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by Campbell, J R

  Yet I never really anticipated that any dramatic changes would take place inside me, and thus did I learn the hard way that a man may be as great a riddle to himself as a dinosaur-infested elevated region of the jungle, a riddle harder of solution in fact, for it is very difficult to obtain an objective view from the inner side of a mystery. I surprised myself and this surprise was keener than the acute astonishment of sighting my first pterodactyl.

  I want you to suppose for yourselves, dear readers, that years have passed since the two adventures mentioned above. The four diverse participants in the drama are still active and healthy, though Summerlee has indeed slowed down a little. We see each other infrequently, for we have our own business to attend to, but on rare occasions we meet to reminisce over the past and to speculate on the future. Roxton is generally away on safari; Challenger himself is often obliged to travel the globe giving lectures to his peers.

  As for myself, despite my renown, I am still a working journalist. At the behest of my editors at the Daily Gazette I roam and investigate potential stories for the edification of the public. My most recent mission had been to journey to the island of Corsica to report on the tradition of the vendetta. Although banned by the authorities, the custom had not abated in the slightest. Men duelled to the death with daggers and pistols over tiny insults.

  Mr McArdle, the editor who commissioned the piece, said simply, “It’s in the blood of those people. They are isolated, passionate, archaic; and their land was never brought into the rule of law. The rule of honour persists there. It’s the same in other remote realms where governments struggle or fail to exercise any control, the Caucasus, Afghanistan, Albania.”

  “If you already know the reasons for the duelling mania, why send me to find out what motivates it?” I demanded. He shook his head. “Because it might be that I’m wrong, that some other force or influence is at the base of it. A long shot but worth a try, Malone, my lad. And talking about long shots, I read that your friend Roxton has ordered a new rifle from his gunsmith that has a barrel eight feet in length. I surmise that he plans to hunt dinosaurs from a safe distance.”

  I laughed. “Roxton’s the kind of fellow who would be happy to face any kind of saurian you care to name with just a revolver. I wonder if he has some of that Corsican blood in him? Probably not.”

  McArdle lifted up a newspaper. “I read about it in the rag of one of our rivals, the same disreputable sheet that claims that Challenger is going to get a public statue of himself while he is still alive.”

  And he fanned me with it, but the flame of my curiosity was already high, so I snatched the paper off him and scanned it for the text in question. I found a short piece about how the Professor had been measured by a sculptor and had even posed for the necessary photographs. This was both like and unlike him, for I knew he welcomed the attention but I was amazed that he had agreed to be pestered by a mere artisan. I clucked my tongue.

  “Well, well, well,” I said.

  “The finished statue,” added McArdle, “will adorn the one empty plinth in Trafalgar Square. Imagine that!”

  “Do you know who the sculptor is?” I frowned.

  “Rodin Guignol,” he answered.

  “Yes, but do you really know who the fellow is?” McArdle stroked his chin. “No, laddie, I don’t; but I dare say he must be a true master at his art or he would never have been chosen for so prestigious an assignment. Now then, Mr Malone, before we get too distracted, I have booked you passage on the first ship due to sail to France tomorrow morning. You will arrive in Calais and catch the train to Marseilles. There you will book passage to Corsica. I want you there and back in one week.”

  I nodded. “I will be sure to bring you back some local specialities. Most of these islands produce a fiery brandy.” “Maybe that’s the solution to the puzzle,” McArdle said. “Some herb or other ingredient in the indigenous brews that makes the people so prone to the jabbing of blades and discharge of firearms?”

  “I will ensure that I leave no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored, no foodstuff or beverage untasted, in my quest.” He laughed and his kindly Scotch face creased into more wrinkles than the creases in the shirt I had worn in South America after weeks of voyaging, but his visage was a less comfortable fit on his skull than my shirt had been on my back. For all that, I had affection for McArdle and his peculiar ugliness was a matter of no real importance whatsoever.

