massive torso, which measured fifty-four inches according to the tailor’s tape. His body was matted with black hair, from which we managed to extract the wandering tick before it could bite him. But the surrounding bushes were teeming with these horrible pests, and it was clear we needed to move our camp.

First, we had to make arrangements with our loyal companion, Zambo, who soon appeared at the top of the pinnacle, tossing down tins of cocoa and biscuits. We instructed him to keep enough supplies to last him two months, while the remaining stores were to be given to the Indians as a reward for their services and for taking our letters back to the Amazon. A few hours later, we spotted them in a single file far out on the plain, each carrying a bundle on their heads, making their way back along the path we had traveled. Zambo remained in our little tent at the base of the pinnacle, our only connection to the world below.

Now, we needed to decide our next steps. We moved from the tick-infested bushes to a small clearing surrounded by thick trees. In the center were flat slabs of rock and a nearby well, where we settled in comfort to make our first plans for exploring this new land. Birds called from the foliage—especially one with a peculiar whooping cry that was new to us—but beyond those sounds, there were no signs of life.

Our first priority was to take stock of our supplies so we could understand what we had to work with. Between what we had brought ourselves and what Zambo had sent over on the rope, we were reasonably well-equipped. Most importantly, considering the dangers that might lurk around us, we had four rifles and a total of thirteen hundred rounds of ammunition, along with a shotgun, though we only had about one hundred and fifty medium pellet cartridges for that. In terms of food, we had enough provisions to last us several weeks, along with a decent supply of tobacco and a few scientific tools, including a large telescope and a good field-glass.

We gathered everything together in the clearing and, as a precaution, we used our hatchets and knives to cut down several thorny bushes, which we piled in a circle about fifteen yards in diameter. This would serve as our headquarters for the time being—a refuge against sudden danger and a guardhouse for our supplies. We decided to call it Fort Challenger.

By midday, we had secured our position, and although it was warm, the heat was manageable. The plateau's climate was almost temperate, with beech, oak, and even birch trees surrounding us in a tangled embrace. A massive ginkgo tree towered above the others, its sprawling limbs and delicate maidenhair leaves providing shade over our makeshift fort. Under its cover, we continued our discussion while Lord John, who had quickly taken charge during this critical moment, shared his thoughts.

"As long as no one—man or beast—has seen or heard us, we’re safe," he said. "Once they know we’re here, our troubles will begin. So far, there are no signs that we’ve been discovered. Our best strategy is to stay low for a while and scout the area. We need to observe our neighbors before we start making any visits."

"But we have to move forward," I interjected.

"Of course, my boy! We will move forward, but with common sense. We must never go so far that we can’t return to our base. Above all, we must avoid firing our guns unless it’s a matter of life or death."

"But YOU fired yesterday," Summerlee pointed out.

"That was unavoidable. The wind was strong and blowing outward. It’s unlikely the sound traveled far into the plateau. Speaking of which, what should we call this place? I suppose it’s up to us to name it?"

There were several suggestions, some better than others, but Challenger’s was final.

"It can only have one name," he declared. "It’s named after the pioneer who discovered it. It’s Maple White Land."

And so it was named, a title that would appear on the chart I was tasked with creating. I hoped it would eventually find its way into future atlases.

The peaceful exploration of Maple White Land was our immediate concern. We had seen with our own eyes that this land was inhabited by unknown creatures, and Maple White’s sketchbook hinted at even more terrifying monsters that might be lurking. The presence of a skeleton impaled on bamboo suggested that there could be human inhabitants as well, and that they might not be friendly. Our situation—stranded in such a perilous land—was undoubtedly dangerous, and every instinct urged caution, as Lord John advised. Yet it felt impossible to stand at the edge of this mysterious world when our very souls were itching to dive in and uncover its secrets.

We blocked the entrance to our makeshift fort by filling it with thorny bushes, ensuring our camp was entirely surrounded by this protective barrier. Then, we cautiously set out into the unknown, following the stream that flowed from our spring, knowing it would guide us back.

Barely had we begun when we encountered signs that wonders awaited us. After a few hundred yards through thick forest filled with unfamiliar trees—many of which Summerlee, our botanist, identified as ancient conifers and cycads long extinct in the world below—we reached a region where the stream widened into a substantial bog. Tall reeds of a peculiar type grew densely ahead of us, identified as equisetaceae, or mare’s-tails, with tree ferns scattered among them, all swaying in a brisk wind. Suddenly, Lord John, who was leading the way, stopped and raised his hand.

"Look at this!" he exclaimed. "By George, this must be the trail of the father of all birds!"

