CHAPTER VIII

by Arthur Conan Doyle

**The Outlying Pickets of the New World**

Our friends back home can celebrate with us because we’ve reached our destination. So far, we’ve managed to prove that Professor Challenger’s claims hold some truth. While we haven’t yet climbed the plateau, it looms ahead of us, and even Professor Summerlee seems to have softened a bit. He won’t admit that his rival might be right, but he’s been quieter, mostly observing instead of arguing.

I need to rewind a bit and continue my story from where I left off. We’re sending one of the local Indians, who’s injured, back home with this letter. I have my doubts about whether it will ever reach its destination.

When I last wrote, we were about to leave the Indian village where the Esmeralda had dropped us off. I have to start with some bad news. The first serious personal conflict (not counting the constant bickering between the professors) happened this evening and could have ended badly. I’ve mentioned our English-speaking half-breed, Gomez—a hard worker and a good guy, but I suspect he has that all-too-common curiosity. On our last evening, he must have hidden near the hut where we were discussing our plans. Our enormous companion, Zambo, who is as loyal as a dog and harbors a deep-seated dislike for half-breeds, found him and dragged him out to face us.

Gomez pulled out a knife, but Zambo’s strength allowed him to disarm him with one hand before he could do any real harm. The situation ended with some stern words, and both men were forced to shake hands. Hopefully, that will be the end of it. As for the ongoing feud between the two professors, it’s relentless and bitter. Challenger can be incredibly provocative, but Summerlee’s sharp tongue only makes things worse.

Last night, Challenger remarked that he never liked walking along the Thames Embankment, as it was always sad to see his own eventual destination. He’s convinced he’s destined for Westminster Abbey. Summerlee, with a wry smile, quipped that he heard Millbank Prison had been torn down. Challenger’s ego is too vast for him to be genuinely upset. He just smiled, stroked his beard, and said “Really! Really!” in a condescending tone, as if speaking to a child. They’re both like children in their own ways—one cantankerous and wizened, the other imposing and domineering. Yet, each possesses a brilliant mind that has placed them at the forefront of their scientific era.

The very next day, we finally set off on this extraordinary expedition. We found that all our gear fit easily into two canoes, so we split our group into two teams of six, wisely ensuring that each canoe had one professor aboard. I was with Challenger, who was in a blissful mood, moving about in a silent ecstasy and radiating goodwill. I’ve seen him in other moods, though, so I won’t be surprised if a storm brews amidst the sunshine. It’s impossible to relax around him, but it’s equally impossible to be bored; there’s always a sense of nervous anticipation about what his formidable temper might do next.

For two days, we navigated a wide river, several hundred yards across. The water was dark but clear enough to see the bottom. This was typical of half the Amazon's tributaries; the other half were murky and opaque. The difference stemmed from the type of land they flowed through. The dark waters hinted at decaying vegetation, while the lighter ones suggested clay-rich soil.

We encountered rapids twice, each time portaging our canoes for about half a mile to bypass them. The forests lining the river were ancient, easier to traverse than younger woods, so we managed to carry our canoes through without much trouble. I’ll never forget the solemn mystery of it all. The towering trees and their thick trunks surpassed anything I could have imagined from my life in the city. They shot up like magnificent columns, and far above us, we could barely make out where their branches arched into Gothic shapes, creating a vast, tangled canopy. Only the occasional golden ray of sunlight pierced through, tracing a thin, dazzling line of light in the majestic gloom.

As we moved quietly over the soft carpet of decaying leaves, a hush fell over us, reminiscent of the stillness in an abbey at twilight. Even Professor Challenger’s booming voice softened to a whisper. Alone, I wouldn’t have known the names of these giant plants, but our scientists pointed out the cedars, the massive silk cotton trees, and the redwoods, along with the incredible variety of flora that made this continent a primary source of nature’s gifts for humanity, even as it lagged behind in animal products.

