CHAPTER IV

by Arthur Conan Doyle

The door had barely closed behind me when Mrs. Challenger burst out of the dining room. The petite woman was clearly furious, blocking her husband’s path like an angry hen facing a bulldog. It was obvious she had noticed me leaving but hadn’t seen me come back.

“You brute, George!” she shouted. “You’ve hurt that nice young man.”

George shrugged and gestured behind him. “Here he is, safe and sound.”

She looked a bit flustered but quickly regained her composure. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“I assure you, it’s all right,” I replied.

“He’s marked your poor face! Oh, George, what a brute you are! It’s nothing but scandals from one end of the week to the other. Everyone hates you and makes fun of you. You’ve pushed me to my limit. This has to stop.”

“Just dirty laundry,” he grumbled.

“It’s not a secret!” she exclaimed. “Do you think the whole street—no, all of London—doesn’t talk about you? Where’s your dignity? You should have been a Regius Professor at a great university, with a thousand students looking up to you. Where is your dignity, George?”

“And what about yours, my dear?” he shot back.

“You’re testing my patience. A ruffian—a common brawling ruffian—that’s what you’ve become.”

“Be good, Jessie.”

“A roaring, raging bully!”

“That’s it! Stool of penance!” he declared.

To my surprise, he bent down, scooped her up, and set her on a tall black marble pedestal in the corner of the hall. It was at least seven feet high and so narrow that she could barely balance on it. I couldn’t imagine a more ridiculous sight than her up there, her face twisted in anger, her feet dangling, and her body tense with the fear of falling.

“Let me down!” she wailed.

“Say ‘please.’”

“You brute, George! Let me down this instant!”

“Come into the study, Mr. Malone.”

“Really, sir—” I began, glancing at Mrs. Challenger.

“Here’s Mr. Malone pleading for you, Jessie. Just say ‘please,’ and down you come.”

“Oh, you brute! Please! Please!”

He lifted her down as gently as if she were a canary.

“You must behave yourself, dear. Mr. Malone is a journalist. He’ll write about this in his paper tomorrow and sell a few extra copies among our neighbors. ‘Strange story of high life’—you felt pretty high up there, didn’t you? Then a subtitle: ‘Glimpse of a singular ménage.’ He’s a vulture, Mr. Malone, a scavenger, like all of your kind—porcus ex grege diaboli—a pig from the devil’s herd. Isn’t that right, Malone?”

“You are truly intolerable!” I said, my temper flaring.

He roared with laughter.

“We’ll have a coalition soon,” he boomed, puffing out his massive chest as he looked between his wife and me. Then, suddenly shifting his tone, he said, “Excuse this lighthearted family banter, Mr. Malone. I called you back for a more serious reason than to involve you in our little domestic squabbles. Run along now, dear, and don’t fret.” He placed a large hand on each of her shoulders. “Everything you say is perfectly true. I would be a better man if I followed your advice, but I wouldn’t be quite George Edward Challenger. There are plenty of better men out there, my dear, but only one G.E.C. So make the best of him.” He suddenly leaned in and gave her a loud kiss, which embarrassed me even more than his earlier outburst had.

“Now, Mr. Malone,” he continued, regaining his dignity, “this way, if you please.”

We stepped back into the room we had left in such chaos just ten minutes earlier. The Professor closed the door carefully behind us, motioned for me to take a seat in an armchair, and pushed a cigar box toward me.

“Real San Juan Colorado,” he said. “Excitable people like you could use a little calming. For heaven’s sake, don’t bite it! Cut it—and cut it with respect! Now lean back and listen carefully to whatever I have to say. If you have any thoughts, save them for a more appropriate time.

“First of all, regarding your return to my house after your well-deserved expulsion”—he thrust out his beard and stared at me, as if daring me to contradict him—“the reason lies in your response to that overly inquisitive policeman. I sensed a glimmer of good feeling on your part—more than I usually associate with your profession. By admitting that the fault lay with you, you showed a certain mental detachment and breadth of view that caught my attention. The type of person you represent has always been beneath my notice. Your words lifted you above that. You swam into my awareness. That’s why I asked you to return; I wanted to get to know you better. Please deposit your ash in the small Japanese tray on the bamboo table to your left.”

