CHAPTER XV

by Arthur Conan Doyle

**Our Eyes Have Seen Great Wonders**

I write this day by day, hoping that by the time I finish, I can say the light finally breaks through our clouds. We find ourselves trapped here, with no clear way to escape, and it’s frustrating. Yet, I can imagine a day when we might be grateful for being held against our will, allowing us to witness more of the wonders of this extraordinary place and the creatures that inhabit it.

The victory of the Indians and the defeat of the ape-men marked a turning point for us. From that moment on, we truly became the masters of the plateau. The natives regarded us with a mix of fear and gratitude, for our strange abilities had helped them eliminate their age-old enemies. While they might secretly wish for our departure, they haven’t offered any suggestions on how we could descend to the plains below.

As far as we could gather from their signs, there had once been a tunnel leading to this place, the lower exit of which we had seen from below. Both the ape-men and the Indians must have used it at different times to reach the summit, and Maple White and his companion had likely taken the same route. However, a terrible earthquake the previous year had caused the upper end of the tunnel to collapse, leaving it completely blocked. Now, when we expressed our desire to descend, the Indians could only shake their heads and shrug. Perhaps they can’t help us, or maybe they simply won’t.

After the battle, the surviving ape-folk were driven across the plateau, their wails echoing in the air, and they were settled near the Indian caves, where they would now serve as a subjugated race under their masters. It felt like a raw, primeval version of the Jews in Babylon or the Israelites in Egypt. At night, we could hear the long, mournful cries from the trees, as if some primitive Ezekiel lamented the loss of their once-great civilization, recalling the glories of Ape Town. From now on, they would be mere hewers of wood and drawers of water.

Two days after the battle, we returned across the plateau with our allies and set up camp at the foot of their cliffs. They offered to let us share their caves, but Lord John refused, believing that it would put us at their mercy if they turned treacherous. We maintained our independence, keeping our weapons ready for any emergency while fostering friendly relations. We frequently visited their caves, which were remarkable places, though we could never determine if they were made by humans or nature.

These caves were carved into a soft rock layer nestled between the volcanic basalt cliffs above and the hard granite below. The entrances were about eighty feet off the ground, accessible only by narrow, steep stone stairs that no large animal could navigate. Inside, the caves were warm and dry, with straight passages of varying lengths leading into the hillside. The smooth gray walls were adorned with impressive pictures created with charred sticks, depicting the various animals of the plateau. If every living thing were to vanish from this land, future explorers would find ample evidence of the strange fauna—dinosaurs, iguanodons, and fish lizards—that had recently roamed the earth.

We had learned that the massive iguanodons were kept as tame herds by their owners, essentially serving as walking food supplies. This led us to believe that even with their primitive weapons, humans had established dominance over the plateau. However, we were soon to discover that this was not the case; they were still here only by the grace of the creatures that ruled this land.

On the third day after we set up camp near the Indian caves, tragedy struck. Challenger and Summerlee had gone to the lake, where some of the natives were harpooning specimens of the great lizards under their guidance. Lord John and I stayed behind at our camp, while several Indians were scattered across the grassy slope in front of the caves, engaged in various activities. Suddenly, a shrill cry of alarm pierced the air, the word "Stoa" echoing from a hundred voices. Men, women, and children began rushing for shelter, scrambling up the staircases and into the caves in a frantic stampede.

Looking up, we saw them waving their arms from the rocks above, beckoning us to join them in their refuge. Grabbing our magazine rifles, we rushed outside to see what the danger was. Suddenly, a group of twelve or fifteen Indians burst from the nearby trees, running for their lives, with two terrifying creatures hot on their heels—those same monsters that had disturbed our camp and chased me on my solitary journey.

These creatures resembled grotesque toads, moving in a series of powerful leaps, but they were enormous, far larger than any elephant. Until now, we had only seen them at night, as they were nocturnal animals unless disturbed in their lairs, which was clearly the case now. We stood frozen in shock, captivated by the sight of their blotched, warty skin shimmering with a strange, fish-like iridescence. The sunlight struck them, creating a shifting rainbow of colors as they moved.