Vivid orchids and brilliantly colored lichens clung to the dark tree trunks. Where a stray beam of light illuminated the golden allamanda, the scarlet clusters of tacsonia, or the deep blue of ipomoea, the scene felt like a dream from a fairy tale. In these vast forests, life, which shuns darkness, constantly reaches for the light. Every plant, even the smaller ones, twisted and turned toward the green canopy, wrapping around their taller neighbors in a desperate effort to rise. Climbing plants were monstrous and lush, while others, which typically didn’t climb, learned to do so to escape the shadows. The common nettle, jasmine, and even the jacitara palm could be seen spiraling around the cedars, striving for their crowns.

There was little movement among the grand trunks that surrounded us, but above our heads, a constant rustle hinted at the vibrant world of snakes, monkeys, birds, and sloths that thrived in the sunlight, gazing down in wonder at our small, dark figures stumbling through the depths below. At dawn and dusk, the howler monkeys let out their screams, and the parrots chattered excitedly. But during the heat of the day, only the steady drone of insects filled the air, like the sound of distant waves, while nothing stirred in the solemn aisles of towering trees that faded into the encroaching darkness. Once, I caught a glimpse of a clumsy creature—an anteater or perhaps a bear—scurrying awkwardly through the shadows. It was the only sign of terrestrial life I saw in this vast Amazonian forest.

Yet, there were hints that human life wasn’t far away in these mysterious depths. On the third day, we noticed a deep, rhythmic throbbing in the air, solemn and intermittent, echoing throughout the morning. The two boats were paddling close together when we first heard it, and our Indian guides froze, as if turned to stone, their faces etched with fear.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Drums,” Lord John replied casually. “War drums. I’ve heard them before.”

“Yes, war drums,” Gomez, the half-breed, confirmed. “Wild Indians, bravos, not mansos; they’re watching us every mile. They’ll kill us if they can.”

“How can they be watching us?” I asked, peering into the dark, still void.

The half-breed shrugged his broad shoulders. “The Indians know. They have their own ways. They watch us. They communicate with their drums. They’ll kill us if they can.”

By the afternoon of that day—my pocket diary tells me it was Tuesday, August 18th—at least six or seven drums were echoing from different directions. Sometimes they beat rapidly, sometimes slowly, and at times they seemed to engage in a call-and-response. One drum far to the east would burst into a sharp staccato rattle, followed after a pause by a deep roll from the north. There was something indescribably unsettling and threatening about that constant murmur, which seemed to form the very words of the half-breed, endlessly repeating, “We will kill you if we can. We will kill you if we can.” No one moved in the silent woods. All the peace and tranquility of nature lay behind that dark curtain of vegetation, but from beyond it came the relentless message from our fellow man. “We will kill you if we can,” echoed the men in the east. “We will kill you if we can,” came the men in the north.

All day long, the drums rumbled and whispered, their menace reflected in the faces of our companions. Even the tough, swaggering half-breed seemed subdued. Yet, I learned that day that both Summerlee and Challenger possessed a rare kind of bravery—the bravery of the scientific mind. Their spirit was what upheld Darwin among the gauchos of Argentina and Wallace among the head-hunters of Malaya. Nature has mercifully decreed that the human brain cannot focus on two things at once; so, if it is consumed by curiosity about science, there’s no room for personal fears. Amid that constant and mysterious threat, our two professors observed every bird in the sky and every shrub along the bank, engaging in sharp debates, with Summerlee’s snarl often clashing with Challenger’s deep growl, yet they remained as unconcerned about the drum-beating Indians as if they were seated together in the smoking room of the Royal Society's Club in St. James's Street. They only paused once to discuss the drums.

“Miranha or Amajuaca cannibals,” Challenger said, gesturing toward the reverberating woods.

“Of course, sir,” Summerlee replied. “Like all such tribes, I expect them to have a polysynthetic language and a Mongolian appearance.”