He spoke with the booming authority of a professor lecturing to his students. Swiveling in his chair to face me, he puffed up like a massive bullfrog, his head tilted back and his eyes half-lidded with an air of superiority. Suddenly, he turned sideways, and all I could see was his messy hair and a bright red ear sticking out. He rummaged through the clutter of papers on his desk, then turned back to me, holding what looked like a very worn sketchbook.

"I'm going to talk to you about South America," he announced. "No comments, please. First, you need to understand that what I share with you now is confidential. You cannot repeat it publicly without my explicit permission, which, in all likelihood, will never be granted. Is that clear?"

"That's quite harsh," I replied. "Surely a thoughtful account—"

He set the notebook down on the table.

"That’s enough," he said. "I wish you a good morning."

"No, wait!" I exclaimed. "I’ll agree to any conditions. It seems I have no choice."

"None at all," he said.

"Then I promise."

"Word of honor?"

"Word of honor."

He scrutinized me with skepticism in his arrogant gaze.

"After all, how do I know anything about your honor?" he said.

"Honestly, sir," I retorted, my anger flaring, "you’re being quite presumptuous! I’ve never been so insulted in my life."

He seemed more intrigued than irritated by my outburst.

"Round-headed," he muttered. "Brachycephalic, gray-eyed, black-haired, with a hint of the negroid. Celtic, I assume?"

"I’m Irish, sir."

"Irish Irish?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, that explains a lot. Now, you’ve promised to respect my confidence? I should mention that my trust will be far from complete. However, I’m willing to share some intriguing insights.

First, you probably know that two years ago, I undertook a journey to South America—one that will be significant in the annals of scientific history. The purpose of my expedition was to verify some conclusions drawn by Wallace and Bates, which could only be confirmed by observing their reported findings under the same conditions they had noted them. Even if my journey had yielded no other results, it would still have been noteworthy. However, a curious incident occurred that opened up an entirely new line of inquiry.

You may or may not be aware—given the state of education today—that certain areas around the Amazon are still only partially explored. Numerous tributaries, many of them completely uncharted, flow into the main river. My task was to venture into this little-known backcountry and study its fauna, which provided me with material for several chapters in what will be my monumental work on zoology, the project that will justify my life’s work.

I was on my way back, my research complete, when I had to spend a night in a small Indian village at the point where a certain tributary—whose name and location I’ll keep to myself—meets the main river. The locals were Cucama Indians, a friendly but somewhat degraded group, with mental faculties not much better than the average Londoner. I had treated some of them on my way up the river, and they seemed to hold me in high regard, so I wasn’t surprised to find them eagerly awaiting my return.

From their gestures, I gathered that someone urgently needed my medical help, and I followed the chief to one of the huts. When I entered, I discovered that the person I had been called to assist had just died. To my surprise, he wasn’t an Indian but a white man—very white, in fact, with flaxen hair and some features resembling an albino. He was dressed in rags, emaciated, and showed all the signs of having endured severe hardship. As far as I could gather from the natives, he was a complete stranger to them, having stumbled into their village through the woods in a state of utter exhaustion.

Beside the couch lay the man’s knapsack, and I examined its contents. His name was written on a tag inside—Maple White, Lake Avenue, Detroit, Michigan. It’s a name I will always respect. It’s not too much to say that it will stand alongside my own when the final credit for this endeavor is assigned.

The contents of the knapsack made it clear that this man had been an artist and poet, searching for inspiration. Inside, I found scraps of verse that, while I’m no expert, seemed rather lacking in quality. There were also some ordinary pictures of river scenes, a paint box, a set of colored chalks, a few brushes, that curved bone resting on my desk, a copy of Baxter's *Moths and Butterflies*, a cheap revolver, and a handful of cartridges. As for personal belongings, he either had none or had lost them during his travels. This was the entirety of the possessions of this peculiar American Bohemian.

