A New Beginning

by santa crux

Completed. The first few days on the plateau from Summerlee's perspective. What must it have been like for a man used to 'looking at life under a microscope instead of living it in the real world?

A New Beginning

Setting: This story takes place during The Journey Begins and Stranded

Disclaimers: The characters are not my property.

He had the old dream again last night. The dream that had a thousand beginnings but always the same end. This time he was sketching, sitting on a folding chair in the Botanical gardens. In London. Rain slashed at the glass of the atrium. It was moist and warm inside, a tropical climate for exotic flowers. He mixed paints, the crimson with cadmium white, creating a palette of pinks. His plein-air painting on the easel. The clatter of the rain muffled the sounds of the other people. He was alone with his flowers, at peace. But there it was again, the voice. It did what it did every time, simply called his name, quietly, from far away. And like every other time, he rose as if he were beckoned. Like every other time he could not move toward the voice. Once more there was the glass wall before him. He slid his fingertips along its smooth surface. His hands dropped heavily to his sides. There was only one way to make it stop. He turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the marble, the voice fading with each step.

Arthur Summerlee was jolted awake by a strong sense of dread. Disoriented, he peered around the unfamiliar room. Then came the realization that he was in a tree-house high above the savage environment Challenger had dubbed the Lost World. His panic settled into a milder feeling of malaise. It must have been a nightmare, he supposed. It seemed
unfair when his days were filled with the very real possibility of being devoured by a prehistoric beast, that his nights were not times of refuge but only the source of greater terror.

Realizing that returning to sleep would be fruitless; he sat up in bed, ran his hand over his balding dome then reached for his glasses on the night-table. Perhaps, he would gain a sense of composure if he reviewed his notes on the wondrous varieties of plant-life he had catalogued in the last few days. He longed to be able to sketch and paint some field studies of the unique flora, but their time on the plateau was drawing to a close.
And though the botanist in him regretted the lost opportunity, as a man, he was more desperate to leave than he dare admit.

He settled into a wooden chair by the desk to examine a delicate, blood-red pitcher plant, a member of the heliamphora family, a genus never before identified. He supposed there would be a number of plants whose Latin name would include Summerleensis in honour of their discoverer. That is, if he or the plants ever found their way back to civilization. He harkened back to his fateful words that night two months ago when he had been railroaded into accompanying this expedition. There had been few days since then that he had not regretted his decision. It was bad enough that he had been rooted out of his home and studies by that outrageous crackpot, George Challenger, but to have the man's lunacy proven to be fact was hard to swallow. Since he had joined this expedition everything in his life had changed and he had an eerie sureness that it would never be the same again.

Later that day, the professor leaned over the cane railing of the balloon as it drifted over the varied landscape of the plateau. The entire region appeared to be covered by a kind of thin mist or low-lying cloud; weather patterns perhaps caused by the altitude of the plateau. He had not gone on the excursion earlier that day, but had asked if he could accompany Challenger on this flight. The dutiful botanist had conjectured that a bird's eye view of the vegetation might give him some answers as to why this land had developed as it had. It was so peaceful from above, the silence, the distance, gave one a sense of being apart. So different from standing on the ground where the sounds were so wild, the colours so exotic, the smells of growth and decay so strong they were almost palpable. He was recalled from his reverie by the sound of Challenger's demanding voice ordering Mr. Malone to lower the balloon so he could more closely view a grazing herd of brontosaurs.

Summerlee found that his long-time adversary had become even more bombastic after having his often-ridiculed theories confirmed. The man was so smug, constantly crowing about his expedition, his discoveries, his success. Summerlee would be glad to be able to add a little common sense and conventional science to the wild stories that this so-called visionary would be spreading to all who would listen.

As they dropped closer to the grazing creatures more correctly called apatosauri, an occasionally swaying head gazed without curiosity at the hovering balloon. "Closer, man, closer." urged Challenger. "I need to observe their respiration rate." Malone, an experienced balloonist, balked at the command. "I'm not sure that's a wise idea, professor. These aren't the smartest creatures in the world. They might mistake us for a tree" "Just do it", snapped Challenger. As they dropped closer to the ground, Malone's sharp reporter's eye noticed movement in the bushes at the edge of the clearing. As he gestured toward it, the zoologist fixed his binoculars on the area.