  The following day, I caught the ship I was supposed to catch; I ended up in Corsica; I had some minor adventures there; I returned to London; and when I returned I was startled to learn that the statue of Professor Challenger already had been erected and unveiled in my absence.

  *** I crave a life with roughly equal portions of excitement and tranquility. In this, I am no different to any healthy man of my age. I have the attitudes and behaviours of my time, attitudes that probably will be scorned one hundred years hence. But what can any of us do about this? In the society I dwell in, certain things are taken for granted that might feasibly be questioned by our descendants. One of these assumptions is the inferiority of other races of mankind. Allow me to explain.

  Although the English had long expressed admiration and even some envy for the Corsicans, for their courage and vitality and spirit, we still believed that our way of doing things was better. We were civilised, sophisticated, refined. It is true that we applauded the purity of their primitive spirit, but the stress is on the word ‘primitive’. We had outgrown such things as fighting to the death over the love of a woman. The Corsicans to us were like characters in a melodrama, a race of entertaining and quaint fellows only.

  I must admit that I took my prejudices with me when I travelled there and I must be equally frank in confessing that these biases did not change during my stay. I looked for what I expected to find. I witnessed a duel at dawn between two men with long knives. The clash of steel on steel, the long yellow sparks that almost dripped off the blades as they scraped against each other, the grunts of the combatants during the hard work of the battle: these were picturesque and even sombrely charming to my eyes and ears.

  Afterwards, I joined the victor in celebrating his achievement with a glass of local brandy. He was not overly triumphant; he did not exult in his bravery or success. Indeed he was rather glum throughout the toast. Later I learned from a comrade of his that now he had beaten his rival, the real test of his character had only just begun. The end of the duel was not at all the end of the affair. Indeed it had instigated a vendetta that might last for several generations. The friends and family of the loser would seek their revenge.

  And if they obtained it, by killing the fellow before me, then his friends and family would also seek revenge on his assassins, and the process would go on and on, perhaps until no one was left at all in either clan. Vendettas took on an irrepressible life of their own, I discovered. A sad condition really, but one difficult to resist, because the people were proud.

  I therefore felt actually mildly subdued when I returned to London. The statue of Professor Challenger was the talk of the town. I went to take a look at it and hilarity welled up inside me. It was exactly as I had pictured it to myself all those years ago, at the very start of the dinosaur adventure. His stone beard bristled; his chest was expanded, an arm was thrust in the style of Napoleon into his jacket and then I thought how ironic this was, bearing in mind that Corsica was the birthplace of that remarkable general.

  Ironic to me, but not to McArdle or anyone else. My editor was dismayed at my failure to identify a reason for the murderous hot-blood of those islanders, for he had come to expect tremendous things from me. I shrugged and he sighed and then he winked. “Don’t worry, Malone, we can still make a story out of it, a tale dramatic enough to please our readers.”

  I handed him my notebook and he flicked through it.

  Then an idea occurred to me.

  “Why don’t I,” I began tentatively, “interview this sculptor who has done such a magnificent job with Challenger?
” McArdle looked up from his reading. “Capital idea, laddie! I don’t think that Mr Rodin Guignol has been interviewed by any other paper. He’s a difficult man to get access to, by all accounts, but if anyone can do it, then you can! Try to arrange a meeting with him before the end of this week and good luck in the attempt! His surliness is almost legendary.”

  I smirked, since my success at interviewing Challenger, I had gained a reputation as a man capable of walking into any lion’s den and emerging with a head still on my shoulders. But Rodin Guignol was not rumoured to be violent or even aggressive, as Challenger so evidently was, but simply taciturn, grumpy and unhelpful, the sort of man who would curl his lower lip as his answer to any question and flare his nostrils contemptuously.

  I made the appropriate enquiries and discovered where Mr Guignol was presently located. Then I went home and after a simple but satisfying meal and a few chapters of a good book, I went to bed.

