Gathering up a bouquet of succulent orchids, the cave man showed himself plainly to the colossal matriarch. Her melon-size left eye regarded the snack tentatively for just a moment, then the long muscular proboscis snatched the juicy blossoms high above to her pink hook-tusked mouth. The cave man had chosen his allies carefully, knowing from endless hours of observation that the deinotherium were predominantly gentle, intelligent and entirely fearless, even in the face of the Plateau’s most fearsome flesh-eaters.
Confidently, the caveman followed alongside his lumbering guardian behemoth — safe in the shadow of her protective company — and drank his fill beside her from the edge of the beetle-infested, worm-writhing green-brown river. A swelling wave suddenly engorged the odious surface and for a scant second the cave man found his entire head submerged beneath the water. Coughing up the sulfur-flavored refreshment, he bitterly observed his leather medicine bag floating rapidly away from him. No chance of rescuing the precious little pouch, already it glided among sharp-beaked snapping turtles twice his own weight. The cave man’s sole luxury, absolutely irreplaceable, was bade a tender farewell through his tear filled eyes.
Abruptly, the source of the rising river became alarmingly clear as a wading herd of leviathan long-necked sauropods emerged from the bend of the river, the thunder lizards enormously dwarfing every other colossus among them. These majestic treetop browsers, the cave man knew, were the real lords of the Plateau, especially when they gathered in such abundant numbers. The danger of a panicked stampede of the lesser giants around him was a very real possibility.
With a rapid, final, and regretful glance, the cave man scurried away to his lonely lair.
“There, lady and gentlemen, is our Plateau!” Lord John Roxton pointed with a weathered bronze forefinger.
Our ominous destination jutted up through the eerie morning mist like a dark green jungle-haunted obelisk. Already the dizzying height within the balloon’s carriage had threatened to rob me of my meager breakfast as the humid tropical atmosphere rocked and swayed like an angry sea. It was, however, an excellent and even awe-inspiring view of our perilous objective. Lord Roxton remarked, jabbing an elbow playfully into my ribs, that he felt like a boy living out a Jules Verne adventure. Sherlock Holmes had said nothing at all since we’d cast off and he clung white-knuckled to the carriage handrails.
The last two months had been a flurry of planning, packing, and speeding away at a dizzying pace by motor, rail, sail, and steam. Twice Sherlock Holmes cautioned me that we were being followed, but would say no more about it afterward, even with me pressing him firmly.
Holmes had spent a goodly portion of our journey in silent study of Professor Challenger’s recovered notebook. The missing scientist’s distinctive barbed-wire scrawl contained enough chemical details on the mysterious super-steel formula to convince my friend of its possibility. Even so, he’d laboriously bemoaned leaving his little Sussex bee-farm and direly confided to me that all we were likely to find was Challenger’s bones upon that Plateau, perhaps to eventually jumble with our own. A sobering prediction, indeed, especially as the terrible formation loomed up before us and was, at last, an incredible reality.
“Is that the region you and my father ascended?” the young professor indicated a treacherous slope seemingly somewhat more passable than the others in our sight.
Lord Roxton laughed cheerily.
“No, Miss, we can’t see it from this angle. It’s climbable, obviously, but more than a mite dangerous. I like this balloon idea of yours much better — saves on lots of sweat, blistered fingers, and potentially broken-necks!”
She glowered at him, lifting up her pretty chin.
“Refer to me as ‘Professor’, if you please, Roxton,” her tone was as cold as it was arrogant. “I’m not simply some Kensington school mistress out on holiday.”
Holmes took a sharp long breath and let it out slowly.
“Oh, beggin’ your pardon, Mi — uh, Professor Challenger,” Lord Roxton grinned, winking at me, then spoke low into my ear. “Two of them in the world is rather over-doing it — what?”
I must say, however frequently disagreeable she could be, Professor Jessica Cuvier Challenger conducted the piloting of our little airship with the valiant hand of a seasoned expert. In truth, during the past several weeks I’d come to the pleasurable realization that the young lady was most remarkable in nearly every aspect.