As I was about to turn away, I noticed something sticking out from the front of his tattered jacket. It was a sketchbook, just as worn and battered as you see it now. I can assure you that this relic has been treated with more reverence than a first folio of Shakespeare since it came into my hands. I’m passing it to you now, and I ask you to take a look at it, page by page, and examine its contents.

He helped himself to a cigar and leaned back, his eyes sharp and critical, eager to see the effect this document would have.

I opened the book, expecting some sort of revelation, though I wasn’t sure what kind. The first page was a letdown, showing only a drawing of a very overweight man in a pea coat, with the caption, "Jimmy Colver on the Mail-boat." The following pages were filled with small sketches of Native Americans and their customs. Then, I came across a drawing of a jolly, plump clergyman in a shovel hat, sitting across from a very thin European, labeled: "Lunch with Fra Cristofero at Rosario." More pages featured studies of women and babies, followed by an unbroken series of animal sketches with labels like "Manatee on Sandbank," "Turtles and Their Eggs," and "Black Ajouti under a Miriti Palm," which depicted some sort of pig-like creature. Finally, there was a double-page spread of studies of long-snouted, rather unpleasant reptiles. I couldn’t make sense of it and told the Professor so.

"Surely these are just crocodiles?" I asked.

"Alligators! Alligators! There’s hardly such a thing as a true crocodile in South America. The distinction between them—"

"I meant that I couldn’t see anything unusual—nothing to justify what you’ve said."

He smiled calmly.

"Try the next page," he suggested.

I still couldn’t connect. It was a full-page sketch of a landscape, roughly colored—the kind of painting an outdoor artist might use as a reference for a more detailed work later. The foreground was a pale green, filled with feathery plants that sloped up to a line of dark red cliffs, oddly ribbed like some basalt formations I’d seen before. They stretched across the entire background. An isolated, pyramidal rock stood out, topped with a large tree, separated from the main cliff by a narrow cleft. Behind it all was a bright blue tropical sky, with a thin green line of vegetation edging the top of the reddish cliff.

"Well?" he asked.

"It’s certainly an interesting formation," I replied, "but I’m not knowledgeable enough to say it’s remarkable."

"Remarkable!" he echoed. "It’s unique. It’s incredible. No one on earth has ever imagined such a possibility. Now, the next."

I flipped the page and gasped in surprise. There was a full-page drawing of the most bizarre creature I had ever seen. It looked like a wild fantasy from an opium dream, a vision of delirium. The head resembled that of a bird, while the body was like a bloated lizard. Its trailing tail had upward-turned spikes, and its curved back was lined with a high serrated fringe that looked like a series of cocks' wattles stacked behind each other. In front of this creature stood a tiny figure, a manikin or dwarf, staring up at it.

"What do you think of that?" the Professor exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in triumph.

"It’s monstrous—grotesque."

"But why would he draw such an animal?"

"Trade gin, I suppose."

"Oh, is that the best explanation you can offer?"

"Well, sir, what’s yours?"

"The obvious one: the creature exists. It’s actually sketched from life."

I would have laughed if I hadn’t imagined us doing another wild spin down the hallway.

"No doubt," I said, "no doubt," as one humors a fool. "But I must admit," I added, "that tiny human figure puzzles me. If it were an Indian, we could consider it evidence of some pygmy race in America, but it looks like a European in a sun hat."

The Professor snorted like an angry buffalo. "You really push the limits," he said. "You expand my view of the possible. Cerebral paresis! Mental inertia! Wonderful!"

He was just too ridiculous to get me worked up. Honestly, it felt pointless to even try, because if you let yourself get angry at him, you'd be angry all the time. So, I settled for a tired smile. "I couldn’t help but notice that the man looks small," I said.

"Look here!" he exclaimed, leaning forward and jabbing a thick, hairy finger at the picture. "See that plant behind the animal? I bet you thought it was a dandelion or a Brussels sprout, right? Well, it's actually a vegetable ivory palm, and they can grow to about fifty or sixty feet tall. Don’t you see? The man is there for a reason! He couldn’t have stood in front of that beast and lived to tell the tale. He sketched himself in to give a sense of scale. Let’s say he was over five feet tall. That tree is ten times bigger, which is exactly what you’d expect."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "So you think that beast was... Why, Charing Cross station wouldn’t even be a doghouse for such a creature!"