We had little time to marvel at them, though, as they quickly caught up to the fleeing Indians, wreaking havoc among them. Their method was brutal: they would crash down on each person in turn, leaving them crushed and mangled before bounding after the next. The terrified Indians screamed, but they were powerless against the relentless ferocity of these monstrous beasts. One by one, they fell, and by the time my companion and I reached the scene, only a handful were left alive.

But our help was futile and only put us in danger. From a couple of hundred yards away, we emptied our magazines, firing bullet after bullet into the beasts, but it was as effective as throwing paper pellets. Their slow, reptilian nature seemed indifferent to our attacks, and their vital functions were scattered throughout their spinal cords, impervious to our modern weapons. The best we could do was distract them with the flash and roar of our guns, buying both the natives and ourselves a little time to reach the steps that led to safety.

Where our explosive bullets failed, the poisoned arrows of the natives—dipped in the juice of strophanthus and steeped in decayed carrion—proved effective. Those arrows were not much use to a hunter facing the beasts, as their effects were slow to take hold. But now, as the two monsters chased us to the very foot of the stairs, a flurry of darts rained down from every crevice in the cliff above. In moments, the creatures were covered in arrows, yet they showed no sign of pain, clawing and drooling in impotent rage at the steps that would lead them to their victims, clumsily climbing a few yards before sliding back to the ground.

Finally, the poison took effect. One of the monsters let out a deep, rumbling groan and dropped its massive head to the earth. The other spun around in erratic circles, shrieking in distress, before collapsing and writhing in agony for several minutes until it too lay still. With cries of triumph, the Indians rushed down from their caves, dancing in a frenzied celebration around the fallen beasts, reveling in the victory over two of their most dangerous foes.

That night, they cut up and removed the bodies—not to eat, as the poison was still potent, but to prevent any chance of disease. Yet the enormous reptilian hearts, each the size of a cushion, continued to beat slowly and steadily, rising and falling in a grotesque display of life. It wasn't until the third day that the ganglia finally ceased, and the dreadful creatures lay still.

One day, when I have a better desk than a makeshift meat tin and more useful tools than a worn-down pencil and a tattered notebook, I’ll write a more complete account of the Accala Indians—our life among them and the glimpses we caught of the extraordinary Maple White Land.

Memory, at least, will never fail me. As long as I draw breath, every hour and every moment from that time will stand out as vividly as the first strange events of childhood. No new experiences could erase those deeply etched memories. When the time comes, I’ll recount that magical moonlit night on the vast lake when a young ichthyosaurus—a bizarre creature that looked like a mix between a seal and a fish, with bone-covered eyes on either side of its snout and a third eye on top of its head—got tangled in an Indian net and nearly capsized our canoe before we managed to tow it ashore. That was also the night a green water snake shot out from the reeds and snatched the steersman of Challenger's canoe in its coils.

I’ll also describe the enormous white creature that roamed a foul swamp to the east of the lake. To this day, we can’t tell if it was a beast or a reptile, but it moved through the darkness with a faint phosphorescent glow. The Indians were so terrified of it that they wouldn’t go near the area. Even though we made two expeditions and spotted it both times, we couldn’t navigate through the deep marsh where it lived. All I can say is that it seemed larger than a cow and had the strangest musky scent.

Then there was the massive bird that chased Challenger to the safety of the rocks one day—a gigantic running bird, much taller than an ostrich, with a vulture-like neck and a cruel head that made it a walking nightmare. As Challenger scrambled to safety, one swift strike from that vicious beak sliced off the heel of his boot as if it had been carved with a chisel. This time, at least, modern weapons triumphed. The great creature—twelve feet from head to toe, known as phororachus according to our panting but triumphant Professor—fell to Lord Roxton's rifle in a flurry of feathers and flailing limbs, its two relentless yellow eyes glaring up from the chaos. I hope to see that flattened, vicious skull displayed among the trophies at the Albany one day.