“Polysynthetic, certainly,” Challenger said, with a hint of condescension. “I’m not aware of any other type of language existing on this continent, and I have notes on over a hundred. I’m deeply suspicious of the Mongolian theory.”

“I would have thought that even a limited knowledge of comparative anatomy would help verify it,” Summerlee retorted bitterly.

Challenger thrust out his chin aggressively, making him look all beard and hat brim. “No doubt, sir, a limited knowledge would have that effect. But when one’s knowledge is exhaustive, one reaches different conclusions.” They glared at each other defiantly, while the distant whisper rose around them, “We will kill you—we will kill you if we can.”

That night, we secured our canoes with heavy stones in the center of the stream and prepared for a possible attack. Nothing happened, however, and at dawn, we continued our journey, the drumbeats fading behind us. Around three o’clock that afternoon, we reached a steep rapid, more than a mile long—the very one where Professor Challenger had faced disaster on his first journey. I must admit that seeing it brought me some comfort, as it was the first tangible evidence, however slight, supporting his story. The Indians carried our canoes first, then our supplies through the thick brushwood at this point, while the four of us whites, rifles slung over our shoulders, walked between them and any potential danger lurking in the woods. By evening, we had successfully navigated the rapids and made our way about ten miles upstream, where we anchored for the night. At this point, I estimated we had traveled no less than a hundred miles up the tributary from the main river.

The next morning, in the early hours, we prepared for a significant departure. Since dawn, Professor Challenger had been visibly anxious, constantly scanning the riverbanks. Suddenly, he exclaimed in satisfaction and pointed to a single tree that jutted out at an odd angle over the water.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

“It’s definitely an Assai palm,” Summerlee replied.

“Exactly. That’s the Assai palm I used as my landmark. The secret opening is half a mile ahead on the other side of the river. There’s no break in the trees. That’s the wonder and the mystery of it. Where you see light-green rushes instead of dark-green undergrowth, nestled between the great cottonwoods, that’s my private gateway into the unknown. Push through, and you’ll understand.”

It was truly an incredible place. After navigating through a line of light-green rushes, we pushed two canoes out for several hundred yards and finally emerged into a calm, shallow stream, its clear waters flowing gently over a sandy bottom. The river was about twenty yards wide, bordered on both sides by lush vegetation. Anyone who hadn’t noticed the reeds replacing the shrubs for a short distance would never have guessed that such a stream existed, let alone the enchanting world beyond.

And it was enchanting—a fairyland that seemed to spring from the most vivid imagination. The thick foliage overhead intertwined, creating a natural pergola, and through this green tunnel, the golden light filtered down onto the clear, flowing river. It was beautiful in its own right, but even more stunning because of the strange colors cast by the sunlight above, which danced across the water’s surface. The river was as clear as crystal, as still as glass, and a vibrant green, stretching out before us beneath its leafy archway. Each stroke of our paddles sent ripples racing across the shimmering surface, making it the perfect passage to a land of wonders.

All signs of the Indians had faded away, but animal life was abundant. The creatures we encountered were surprisingly tame, clearly unafraid of humans. Fuzzy little monkeys, as soft as black velvet, chattered at us with their bright white teeth and mischievous eyes. Occasionally, a cayman would make a heavy splash as it dove into the water from the bank. Once, a dark, clumsy tapir stared at us from a gap in the bushes before lumbering off into the forest. We also caught a glimpse of a sleek puma, its yellow body slipping through the underbrush, its green eyes glaring at us with a mix of curiosity and disdain. The air was filled with the calls of wading birds—storks, herons, and ibises—gathering in colorful groups on every log that jutted from the bank, while beneath us, the crystal-clear water teemed with fish of every shape and hue.

For three days, we traveled through this hazy green tunnel, where it was often difficult to distinguish where the distant water ended and the arching greenery began. The deep tranquility of this strange waterway was undisturbed by any signs of human presence.