"Exaggeration aside, it’s definitely a well-grown specimen," the Professor said, looking quite pleased with himself.

"But," I protested, "surely we can’t dismiss the entire experience of humanity based on just one sketch." I flipped through the pages of the book and confirmed there was nothing more. "A single drawing by a wandering American artist who might have been under the influence of something, or delirious with fever, or simply indulging a wild imagination. You can’t, as a scientist, defend that position."

In response, the Professor reached for a book on a shelf.

"This is an excellent monograph by my talented friend, Ray Lankester!" he said. "There’s an illustration here that should interest you. Ah, yes, here it is! The caption reads: 'Probable appearance in life of the Jurassic Dinosaur Stegosaurus. The hind leg alone is twice as tall as a full-grown man.' What do you think of that?"

He handed me the open book. I gasped as I looked at the picture. The reconstructed creature from a long-gone world bore a striking resemblance to the sketch by the unknown artist.

"That’s certainly impressive," I admitted.

"But you won’t accept that it’s conclusive?"

"It could just be a coincidence, or this American might have seen a similar picture and it stuck in his mind. That’s likely to happen to someone in a delirium."

"Very well," the Professor said, with a hint of indulgence. "We’ll leave it at that. Now, let’s take a look at this bone." He handed me the one he had previously described as part of the dead man's belongings. It was about six inches long and thicker than my thumb, with some dried cartilage at one end.

"What known creature does this bone belong to?" he asked.

I examined it closely, trying to recall some long-buried knowledge.

"It could be a very thick human collarbone," I suggested.

He waved his hand dismissively. "A human collarbone is curved. This one is straight. There’s a groove on its surface showing that a large tendon ran across it, which wouldn’t be the case with a clavicle."

"Then I have to admit I don’t know what it is."

"You shouldn’t feel embarrassed about your ignorance; I doubt even the entire South Kensington staff could identify it." He took a small bone, about the size of a bean, out of a pillbox. "As far as I can tell, this human bone is similar to the one you’re holding. That should give you an idea of the creature's size. You’ll notice from the cartilage that this isn’t a fossil but a recent specimen. What do you think of that?"

"Surely in an elephant—"

He flinched as if I’d struck him. "Don’t! Please, don’t mention elephants in South America. Even with today’s education—"

"Well," I interrupted, "any large South American animal—a tapir, for instance."

"You can trust me when I say I know my field well. This bone doesn’t belong to a tapir or any other creature recognized by zoology. It belongs to a very large, very strong, and, by all accounts, very fierce animal that exists on this planet but hasn’t yet been documented by science. Are you still unconvinced?"

"I’m at least very intrigued."

"Then your case isn’t hopeless. I sense there’s some reason lurking in you, so we’ll patiently explore it. Now, let’s leave the dead American behind and continue with my story. You can imagine I couldn’t just walk away from the Amazon without digging deeper into this matter. There were signs pointing to the direction from which the deceased traveler had come. Indian legends alone would have guided me, as I found that tales of a strange land were common among all the river tribes. You’ve heard of Curupuri, I assume?"

"Never."

"Curupuri is the spirit of the woods, something terrifying and malevolent, something you want to steer clear of. No one can accurately describe what it looks like or what it really is, but the name alone sends shivers down the spine of anyone who hears it along the Amazon. All the tribes agree on where Curupuri resides, and it happens to be the same direction from which the American had come. Something dreadful lay that way, and it was my job to uncover what it was."

"What did you do?" I asked, my earlier flippancy evaporating. This imposing man demanded attention and respect.

"I managed to overcome the deep reluctance of the locals—a reluctance that even extends to discussing the topic. With some careful persuasion and a few gifts, along with a hint of coercion, I convinced two of them to guide me. After many adventures that I won’t bore you with, and after traveling a considerable distance in a direction I won’t disclose, we finally arrived at a region that has never been described or visited, except by my unfortunate predecessor. Would you take a look at this?"