An enormous three-toed footprint was pressed into the soft mud in front of us. Whatever creature had made it had crossed the swamp and moved into the forest. We all paused to examine that monstrous track. If it was indeed a bird—and what other animal could leave such a mark?—its foot was so much larger than an ostrich's that it must have been enormous in size. Lord John eagerly scanned the area and loaded two cartridges into his elephant gun.

"I’d bet my reputation as a hunter," he said, "that this track is fresh. The creature passed by no more than ten minutes ago. Look how the water is still seeping into that deeper print! By Jove! Look, here’s the mark of a smaller one!"

Sure enough, smaller tracks of the same general shape ran parallel to the larger ones.

"But what do you make of this?" Professor Summerlee exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to what appeared to be the massive print of a five-fingered human hand among the three-toed marks.

"Wealden!" Challenger cried, his excitement palpable. "I’ve seen them in the Wealden clay. It’s a creature walking upright on three-toed feet and occasionally putting one of its five-fingered forepaws on the ground. Not a bird, my dear Roxton—not a bird."

"A beast?"

"No; a reptile—a dinosaur. Nothing else could have left such a track. They puzzled a respectable Sussex doctor about ninety years ago, but who could have ever hoped—hoped—to see something like this?"

His voice trailed off into a whisper, and we stood there in stunned amazement. Following the tracks, we had left the swamp and moved through a thicket of brush and trees. Beyond lay an open glade, and in it were five of the most extraordinary creatures I had ever seen. We crouched among the bushes, observing them at our leisure.

There were five of them—two adults and three young ones. They were enormous in size. Even the babies were as big as elephants, while the two adults were beyond anything I had ever encountered. Their skin was slate-colored, scaled like a lizard’s, and shimmered in the sunlight. All five were sitting up, balancing on their broad, powerful tails and huge three-toed hind feet, while using their small five-fingered front feet to pull down branches to feed on. If I had to describe their appearance, I would say they looked like monstrous kangaroos, twenty feet long, with skins resembling black crocodiles.

I don’t know how long we remained motionless, captivated by this incredible sight. A strong wind blew toward us, and we were well hidden, so there was no chance of being discovered. Occasionally, the little ones played around their parents, clumsily bounding into the air and landing with heavy thuds on the ground. The strength of the adults seemed limitless; one of them, struggling to reach a bunch of leaves high up in a tree, wrapped its forelegs around the trunk and pulled it down as if it were a sapling. The action demonstrated not only its immense muscle development but also a lack of intelligence, as the whole tree came crashing down on top of it, eliciting a series of sharp yelps that revealed there was a limit to what even such a massive creature could endure.

This incident seemed to alarm it, and it slowly lumbered off through the woods, followed by its mate and their three enormous young. We caught glimpses of their shimmering slate-colored skin between the tree trunks, their heads swaying high above the brush. Then they disappeared from view.

I turned to my companions. Lord John stood there, finger on the trigger of his elephant gun, his eager hunter's spirit shining in his fierce eyes. What wouldn’t he give for one of those heads to display above the mantelpiece in his cozy room at the Albany? Yet reason held him back; all our exploration of this unknown land depended on remaining hidden from its inhabitants. The two professors were in silent ecstasy. In their excitement, they had unconsciously grasped each other’s hands, standing like children in awe of a marvel. Challenger’s cheeks were flushed with a blissful smile, while Summerlee’s usually sardonic face softened into wonder and reverence.

"Nunc dimittis!" he finally exclaimed. "What will they say in England about this?"

"My dear Summerlee, I can confidently tell you exactly what they will say in England," Challenger replied. "They will say you are a liar and a scientific fraud, just as you and others said of me."

"In the face of photographs?"

"Faked, Summerlee! Clumsily faked!"

"In the face of specimens?"

"Ah, there they are! Malone and his filthy Fleet Street crew might still be singing our praises. August 28th—the day we spotted five live iguanodons in a clearing of Maple White Land. Make sure to jot that down in your diary, my young friend, and send it off to your paper."

"And be prepared to get kicked by the editorial boot in return," Lord John replied. "Things look a bit different from London, my lad. There are plenty of men who never share their adventures because they know no one will believe them. Can you blame them? In a month or two, this will feel like a dream to us. What did you say they were?"

"Iguanodons," Summerlee said. "You can find their footprints all over the Hastings sands in Kent and Sussex. The South of England was once teeming with them when there was enough lush greenery to sustain them. But conditions changed, and they died out. Here, it seems, the conditions haven’t changed, and the creatures have survived."

