Chapter 114: The Lost World (1/2)
Miranda Bingle’s Field Journal.
We searched the camp first, and then around it with no result. Herr Mueller was gone. Mr. Sheridan kneeled by the empty bedroll and announced that the Prussian researcher had left on his own accord. When prompted by a dubious Mr Champignac, he explained his reasoning.
There were no signs of struggle, and the man had taken his glasses and his hat, but had he left his pack behind. His bedroll had been closed properly. Additionally, one of the helpers, who had been on guard, had noticed nothing suspicious.
Herr Mueller had snuck out during the night. This was the only reasonable explanation.
The well-structured argument convinced us all. I was suitably impressed by the Texan’s deductions. I never expected that his law-enforcement background would be so useful in the middle of the forest, and I found myself sincerely hoping that we would have no further need for it.
Mr Champignac grudgingly admitted that the American’s arguments made sense. The burgeoning rivalry between them gave me a feeling of unease as this expedition met difficulty after difficulty.
Mr Sheridan inspected the vicinity of the camp with the focus and single-mindedness of a bloodhound. He found no trace of steps outside of the clearing, which led us to only two options. Either Herr Mueller had strolled back to the base camp during the middle of the night, or he had climbed up towards the base of the cliff.
It was decided that we would climb as well. The elevation would provide us with a commanding view of the valley below. We packed up and left with six of the helpers, leaving two in the second camp. Those who had carried Mr Stefano’s body back to the ship had not yet returned.
The ascent proved extremely difficult, loaded as we were. I stubbornly gritted my teeth and endured the difficulty with all the phlegm and grace expected of a well-bred Englishwoman. I would not allow a complaint to cross my lips, the upper one staying resolutely stiff. I carried within myself the hopes and dreams of all the proper ladies whose ambitions were thwarted by ridiculous notions on the fairer sex. Every step forward (and upward) was a clear victory, and a proof that I was a fully capable member of this expedition. The fire of my determination could not be quenched!
The cliffs started a dull grey, but soon they turned the stained white of old bones as the sun of the Cretan Sea illuminated their pallid flanks. The slope was gentle, but the terrain was quite irregular, and we were forced to amble back a few times. Our progress was slow and measured, and somehow monotonous, until a cry from Mr Champignac awoke our curiosity.
He pointed at something red, and for a moment the sight of Mr Stefano falling to his gruesome fate conjured images of blood. I soon had to chide my overeager imagination. The radiant crimson came from a piece of fabric left hanging on a promontory.
Professor Ferguson exclaimed that he recognized Herr Mueller’s scarf and I remembered that the poor scholar had used it abundantly over the past few days. We were on the right track. And yet, I could not quite dispel the sense of dread that this curious omen brought to my mind. On the first day, one of us had lost his life, and now on the second day another one had lost his mind? What could have prompted the timid researcher to dare such a hazardous climb in the dead of night? What curious mania had dominated his psyche?
The mystery only thickened.
Eventually, we reached the promontory and turned around. We were rewarded with a view like no other.
Behind us, and to our left and right, the cliffs reached out towards the azure sky and its distant clouds. There were gaps between the colossal slabs that separated them in five separate mounts grasping the heavens, and below came a rich and fertile plain bursting with nature green and fecund. It was like being in the palm of god as he bestowed life upon the world, and the sea expanded into the distance to the horizon.
The strong emotion I felt could explain the embarrassing moment that followed. As we were staring with awe at this primeval wonder, I leaned back against the wall and my hand found a pole. I turned around with surprise and ended up face to face with a grinning, yellowed skull.
I admit to letting out a horrified shriek. Perhaps I scrambled back most disgracefully on my behind. Oh, the shame, but could I really be blamed for my natural reaction when facing such a grisly trophy?
The rest of the team gathered in surprise and Mr. Champignac did his best to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. Only when I realized that the skull was quite old did I finally calm down. Indeed, its brittle and faded color could only prove that it belonged more in an anatomy class than at a funeral. The morbid spectacle still cast yet another dampener on our mood.
We had found yet one more proof of the existence of local inhabitants, and their choice of welcome did not bode well for Herr Mueller’s, or indeed our continued well-being.
The mortal remains stood on a pole adorned with skulls and bright feathers at the edge of a natural, man-sized cavern entrance. The gap had been hidden during the climb behind the promontory we were now standing on.