He handed me a photograph, about the size of a half-plate.

"The poor quality of this image is due to an unfortunate incident," he explained. "While descending the river, our boat capsized, and the case containing the undeveloped films was damaged, leading to disastrous results. Nearly all of them were completely ruined—an irretrievable loss. This is one of the few that managed to survive, at least partially. I hope you can accept this explanation for its deficiencies. There were rumors of faking, but I’m not in the mood to debate that."

The photograph was certainly off-color. A harsh critic could easily misinterpret its murky surface. It depicted a dull gray landscape, and as I slowly made out the details, I realized it showed a long, towering line of cliffs resembling a massive waterfall in the distance, with a sloping, tree-covered plain in the foreground.

"I believe this is the same place as the painted picture," I said.

"It is indeed," the Professor confirmed. "I found traces of the fellow’s camp. Now, take a look at this."

He showed me a closer view of the same scene, though the photograph was still quite flawed. I could clearly see the isolated, tree-crowned pinnacle of rock that stood apart from the crag.

"I have no doubt about it," I said.

"Well, that's something," he replied. "We’re making progress, aren’t we? Now, please look at the top of that rocky pinnacle. Do you see something there?"

"An enormous tree."

"But on the tree?"

"A large bird," I said.

He handed me a magnifying lens.

"Yes," I said, peering through it, "there’s a large bird perched on the tree. It looks like it has a substantial beak. I’d say it’s a pelican."

"I can’t congratulate you on your eyesight," the Professor said. "That is not a pelican, nor is it a bird at all. You might find it interesting to know that I managed to shoot that particular specimen. It was the only solid proof of my experiences that I could bring back with me."

"You still have it, then?" At last, here was something tangible.

"I had it. Unfortunately, it was lost along with much else in the same boat accident that ruined my photographs. I reached for it as it vanished in the swirling rapids, and part of its wing was left in my hand. I was unconscious when I washed ashore, but the miserable remnant of my remarkable specimen was still intact; I now present it to you."

From a drawer, he pulled out what appeared to be the upper part of a large bat's wing. It was at least two feet long, a curved bone with a membranous veil beneath it.

"A monstrous bat!" I suggested.

"Not at all," the Professor replied sternly. "Living in an educated and scientific environment, I can’t believe that the basics of zoology are so poorly understood. Is it possible you don’t know the fundamental fact of comparative anatomy? The wing of a bird is essentially a forearm, while the wing of a bat consists of three elongated fingers with membranes in between. Now, in this case, the bone is certainly not a forearm, and you can see for yourself that this is a single membrane hanging from a single bone, which means it cannot belong to a bat. But if it’s neither bird nor bat, what could it be?"

My limited knowledge had reached its end.

"I honestly don’t know," I admitted.

He opened a standard reference book he had already shown me.

"Here," he said, pointing to an illustration of an extraordinary flying creature, "is an excellent reproduction of the dimorphodon, or pterodactyl, a flying reptile from the Jurassic period. On the next page is a diagram of how its wing works. Please compare it with the specimen in your hand."

A wave of amazement washed over me as I took it all in. I was convinced. There was no escaping it. The evidence was overwhelming: the sketches, the photographs, the narrative, and now the actual specimen—it all came together. I expressed my thoughts warmly, feeling that the Professor had been wronged. He leaned back in his chair, his eyelids drooping slightly, a tolerant smile spreading across his face as he soaked up this unexpected praise.

"This is the most incredible thing I've ever heard!" I exclaimed, my journalistic excitement overtaking my scientific curiosity. "It's colossal. You're like a Columbus of science, discovering a lost world. I'm really sorry if I ever doubted you. It all seemed so unbelievable. But now that I see the evidence, it should be enough for anyone."

The Professor purred with satisfaction.

"And what did you do next?" I asked.

