– THE LOST WORLD –

Final Correspondence

Chapter III

- The Canary Islands -

"Magnificent," Professor George Challenger mumbled to himself. "Tell me, Mr. Malone, do you know how this majestic archipelago came by its name?" He rested his weight against the bow rail, his eyes fixed on the towering cliffs of Tenerife.

We were rounding the northeastern tip of the island, en route to the port of Santa Cruz. Through no design of my own, I found myself alone with the professor (a predicament I had carefully avoided since leaving London). Now, as we neared our only port of call before crossing the Atlantic, I questioned why I had been intimidated by the man.

My confidence restored, I answered, "Canaries – the colorful little birds?"

Professor Challenger looked down at the naked ocean. "Some fifty million years ago, magma erupted from this seafloor – and so began its two mile climb to the surface." He spoke as if he were witnessing his own words, "billowing, cooling, and erupting again; until this island was born." Challenger pointed to the peak that dominated our skyline. "Mount Teide, as you see it now, Mr. Malone – two miles above sea level and fifty million years in the making – is not done yet. It last erupted only ten years ago."

I stood, silently, waiting for him to finish, but he only stared at the mountain, lost in his own thoughts. Finally, I asked, "And… the origin of the name, Professor?"

"Use your mind, Son!" he hissed, and he seemed genuinely annoyed with me. "The creatures we seek walked this Earth before that mountain was a blemish on the ocean floor. If you're to be of any use to this expedition, you'll need to do better than: Colorful little birds!"

The professor's outburst had undone me. I felt a heat in my gut rising to my eyes – a swell of confusion and anger. Tongue-tied, I watched as he stormed off, tossing me a dismissive hand over his shoulder.

I am not certain when I became aware of her or for how long I stood there – collecting myself; but at some point, my focus settled on Miss Krux. She was sitting in a nearby deckchair, a parasol propped upon her shoulder, a worn novel open on her lap; but her eyes were on me – and had been for some time, I think.

Once sure she had my full attention, she asked, "Have you been following me, Mr. Malone?" – as if she were asking me the time-of-day.

"Pardon?" I asked, my mind still reeling from the professor's assault. I was scarcely ready for this inevitable confrontation.

She swung her legs to the deck and carefully set aside her book and sunshade. "Let me put this in another way, Ned," she almost purred. So swiftly, then, did the lady close the distance between us, that I recoiled in anticipation of a beating. She stopped just inches from my face and continued in an acid whisper, "You don't have the stomach to follow where this might lead."

I suspected she was right, but I refused to be bullied for a second time in as many minutes. "Is there some reason why I should follow you, Miss Krux?" I pressed the question, but I already had too many answers.

She stepped back and adjusted my collar. "Canis, from the Latin, meaning: Dog," she said, gently tracing the lines of my lapel.

I brushed her hands aside, unwilling to swallow another hook. "I'm sorry to rush off, but I'm meeting the doctor for lunch," I feigned apology and stepped past her.

"The Romans called these islands Canaria, Mr. Malone, in honor of the indigenous canines that lived here." I continued to walk away, but she held my pace. "They followed their arrogant noses into something they didn't understand and savage dogs tore loose their jugulars – not colorful little birds!"

You may find this amusing, Mr. McArdle, that this slip of a woman could intimidate a grown man; but Miss Krux has an ineffable way of controlling the people around her. After six days aboard ship with her, I had begun to see my companions as players in her private puppet show – she feeds Challenger's ego like a caged pet – Roxton is bewitched by her femininity – and I am the butt of her every joke. Only Summerlee seems to be immune to her manipulations. My true concern, Sir, is that Miss Krux has intentionally undermined the expedition's confidence in me; to what end, only the lady knows – but she has made it clear that she can have me dismissed on her whim.

My confrontation with Miss Krux had begun four days previous. I am a reporter not only by trade but also by nature. When I had seen Marguerite exiting that compartment at four in the morning; there was no stealth on her step, no shame in her bearing – whatever happened in that room, the woman had been in complete control.

That evening I had found a stairwell just up the hall and I began a watch on the room. My instincts warned me to stay clear of Miss Krux's affairs, but the reporter in me needed to know more. I had only just begun my stakeout, when the lady came down the stairs from behind me. I quickly made up a pretext for my position, but it was clear that Marguerite had seen through my excuse – the gauntlet had been thrown down.

Since that time, I had in fact been following Miss Krux; I had seen her masquerade as Mademoiselle Smith several times, watched her both enter and exit the mysterious first-class compartment, and witnessed her deliberate erosion of my standing with Professor Challenger and Lord Roxton. By my own measure, I had more to lose than to gain in this pursuit – the woman had cast veiled threats of torn jugulars.