Her knowledge of medicine was far in advance of my own, having studied in both Vienna and America. She flattered me personally, as well, with a profound familiarity of my written accounts of the cases of Sherlock Holmes — correcting some of my careless chronological blunders from her own prodigious memory — and finally interrogated me most brazenly upon the exact anatomical location of my Afghan War wound.
Indeed, despite her arrogant, quick-tempered, and almost artificial personality, the lady’s keenly disciplined brain, utter fearlessness, and her unrivaled physical beauty had charmed me completely.
Suddenly I noticed and followed Holmes’ gaze towards a small flock of birds pursuing us at a distance.
“An impulsive beak or talon might well rend a hole in this contraption,” my friend mused matter-of-factly. “I take it, Professor, that you’ve a perceived notion preventing such a catastrophe?”
She lifted her excellent field-glasses, nodding calmly.
“The silk is chemically reinforced, Mr. Holmes. I doubt that nothing less than a rifle bullet could pierce it. Also, I noticed you warily detecting the electrical charge in the air. You needn’t be concerned, there’s no chance of fire as these pressure tanks contain helium, not hydrogen.”
Holmes rolled his grey eyes at me. The altitude was making him a bit green.
“You seem to have thought of everything,” he said curtly.
The Professor lowered the glasses, her breath slightly quickened.
“Everything, perhaps, but the simple fact that my father may have been absolutely correct in all his outrageous contentions. Roxton — have you a rifle handy? Those are most certainly not birds.”
They were hideous creatures, such as the tortured nightmares of a madman might concoct. Indeed, the flying monstrosities were not birds nor like any other animal I’ve ever seen, rather they resembled flapping bat-like crocodilians with wingspans at least twice as great as that of an albatross. The enraged ear-splitting shrieks made it plain that our balloon was encroaching upon their aerial territory.
I’m delighted to confirm that Lord Roxton’s marksmanship was every bit as legendary as reports of his worldwide adventures have claimed. Each time he shouldered his rifle; another winged demon squawked and spiraled away to vanish into the thick mists below. After the momentary danger died away, a different surge of excitement impressed us, even Holmes. Professor George Edward Challenger, and Lord John Roxton, had not exaggerated in the least. Such a “Lost World” as both men had long proclaimed, and established science had denounced, did, indeed, truly exist!
“Isn’t it marvelous, Holmes!” I could hardly contain my exhilaration.
The passionless machine-like concentration had returned to his pale, gaunt face.
“I would suggest that those high limestone cliffs may be rather more imperative to the core of our quest, old fellow. I distinctly observed at least one cave located near the top that might have served as an excellent long-term refuge.”
Professor Challenger focused her field-glasses once again, then lowered them with a quick nod and a beaming smile.
“Excellent, Mr. Holmes!” she agreed, looking quite lovely. “You are truly the first of detectives. Forgive me, in my excitement, I didn’t notice those formations. Pterodactyls have been my favorites since I was a girl and seeing them alive is quite a thrill. Brace yourselves, gentlemen — we’re going to land!”
Our landing was, if anything, even more dreadful than our daredevil launch. I’ve never had such a helpless sensation of vertigo. Densely dark jungle cloaked most of the Plateau’s terrible den
izens from our eyes, and perhaps that was for the best, but the hissing howls, blood-freezing screams, and thunderous footfalls could not be shut out.
At one point in our descent the balloon’s carriage, which contained all our provisions, and us, slightly scraped the slime-skimmed surface of a prehistoric lake filled with such brethren of Hell as only Dante might have imagined. At first what I took to be gigantic swimming crocodiles were, in reality, undulating thirty-foot long marine monitor lizards. One of the beasts was lethally ensnared in the strangling tentacles of a massive snail-shelled octopus, the likes of which — according to the Professor — hadn’t been seen upon this earth for over sixty-five million years. Swooping kite-tailed pterodactyls soared upwards again with fanged beaks full of lobe-finned silver-scaled fish, while magnificent long-necked reptiles with the acrobatic streamlined bodies of sea lions gracefully rolled and sailed through the emerald, algae rich, waves.