There was a group of twenty or so small carnivorous dinosaurs milling restlessly, all clearly absorbed with the oblivious brontosaurs. "Great Scott, Summerlee, these creatures are unlike any recorded dinosaur I've seen. There's been nothing to indicate the presence of such a reptile –not a fossil, not even a hypothesis. Look, man" As he spoke these words, he thrust the binoculars towards his fellow scientist. Summerlee removed his glasses and adjusted the binoculars until the creatures were in clear focus. There were a great number of them, about six feet high at the shoulder, thin but well-muscled. "Some kind of spinosaurid, I imagine" he speculated. Challenger reached out to retrieve the glasses as he replied, "Yes, yes, of course, that's obvious. A therapod, but never identified. We shall name it, Summerlee. What do you recommend?" His intellectual rival fumed; it was clear Challenger was angling to have the creature named after him.

"I think that Irritator Challengeri would be entirely appropriate." He threw out, glaring at his rival over the top of his spectacles. Challenger's blue eyes narrowed, his scientific Latin quite sufficient to understand the implied insult. He turned to further study the scene below, his back a rebuff to his colleague.

As they observed the gathering meat-eaters, Summerlee noticed a young brontosaur become somewhat separated from the rest. Instantly the pack of predators closed upon it, attacking in the space of seconds. In waves of snapping teeth, they savaged the legs and underbelly of the much larger prey. A loud bellow escaped the beleaguered beast as it swung its head from side to side in obvious suffering. The other leaf-eaters made no reaction, continuing to graze as if there were no life-and-death drama unfolding in their midst. In its awkward attempt to rid itself of its tormentors, the bleeding creature stepped backwards into the pack. A higher scream could be heard as at least three attackers were crushed underfoot. The beast stood there, still alive, its long neck drooping as it was being devoured by the frenzied horde. Sickened, Summerlee turned from the sight. With one hand clutched at his chest, he tried to catch his breath and calm himself. He vowed that he would move heaven and earth to force a return to England and out of this nightmare realm. The tableau below them grew more distant as the wind pushed the balloon down the valley. For once, even Challenger had no argument as they drifted out of sight of the carnage behind them and there was blessed silence.

A few hours later, the three men trudged down the path towards the tree-house. Malone had piloted the balloon as near to their encampment as possible, then emptied the bag of air and pegged down the basket. He and Roxton would return later to bring it back to the clearing. Burdened with the camera, the photographic plates and a pack bulging with samples, the reporter laboured behind the other two. Bearing a rifle and a much lighter pack, the vain visionary led the way. Behind him, Arthur Summerlee summoned up his courage to speak. "Challenger, we really must return to London as soon as possible. The discoveries we've made must be shared with the world. We have ample evidence to sway even your most single-minded critics. You've used up all the photographic plates. I have more samples than I can carry. It's time to go home." Their pace slowed as Challenger glanced behind him, trying to gauge his colleague's determination. "But, Arthur, there is so much yet to see. Today, a previously undiscovered dinosaur; tomorrow, who knows what we might find. Besides, I haven't any definitive proof of the existence of these creatures." "You have my word as a scholar to support you." Summerlee replied indignantly, mystified at the other's single-mindedness. Challenger replied with an ironic grin, "Yes, that alone will amaze our fellow scientists. But I must have my proof." The botanist became desperate, "But George, the danger. Roxton has already encountered a T. rex and what we saw today was … horrific." Challenger slowed even more, pondering, clearly affected himself by what they had seen. "I'll consider it, Arthur. You are correct that we shouldn't linger here much longer" He turned back to the trail and picked up the pace. Summerlee sighed seeing that he would have to be satisfied with this vague promise. It was a beginning, he thought, a first step to going home.

After dinner that evening, the leader of the expedition called a meeting. He announced that their departure was imminent. Summerlee's heart soared at the words. While he eagerly supported the plan, Miss Krux was obviously much less pleased by the idea, voicing several objections. Then, Miss Veronica and her friend from the Zanga tribe revealed the possibility of a route out of 'The Lost World' to the real world below. The professor was ecstatic over the possibility, scarcely pausing to comment on Miss Krux's amazing ability to speak the language of the natives. She really was a most unusual woman, obviously intelligent and well-educated, her scientific knowledge greater than any woman he had met personally. But where had she learned to use firearms with such skill and where had she been raised that would allow such brazen behaviour? Wearing only a camisole in the company of men, including the native bearers; it was unthinkable in his circle. The well-raised gentleman tried not to even think of it, that and her acerbic sense of humour. At least, unlike the others, he was rarely the object of her sarcasm and he was silently thankful for that.