"If we ever make it out of this alive, I need to bring back proof," Lord John said. "Imagine how the Somaliland-Uganda crowd would turn green with envy if they saw this! I don’t know what you all think, but I feel like we’re walking on very thin ice right now."

I shared his sense of mystery and danger. The shadows of the trees felt like a constant threat, and as we gazed up into their dark foliage, vague fears crept into our hearts. It was true that the massive creatures we had seen were lumbering, harmless beasts unlikely to cause us harm, but in this world of wonders, what other ancient beings might be lurking? What fierce, active horrors could be ready to pounce from their hiding spots among the rocks or underbrush? I didn’t know much about prehistoric life, but I remembered a book that described creatures that could prey on our lions and tigers like a cat does with mice. What if those also roamed the woods of Maple White Land?

That very morning—our first in this new land—we were about to discover the strange dangers surrounding us. It would be a gruesome adventure, one I dread to recall. If, as Lord John said, the glade of the iguanodons would linger in our minds as a dream, then surely the swamp of the pterodactyls would haunt us as a nightmare. Let me recount exactly what happened.

We moved slowly through the woods, partly because Lord Roxton insisted on scouting ahead before allowing us to proceed, and partly because at every turn, one of our professors would stop in awe at some flower or insect that presented a new discovery. We may have traveled two or three miles, sticking to the right of the stream, when we stumbled upon a significant clearing in the trees. A belt of brush led up to a jumble of rocks—the entire plateau was scattered with boulders. As we approached these rocks, navigating through bushes that reached our waists, we suddenly heard a strange, low gabbling and whistling sound filling the air with a constant clamor, seemingly coming from just ahead of us.

Lord John raised his hand as a signal for us to stop and swiftly made his way, crouching and darting, toward the line of rocks. We watched as he peeked over them, his face lighting up with amazement. He stood there, staring, completely absorbed in what he saw. Finally, he waved us forward, signaling for caution. His demeanor made it clear that something extraordinary yet perilous awaited us.

Creeping up beside him, we peered over the rocks. Below us lay a pit that might have once been one of the smaller volcanic blowholes of the plateau. It was bowl-shaped, and at the bottom, several hundred yards away, stagnant pools of green-scummed water were bordered by bullrushes. The place was eerie in itself, but the creatures inhabiting it made it feel like a scene straight out of Dante’s Inferno.

It was a rookery of pterodactyls. Hundreds of them were gathered in view. The area around the water’s edge was teeming with their young, while grotesque mothers brooded over their leathery, yellowish eggs. The cacophony of their cries filled the air, mingling with a foul, musty odor that made us feel nauseous. Above, perched on their own stones, sat the males—tall, gray, and withered, resembling more like dried specimens than living beings. They were completely still, except for the occasional roll of their red eyes or a snap of their rat-trap beaks as a dragonfly flitted by. Their enormous, membranous wings were folded, making them look like gigantic old women wrapped in hideous, web-like shawls, their fierce heads jutting out above. There were at least a thousand of these filthy creatures sprawled out in the hollow before us.

Our professors would have happily stayed there all day, utterly captivated by the chance to study the life of a prehistoric age. They pointed out the fish and dead birds scattered among the rocks, discussing how these findings revealed the diet of these creatures. I overheard them congratulating each other on finally understanding why the bones of this flying dragon were found in such abundance in specific areas, like the Cambridge Green-sand, realizing that, like penguins, they lived in groups.

But then Challenger, eager to prove a point that Summerlee had challenged, leaned over the rock and nearly brought disaster upon us. In an instant, the nearest male let out a shrill, whistling cry and flapped its twenty-foot wings as it soared into the air. The females and young huddled together by the water, while the entire circle of sentinels took off one by one, rising into the sky. It was a breathtaking sight to see at least a hundred of these massive, hideous creatures swooping above us, their wings slicing through the air. But soon we realized we couldn’t afford to linger.

At first, the great beasts circled high above, assessing the threat. Then their flight descended lower, the circle tightening until they were whirling around us, the dry rustle of their enormous slate-colored wings filling the air with a sound that reminded me of an aerodrome on race day.

“Make for the woods and stick together!” Lord John shouted, gripping his rifle tightly. “They mean trouble.”