We touched the earth, finally, near the base of Holmes’ limestone cliff as there was no safe landing area upon its peak. Professor Challenger rapidly set about the task of deflating our balloon and sealing it, along with the cleverly designed collapsible carriage, inside a crate which she buried under a mammoth fern fully one hundred feet tall. At her orders, Lord Roxton, Holmes, and I stood guard with our rifles. She didn’t need to tell us. We were taking no chances.
The Professor and Lord Roxton then commenced hurling grappling hooks, with stout lengths of rope attached, at the narrow cave entrance. I was amazed how swiftly and expertly that was accomplished. The cave above and beyond beckoned to be investigated.
“My father may be up there. Blood and brains before brawn, Roxton,” Professor Challenger insisted after it was suggested there might be an element of danger within the cave itself.
She clambered up the cliff, in her high laced boots and riding britches, as effortlessly as a spider monkey. Before Lord Roxton could follow, Holmes surprised me by grasping the other rope.
“I’m afraid your old shoulder wound will be a nuisance here, Watson,” he said ruefully. “However, I will trouble you for your service revolver. Take care of him, Lord Roxton. I’m lost without my Boswell.”
With my pistol tucked into his belt, Holmes bounded up the line as fluidly deft as any man in his early sixties could ever hope to be. It was difficult to believe, at times like these, that he was only two years younger than me. When the scent of the chase was upon him, my friend could evoke an almost Herculean prowess as I’d witnessed, and chronicled, many times in our long association.
Lord Roxton let out a low whistle as he watched Holmes climb up and disappear into the cave. He grinned at me and revealed a silver hipflask.
“Is he a bloodhound or a squirrel — what? Care for a nip of whisky while we’re waitin’, Doctor?”
I confess to taking a few sips.
“After narrowly escaping from this Plateau seven years ago, I don’t suppose that you’d ever imagined being back here again,” I said to my famous companion, the steadying warmth of the whisky making me more social.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he sounded, between swallows from the flask, as if he meant it. “Besides this time there’s more at stake than just the old bastard’s bloomin’ reputation, eh? What do you think of our young Miss?”
He offered me the flask again, but I thought better of it.
“A most capable lady, surely,” I replied.
“She’s that, and more,” Lord Roxton’s leathery face lapsed into a moment of solemnity. “Reminds me a bit of my son, Richard. Fearless. Head strong. Maybe even a little crazy. He’s fighting against Germany even as we speak. Youngest major in the American infantry, so they tell me. Guess I’m here as much for his sake as anything. Say, Doctor, does Mr. Holmes really think we’ll find old Challenger alive, and deliver him and his formula back to Mother England?”
World-famous adventurer and explorer, proud father, patriot — there was a depth and temperament to Lord Roxton that, even with just those few words, established not merely his profound decency but also elevated his character to the almost mythic level that one expected of him. I found myself very glad to have made his acquaintance.
“Well, I dare say we wouldn’t be here now, if he believed such a thing was impossible,” I answered, in all honestly.
A wiggle of the ropes caught our attention.
“Hope you’re right, Doctor,” his easy grin returned. “They’re comin’ back down — and I’ve never seen such a pair of long faces.”
We scouted the base of the cliff for more caves, finally finding one more suited for our camp. Lord Roxton knew that night dropped swiftly, like a great black curtain over the Plateau, and we had a bright fire blazing at the cave entrance well before the first visible stars. Neither Holmes, nor Professor Challenger, had yet spoken of their morning adventure within the cave. Going along with her suggestion that we eat off the land, to lighten our packs, we were all dining on roasted Archaeopteryx, a bizarre toothed bird from the Jurassic Period, and some unknown, though very succulent fruits, when Holmes revealed his discoveries.
“This lady’s father had, indeed, been a resident within the cave,” my friend stated in his cool, unemotional manner. “There was evidence of scratches upon the cave floor, unmistakable nail-marks from the soles of worn-out British-made boots in his unusual size. Although we found no journals or scientific equipment, there were two rifles and a revolver in the cave, all without ammunition and badly rusted. Most telling, perhaps, were these…”
Holmes displayed a half dozen cigar stubs.