Finally, I’ll definitely recount our encounter with the toxodon, the giant ten-foot guinea pig with protruding chisel-like teeth that we killed as it drank by the lake in the gray light of morning.

One day, I’ll write all of this in greater detail. Amid those thrilling days, I’ll fondly capture the lovely summer evenings when, beneath the deep blue sky, we lay in camaraderie among the tall grasses by the woods. We marveled at the strange birds soaring above us and the quirky new creatures peeking from their burrows to observe us. The branches of the bushes were heavy with luscious fruit, and below us, beautiful flowers peeked through the greenery.

I’ll also remember those long moonlit nights when we lay on the shimmering surface of the great lake, watching in awe as huge circles rippled out from the sudden splash of some fantastic creature, or catching a glimpse of a greenish glow far down in the depths, hinting at something mysterious lurking in the shadows. These are the scenes my mind and my pen will explore in every detail someday.

You might wonder why we spent our time in such strange circumstances and why we didn’t work day and night to find a way back to the outside world. The truth is, we were all trying to achieve that goal, but our efforts had proven futile.

One thing we quickly learned was that the Indians wouldn’t help us. In every other respect, they were our friends—almost like devoted servants—but when we suggested they assist us in building a bridge to cross the chasm or provide us with leather or vines to make ropes, they met our requests with good-natured but firm refusals. They would smile, their eyes sparkling, shake their heads, and that would be the end of it. Even the old chief stood by this stubbornness. Only Maretas, the young boy we had rescued, looked at us with concern, silently expressing his sorrow for our unfulfilled wishes.

Ever since their great victory over the ape-men, they viewed us as superhumans, believing that as long as we remained with them, good fortune would follow. They offered each of us a little red-skinned wife and a cave of our own if we would just forget our people and stay on the plateau forever. While their kindness was evident, our desires were worlds apart. We were certain that we needed to keep our plans for escape a secret; we feared they might try to hold us against our will.

Despite the danger posed by dinosaurs—mostly active at night, as I mentioned before—I made two trips back to our old camp in the past three weeks to check on our watchful negro friend below the cliff. I strained my eyes across the vast plain, hoping to catch a glimpse of the help we had prayed for. But the cactus-strewn landscape stretched out before me, empty and desolate, leading to the distant line of the cane-brake.

“They’ll be here soon, Massa Malone. Before the week is out, the Indians will come back with rope and bring you down,” our ever-optimistic Zambo assured me.

On my second visit, which required me to stay away from my companions for a night, I had a strange encounter. As I made my way back along the familiar path, nearing the marsh of the pterodactyls, I spotted an unusual figure approaching. It was a man encased in a framework of bent canes, like a bell-shaped cage. As I got closer, I was astonished to realize it was Lord John Roxton.

When he saw me, he slipped out from his peculiar contraption and approached, laughing, though I sensed a hint of embarrassment in his demeanor.

“Well, young fellow,” he said, “who would’ve thought I’d run into you up here?”

“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.

“Visiting my friends, the pterodactyls,” he replied.

“But why?”

“Interesting creatures, don’t you think? But they’re not very friendly! They can be quite rude to strangers, as you might remember. So I rigged this framework to keep them from getting too close.”

“But what do you want in the swamp?”

He looked at me, hesitation flickering across his face.

“Don’t you think other people besides professors can be curious?” he finally said. “I’m studying the little beauties. That’s all you need to know.”

“No offense,” I replied.

His good humor returned, and he chuckled.

“No offense taken, young fellow. I’m after a young pterodactyl chick for Challenger. That’s one of my tasks. And no, I don’t want your company. I’m safe in this cage, but you aren’t. So long, and I’ll be back at camp by nightfall.”

He turned and wandered off through the woods, his strange cage surrounding him.

If Lord John’s behavior was odd, Challenger’s was even more peculiar. He seemed to have an unusual charm for the Indian women, always carrying a large palm branch to swat them away when their attention became too overwhelming. Watching him strut around like a comic opera sultan, brandishing his makeshift authority, his black beard bristling, with a train of wide-eyed Indian girls in their delicate bark cloth trailing behind him, was one of the most ridiculous sights I would remember.

