CHAPTER XII

by Arthur Conan Doyle

**It Was Dreadful in the Forest**

I’ve mentioned before—though my memory is a bit hazy these days—that I felt a surge of pride when my three companions thanked me for saving the day, or at least for making things better. As the youngest in the group—not just in age but in experience, character, and everything that makes a person—I had felt overshadowed from the start. But now, I was finally stepping into my own. The thought warmed me. Alas, how pride can lead to a fall! That little spark of self-satisfaction, that extra boost of confidence, would soon lead me into the most terrifying experience of my life, ending in a shock that still makes my heart ache when I think about it.

It all started like this. I was too wired from our earlier adventure to sleep. Summerlee was on guard, hunched over our small fire, a peculiar figure with his rifle resting across his knees, his goat-like beard bobbing with each weary nod. Lord John lay quiet, wrapped in his South American poncho, while Challenger snored loudly, his rumbling echoing through the woods. The full moon shone brightly, and the air was crisp and cold. What a perfect night for a walk! Then the thought struck me: “Why not?”

What if I slipped away quietly, made my way down to the central lake, and returned by breakfast with some incredible story? Wouldn’t that make me an even more valuable member of the team? If Summerlee managed to find a way out and we returned to London, I would be the only one who had ventured into the heart of the plateau’s mystery. I thought of Gladys and her words, “There are heroisms all around us.” I could almost hear her voice. I also thought of McArdle. What a three-column article that would make! It could be the start of a brilliant career. A correspondent position in the next big war might even be within my reach.

I grabbed a gun—my pockets were stuffed with cartridges—and, parting the thorn bushes at the entrance of our camp, I slipped out. My last look showed Summerlee, the most ineffective of sentinels, nodding away like a strange mechanical toy in front of the smoldering fire.

I hadn’t walked a hundred yards before I regretted my impulsiveness. I might have mentioned before that I’m too imaginative to be truly brave, but I have an overwhelming fear of looking cowardly. That fear pushed me forward now. I couldn’t just turn back without doing anything. Even if my companions didn’t notice my absence, I would still feel an unbearable shame within myself. Yet, I shuddered at the thought of where I was and would have given anything to be free of this whole situation.

It was dreadful in the forest. The trees grew so densely, their branches spreading so wide, that the moonlight barely penetrated, leaving only a few high branches to create a tangled pattern against the starry sky. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized there were varying degrees of shadow among the trees—some were faintly visible, while others were pitch-black patches that felt like gaping mouths, and I recoiled in fear as I passed them. I remembered the anguished cry of the iguanodon, that horrifying sound that had echoed through the woods. I also recalled the glimpse of its grotesque, warty, blood-smeared muzzle when Lord John had shone his torch. I was now in its territory. At any moment, it could leap out from the shadows—this nameless, terrifying creature.

I stopped, pulled a cartridge from my pocket, and opened the breech of my gun. My heart raced as I realized I had taken the shotgun, not the rifle!

The urge to turn back washed over me again. Surely, this was a valid reason to abandon my mission—one that no one would hold against me. But once more, my foolish pride resisted that thought. I couldn’t—mustn’t—fail. After all, my rifle would likely have been just as useless against whatever dangers I might encounter. If I went back to camp to switch weapons, I couldn’t expect to do so without being seen. That would lead to questions, and my attempt would no longer be solely mine.

After a moment of hesitation, I steeled myself and pressed on, my useless gun tucked under my arm.

The darkness of the forest was unsettling, but even more unnerving was the stark, white flood of moonlight spilling into the open glade where the iguanodons usually roamed. Hidden among the bushes, I peered out, but none of the massive creatures were in sight. Perhaps the tragedy that had struck one of them had driven the rest away from their feeding ground. In the misty, silvery night, I saw no signs of life.

Taking a deep breath, I quickly crossed the glade and found the brook on the other side, my reliable guide. It bubbled and gurgled cheerfully as it flowed, reminiscent of the old trout stream back in the West Country where I used to fish at night as a boy. As long as I followed it downstream, I would reach the lake, and if I retraced my steps, I would find my way back to camp. The dense underbrush often obscured my view of it, but I was always close enough to hear its gentle tinkling and splashing.