By the time I reached the ship's dinning room, I had decided to close my investigation of Miss Krux. My assignment was to report on the Challenger Expedition's hunt for dinosaurs, not the miscreant behavior of one of its members. I had no evidence that her actions were criminal and thereby newsworthy, or that her intentions ran contrary to the mission – although I suspected all three were true; still, I washed my hands of the woman.

The sight of Dr. Summerlee seated at our usual table brought me instant comfort. His warm greeting and unconditional acceptance moved me. I had held my emotions in check in spite of Challenger's abuse and Marguerite's threats, but when faced with Summerlee's kindness, my frustrations spilled out. Within minutes of sitting down, I had recounted my entire morning, from billowing magma to Roman jugulars – and my friend patiently listened.

"He means well," the doctor told me. "Imagine all of your peers inhaling at the same moment, preparing to laugh at you – and all you can do is wait." He took a short sip of his tea and continued, "That's what George is feeling. He doesn't mean to take it out on you."

"Well, he did," I said, and I felt the weight of the morning lifting from my shoulders.

I believe the doctor sensed my closure on the issue, and he changed the subject. "Will you be going ashore?" he asked. "We'll be docking right after lunch."

Before I could answer, he continued. "Dracaena draco, the dragon tree – they say when the tree is cut, it bleeds red." His eyes were beaming with a passion I had not yet seen in the doctor. "The locals call it, dragon's blood; how I would love to get a sample."

"So, this is your sunrise," I said, but Summerlee's imagination was already roaming the hillsides of Tenerife. I recalled the words he had said to me that first morning aboard ship, and I tried to match his enthusiasm, "First, a cup of coffee, and then we'll find your dragon tree!"

"And that will likely be the last we see of you two." Professor Challenger approached our table with his usual charm.

"Really, George," the doctor said, "must you sully everything?"

"Come now, Arthur, I'd expect this from the boy, but you… you know better." The professor took a seat at our table, and his tone changed to one of genuine concern. "There is every manner of charlatan watching these docks, just waiting for a pair of rubes to wander into those alleyways."

"Well, Sir, this rube has been in a port or two!" Summerlee stood. "And as for Mr. Malone: Don't confuse youth with ignorance."

"Oh, but they so often go hand-in-hand, don't they?"

"I've known you for thirty-odd years, George Edward Challenger. I don't know what – or who – has soured you on…

…"Damn it, Man, I didn't come here to argue. Whether I like it or not, I need you on this expedition, Arthur. It's your voice the Zoological Society is waiting to hear." Then the professor turned to me. "And, Son, if I've judged you unfairly, I apologize… I need your pen as well."

"Was that so hard, George?" Summerlee put a hand on each of our shoulders, as if he were a bridge. His infectious smile spread straight to me and caught a corner of the professor's lip as well.

"If you must go ashore, at least stay together," Challenger said, and he left the dining hall.

The doctor retrieved his botany kit and I changed into my hiking boots. Within an hour, we were headed down the first-class departure ramp.

I spotted Marguerite about halfway down the incline. She was on the arm of the same Frenchman I had seen her with several times, and I knew she would be playing the roll of Mademoiselle Smith. So convincing was her transformation – I had actually overheard her speaking broken English with a thick French accent. She was not simply speaking French; her company believed she was French.

I cleared my head of Miss Krux and clapped Summerlee on the back. "Where are we headed first?" I asked, with renewed vigor.

Santa Cruz de Tenerife is one of the grandest ports in the world; the atmosphere is that of a never-ending carnival. I must admit: Challenger's warning was not misplaced; the crowds were rife with pickpockets and con-artists. We kept our wits about us and our hands on our wallets, and by mid-afternoon we had reached the outskirts of town.

The doctor found a dragon tree in no time and he began dissecting a small piece of bark. The tree did truly bleed red. He collected the thick blood-colored resin in a small jar and buried it deep into his daypack. The ship was scheduled to depart on the evening tide, so we set a brisk pace back to the docks and arrived in good time for boarding.

Access to the ocean liner had been blocked. Local policemen were directing the crowds and boarding traffic was being channeled through makeshift checkpoints – passengers were being questioned before boarding the ship.

"Something big has happened," Summerlee said, and he gestured to the nearest checkpoint. "Those men are Scotland Yard – a bit out of their jurisdiction I'll wager."

The sun was sinking behind Mount Teide and the lights nearest the ship were coming to life. One of the Scotland Yard officers was organizing ranks using a bullhorn – the whole scene was taking on a surreal quality.

Summerlee and I filed into one of the first-class lines. As I stood there imagining what this could be about, I saw a motorcar beyond the crowd. There was a curtain of police surrounding it and more officers loading something heavy into the back. I had seen that manner of weight too many times during the War, and my stomach went hot with bile.