As for Summerlee, he was completely absorbed in the insect and bird life of the plateau, spending all his time—except for the moments he spent berating Challenger for not getting us out of our predicament—cleaning and mounting his specimens.

Challenger had developed a routine of taking solitary morning walks, returning with an air of grave importance, as if he were shouldering the burden of a monumental task. One day, with a palm branch in hand and a throng of eager followers trailing behind, he led us to his hidden workshop to reveal his ambitious plans.

The workshop was a small clearing nestled within a grove of palm trees. At its center was one of those boiling mud geysers I had previously described. Scattered around its edge were several leather thongs cut from iguanodon hide, along with a large, deflated membrane that turned out to be the dried stomach of one of the massive fish lizards from the lake. This enormous sack had been sewn shut at one end, leaving only a small opening at the other. Several bamboo canes were inserted into this opening, their other ends connected to conical clay funnels designed to collect the gas bubbling up from the geyser's mud.

Before long, the limp organ began to expand slowly, showing a tendency to rise. Challenger secured it to the trunks of the surrounding trees with cords. In just half an hour, a sizable gas bag had formed, straining against its restraints, indicating it could lift a considerable weight. Challenger stood there, beaming like a proud father admiring his newborn, stroking his beard in silent satisfaction as he gazed at his creation.

It was Summerlee who finally broke the silence.

"You can't possibly expect us to go up in that thing, Challenger?" he asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.

"My dear Summerlee," Challenger replied, "I intend to demonstrate its capabilities so convincingly that you will have no hesitation in trusting yourself to it."

"Forget it," Summerlee said firmly. "Nothing on earth would convince me to take such a risk. Lord John, I hope you won't support this madness?"

"Quite ingenious, I must say," our peer remarked. "I’d love to see how it works."

"And you shall," Challenger assured him. "For days, I’ve been using all my brainpower to figure out how we can descend from these cliffs. We’ve established that climbing down is impossible, and there’s no tunnel. We can’t build a bridge back to where we came from. So how do I get us down? Some time ago, I noticed that free hydrogen was being released from the geyser. The idea of a balloon came to me, but I was initially stumped on how to create an envelope to hold the gas. Then I thought of the enormous insides of these reptiles, and that provided the solution. Behold the result!"

He tucked one hand into the front of his ragged jacket and proudly gestured with the other.

By now, the gas bag had inflated nicely and was tugging strongly at its restraints.

"Complete madness!" Summerlee snorted.

Lord John was thoroughly entertained by the whole idea. "Clever old chap, isn’t he?" he whispered to me, then turned to Challenger and said more loudly, "What about a car?"

"The car will be my next concern," Challenger replied. "I’ve already planned how it will be made and attached. For now, I’ll demonstrate how well my apparatus can support our weight."

"All of us, right?" Summerlee asked.

"No, my plan is for each of us to descend one at a time, like a parachute, while the balloon is pulled back using methods I’ll easily perfect. If it can support one person and lower them gently, it will have accomplished its purpose. Now, let me show you how it works."

He produced a sizable lump of basalt, crafted in such a way that a cord could be easily attached. This cord was the same one we had brought with us to the plateau after using it to climb the pinnacle. It was over a hundred feet long, thin yet strong. Challenger had fashioned a leather collar with multiple straps hanging from it. This collar was placed over the top of the balloon, and the straps were gathered below so that any weight applied would be distributed over a larger surface area. He secured the lump of basalt to the straps, allowing the rope to dangle from it, wrapped three times around his arm.

"I will now," Challenger said, a smile of eager anticipation on his face, "demonstrate the lifting power of my balloon." With that, he cut the various bindings holding it in place.

Our expedition had never faced such imminent danger of total destruction. The balloon shot up into the sky with terrifying speed. In an instant, Challenger was yanked off his feet and dragged along with it. I barely had time to wrap my arms around his waist before I was pulled into the air myself. Lord John had a firm grip on my legs, but I could feel him lifting off the ground too. For a fleeting moment, I imagined us four adventurers floating like a string of sausages over the land we had explored. Fortunately, the rope had its limits, even if the balloon's lifting power seemed endless. There was a sharp crack, and we tumbled to the ground, tangled in coils of rope.

