New Title 1

by Campbell, J R

  He finished the sentence with a vague gesture we all understood. Gladly we turned away and began a lacklustre inspection of the cottages. Each stood as its own small monument to poverty, with cramped rooms and moribund furniture I suspect had been handed down from generation to generation like valuable heirlooms.

  The crewmen had ferried us, our supplies and personal belongings ashore on two rowing boats. They had returned to the Rose of Scotland in one, leaving us with the other.

  Roxton and I volunteered to fetch our belongings from the beach to the shared cottage. Whenever we stepped inside we could hear snatches of the debate between the two professors, who paced the floor like boxers sizing up for a fight, one tugging absently at his beard, the other blowing puffs of smoke from his overworked briar.

  “…picked entirely clean without so much as a scratch on the bones. Nothing that we know of could do that. Even a stubborn old goat like you, Summerlee, must concede this lends credence to the old woman’s account.”

  “ I believe the evidence of my own eyes but no more than that. It is a puzzle, I grant you, but even if there was such a creature as a giant sea serpent it could not possibly digest its victims as swiftly or as thoroughly.”

  “ Having told the truth in every other regard, why would that poor woman contrive a story about a giant serpent? It makes no sense.”

  And so on. Suffice to say neither man, for all his learning and fanciful theorising, had the slightest idea of what happened. By the time Roxton and I had finished our portage duties, the professors were in accord; there was nothing to do but wait and see what, if anything, occurred. I had reached that same conclusion ahead of my learned colleagues. The Rose of Scotland would not return for ten days, Challenger having rather arbitrarily deemed such to be the optimum time for a thorough investigation.

  Bored and restless, I spent the next few days walking the beach alone or exploring the island with Roxton. All the while I ensured I did not stray close to the dead. Yet I found my gaze constantly drawn to them, and whenever my eye caught those bones, gleaming white against the faded autumn grass, it came as a shock like a physical blow.

  On one of my beach walks I espied something pale near the water’s edge. Sickened, I feared it was another corpse. It was, but even though it was severely decomposed, enough of it remained for me to tell it was ovine, not human. It seemed the birds had not been alone in fleeing whatever had turned the island into an open graveyard.

  Surprisingly, I slept well that first night, earplugs in place, but found myself waking regularly in the ensuing nights, my throat dry and my head pounding. I had caught a chill, no doubt from spending too much time in the damp autumn air. With my temperature soaring, my morale tumbled. Tired and irritable, I took to my bed by day, sipping from the flask of single-malt whisky Roxton left me before going off exploring.

  My companions soon became as troubled I by the presence of the dead. The ceaseless howling of the wind night after night did not improve our mood, sounding as it did like the lament of the troubled departed. Once I managed to persuade myself I could hear the soft rattle of bones outside the door until I pushed the wooden plugs into my ears hard enough to hurt.

  I rely on my companions for the account of the dramatic events which followed. Much of what occurred is a blur to me, like a dream that breaks into vaguely recalled fragments upon waking.

  It was well past midnight, yet I was wide awake. The fever was at its peak. I felt as though I were on fire. Though I longed to fill my lungs with clean air I dared not go outside. With the earplugs in place the rush of blood in my head sounded far too loud, so foolishly I took them out and dropped them to the floor. From the varied volume and tone of snoring reverberating around the room, I concluded I alone was awake, which made me feel even more wretched. My mind wandered and I found myself thinking of Gladys, the only woman I had ever loved and for whom I had risked my life in South America only to be spurned for another.

  Bittersweet memories crowded in upon my thoughts until I could think of nothing but her. Suddenly the intensity of emotion became too much and I threw back the blankets and stumbled towards the door, utterly oblivious to the presence of my companions. It was as though the cottage, the island, the world itself had faded to nothing and all that remained, blazing in my mind like a desert sun at noon, was the unbearable pain of lost love.