For the first time, my apprehension turned to genuine fear at the thought of entering into the bowels of the earth after seeing such an ominous warning.
Both Mr Ferguson and Champignac agreed that it was a safe bet that Herr Mueller had entered the cave, on account of the scarf. I was less certain, but even I had to agree that there was no obvious path but down.
Mr Sheridan then proved to be the voice of reason. He extolled the dangers of blind explorations, and the risk that we were running for everyone. He mentioned the possibility that the local inhabitants were hostile and that we should return prepared and armed.
Mr Champignac scoffed and questioned the validity of such claims. He argued that the locals had to be savages, and that savages would naturally fear the white man, doubly so if the Texan would but unholster one of his firearms and give them ‘what for’. Finally, he questioned the honor and morality of leaving the Prussian to his fate without knowing what had occurred to him.
Fergusson half-heartedly sided with the Frenchman. He, too, would not leave one of our companions to a cruel fate. I believed that the Texan had grown so jaded to the loss of life that he had no qualms sacrificing the one to save the many. I understood his position as the one responsible for our safety, but we could not give up without a gallant attempt!
To my surprise and to his credit, Mr Sheridan asked me my opinion! I was so taken off-guard by the unusual question that I became flustered. No one asked me for my thoughts, not least when there were two eminent Professors who had already spoken their mind!
“I... I think that if we leave now without looking for Herr Mueller, I will never forgive myself,” I stammered.
The whole conversation made me feel terrible. Here was Mr Sheridan, who had been nothing but polite and helpful for the entire trip, and I was forced to side with the brazen Frenchman instead. How I hated my decision as soon as I had taken it. How foolish we were, jumping into unknown danger with more courage than sense and more temerity than courage!
“Very well then, let’s go.”
“Indeed, let’s go!” Mr Champignac stammered with barely contained outrage. To have one’s opinion overlooked in favor of that of a young woman! His anger was understandable, and so he took the lead with great strides which stopped about twenty feet into the open tunnel when he realized that visibility had fallen drastically.
Meanwhile, the veteran ranger had removed a piece of wood and some fabric from various pockets, and he was using twine to bind them together. He emptied a flask of oil on the newly made torch, lit it, and handed it to the flustered Frenchman without a word.
I do not believe that I had ever witnessed so much condescension without a word being uttered.
With Mr Champignac in front and the helpers closing the procession with another torch, we descended into the darkness.
The mountain closed in around us.
Soon, the sounds of the forest disappeared until only our breaths broke the silence, and the scent of sap and soil was replaced by that of damp rock. I felt that the walls were growing more narrow and that I would soon have to bend my head. The flame of the torch bobbed hypnotically in the distance and, when it disappeared around a bend, darkness returned.
Time grew surprisingly hard to judge in that underworld, and yet it could not have been too long before we came across a juncture in the tunnel and the room beyond.
We entered a cave of respectable size and all stopped, made mute by the curious sight of bioluminescent mushrooms stuck to the ceiling in a spiral pattern. Professor Fergusson remarked that this was a natural treasure, however, Mr Sheridan showed the keen insight of his peasant roots by pointing out the stuck earth out of which the growth emerged, and which had been placed there on purpose. We had found evidence of artistic creation in the local people, and by clever use of horticulture!
It was at this moment that we heard the chant for the first time.
It started low, and we could only hear it after shushing each other to silence. It went up in a ‘o’ sound, then back down again in another. It was repeated slowly and ponderously by many throats. I would have taken back my choice to investigate the tunnel then, if I had had the courage.
Mr Fegusson determined that the noise came from a tunnel that went left. Mr. Champignac marked the tunnel we had come from with a piece of charcoal in case we got lost, and we continued towards the source of this strange invocation. To my surprise, it sounded like Herr Mueller’s first name, Otto, repeated ad nauseam by a strange chorus. The intensity only grew as we moved further into the depths of the world. After only a minute or so, I was able to spot an orange light growing in the distance.
We passed ancient bronze braziers burning scented herbs to emerge into a tomb. Despite our terrible circumstances, I could not help but feel genuine excitement at the sight of a finding that I had only read about in books. Me, Miranda Bingle, uncovering lost tombs! Alas, my joy was short-lived, for we were not alone.