Plans were made for Miss Krux, himself and Malone to accompany the native girl, Assai, to her village to bargain with her father. Challenger seemed to have some plan afoot to acquire the evidence needed to convince the doubters in the Society, judging by his smug expression laced with an undercurrent of excitement. Summerlee was excited too; sleep was hard to come by. He finally fell into a restless slumber, his rest broken by the sound of screams and the empty eyes of a dying beast.

Sumerlee pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his knickers to mop his brow. The trek to the Zanga village had been uneventful so far, much to the professor's relief. Drained from the vigorous hike in this humid climate and another poor night's sleep, he hoped their destination was near. He had awakened early again this morning, weary yet jumpy with unease. Would he ever feel his normal self again or would his dreams forever onwards be haunted? His last nightmare before awakening still affected him.

He was in his lab at home, looking into the microscope, sketching the plant cells he saw. Then suddenly, the slide was blood-red, blood dripping over the slide onto his laboratory table, blood glistening on the white table top. He rescued his journal, but saw that he had been sketching an eye, an empty eye, black and dumb with unexpressed anguish. He fumbled away from the table, knocking the microscope over in his haste. It twirled in slow motion to the floor, the lens shattering silently, shards of glass exploding lazily outward. In the distance he could hear a voice, a familiar voice, calling his name, Arthur, over and over more faintly each time as he stood among the ruins of his microscope on the blood-red floor. He had awakened with a start, his heart hammering as if he were being pursued. Even now, as he walked along the treacherous path overgrown with creepers, he felt the familiar oppressive weight on his chest constricting his breathing. Was it the exertion of their trek or was it still the horror of the remembered dream?

The Zanga village reflected his despondent mood, row after row of sharpened sticks pointed outwards, fending off outsiders, protecting the people within from the dangers around them. He felt as if a hundred wary eyes watched him, hostile arms gripped weapons, tribal minds judged him, a stranger who did not belong in this wild land. Their party entered the compound, outnumbered and out-armed, totally dependent on Assai's protection. The bearded scientist felt his heart sink as the warriors stood on guard before their chief, bristling with weapons and decked out in the finery of civilizations past - jewels, armour from the conquistador invasions, feathers and teeth from the birds and beasts of the land around them. If their purpose was intimidation, they were successful. Summerlee blurted out in amazement "Good God, people have been coming here for centuries"

The tribal leader was clearly angry, railing at his daughter in their own language, raising his arm menacingly. Though his words were unintelligible, the threat was clear. Suddenly, Miss Krux stepped forward, boldly pushing past her fellow travellers, past Assai, past the guards until she was directly before the chieftain. Pinning him with her steady gaze, she began to reason with him in his own language, her tone calm and compelling, her body language confident yet womanly. To follow the conversation without the advantage of understanding its meaning filled him with admiration for Miss Krux's skills as a negotiator. Just as his fears subsided, they leapt up again as the dark-haired woman followed the chief into his dwelling. A woman alone with a savage; it was dangerous, unheard-of! He shared his fears with Mr Malone, who merely shrugged and replied "Relax doctor, she's the toughest one of our group." The botanist stared at him, befuddled by the notion. Miss Krux? She was so slim and delicate; she was a woman of society - whatever did the young American mean? Everyone, villagers and expedition members, settled in to wait as the chief and the heiress completed their negotiations.

"You should have seen her, Challenger. She was marvellous." The professor's words tumbled over themselves in his joyful haste to spill them out. "I mean, old boy, she took on that chief, bristling with spears and raptor teeth and convinced him, in his own language no less, to lead us through the caves to our world."

The red-haired scientist shook his head in admiring amazement at Miss Krux's success. "She really is quite something, that woman. She is nothing like I expected, I must admit. Come along to the lab, Summerlee. I must show you the evidence that will prove my case. One glimpse at my egg will show those doubters what fools they are." Nudging Summerlee with a bony elbow, he preceded him down the stairs.