As I descended the slope, the woods thinned out, replaced by bushes and the occasional tall tree. This made it easier for me to move without being seen. I passed near the pterodactyl swamp, and as I did, a dry, leathery rustle of wings caught my attention. One of those enormous creatures—at least twenty feet from tip to tip—rose from nearby and soared into the sky. As it crossed the moonlit sky, the light shone through its membranous wings, making it look like a flying skeleton against the bright, tropical glow. I crouched low among the bushes, knowing from past encounters that a single cry from it could summon a horde of its grotesque companions. It wasn’t until it settled again that I dared to continue my journey.

The night had been eerily still, but as I moved forward, I began to hear a low, rumbling sound—a continuous murmur coming from somewhere ahead. It grew louder as I approached, until it was unmistakably close. When I paused, the sound remained constant, as if it originated from something stationary. It reminded me of a boiling kettle or the bubbling of a large pot.

Soon, I stumbled upon the source: in the center of a small clearing lay a lake—or more accurately, a pool—not much larger than the fountain in Trafalgar Square. The surface was a thick, black substance that bubbled and blistered with escaping gas. The air above shimmered with heat, and the ground around it was so hot that I could barely touch it. It was clear that the volcanic forces that had shaped this plateau long ago were still at work. I had already seen blackened rocks and mounds of lava peeking through the lush vegetation, but this asphalt pool was the first sign of active geological activity on the slopes of the ancient crater. I didn’t have time to investigate further; I needed to hurry if I wanted to make it back to camp by morning.

The walk was terrifying, a memory that would linger with me for a long time. In the bright moonlit clearings, I slinked along the shadows at the edges. In the jungle, I crept forward, my heart racing every time I heard the crash of breaking branches as some wild beast passed by. Great shadows loomed momentarily, silent and massive, prowling on padded feet. I often paused, contemplating turning back, but each time, my pride won over my fear, pushing me onward until I reached my goal.

Finally, my watch read one in the morning when I spotted the glimmer of water through the jungle openings. Ten minutes later, I found myself among the reeds at the edge of the central lake. I was parched, so I lay down and took a long drink from the fresh, cold water. There was a wide path marked with many tracks, clearly a popular drinking spot for the animals. Close to the water's edge stood a massive block of lava. I climbed up it, and from the top, I had an excellent view in every direction.

The first thing I noticed filled me with awe. From the top of the great tree, I had described the view of the distant cliff, where I spotted dark patches that looked like cave entrances. Now, as I gazed up at the same cliffs, I saw glowing discs of light scattered everywhere—bright, reddish spots that resembled the portholes of a ship against the night. For a moment, I thought it might be the glow of lava from a volcanic eruption, but that didn’t make sense. Any volcanic activity would be down in the valley, not high up among the rocks. So what could it be? It was incredible, and yet it had to be real. Those glowing spots had to be the reflection of fires inside the caves—fires that could only be lit by human hands. That meant there were people living on the plateau. My expedition was validated! This was news worth taking back to London!

I lay there for a long time, watching those red, flickering lights. They were probably ten miles away, yet even from that distance, I could see them twinkle and fade as someone moved in front of them. I would have given anything to crawl closer, to peek inside and bring back some information about the appearance and nature of the people who lived in such a strange place! But for now, it was impossible, and we couldn’t leave the plateau without some concrete knowledge.

Lake Gladys—my own lake—spread out like a sheet of quicksilver before me, with the moon reflecting brightly in its center. It was shallow, with sandbanks poking up in many places. The still surface was alive with activity; I could see ripples and rings in the water, flashes of silver as fish leaped, and the dark, arched backs of creatures passing by. Once, I spotted a large bird resembling a swan, with a bulky body and a long, flexible neck, shuffling along the shore. It eventually plunged into the water, and for a moment, I could see its neck and head undulating above the surface before it dove and disappeared.

My attention was soon drawn back to the scene right in front of me. Two large, armadillo-like creatures had come to drink at the water’s edge, their long, flexible tongues darting in and out like red ribbons. A magnificent deer, with impressive antlers and a regal posture, approached with its doe and two fawns, drinking beside the armadillos. This deer was unlike any I had ever seen; the moose or elk I knew wouldn’t have reached its shoulders. Suddenly, it snorted a warning and bounded away with its family into the reeds, while the armadillos scurried for cover. A newcomer was making its way down the path.