A dull ringing filled my ears and my vision tunneled. I was drawn to the auto, knowing what I would see when I got there. Summerlee called after me, but I couldn't make out his words. An officer stepped up to fend me away, but I could see the corpse from where I stood.

I don't know why I had expected to find Miss Krux's body wrapped in that tarp, but the revelation that it was not her, brought me to my senses. I exhaled in relief and the sounds of the docks came rushing back.

Summerlee came up alongside me, "Good Heavens," he said, "that's Monsieur Le Deux… He was sailing with us."

I was so relieved that the body had not been Marguerite's; I hadn't even noticed that the dead man was her traveling companion from earlier that day. A whole new host of concerns flooded my mind, but I set my resolve on getting aboard ship, confident that Miss Krux would find her way safely aboard.

It took better than an hour for the doctor and me to reach a police checkpoint, and we were waved through without question. As we made our way up the boarding ramp, I watched the police with renewed interest – they were only checking the boarding passes of the female passengers.

From my vantage on high, I search the crowds for Miss Krux; but the daylight had faded completely and I was unable to locate her. Once on deck, it would be two more hours before we would get underway. Dr. Summerlee retired to his cabin and I remained behind, scanning the thinning crowd.

"I see you made it back in one piece." Lord Roxton baritone voice surprised me in the darkness. The confident hunter took a place alongside me and looked out over the pier. "Looks like we'll be casting off lines soon enough," he said.

"I haven't seen Miss Krux return yet," I said, my eyes still searching the docks.

"Return? She never left," John said. "A lady, alone... in this port of call? Even Marguerite has limits."

"I'm sure I saw her, just in front of me, as the doctor and I were leaving this afternoon."

"Never happened Neddy-Boy, Miss Krux has been in her stateroom since lunch; I walked her there myself. In fact, I'm on my way to check on her now; the kitchen is serving a late supper for the folks still boarding – care to join us?"

Arguing with Lord Roxton would have served no purpose, so I bid him a good supper and held out hope of spotting Marguerite. I stood watch until the police began removing their barricades and the crews started retracting the boarding ramps. If Miss Krux hadn't gotten on the ship ahead of me, it appeared she would be missing the boat altogether.

I had started down the promenade, toward the stern, with plans of joining Roxton in the dining hall – when I spotted her.

She was moving quickly from a shadowed alley toward the cargo dock. She had timed her run well, and the few policemen that remained never saw her make the dash. As she descended the cargo ramp, I lost sight of her, but I could see that there were still some crewmen loading freight. I had every confidence that the tired longshoremen would be more than happy to rescue the beautiful damsel – and help her aboard.

Mr. McArdle, on your instruction, I am here to report on Challenger's prehistoric findings – not Miss Krux. But I am convinced that these two stories are in fact, one. I have told you, Sir, that destiny has taken a hand in this venture. Marguerite could have no more missed that ship, than I could have stopped myself from racing to the cargo hold to intercept her. Although for days to come, I would not understand the implications of what happened next; the encounter would have repercussions as far away as Shanghai.

I had descended two decks when I heard Marguerite's voice echoing up the stairs from below me. For the first time in my presence, her speech was edged with fear. "You don't know what you're talking about, Callum."

"Return what you have stolen, Miss Smith, and no one else will get hurt," a man's voice carried up the stairs – very calm and in complete control.

I could see Marguerite backing up the stairs now and I saw a man calmly walking towards her. She turned to run up the stairs, and he bolted after her. As she reached the landing, she ran straight into me.

"Ned," she squealed, and I do believe that it was the first time the woman was happy to see me. She gripped my arm tight and slid just a bit behind me.

The man she had called Callum stopped at the top of the stairs; it was then that I realized he was soaked to the skin with seawater. I played the best card in my hand, saying, "Perhaps we should take this up with the captain – see what his position is on stowaways?"

To my compete surprise, Callum answered, "My thinking as well. Miss Smith, shall we go see the authorities?"

Marguerite seemed to have gained a little of her poise back, and she said to me, "We're not hall monitors, Ned. We don't even know this gentleman."

I was staggered by the turn of events. Here I stood again, odd-man-out in Marguerite's game of lies. I turned to leave and said, "I'll just leave you two down here to sort this out."

I couldn't get more than an inch away from Miss Krux; she was clinging to my arm, refusing to turn her back on this man. We backed down the hall a bit and Callum held his position.

"It amazes me, Miss Smith, the number of men who are willing to die for you," he said, in that same composed tone. "You have until Macapá." And then he jumped over the banister, down to the metal gangway below. I rushed to the rail and looked over – but the man was gone from sight.

I heard the steam whistles blast, and the Francisca lurched forward; the powerful little tugboats were pulling us out to sea.

~ . ~

Next Chapter: Atlantic Crossing