The jungle was in deep darkness as the explorers prepared for their departure. There had been jubilation and celebrations among the party members though the group elder had noticed a melancholy reluctance on Malone's part reflected in the eyes of the maiden of the jungle who was their host. He wasn't surprised really; there had been a spark between them since she had rescued him from a deadly creeper vine. It was rare to witness the awkward attraction of people from such different worlds. Summerlee's heart went out to them.

Marguerite Krux had been the belle of the ball, feted by all for the passage she had arranged. Even Lord Roxton who seemed to delight in taunting her, was pleased with her success. Summerlee imagined the hunter was likely dreaming of a return to the plateau with a greater supply of even more powerful weapons to finally bag the greatest trophy of all, the king of this world, the Tyrannosaurus rex. The party had broken up but all the inhabitants of the tree-house were still up as a strange silence pervaded the surrounding jungle. Veronica was particularly uneasy as she realized that the presence she detected was not the Zanga warriors come to escort them to the village, as Assai first thought. As she called out an alarm, the ape men swarmed toward the unwary expedition members from everywhere, over the balcony, through the roof, running at everyone, intent on their attack.

Suddenly, it seemed to the aging professor that everyone was swirling through a dance of hand-to-hand combat, changing partners in a grim and violent waltz. The sounds of the shouting, the firing of the guns, the grunts of the Neanderthals all seemed very far away as Summerlee seemed only to hear his own breathing, the ragged beating of his heart. He ran, nerveless with panic, unable to unholster his pistol, capable only of praying that no creature would see him cowering under the table, that nothing would hurt him. He watched in helpless terror as an ape man held Veronica high above his shaggy head and tossed her to the lower level of the tree-house. Then he knew for a certainty that they all would die, that he would die, far from home.

Then just as abruptly, the battle was over, the ape men that weren't dead were fleeing from the suspended refuge. Pandemonium reigned. Thank the dear lord, Veronica was alive though unconscious, but her friend Assai had been carried off by the marauders. In minutes, it seemed, he was on the jungle floor in the pitch black of the tropical night, following Roxton and Challenger in pursuit of a horde of vicious prehistoric men through a strange land filled with dinosaurs, snakes and other predators. As they pelted along, the shock subsided and he recognized the craziness of their plan. Plan, what plan? They couldn't see the trail, they couldn't use torches for fear of being seen and Malone had run off to do who know what! Each time he tried to convince the others of the desperation of their pursuit, Roxton cut him off with that growl he affected when under pressure, constantly reminding him of the impending fate of the young lady if they did not carry on with their rescue attempt.

The professor laboured along behind the other two, his rolling gait becoming more pronounced as he tired. Breathing was difficult, his heart pounded with exertion. His thoughts became more fevered as they went on. What was he doing here? He was not the kind of chap to be chasing after wild savages. He should be in his lab cataloguing his plants. He should be planning his next book, enjoying his life as a grandfather. He was too old, too sedentary, too frightened to be here. Like Alice, he had stepped through the Looking Glass and was in a strange, strange world where nothing was as it should be.

Daylight dawned as they crossed a hellish landscape with hot air vents and sulphuric fumes. Roxton attempted to increase the pace even as Summerlee found himself at the end of his capacity to carry on. Just as they were losing hope of effecting a rescue, the rough settlement of the ape men came into sight. Despair overtook all of the explorers as they saw how badly outnumbered they were. At first heartened by the sight of Assai still alive, they were shocked into action when they saw she was about to become a meal for these man-eaters. When Lord Roxton suggested they say their prayers, Summerlee took him seriously, looking skyward in supplication. Now that death was so near, he felt a release, the fear slowly draining away as if he couldn't hold it in any more. His upward gaze locked on the incongruous sight of an approaching balloon. His joy was immeasurable; suddenly there was a slim chance they would survive.