For a moment, I struggled to place that awkward shape, with its arched back and triangular frills, and its strange, bird-like head held low. Then it hit me—it was a stegosaurus, the very creature Maple White had sketched, the one that had first caught Challenger’s attention! There it was—perhaps the same specimen the American artist had encountered. The ground trembled beneath its massive weight, and the sound of it drinking echoed through the still night. For five minutes, it was so close to my rock that I could have reached out and touched the grotesque, swaying plates on its back. Then it lumbered away, disappearing among the boulders.

I glanced at my watch and realized it was half-past two, time to start my journey back. I had no trouble finding my way; I had kept the little brook on my left, which led to the central lake just a stone's throw from the boulder where I had been resting. I set off in high spirits, feeling proud of the work I had done and eager to share my discoveries with my companions. Most importantly, I had seen the fiery caves and confirmed that some troglodytic race inhabited them. Beyond that, I could speak from experience about the central lake, which was teeming with strange creatures, and I had encountered several forms of primeval life we hadn’t seen before. As I walked, I reflected on how few men in the world could claim to have spent a stranger night or contributed so much to human knowledge in such a short time.

I was trudging up the slope, lost in my thoughts, when a strange noise pulled me back to reality. It was a sound that fell somewhere between a snore and a growl—low, deep, and incredibly threatening. I could sense that some creature was nearby, but I couldn’t see anything, so I quickened my pace.

After covering about half a mile, the noise came again, louder and even more menacing. My heart froze as I realized that whatever it was, it was definitely after me. A chill ran down my spine, and my hair stood on end at the thought. It was one thing for these monsters to tear each other apart; it was another entirely for them to turn their attention to a human, to deliberately hunt down someone like me. That idea was both staggering and terrifying. I recalled the blood-soaked face we had seen in the beam of Lord John's flashlight, a nightmarish image that felt like something straight out of Dante’s hell.

With my knees trembling, I stood frozen, staring down the moonlit path behind me. Everything was eerily quiet, like a scene from a dream. The silver clearings and dark patches of bushes were all I could see. Then, breaking the silence, came that low, throaty croak again, louder and closer than before. There was no doubt now—something was on my trail, closing in on me with every passing moment.

I stood there, paralyzed, still gazing at the ground I had just crossed. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement among the bushes at the edge of the clearing. A massive shadow emerged, hopping into the moonlight. I say "hopped" because it moved like a kangaroo, springing along on its powerful hind legs, its front legs bent in front of it. It was enormous, like a giant elephant, but surprisingly agile for its size. For a moment, I hoped it might be an iguanodon, which I knew to be harmless. But as I took a closer look, I realized this was something far more dangerous.

Instead of the gentle, deer-like head of the three-toed herbivore, this creature had a broad, squat, toad-like face—just like the one that had frightened us at camp. Its fierce cry and the relentless energy of its pursuit confirmed my worst fears: this was one of the great carnivorous dinosaurs, the most terrifying beasts to ever roam the earth. As the massive creature bounded forward, it dropped onto its fore-paws every twenty yards or so, sniffing the ground for my scent. Occasionally, it would lose the trail for a moment, but then it would pick it up again and come racing down the path I had taken.

Even now, thinking back on that nightmare makes me break out in a cold sweat. What could I do? My useless shotgun was in my hand—what good would that do me? I looked around desperately for a rock or a tree, but I was surrounded by a dense jungle, with nothing taller than a sapling in sight. I knew that the creature behind me could easily tear down a tree like it was nothing. My only option was to run.

I couldn’t move quickly over the rough terrain, but then I spotted a well-defined path cutting across in front of me. We had seen similar trails during our expeditions, the routes taken by various wild animals. Maybe I could outrun it there; I was a fast runner and in great shape. Tossing aside my useless gun, I launched into a sprint like I had never done before. My limbs ached, my chest heaved, and I felt like I was suffocating from the effort, but with that horror chasing me, I ran and ran.

Finally, I paused, barely able to catch my breath. For a moment, I thought I had lost it. The path behind me was still. But then, with a crashing sound, the ground shook beneath giant feet, and the beast was on me again. It was right on my heels. I was done for.

What a fool I was to wait so long before I ran! Until that moment, the creature had been tracking me by scent, moving slowly. But then he spotted me as I took off. From that point on, he was hunting by sight, and the path I had taken was clear. As he rounded the bend, he sprang forward with powerful leaps. The moonlight illuminated his enormous eyes, the jagged teeth in his open mouth, and the sharp claws on his muscular forearms.