  Outside, I was unaware of the moon’s cold silvery light, for my eyes were drawn to the monstrous serpentine shape that swept along the island, moving from the beach towards the mountains in silence despite its bulk.

  Unsteady with grief, I half-ran, half-staggered until I was close enough to see the serpent was in fact a winding abyss so perfectly black it seemed to suck the moonlight from the sky. I cannot think back on it without a shudder of terror yet I would have continued running until I had fallen into it, had I not been floored by a tackle I could not have better executed on the rugby field. My head hit the ground and another form of darkness, this one full of whirling stars, came rushing out of eternity to devour me.

  *** Cold spray washed over the Rose of Scotland. I stood alone at the stern, looking back towards St Machar even though it was too far behind us to be seen. The wind was Arctic and I was still not fully recovered, yet I could not stay below deck for very long before the shakes began.

  “I knew I’d find you here,” a voice boomed. I turned to see Challenger making his way unsteadily towards me, for the trawler was pitching heavily. His hair was plastered down on his oversized head and his beard sagged like a drowned animal. “I’d be drier jumping overboard,” he grumbled as he came and stood at my side. “So, my boy, how are you feeling?”

  I shrugged. “As well as could be expected, all things considered.” I had trodden on Challenger when I walked from the cottage deep in my somnambulistic state. He, immediately sensing something was amiss, quickly roused my companions and all three came charging out in pursuit.

  At once they were halted in their tracks, shocked into immobility by the impossible sight before them. Seen from close quarters it no longer resembled a serpent but, as Roxton was to eloquently describe it later, a river made of nothingness. It was he who recovered first, dashing forward and taking me down before I could stumble into it. Had I not been weakened by that crippling sense of loss he would never have reached me in time.

  Once again, I owed him my life.

  Seconds after he tackled me, the abyss vanished. When I regained consciousness the following afternoon a sturdy wooden dresser had been dragged across the door to ensure there could be no repeat of what happened. We did not go out at night after that and, while Challenger deemed it safe to be out by day, we never strayed far from the cottage and none of us went out alone.

  “Good to hear,” Challenge said. “Good to hear.”

  He fell silent for a moment, clutching the deck rail with both hands. I sensed he was not there simply to enquire after my health.

  “Do you have any idea what it was?” I asked, to provide an opening for him to unburden himself. “ One cannot explain the impossible,” Challenger said. “But I am of the opinion that what we witnessed that night was the fabric of reality being torn open. It is not an unreasonable assumption that organic matter cannot survive outside of reality, hence the absence of flesh or clothing.”

  “Yet the bones remained,” I pointed out.

  “ Indeed. The rent opened briefly. It must have closed before the bones could be devoured. Also, having given the matter extensive thought, I have concluded that, contrary to appearances, the rent itself did not move. Rather, it remained in a fixed place while the Earth turned, which would explain why the skeletons were ejected over a considerable distance.”

  “ Perhaps,” I said doubtfully, for his logic was based purely on conjecture. “It does not explain what drew the villagers, and I, outside.”

  “ I can only speculate the tear in reality caused some kind of harmonic that altered the properties of the chemicals in the brain. It is therefore not unreaso
nable to assume this had the effect of intensifying one’s emotional state...for what are emotions if not the interaction of these chemicals? The villagers, as we know, had been driven to the brink of despair by circumstance. While you…”

  “ Yes,”I said, in a manner firmly signifying my unwillingness to discuss the matter further. Clearly I was still mourning Gladys, though I had not had the slightest inkling just how lovelorn I had been. “Are you saying this harmonic exerted some kind of siren song, luring us outside?”

  Challenger glared. “I make no such suggestion, Mr Malone. This rip in reality no more drew you outside than the sea lures a drunken sailor who falls overboard. Unlike us, Mr Malone, nature has no feelings. When confronted with the unbearable, our instinctive reaction is to run. And that is what happened with you and the villagers.”

