Primordia_In Search of the Lost World Read online

  Ben had a sinking feeling. “Even the gardens have been replaced?”

  “My word, yes; everything out here has been replaced. Even the soil has been rejuvenated.” She smiled benignly. “It’s why the roses do so well.”

  Mrs. Hurley marched back towards the front of the house, and Emma turned to him with her mouth slightly twisted down. “So much for under the earth,” she whispered.

  Ben just grunted and followed.

  Mrs. Hurley led them up the sandstone steps and in through a waiting open doorway. Ben saw the large men immediately – all dressed in white jackets and dark pants. They looked like a cross between butlers and doormen. Each of them looked formidable and fit. They were obviously male nurses who doubled as security – no wonder the front gates seemed so lightly guarded; the Manor had its own private army.

  Ben watched for a moment as the men pushed wheelchairs, polished furniture and mahogany rails, and carried trays up stairs. Every one of them glanced at the newcomers with their eyes lingering on the large frame of Ben and perhaps recognizing another body trained for confrontations.

  The next 30 minutes comprised of them touring rooms, the library, dining facilities, and then talking budgets. The annual costs made Ben’s eyes water, and that was for the basic package. When dear old mom or dad needed additional medical care and supervision, the costs went skyward and kept going until you sailed past the moon.

  Ben and Emma smiled and nodded, trying to keep straight faces.

  “Very reasonable,” Ben said, while Emma turned to him and made her eyes go crossed.

  Eventually, Mrs. Hurley began to lead them back down the staircase. The mahogany banister now gleamed, and Ben felt the silken surface still had a touch of orange oil that made it feel like silk and also gave off a faint but pleasant citrus odor.

  Jenny was still downstairs waiting for them and he nodded to her. His plan was to ask Mrs. Hurley to be able to wander around unescorted, but didn’t like his chances. Even if the hawk-eyed woman left him, he doubted they’d be out of sight of one or more of the large nurse-butlers.

  They came to the last few steps; Ben still trailed his hand on the banister, preparing to lift it over the carved newel post, when he saw it.

  On top of the stair post was a carved globe – the planet Earth. Ben nudged Emma and leaned closer to her.

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  She turned to him, and then followed his gaze. Her brows knitted for a moment before her jaw dropped into an open-mouth grin. “Could it be?”

  “Under the Earth. Not, under the earth,” he whispered. “Got to be.”

  CHAPTER 10

  1988 – South Eastern Venezuela – Once again, the Wettest Season

  The torrential rain abruptly stopped as if it had been turned off at the tap. For many minutes on the plateau top, water ran from treetops, palm fronds, and also ran in rivulets along the jungle animal trails.

  Above the treetops, the boiling purple clouds opened in a circular hole, letting in a widening column of light and making the massive lake shine like a blue jewel.

  Leathery winged creatures glided from the trees to skim a surface that was lined with motion ripples, popping bubbles, and upsurges as unseen things below got on with the business of eat or be eaten.

  Along the far shoreline, a herd of plant eaters grazed on rich mosses or lichens at the water line, their duck-like bills grazing on the protein-rich soft, green growth right down to the water.

  A hundred feet out from them in the lake, an enormous dark lump appeared. Bulbous eyes popped open to watch them. After another moment, the lump glided closer, and then slowly eased back down below the surface. Huge muscles coiled.

  For one unlucky plant eater, the price of a good meal was death.

  CHAPTER 11

  “What is it?” Jenny asked, after seeing Ben and Emma’s animation on the staircase.

  “A clue, we think,” Ben whispered back. “Keep Nurse Ratchet busy for a minute.”

  Jenny nodded and then strode towards Mrs. Hurley who was signing some forms on a computer tablet for one of the hulking male nurses. She looked up and smiled as Jenny approached.

  “Can you please tell me about visiting hours and guests staying, if you don’t mind?” She stood where it made Mrs. Hurley face away from the staircase.

  Ben grabbed Emma’s arm and quickly guided her closer to the post. He placed a hand casually on the globe and tried to tilt it, turn it, and even press down on it. He rapped on it with his knuckles. Nothing; seemed solid.

  Too obvious, he thought.

  “Cover me,” he whispered and positioned Emma between one of the nurses and the post and knelt down to untie and slowly retie his shoelace.