Around him, the others in his party sprung into action. With dead-eyed accuracy, Roxton shot the ape man who was poised to kill Assai and charged forward. Ned Malone brought the balloon closer in a steep descent. Challenger jumped up to do his part. Summerlee was horrified to see an ape man spring from a position on an overhanging crag to wrestle the unwary scientist to the ground. As the ape man prepared to crush his victim's skull, Summerlee suddenly found his pistol in his hand He raised it toward his target and fired. The attacking creature collapsed in a furry heap. Challenger leapt to his feet and tipped his hat in tribute to his rescuer. The aging professor acknowledged the gesture with a tip of his own pith helmet. He felt sudden unexpected warmth toward his life-long rival. The moment was soon over; they were shouting, firing and running for the balloon, scrambling into the basket as the balloon slowly rose beyond range of the frustrated creatures below.

Their satisfaction with the rescue was tempered by concern for the condition of Veronica who they had left, unconscious and bleeding, in Miss Krux's care. Summerlee was sweating freely after the melee, the breeze cooling him as they swept over the route along which they had trudged only hours earlier. The professor could feel every muscle, his bad hip aching. But for once the pressure on his chest was lighter. Even with all the pains, he felt different, more alive somehow. He could hear the monkeys howling below as the balloon slowly dipped toward the earth; he could smell the jungle flowers, see flashes of the bright feathers of tropical birds. Suddenly, it all seemed wondrous. He would have some enchanting stories to tell his children and grandchildren.

Summerlee raised a mug of spirits and drank heartily. The feast with the Zangas was well under way. What a day it had been! Two days really. After their escape in the balloon, they had barely arrived at the Zanga village in time to prevent a forced marriage between a weakened Veronica and that dissolute chieftain. Luckily their rescue of Assai had seemed to tip the balance to secure the secret escape route from this plateau. It seemed Miss Krux was not as adept with languages as she claimed, for she had mistakenly made a promise of marriage, a promise upon which, of course, they could not deliver. Today had dawned with joyous plans to go home, followed by a long trek through caves filled with ancient wonders, but then, just as they could glimpse their near deliverance, a cave-in had blocked their escape route. A pell-mell scramble through the collapsing tunnels had left him breathless and shaking. It was with bitter regret they had turned back to the Zanga village only to be forced en route to repel yet another attack from the ever-present ape men. He had been terrified and he had been heroic, firing as wave after wave of the murderous creatures attacked. Arthur Summerlee swallowed another draught of liquor with zest. Never had he felt so truly alive. No longer was he the neutral academic analyzing research or critiquing the discoveries of other scientists. Now he was a participant in this new world. He had stepped through the lens of his microscope into an exotic and dangerous land. What an opportunity! To do with his life what had never seemed possible in London. The botanist reined back on the galloping tumult of his thoughts. It had been an eventful few days. He would sleep well tonight.

It was the old dream again. He was standing alone in a white-tiled room. He could hear the voice again, her voice, calling 'Arthur. Arthur.' He stepped forward once more to the wall of glass. Anguish and guilt blossomed in him like blood from an open wound. Tears filled his eyes. Her name was on his lips. His hands balled into fists, he pounded against the transparent wall. Suddenly, to his astonishment, the glass shattered, raining down silently before him. Tentatively, he stepped through the broken frame, the shards like feathers beneath his feet. The scene shifted; he was in the bedroom in the old house in London. He saw her there surrounded by the medicines and devices that accompany the very ill. He looked upon himself as well, sitting by his wife's bedside. He watched as his other self arose to walk away, watched as his beloved Anna begged for him to stay, watched as she then lay there alone, her fingers clutching at the coverlet. And he wept.

Arthur Summerlee awoke with tears on his face, the dream a vivid memory. It had been so long ago. How rarely now did he think of that day, the day that she had died alone. His betrayal of her had been so great that it could never be forgiven only forgotten. He had thrown himself into his work, his notebooks, his laboratory – safe from hurt and guilt and loss.

Through the distance he heard the keening cry of a nocturnal creature searching for prey in the raw dark wilderness below. The savage sound of the hunting animal felt eerily intimate, as if it cried out to him alone. His senses, so muffled for so long, jangled at the sound. There was no protection now behind his microscope and his science. This strange land would be a new beginning for him, perhaps, but one shadowed by old sorrow and pain. Arthur Summerlee rolled onto his side and wept once again –for his lost Anna and for himself.

The End

A/N: The Irritator Challengeri was the name given to a 1980's S. American dinosaur discovery that proved to be partially fake, doctored by native peoples hoping to increase its value.