"It was the wet season, Mr. Malone, and my supplies were running low. I explored part of the massive cliff, but I couldn’t find a way to climb it. The pyramidal rock where I spotted and shot the pterodactyl was more accessible. Being somewhat of a climber, I managed to get halfway to the top. From that height, I had a clearer view of the plateau atop the cliffs. It looked vast; I couldn’t see an end to the green-capped cliffs to the east or west. Below was a swampy, jungle-like area, teeming with snakes, insects, and disease. It served as a natural barrier to this extraordinary land."

"Did you see any other signs of life?"

"No, sir, I did not. However, during the week we camped at the base of the cliff, we heard some very strange noises from above."

"But what about the creature that the American sketched? How do you explain that?"

"We can only assume he made it to the summit and saw it there. So, we know there’s a way up. It must be a challenging route, otherwise, those creatures would have come down and overrun the surrounding areas. That much is clear, isn’t it?"

"But how did they end up there?"

"I don’t think the answer is particularly obscure," the Professor replied. "There can only be one explanation. South America is, as you may know, a granite continent. At this single point in the interior, there was, in some distant past, a massive volcanic upheaval. These cliffs, I should note, are basaltic, which means they’re plutonic. An area as large as Sussex has been lifted en bloc, along with all its living contents, and isolated by sheer cliffs that resist erosion. What’s the result? The ordinary laws of nature are suspended. The usual checks that govern the struggle for existence in the wider world are neutralized or altered. Creatures survive here that would otherwise vanish. You’ll notice that both the pterodactyl and the stegosaurus are Jurassic, meaning they’re ancient in the timeline of life. They’ve been preserved by these strange, accidental conditions."

"But surely your evidence is conclusive. You just need to present it to the right authorities."

"That’s what I thought in my naivety," the Professor said bitterly. "But I was met with disbelief at every turn, fueled by a mix of ignorance and jealousy. It’s not in my nature to bow to anyone or to prove a fact when my word has been questioned. After the first encounter, I refused to present any further corroborative evidence I had. The subject became loathsome to me—I didn’t want to discuss it. When people like you, representing the foolish curiosity of the public, came to disrupt my solitude, I struggled to respond with the dignity I wished to maintain. By nature, I admit I can be a bit fiery, and when provoked, I tend to react strongly. I fear you may have noticed that."

I nursed my eye and fell silent.

"My wife has often lectured me on this topic, but I believe any man of honor would feel the same way. Tonight, however, I plan to demonstrate just how powerful the will can be over our emotions. I’d like you to join me for this exhibition." He handed me a card from his desk.

"You’ll see that Mr. Percival Waldron, a well-known naturalist, is scheduled to give a lecture at eight-thirty at the Zoological Institute's Hall titled 'The Record of the Ages.' I’ve been invited to sit on the platform and to propose a vote of thanks to the lecturer. While I do that, I intend to subtly drop a few comments that might pique the audience's interest and encourage them to explore the topic further. Nothing controversial, mind you, just a hint that there are deeper issues to consider. I’ll keep my emotions in check and see if this self-control leads to a better outcome."

"Can I come?" I asked, my excitement evident.

"Of course," he replied warmly. He had a robust, friendly demeanor that was almost as overwhelming as his intensity. His benevolent smile was remarkable, especially when his cheeks puffed up like two red apples between his half-closed eyes and his thick black beard. "Please do come. It will be reassuring to know I have at least one ally in the audience, even if he’s not well-versed in the subject. I expect a large crowd, as Waldron, despite being a complete charlatan, has quite the following. Now, Mr. Malone, I’ve taken up more of your time than I intended. One must not hog what is meant for everyone. I look forward to seeing you at the lecture tonight. In the meantime, please remember that none of the information I’ve shared with you should be made public."

"But Mr. McArdle—my news editor—will want to know what I’ve been up to."

"Tell him whatever you like. You can mention, among other things, that if he sends anyone else to bother me, I’ll pay him a visit with a riding whip. But I trust you to keep all of this off the record. Very well then, I’ll see you at the Zoological Institute's Hall at eight-thirty tonight."

As he waved me out of the room, I caught one last glimpse of his flushed cheeks, his blue, rippling beard, and his piercing eyes.