  There was still one question that demanded to be asked. “And what do you believe could have caused reality to be torn open, Professor?”

  He contemplated that for a moment, his formidable jaw jutting out as though daring the world to contradict him. “Beyond our comprehension, my boy. Clearly there has been a fundamental shift in the forces that comprise reality. As to the whys and the wherefores, I am at a loss. Who knows? Maybe the Challengers of the future, in attempting to understand the nature of reality inadvertently damaged it, the effects rippling back in time. However, that is groundless speculation. I have something important I must ask you.”

  “Anything,” I said, before quickly adding:“Within reason.”

  “Do not write a word of what happened.”

  I was dumbfounded. No one relished being in the public gaze more than George Edward Challenger. “But I have a story to tell.” “ Then tell it.Just be a little…creative. Write that the villagers died of starvation or for some bout of sickness, or perished in a fearsome storm. Write whatever best suits you, Mr Malone, but as a friend and companion I ask you not to tell the world of the events we witnessed.”

  “But why ever not?”

  He hesitated.“Because this has happened before.”

  “What?” I cried, utterly astonished. “ In a mountain village on the French-Swiss border. Every spring, after the thaw, the people would ride down into Geneva to replenish supplies and meet up with family. This particular year, and I am talking twelve years ago Mr Malone, they did not. Relatives in Geneva became concerned and the subsequent search party stumbled onto a scene identical to that which we discovered. It was hushed up, but I have friends in Government, as you know. When the story of St Machar came to my attention…”

  Suddenly he grabbed me by the elbow and that action, together with the feral gleam in his eye, made me take an involuntary step backward.

  “ Imagine the panic it would cause if this got out,” he said. “It would herald a return to ancient times, when man dared not leave the safety of his cave for mortal fear of predators in the dark.

  “ No, Mr Malone, the world is not ready for the truth. Make your story as lively as you like, for I know you have a flair for drama. Whatever you choose to say, we will confirm it happened exactly as you describe.”

  I considered this for several moments. “Very well,” I said at last for I could picture all too well the fear and social unrest the truth would inspire.

  “Excellent,” he said.“Now let us get out of this cursed wind and help ourselves to some of Lord Roxton’s finest Scotch.” Just before we started down the stairway, a thought occurred to me. “Professor, what if the worst happened and this ‘river of nothingness’ was to leave a trail of bones not somewhere remote like St Machar but London, say, or New York? What would we do then?”

  “ In that event you must tell the story as it really happened, for then the world would need to know.” Challenger sighed heavily. “But for all our sakes, let us hope that story will never have to be written.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Let us hope.”

  CHALLENGER AND THE ISLE OUT OF TIME

  by Michael R. Brush I had just returned with Lord Roxton from our second trip to our ‘Lost World’ to collect more of those blue diamonds. With his advice ringing in my ears; “Now, young fellah, there’s nothing so bad as idleness with means, so find something to do,” from our parting on the docks, that I went to the Savage Club to think my future over.

  Who should I first see but Tarp Henry. As I had not been able to show my appreciation for his help in introducing me to Challenger, and given I was rather flush, I stood him a drink and joined him in one of those comfortable, low, leather chairs in which the club prides itself.

  “You’ve just returned from your latest exploits, I take it,” observed the thin, angular figure after he had acknowledged my offering, “You won’t have heard the latest madness, then?”

  “ What madness?” I enquired of the dry, leathery staff member of Nature. This seemed almost too good to be true, to have another scent of action before I could even settle down.

  “ One of our occasional contributors, that Doctor Illingford of Edinburgh, returned lately from an excursion charting something or other around the equator. His story has been held up to as much ridicule as your Challenger’s tale on his first return from South America,” explained Tarp, “and instead of his fighting through Illingford collapsed and they’ve sent him to Bedlam.”

  “Bedlam!” I repeated.