As we managed to get to our feet, we spotted a dark spot in the deep blue sky where the chunk of basalt was soaring away.

"Splendid!" Challenger exclaimed, rubbing his injured arm. "What a thorough and satisfying demonstration! I never anticipated such success. Within a week, gentlemen, I promise we’ll have a second balloon ready, and you can count on a safe and comfortable first leg of our journey home."

So far, I’ve recounted the events as they unfolded. Now, I’m wrapping up my story from the old camp, where Zambo has waited so long, leaving all our struggles and dangers behind us like a distant dream on the summit of those vast, red cliffs towering above. We’ve descended safely, albeit in an unexpected way, and all is well. In six weeks or two months, we’ll be in London, and it’s likely this letter won’t reach you much earlier than we do. Already, our hearts long for and our spirits soar toward the great mother city that holds so much dear to us.

It was on the very evening of our perilous adventure with Challenger’s homemade balloon that our fortunes began to change. I had mentioned that the only person who had shown us any sympathy in our attempts to escape was the young chief we had rescued. He alone didn’t want to keep us against our will in this strange land. He had communicated this clearly through his expressive gestures. That evening, after dusk, he came down to our little camp and handed me a small roll of tree bark. For some reason, he had always shown particular attention to me, perhaps because I was closest to his age. He pointed solemnly up at the row of caves above him, put his finger to his lips as a sign of secrecy, and then quietly returned to his people.

I took the slip of bark to the firelight, and we examined it together. It was about a foot square, and on the inner side was a curious arrangement of lines, which I now reproduce:

They were neatly drawn in charcoal on the white surface and initially looked to me like a rough musical score.

"Whatever it is, I can tell it’s important to us," I said. "I could see that on his face when he handed it to me."

"Unless we’ve stumbled upon a primitive practical joker," Summerlee suggested, "which would be one of the most basic developments of humanity."

"It’s clearly some sort of script," Challenger said.

"Looks like a puzzle competition," Lord John remarked, leaning in for a closer look. Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the paper.

"By George!" he exclaimed. "I think I’ve got it. The boy guessed right the first time. Look here! How many marks are on this paper? Eighteen. Well, if you think about it, there are eighteen cave openings on the hillside above us."

"He pointed to the caves when he gave it to me," I added.

"Well, that settles it. This is a map of the caves. Eighteen of them in a row, some short, some deep, some branching, just like we saw. And here’s a cross on it. What’s the cross for? It marks one that’s much deeper than the others."

"One that goes through," I cried.

"I believe our young friend has solved the riddle," Challenger said. "If the cave doesn’t go through, I don’t understand why this person, who has every reason to help us, would have drawn our attention to it. But if it does go through and leads out to the other side, we shouldn’t have more than a hundred feet to descend."

"A hundred feet!" Summerlee grumbled.

"Well, our rope is still over a hundred feet long," I countered. "Surely we could manage to get down."

"What about the Indians in the cave?" Summerlee objected.

"There are no Indians in any of the caves above us," I replied. "They’re all used as barns and storehouses. Why shouldn’t we go up now and scout the area?"

On the plateau, there was a type of dry, bituminous wood—an araucaria, as our botanist identified it—that the Indians always used for torches. We each grabbed a bundle of it and made our way up the weed-covered steps to the cave marked on our map. As I had mentioned, it was empty except for a swarm of enormous bats that flapped around us as we ventured inside.

Not wanting to attract the Indians' attention, we stumbled through the darkness, navigating several twists and turns deep into the cavern. Finally, we lit our torches. The tunnel was stunning, with smooth gray walls adorned with native symbols, a curved ceiling arching above us, and white, glistening sand underfoot. We hurried along, excitement bubbling within us, until we were abruptly halted by a deep wall of rock that loomed ahead, completely blocking our path. There was no way through, not even a tiny crack for a mouse to slip through.