“The ends are cut, not bitten,” the lady explained, “and Mr. Holmes has identified the tobacco which I easily confirmed as my father’s special blend.”
Lord Roxton kicked a stone into the fire and walked away, murmuring a quiet curse. I felt my own shoulders suddenly sag.
“So,” I ventured hesitatingly. “Challenger was in the cave … but the condition of his weapons suggest that—”
“Without a good rifle, no one could survive twenty four hours in this infernal bloody jungle,” Lord Roxton said, bitterly.
I wasn’t ready to give up.
“Why, the Professor may have another rifle with him!”
Holmes shook his head.
“Challenger hasn’t occupied that cave for better than a year, Watson,” he said as he grimly filled his pipe. “The condition of the firearms, and especially the cigar stubs, make that plain. There also were signs that a more savage entity has since claimed the refuge. I must concur with Lord Roxton’s opinion, tragic though it is. Professor George Edward Challenger, and his team of five companions, perished somewhere here upon the Plateau many months ago.”
The lady herself remained even more aloof than my friend.
“Mr. Holmes and I are quite in agreement on this,” she added, frankly. “There is no hope. We leave tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll take the first watch — no arguments, Roxton. Get some rest, gentlemen.”
Though exhausted, I little more than dozed for a few hours. The ache in my heart — and the incessant chattering drone of Plateau insects the size of alley cats — disrupted any chance for real slumber. While Holmes napped restlessly, I rose a bit after midnight, finding Lord Roxton dourly at watch. I observed that the Professor was not in her sleeping bag.
“Think she needed some privacy,” he winked without the usual humor. “Headed off toward those reeds. Give her a few minutes.”
I did as he suggested, but grew anxious as time wore on. Finally I found her sitting on a fallen log. Tears glistened on her exquisite cheeks in the blue moonlight. Silently, I sat down next to her and patted her soft cool hand.
“We never got on together, you know,” she almost whispered. “He was never supportive of my education. Never believed women could be as clever as men. Father and I always argued, even when I was a little girl. From the pronouncements of Darwin, to my refusal to eat Mother’s awful omelets, we fought about everything. He was always gone — distant — even when he
was home. Brilliant as he was, he never really knew me. Now he never will.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a dirty sleeve and somehow the effect was quite elegant. Gazing at her, torn and bruised from the adventures of yesterday, quietly weeping in utter heartbreak, I knew I was looking at the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
She regained her dignity with a purposeful shrug, her unpinned golden hair draping her shoulders.
“What would Father say if he saw me now, eh, Dr. Watson?” She managed a lovely, if sardonic, smile.
I smiled back, more gently.
“I’ve no doubt that he’d be very proud of that same little girl, who wouldn’t eat her mother’s omelets.”
Jessica’s lips dropped suddenly, but her sad eyes gleamed with tenderness as she leaned forward and kissed my rough old cheek.
Suddenly, it seemed the sky was falling.
From out of the dense jungle canopy, shaggy black hulks fell all around, surrounding us. An iron-gripped hairy paw snatched my revolver from my hand the very moment I stood, taking some of my skin away with it. The two of us were hopelessly, horribly outnumbered by a savage tribe of what I can only describe as subhuman ape-men.
Jessica managed one frantic shot with her rifle before the weapon was wrenched away, nearly tearing her arms from their sockets. Two of the devils leaped upon my back, crashing me to the fetid filth and decay of the jungle floor. I kicked and struck back like a madman, with no effect upon the beast-men at all.
Through the dim shadows I watched in horror as one of the larger brutes snared Jessica with a single long hooked arm, bounding back toward the trees. Fighting furiously, I was a mere child against monsters. I could do nothing, but die.
Abruptly, the ogre carrying Jessica shrieked then, limp as a puppet, flopped dead to the ground. The remaining horde paused, sniffing the air. Suddenly another one dropped dead. And another. There was no sound of a firearm, no indication at all of what was causing the mute, invisible slaughter happening inexplicably before my eyes.
Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 15