  “Well, no, some private sanatorium, I believe, probably be of public record. I think your Daily Gazette covered the fuss, Malone,” recalled my friend. It was in a daze I moved, so ingrained had Lord Roxton’s influence become of always grasping the moment that I just rose up from my seat there and then and left my companion to make for my old office. I saw the bespectacled head of McArdle, red hair tufting out from his head as it stood out from his round back. He was inspecting some junior’s copy, but when he saw me he dropped it back onto the correspondent’s desk and made toward me.

  “ Come into the office,” he said, as he gently guided me into his sanctum, “I’m afraid your desk is now otherwise occupied. Well, we couldnae hold out forever,” he continued in his kindly, Scotch voice, as he guided me into a seat like some honoured guest who is just passing through.

  “ Now, look here,” I began, somewhat put out at this treatment. After all, I still had plenty of working years ahead of me. The look that McArdle gave me softened me entirely and I felt foolish for my sharp outburst.

  “Ah, now there’s our young international rugger player,” he replied with a smile, “I suppose a special mission would do just the trick, then?” he suggested as he started to hunt among his papers, “Unfortunately, I don’t think the paper will stand for the expense of another.”

  “That’s alright, I think I’m good for one adventure at any rate,” I replied evenly, the small stones would, I was confident, finance a modest trip and allow me to build on my reputation as a journalist.

  “Well, there’s this fellow Doctor Illingford, but I dare say you’d need the likes of your old friend the Professor to understand it,” said McArdle, passing a sheet of paper with some particulars on it towards me.

  “And if I get good copy?” I asked.

  “Well, if you get good copy I’m sure we’d find you a desk here,” McArdle advised me.

  “In that case, the sooner I get started…”

  “You young folk, always rushing from one job to the next,” interrupted the kind editor, as he showed me to the door. Within moments I was back on the street wondering how to arrange another meeting with the great Professor Challenger. Thinking that I would just take the bull by the horns I hailed a passing cab and instructed the cabbie towards Enmore Park.

  After ringing the door lustily, in my haste, it was answered by Austin. Although the chauffeur looked paler than normal, he seemed to brighten on seeing me and gently holding me in the doorway by his tentative hand upon my shoulder he whispered, “He’s in one of his moods, I’m afraid, sir,” before releasing me and allowing me into the hall proper. I prepared myself mentally for the ordeal ahead and just as my h
and was on the familiar handle of Challenger’s study I heard him below, “…ford of Edinburgh! Enough, I say!”

  “Oh, it’s you is it?” he asked behind his magnificent black spade of a beard and though his narrowed eyes, as he slammed the telephone receiver down.“I don’t suppose you can bring me too much distraction from the proper direction of my time,” he continued before he folded his hands over his stomach and glared at me.

  Familiar as I was with Challenger’s presence, I took a deep breath before deciding that a direct approach of my intent would be best, “I had heard some peculiar news regarding Dr Illingford of Edinburgh.”

  “That’s just what Lord Roxton was saying,” spat the professor, appearing that he might pounce now he had a real target to get to grips with. It would not be the first time he grappled with me, I supposed with a wry grin.

  “ I thought you were always saying that the progress of science was the thing and personalities hardly came into it,” I replied faithfully knowing that if his enormous brain became engaged then all else would follow.

  “ I see,” said the great man, as indeed I think it only fit to call him, somewhat calmed by my answer, “It is always gratifying to know that some of the pearls of wisdom I have scattered generously in front of you have managed, somehow despite your journalistic training, to bear fruit. Just what do you know of this case?”

  “ Nothing at all, Lord Roxton and I have barely made it off the docks. I only know that Dr Illingford is in the same sort of pickle you were in, on your first return from South America,” in some other’s presence I would have dared sit, but I still waited for the invitation, “Unlike you, he has not weathered the storm so well, I gather.”

  “ No, indeed not,” said Challenger, puffing out his chest like some strange bird or great ape, “well, don’t just stand there, sit down! What are you waiting for? An invitation?”