We stood there, disappointment heavy in our hearts, staring at this unexpected barrier. It wasn’t the result of any geological upheaval like the ascending tunnel; this end wall was just like the side walls. It was, and always had been, a dead end.

“Don’t worry, my friends,” said the ever-optimistic Challenger. “You still have my firm promise of a balloon.”

Summerlee groaned in response.

“Could we be in the wrong cave?” I suggested, hoping for a glimmer of hope.

“No chance, young fellow,” Lord John replied, tapping the chart. “Seventeen from the right and second from the left. This is definitely the cave.”

I glanced at the spot where his finger rested and suddenly felt a rush of excitement.

“I think I’ve got it! Follow me! Follow me!”

I hurried back the way we had come, torch in hand. “Look,” I said, pointing to some matches on the ground, “this is where we lit up.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, it’s marked as a forked cave, and we passed the fork in the dark before lighting our torches. If we go out to the right, we should find the longer passage.”

And just as I had predicted, we hadn’t gone thirty yards before a large, dark opening appeared in the wall. We turned into it and discovered a much larger passage than the one before. Breathless with anticipation, we rushed down it for hundreds of yards. Then, suddenly, we spotted a flicker of dark red light in the archway ahead.

We halted, astonished. A steady sheet of flame seemed to stretch across the passage, blocking our way. We moved closer, but there was no sound, no heat, no movement from it. Yet the luminous curtain glowed, illuminating the cave and turning the sand into sparkling jewels. As we approached, we could see it had a circular edge.

“The moon, by George!” Lord John exclaimed. “We’re through, boys! We’re through!”

Indeed, it was the full moon shining down through a small opening in the cliffs. It was no larger than a window, but it was just what we needed. As we craned our necks to look through, we could see that the descent wouldn’t be too difficult, and the level ground was not far below us. It made sense that we hadn’t noticed it from below; the cliffs arched overhead, making any ascent seem impossible and discouraging close inspection. We assured ourselves that with our rope, we could make it down, and then we returned to our camp, filled with joy and ready to prepare for the next evening.

We had to act quickly and quietly, as the Indians could still interfere at any moment. We decided to leave our supplies behind, taking only our guns and cartridges. However, Challenger insisted on bringing some cumbersome gear with him, including one particular package that proved to be more trouble than any of us anticipated.

The day dragged on, but when night fell, we were finally ready to leave. With great effort, we carried our belongings up the steps, and then, looking back, we took one last long look at that strange land. Soon, I feared, it would be overrun by hunters and prospectors, but to each of us, it was a dreamland of wonder and adventure—a place where we had dared much, suffered much, and learned much—OUR land, as we would always fondly remember it.

To our left, the neighboring caves glowed with warm, inviting firelight. From the slope below, we could hear the Indians laughing and singing. Beyond, the woods stretched out, and in the center, shimmering faintly in the darkness, was the great lake, home to strange monsters. Just then, a high, eerie cry rang out from the shadows, the call of some mysterious creature. It was as if Maple White Land itself was bidding us farewell.

With that, we turned and plunged into the cave that would lead us home.

Two hours later, we stood at the base of the cliff, surrounded by our belongings. Aside from Challenger’s luggage, we had faced no real challenges. We left everything where we had come down and set off for Zambo’s camp without delay. As morning broke, we approached the camp, only to be astonished by the sight of not one fire, but a dozen flickering on the plain. The rescue party had arrived.

Twenty Indians from the river were there, equipped with stakes, ropes, and everything we needed to bridge the chasm. At least we wouldn’t have any trouble carrying our packages when we set out for the Amazon tomorrow.

And so, with a humble and grateful heart, I conclude this account. We have witnessed incredible wonders, and our experiences have deepened our souls. Each of us has grown in our own way. It’s possible that when we reach Para, we’ll take a moment to restock. If we do, this letter will be sent ahead. If not, it will arrive in London on the same day I do. In either case, my dear Mr. McArdle, I look forward to shaking your hand very soon.