Screaming in terror, I turned and dashed down the path, my heart racing. Behind me, the creature's heavy, labored breathing grew louder. I could feel his massive footfalls closing in beside me. Every moment, I braced myself for his grip to close around my back. Then, without warning, there was a crash—I was falling through darkness, everything around me fading into nothingness.

When I finally regained consciousness—though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes—I was hit by a terrible, overwhelming stench. I reached out in the dark and touched something that felt like a huge piece of meat, while my other hand grasped a large bone. Above me, I could see a circle of starlit sky, revealing that I was lying at the bottom of a deep pit.

Slowly, I pushed myself to my feet and checked my body. I was stiff and sore, but every limb moved, and every joint bent. As the memory of my fall flooded back, I looked up in fear, expecting to see that monstrous head silhouetted against the dimming sky. But there was no sign of it, and I couldn’t hear anything from above. Cautiously, I began to walk around, feeling my way to understand this strange place I had fallen into.

It was indeed a pit, with steep walls and a flat bottom about twenty feet wide. The ground was littered with large chunks of flesh, most of it rotting and foul. The air was thick with a noxious stench. As I stumbled over the decaying remains, I suddenly bumped into something solid—a post firmly planted in the center of the pit. It was so tall that I couldn’t reach the top, and it was slick with grease.

Then I remembered that I had a tin box of matches in my pocket. Striking one, I finally got a glimpse of my surroundings. There was no doubt about it: I had fallen into a trap—crafted by human hands. The post in the center was about nine feet tall, sharpened at the top, and stained with the dried blood of previous victims who had been impaled upon it. The scattered remains around me were the remnants of those unfortunate enough to have stumbled into this deadly pit, cut away to make room for the next unsuspecting prey.

I recalled Challenger’s assertion that humans couldn’t survive on the plateau, that our feeble weapons were no match for the monsters roaming it. But now it was clear how it could be done. The natives, whoever they were, must have had narrow caves where the giant reptiles couldn’t reach them. With their clever minds, they could set traps like this one, camouflaged with branches, along the paths the animals traveled, ensuring their demise despite their size and strength. Humanity had always been the master.

The sloping walls of the pit were climbable for someone agile, but I hesitated. How could I be sure that the creature wasn’t lurking nearby, waiting for me to show myself? I steeled my nerves, recalling a conversation between Challenger and Summerlee about the habits of these great reptiles. They both agreed that the monsters were nearly brainless, with no capacity for reason in their tiny skulls. Their absence from the rest of the world was surely due to their own stupidity, which made it impossible for them to adapt to changing conditions.

Lying in wait for me now would mean that the creature understood what had happened, which suggested some level of intelligence connecting cause and effect. It seemed far more likely that a mindless beast, driven only by instinct, would have given up the chase when I vanished, pausing only in confusion before wandering off in search of easier prey.

I climbed to the edge of the pit and peered over. The stars were fading, the sky lightening, and the cool morning breeze felt refreshing against my skin. I couldn’t see or hear anything of my enemy. Slowly, I climbed out and sat on the ground for a moment, ready to leap back into my hiding place if any danger appeared. But as the stillness deepened and the light grew, I gathered my courage and quietly retraced my steps along the path I had taken. A little way down, I found my gun, and soon after, I reached the brook that would guide me home. With many anxious glances over my shoulder, I pressed on.

Then, something jolted me back to thoughts of my missing companions. In the crisp morning air, I heard the sharp crack of a rifle shot in the distance. I stopped and listened, but there was nothing more. For a moment, panic gripped me at the thought that they might be in danger. But then a simpler explanation came to mind. It was broad daylight now; they must have noticed my absence and fired the shot to guide me back. We had agreed not to fire unless absolutely necessary, but if they thought I was in trouble, they wouldn’t hesitate. I needed to hurry home to reassure them.

I was exhausted, so I didn’t move as quickly as I wanted, but eventually, I entered familiar territory. The swamp of the pterodactyls was on my left, and ahead lay the glade of the iguanodons. Now I was in the last stretch of trees before reaching Fort Challenger. I called out cheerfully to ease their worries, but no one responded. My heart sank at the eerie silence. I quickened my pace to a run. The zareba loomed ahead, just as I had left it, but the gate stood wide open. I rushed inside.

In the cold morning light, a horrifying sight greeted me. Our belongings were strewn across the ground in disarray; my comrades were gone, and near the smoldering ashes of our fire, the grass was soaked in a gruesome pool of blood.