  I sleep without any difficulties whatsoever. I have never known insomnia or the irritations of excessive tossing and turning. I am lucky in this respect and even when threatened by prehistoric monsters in the vicinity of our camp, I had no problems in drifting off into the deepest slumbers. But on this occasion, no sleep came to me. My mind began working without my permission; indeed the thoughts I had were insubordinate, refusing my command to be silent. And as the hours passed, they became more intolerable.

  I would prefer to gloss over the exact content of these thoughts, for I have always been a man who knows the value of discretion. I know that some of my readers are female and I do not wish to embarrass them. But for the sake of the truth, I must be candid here. My thoughts were vengeful, bloody, savage ones, and they were directed at someone from my past.

  Those of you who read my account of our expedition to South America will know that the original reason I embarked on such a perilous mission was in an attempt to impress a woman. Gladys Hungerton. It was for her and her alone that I risked my life among dinosaurs, ape men and all the discomforts of wild nature. I had asked for her hand in marriage but she had declined to give it, for the reason that she wanted to wed a hero.

  Yes, only a hero was good enough for her! So I resolved to be that hero. I joined the expedition of the irascible and mighty Professor and when I returned in triumph to claim my bride, I learned a truth that a multitude of men before and since have also learned, namely that a woman can be treacherous, a deceiver and cruel player of games with the hearts of their lovers. Thus was Gladys, my Gladys.

  She had already married another man during my absence! Failing to keep her word, she had compounded the insult by marrying a lowly clerk, a man who had nothing heroic about him at all, who was not even an aviator. I left her with the feeling that my stomach was a whirlpool of pain and despair, but I took no action against her. I made no scene, kicked up no fuss. I was the perfect English gentlemen, despite the fact I am actually Irish.

  And so I had attempted to put her out of my mind. I had succeeded at this to a great extent; and now, years later, there was no pain at all, and had been no pain for a long time. I had forgotten all about Gladys, which is precisely why I was now so shocked by my thoughts as I lay awake in bed. Clenching my teeth as the fat and oily beads of sweat rolled over my brow and onto the disordered sheets, I barely contained a howl of utter fury.

  I wanted revenge on her. Revenge on that faithless woman!

  *** How I finally managed to drift off into sleep is unknown to me. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion that rescued me from the awfulness of that bitter insomnia. I awoke at a later hour that I was accustomed to; and leaping out of bed, I washed quickly and ate a small breakfast before leaving the house. Despite my fame, I was not permitted to shirk my work duties. Any slacking in my efficiency might easily result in McArdle giving me the boot.

  I made my way to the house where Mr Guignol lived. It was a large but unobtrusive residence in a fairly unfashionable part of the city, set well back from the road and concealed by broad trees that were obviously many centuries old. I opened the creaking gate and crunched my way up a path strewn with fallen leaves. This in itself was odd, for the season was spring, not autumn. I approached the front door and rang the bell.

  The door opened at length and a tall and very thin man with a long chin and deep set eyes that sparkled stood there. I knew at once that he was Rodin Guignol and none other. He had about him the unmistakable air of the lowlife bohemian who has made good. Despite his obvious wealth, there was still much of the absinthe drinker and groper of women on trams in the way he leered out at me, his full lips curling in a smile.

  But this was not a smile of greeting, the courteous facial parabola we use to put others at their ease. By no means! It was the smile of a malignant dummy eager to cause as much chaos in the tailor’s shop as possible, to employ a rather clumsy metaphor. It was the grin of a devil doll.

  I am Ed Malone and I have looked a dinosaur in the eye. I have stood and gazed out on a world in which I thought every man, woman and child was dead. I have even been exposed to the wrath of Professor Challenger himself. But few times in my life had I ever been unnerved as when exposed to that scimitar grin, that lunatic curve on the mouth of Mr Guignol.

  My plan was to speak in a tone of confidence and authority. I opened my mouth and as I did so, the grin of the sculptor became even stranger; and so the speech in my throat died. Yet I was obliged to say something. In a voice far too squeaky to belong to that of a grown man, I said:

  “Your trees appear to be shedding their leaves early.”