The moment we tried to retreat, the circle closed in on us, the tips of their wings nearly brushing our faces. We swung our guns at them, but there was nothing solid to hit. Suddenly, a long neck shot out from the swirling mass, and a fierce beak lunged at us. One after another, they attacked. Summerlee cried out, clutching his face as blood streamed down. I felt a sharp jab at the back of my neck, and dizziness washed over me. Challenger fell, and as I bent to help him up, I was struck from behind and collapsed on top of him. Just then, I heard the thunder of Lord John’s elephant gun, and looking up, I saw one of the creatures with a broken wing thrashing on the ground, spitting and gurgling at us with a wide-open beak and bloodshot, bulging eyes, like a demon from a medieval painting. Its companions soared higher at the sudden noise, circling above us.

“Now!” Lord John shouted. “Run for your lives!”

We staggered through the underbrush, and just as we reached the trees, the harpies were upon us again. Summerlee was knocked down, but we pulled him up and dashed among the trunks. Once we were there, we were safe; those massive wings couldn’t sweep beneath the branches.

As we limped homeward, battered and shaken, we watched them flying high against the deep blue sky, circling above us like wood pigeons, their eyes no doubt still tracking our movements. Finally, as we reached the thicker woods, they gave up the chase, and we no longer saw them.

“A truly fascinating and convincing experience,” Challenger said as we paused by the brook, tending to his swollen knee. “We’ve gained quite a bit of insight into the habits of the enraged pterodactyl, haven’t we, Summerlee?”

Summerlee was busy cleaning a cut on his forehead, while I was wrapping a nasty stab on my neck. Lord John had a tear in his coat, but fortunately, the creature’s teeth had only grazed his skin.

“It’s worth noting,” Challenger continued, “that our young friend here has a definite stab wound, while Lord John’s coat was only torn by a bite. As for me, I was battered about the head by their wings. We’ve had quite the demonstration of their various methods of attack.”

“It’s been a close call for our lives,” Lord John said gravely. “I can’t think of a worse way to go than being taken out by such filthy creatures. I hated having to fire my rifle, but honestly, there wasn’t much choice.”

“We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t,” I replied firmly.

“It might not hurt,” he said. “In these woods, there are plenty of loud cracks from splitting or falling trees that could easily be mistaken for gunfire. But now, if you agree with me, I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day. We should head back to the camp for some carbolic. Who knows what kind of venom those beasts might have in their disgusting jaws?”

But surely no one had ever experienced a day quite like ours. Fresh surprises awaited us at every turn. As we followed the brook and finally reached our glade, seeing the thorny barricade of our camp, we thought our adventures had come to an end. Yet, we still had something to confront before we could rest.

The gate of Fort Challenger stood untouched, the walls were intact, but it was clear that some strange and powerful creature had visited in our absence. No footprints revealed its identity, and only the overhanging branch of the massive ginkgo tree hinted at how it might have entered and exited. The evidence of its malevolent strength was all around us; our supplies were scattered haphazardly across the ground, and one tin of meat had been crushed to extract its contents. A case of cartridges lay shattered into splinters, and one of the brass shells was torn apart beside it.

A wave of vague horror washed over us as we exchanged frightened glances, aware that some fearsome shape could be lurking in the shadows surrounding us. Just then, we heard Zambo’s voice calling out, and when we approached the edge of the plateau, we saw him grinning at us from the top of the opposite peak.

“All good, Massa Challenger, all good!” he shouted. “I stay here. No fear. You always find me when you want.”

His honest, cheerful face, along with the vast view stretching back toward the Amazon, helped remind us that we were still on Earth in the twentieth century and hadn’t been magically transported to some wild, primitive planet. It was hard to believe that the violet line on the distant horizon marked the great river where huge steamers plied their trade and people discussed the trivialities of life, while we were marooned among creatures from a bygone era, longing for everything that horizon represented.

One final memory from this incredible day lingers in my mind, and I’ll close with it. The two professors, their tempers no doubt frayed by their injuries, had begun to argue about whether our attackers were pterodactyls or dimorphodons, and their voices rose in a heated debate. To escape their bickering, I moved a little way off and settled down on the trunk of a fallen tree to smoke. That’s when Lord John wandered over.

“Hey, Malone,” he said, “do you remember that place where those creatures were?”

“Very clearly,” I replied.

“It was like a volcanic pit, wasn’t it?”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Did you notice the soil?”

“Rocks.”

“But around the water—where the reeds were?”

“It was a bluish soil. Looked like clay.”

“Exactly. A volcanic tube filled with blue clay.”

“What of that?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he said, turning back to where the voices of the arguing professors rose in a prolonged duet, Summerlee’s high, strident tone contrasting with Challenger’s deep bass. I wouldn’t have thought much of Lord John’s comment if I hadn’t heard him muttering to himself later that night: “Blue clay—clay in a volcanic tube!” Those were the last words I heard before I slipped into an exhausted sleep.