The shock of it all left me momentarily dazed. I have a hazy memory, like a bad dream, of running through the woods around the empty camp, calling out for my friends. Silence answered me from the shadows. The dreadful thought that I might never see them again—that I could be left alone in this terrifying place, with no way to return to the world below—drove me to despair. I felt like tearing my hair out and banging my head against the ground in my anguish. It was only then that I realized how much I had relied on my companions, on Challenger’s calm confidence and Lord John Roxton’s cool humor. Without them, I felt like a lost child in the dark, helpless and powerless, unsure of which way to turn or what to do next.

After a while, as I sat there in confusion, I forced myself to think about what could have happened to my friends. The chaotic state of the camp indicated there had been some sort of attack, and the rifle shot likely marked the moment it occurred. The fact that there had been only one shot suggested it had all happened in an instant. The rifles lay scattered on the ground, one of them—Lord John’s—still had an empty cartridge in the breech. The blankets of Challenger and Summerlee beside the fire hinted they had been asleep when it happened. Our ammunition and food supplies were strewn about in a chaotic mess, along with our unfortunate cameras and plate carriers, but nothing was missing. However, all the exposed provisions—of which I remembered there had been quite a lot—were gone. It had to be animals, not natives, that had attacked, for surely the latter would have taken everything.

But if it was animals—or a single terrifying creature—what had happened to my companions? A savage beast would have surely torn them apart and left their remains behind. There was that gruesome pool of blood, a clear sign of violence. A monster like the one that had chased me through the night could have carried off a victim as easily as a cat with a mouse. If that were the case, my friends would have followed in pursuit. But they would have definitely taken their rifles with them. The more I tried to piece it all together with my tired, muddled mind, the less I could find a reasonable explanation. I searched the forest around me, but there were no tracks to guide me to any conclusion. At one point, I lost my way, and it was only by sheer luck, after an hour of wandering, that I stumbled back to the camp.

Then a thought struck me, bringing a flicker of comfort to my heart. I wasn’t completely alone in this world. Down at the base of the cliff, within shouting distance, was my loyal Zambo. I hurried to the edge of the plateau and looked down. Sure enough, he was sitting among his blankets by the fire in his little camp. But to my surprise, there was a second man sitting in front of him. For a moment, my heart soared with joy, thinking one of my comrades had made it down safely. But a second glance dashed that hope. The rising sun glinted off the man’s skin—he was an Indian. I called out loudly and waved my handkerchief. Soon, Zambo looked up, waved back, and began to climb up to me. When he reached me, he listened intently, his face etched with concern as I recounted my story.

“The devil got them for sure, Massa Malone,” he said. “You’ve wandered into the devil’s territory, sah, and he’s taken them all. You’d best listen to me, Massa Malone, and come down quickly, or he’ll get you too.”

“How can I come down, Zambo?” I asked.

“You need creepers from the trees, Massa Malone. Throw them over here. I’ll tie them to this stump, and then you’ll have a bridge.”

“We’ve thought of that. There aren’t any creepers here strong enough to hold us.”

“Send for ropes, Massa Malone.”

“Who can I send, and where to?”

“Send to the Indian villages, sah. They have plenty of hides and ropes in the villages. That Indian down below can take a message.”

“Who is he?”

“One of our Indians. The others beat him and took his pay. He came back to us. He’s ready now to take a letter, bring rope—anything.”

A letter! Why not? He might bring back help, and at the very least, he would ensure that our struggles for science wouldn’t be in vain and that our friends back home would know what we had achieved. I already had two letters prepared. I decided to spend the day writing a third, bringing my account completely up to date. The Indian could carry this back to the outside world. I instructed Zambo to return in the evening, and I spent my lonely, miserable day documenting my adventures from the night before. I also drafted a note to be given to any white merchant or captain of a steamboat the Indian might encounter, pleading with them to send ropes, as our lives depended on it. I handed these documents to Zambo in the evening, along with my purse containing three English sovereigns, which were to be given to the Indian, with a promise of double that amount if he returned with the ropes.

So now you understand, my dear Mr. McArdle, how this message reaches you, and you also know the truth, in case you never hear from your unfortunate correspondent again. Tonight, I’m too exhausted and too downcast to make any plans. Tomorrow, I must figure out a way to stay in touch with this camp while searching for any signs of my missing friends.