  “Oh yes? Do they?” he chortled.

  “Yes indeed. You may see for yourself if you wish.” “I wish, for certain, I do!” He slipped past me, as thin and greasy at a buttery crescent moon, and in the garden he stooped to pick up some of the leaves and press them between the palms of his hands, where they made what should have been a satisfying but in fact was a deeply disturbing percussive sound.

  “Well, they aren’t real leaves and the trees aren’t real either. The trees are statues. But my statues are never simple, oh no! I am Rodin Guignol and when I make a statue, that statue is capable of life!”

  “You are mad, sir!” I blurted, as I blinked at him. “ Am I? Oh ho, indeed so, or mayhap I am only extremely clever. There’s a more pressing concern at this instant, which is that you are trespassing on my property and I wish you to be gone! And so!”

  He clicked his fingers and down the long hallway that stretched into the house, an ominous rumbling and growling grew louder. I realised at once that a large grey dog was rushing along that darkened conduit towards me and that its intent was not beneficial to my health. Summoned by its horrid master it plainly hoped to sink its teeth into softer parts of my anatomy, possibly with results that would be maiming or even fatal. I was still standing on the very threshold of the door, but I quickly turned and began running.

  The despicable Mr Guignol actually chuckled as I fled.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho! See how much of a fig I care for intruders on my privacy! It is less than one molecule of that fruit!” I did not remonstrate with him on his peculiar use of that quaint metaphor because to do so would have entailed pausing; and the creature that pursued me was already snapping at my heels. I reached the gate and shut it behind me with no delicacy at all. The dog leaped onto the wall and crouched there with gaping jaws. But now something incredible happened.

  Instead of jumping down to continue the chase on the pavement, it froze rigid. Its eyes glazed over and the light of life died within them until there was none left. I was staring up at a statue, the brilliantly realised statue of a massive and imposing hound. So obviously was it made of stone that I even reached out to touch it, my fingers feeling the rough surface.

  “ Yes, it is a statue, a statue animated by my genius!” came the mocking words of Rodin Guignol. “For I, alone among all the artists in this world, a planet which I also think may be nothing more than a gigantic animated statue, has the gift be given to create simulacra that are ab
solutely lifelike. That move, breathe and mimic sentient purpose to so precise a degree that it is impossible to distinguish them from the originals!”

  I was panting heavily but my tone was icy as I replied, “I bid you good day, sir, and wish never to encounter you again.”

  Rodin Guignol bowed sardonically and waved me away.

  And I went, furious and humiliated. But my rage and bitterness at this incident soon transformed itself into the anger and malevolence of the night before. In other words, the arrogant sculptor was no longer the main target of my resentment. I did not see his insane face in my mind’s eye but the face of another, the fact of Gladys Hungerton; and it was on her that my hatred was exclusively focussed.

  I have neglected to mention that on my trip to Corsica I had bought some presents for Professor Challenger. If I was now writing a piece of fiction, a short story perhaps, a diligent editor would undoubtedly insist that I rewrite an earlier paragraph to incorporate this information at a more appropriate point. It might otherwise appear to be a contrivance, a convenient device in order to move the plot along in a particular direction; but this account is not fiction, it is a factual report of what actually happened to me.

  Therefore there is no reason why the presents should not be alluded to for the first time now. And that is what I have done. It was a small box of throwing knives, three of them in total, all different sizes. They were beautiful weapons, a true product of the craftsman’s art, with smooth rosewood handles and blades of tempered steel that gleamed coldly silver.

  I had planned, after interviewing Mr Guignol, to go to the post office and send them to the Professor’s house in Rotherfield as a parcel. He would, I felt sure, have appreciated the gesture in his heart of hearts, even had his gruff and grumpy exterior remained unimpressed. The box in its wrapping paper was in the inside pocket of my coat and I felt it bump against my heart as I strode down the pavement in one of my foulest ever moods.