“There are no Indians here. They’re too scared. Curupuri,” Gomez said.

“Curupuri is the spirit of the woods,” Lord John explained. “It’s a term for any kind of devil. The poor souls believe there’s something terrifying in this direction, so they stay away.”

By the third day, it became clear that our journey in the canoes couldn’t continue much longer; the stream was rapidly becoming shallower. We got stuck on the bottom twice in just a couple of hours. Eventually, we pulled the boats up into the brush and spent the night on the riverbank. The next morning, Lord John and I trekked a couple of miles through the forest, keeping parallel with the stream. But as the water grew shallower, we returned to report what Professor Challenger had already suspected: we had reached the furthest point the canoes could go. We secured them among the bushes, marking a tree with our axes so we could find them again. Then we divided our supplies—guns, ammunition, food, a tent, blankets, and the rest—and, shouldering our packs, we set off on the more challenging part of our journey.

An unfortunate argument between our two professors marked the beginning of this new phase. Challenger had been giving directions to the entire group since joining us, much to Summerlee’s evident displeasure. When Challenger assigned a task to his fellow professor—simply carrying an aneroid barometer—the tension boiled over.

“May I ask, sir,” Summerlee said, his voice calm but laced with hostility, “in what capacity you feel entitled to give these orders?”

Challenger’s expression hardened.

“I do it, Professor Summerlee, as the leader of this expedition.”

“I must inform you, sir, that I do not recognize you in that role.”

“Really?” Challenger replied, his sarcasm thick. “Perhaps you could clarify my exact position.”

“Certainly. You are a man whose honesty is under scrutiny, and this committee is here to evaluate it. You walk, sir, with your judges.”

“Interesting!” said Challenger, sitting down on the edge of one of the canoes. “In that case, you can continue on your way, and I’ll follow at my own pace. If I’m not the leader, you can’t expect me to lead.”

Thank goodness there were two level-headed people—Lord John Roxton and me—to keep the stubbornness and nonsense of our esteemed Professors from sending us back to London empty-handed. The arguing, pleading, and explaining we had to do just to get them calmed down was exhausting! Eventually, Summerlee, with his usual sneer and pipe, would step forward, and Challenger would lumber along behind him, grumbling all the way.

By some stroke of luck, we discovered that both of our learned men held a very low opinion of Dr. Illingworth from Edinburgh. From that moment on, it became our saving grace. Whenever tensions rose, we simply had to mention the name of the Scottish zoologist, and our Professors would temporarily unite in their shared disdain for this common rival.

As we moved in single file along the stream's bank, we soon noticed it narrowing to a mere trickle before disappearing into a vast green swamp of spongy moss, where we sank up to our knees. The place was infested with swarms of mosquitoes and every kind of flying pest, so we were relieved to find solid ground again. We took a detour through the trees, allowing us to bypass the wretched swamp, which buzzed like a distant organ, so alive it was with insects.

On the second day after leaving our canoes, the landscape changed dramatically. Our path began to rise steadily, and as we climbed, the woods thinned out, losing their tropical richness. The massive trees of the Amazonian floodplain gave way to scattered clumps of Phoenix and coconut palms, with thick underbrush in between. In the damp hollows, the Mauritia palms spread their graceful, drooping fronds. We navigated entirely by compass, and there were a few moments of disagreement between Challenger and the two Indians. To quote the Professor’s indignant words, the whole party seemed to prefer to “trust the misguided instincts of primitive savages rather than the pinnacle of modern European intellect.” As it turned out, we were justified in doing so. On the third day, Challenger recognized several landmarks from his previous journey, and at one point, we stumbled upon four fire-blackened stones that must have marked a campsite.

The ascent continued, and we crossed a rocky slope that took us two days to navigate. The vegetation shifted again, leaving only the vegetable ivory tree, surrounded by a stunning array of orchids. I learned to identify the rare Nuttonia Vexillaria and the vibrant pink and scarlet blooms of Cattleya and odontoglossum. Occasionally, we encountered brooks with pebbly bottoms and fern-covered banks that gurgled down the shallow gorges, providing excellent camping spots each evening by some rocky pool, where swarms of small blue-backed fish, about the size and shape of English trout, made for a delicious supper.

On the ninth day after leaving the canoes, having covered roughly a hundred and twenty miles, we began to emerge from the trees, which had shrunk to mere shrubs. They were replaced by an immense thicket of bamboo, so dense that we could only make our way through by hacking a path with the machetes and billhooks the Indians carried. It took us an entire day, traveling from seven in the morning until eight at night, with only two one-hour breaks, to get through this obstacle. It was the most monotonous and exhausting experience imaginable. Even in the clearest spots, I could barely see more than ten or twelve yards ahead, and most of the time, my view was limited to the back of Lord John’s cotton jacket in front of me and the yellow wall of bamboo just a foot away on either side. Above us, a narrow strip of sunlight pierced through, and fifteen feet overhead, the tops of the reeds swayed against the deep blue sky. I had no idea what kind of creatures lived in such a thicket, but several times we heard the crashing of large, heavy animals nearby. From their sounds, Lord John suspected they were some type of wild cattle. Just as night fell, we finally broke free from the bamboo and quickly set up camp, utterly worn out from the endless day.

The next morning, we were back on our feet, and once again, the landscape had transformed. Behind us loomed the wall of bamboo, as distinct as if it marked the course of a river. Ahead lay an open plain, gently sloping upward and dotted with clumps of tree ferns, curving before us until it ended in a long, whale-backed ridge. We reached this ridge around midday, only to find a shallow valley beyond, rising once more into a gentle incline that led to a low, rounded skyline. It was here, while we crossed the first of these hills, that an incident occurred which may or may not have been significant.

Professor Challenger, leading the group alongside two local Indians, suddenly halted and pointed excitedly to the right. As he did, we spotted something in the distance—a massive gray bird that seemed to lift off the ground and glide smoothly away, flying low and straight until it vanished among the tree ferns.

“Did you see that?” Challenger exclaimed, his voice filled with triumph. “Summerlee, did you see it?”

His colleague was still staring at the spot where the creature had disappeared.

“What do you think it was?” he asked, skepticism lacing his tone.

“I believe it was a pterodactyl,” Challenger replied, his excitement palpable.

Summerlee erupted into laughter. “A pterodactyl? Nonsense! That was a stork, plain and simple.”

Challenger was too furious to respond. He simply adjusted his pack on his back and resumed his march. Lord John fell into step beside me, his expression more serious than usual. He held his Zeiss binoculars in hand.

“I managed to focus on it before it disappeared behind the trees,” he said. “I can’t say for sure what it was, but I’d bet my reputation as a sportsman that it wasn’t any bird I’ve ever seen.”

And so the debate lingered. Were we truly on the brink of the unknown, encountering the fringes of this lost world our leader spoke of? I recount the incident as it happened, and you know as much as I do. It stands alone; we didn’t see anything else that could be deemed remarkable.

Now, dear readers, if I have any, I’ve guided you up the broad river, through the rushes, down the green tunnel, up the long slope of palm trees, through the bamboo thicket, and across the plain of tree ferns. At last, our destination came into view. After crossing the second ridge, we beheld an irregular plain dotted with palms, leading to the high red cliffs I had seen in the pictures. There it stood, just as I write, and there’s no doubt it’s the same. At its closest point, it’s about seven miles from our camp, curving away as far as the eye can see.

Challenger strutted around like a proud peacock, while Summerlee remained silent, still skeptical. Another day should bring clarity to our doubts. Meanwhile, since Jose, who had injured his arm on a broken bamboo, insisted on returning, I’m sending this letter back with him, hoping it reaches you eventually. I’ll write again as the situation allows. I’ve included a rough map of our journey, which should help make my account clearer.