  He looked at the wooden post; it was unblemished on its carved and buffed sides. He reached around Emma and quickly felt the bottom step – tight, no give in it, no flaps or hidden doors on the riser or step top.

  Ben then checked where it met the floor; thankfully, the lower ground had rugs and not carpet, and the floorboards were polished to a mirrored sheen. They also fit flush. There were several screw holes at the base – 3 of them, with the furthest post side being flush against the steps. He put his fingers over the screw holes and pressed – left side, nothing, front, nothing. Then pressed the last, the one at the back – a small panel at the base of the steps popped open.

  “Bingo,” Emma said softly.

  Ben looked up and grinned, and then quickly looked around for any spectators. He was in the clear, so he reached in, and immediately felt something covered in cloth. He grabbed at it, just as from behind he heard a growing electronic whine. He looked over his shoulder.

  Ah crap, Ben thought as he saw the old lady in a motorized chair was wheeling towards him, her pale, rheumy eyes moving from him to the open panel.

  Ben grabbed the package and drew it free. It was bigger, thicker, and heavier than he expected. He’d never be able to sneak it out.

  Emma kicked back at him, and he looked up to see Jenny and Mrs. Hurley approaching.

  Shit. He looked around and grinned as the old lady was now only feet away. She raised one drawn-on eyebrow at him.

  “Hi there.” He shut the panel. “Mind this.” He reached out to place the book on her lap, and then quickly turned and stood in front of her.

  “Well, this has been most informative.” He forced his smile.

  “Did you get everything you needed?” Mrs. Hurley smiled back tightly.

  “I think we did.” The corners of Emma’s eyes crinkled.

  “Emma and I will talk to mom tonight.” From behind Ben, he heard the whine of the wheelchair and he glanced over his shoulder to see the old lady motoring down the length of the room towards a set of the open doors.

  “Well, we’ll be in touch.” He looked around, and at the same time grabbed Emma by the arm. “Thank you for everything; your facilities are wonderful.”

  Jenny went to head to the front doors, but Ben held Emma back. “Um, do you mind if we have one last look at your magnificent gardens?”

  “Be my guest.” Mrs. Hurley offered him her slim and manicured hand.

  Ben shook it and turned on his heel, dragging Emma with him. Jenny was left behind with knitted brows, and he could feel Mrs. Hurley’s eyes on him every step of the way.

  Ben headed to the open door, moving quickly.

  “What is it?” Emma asked.

  “The notebook; the old woman’s got it.” He stopped.

  “Which one?” Emma’s eyes widened as they stepped out into the sunshine.

  “The one in the wheel…” Ben groaned; there were around a dozen men and women in wheelchairs, all nearly identical, save for the odd book or teacup in their hands. All had nicely coiffed hairdos of cotton-white and maybe a hint of purple here and there.

  “What was she wearing?’ Emma said.

  “Old lady stuff,” Ben replied, chuckling.

  “Great, that at least rules out most of the old men.” Emma exhaled.<
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  “Come on; meet and greet time.” Ben led her forward.

  Ben pasted on his most endearing smile, and Emma hooked her arm over his. Together, they walked along in front of the row of men and woman, smiling, nodding, and stopping to chat to a few here and there. Ben wished he had paid more attention when he threw the book at the woman.

  He felt a knot of impatience growing in his stomach. They were fast running out of time, and also out of white hair, when Emma nudged him. “Hello, look, over there.”

  In the shade of a huge camellia japonica tree, an ancient woman sat staring back at them, a tiny smile on her lips.

  Ben craned his neck. “Maybe.”

  They approached, and Ben started to feel more confident.

  “An adventure is afoot,” she said and her smile widened. She then threw back the shawl that was over her shoulders and lap to reveal the hide-covered package.

  Ben crouched before her. “Thank you, and thank you for not telling them.”

  “Dare I ask what it is?” she asked.

  “A notebook that belongs to my family, to my great, great grandfather, Benjamin Cartwright. It had been held and then hidden away by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It was to be retrieved by one of Benjamin’s heirs, but it got lost and forgotten.” Ben smiled up into her lively eyes. “I came to claim it; but needed to find it first.”

  “And you are?” She tilted her head.

  “Ben Cartwright.” He smiled back. “The new one.”

  She nodded. “And now the heirloom has been found.” She ran a hand over the oilcloth surface of the package. “Rose Pennington.” She looked into his eyes. “And I’ll tell you right now, when the chance presents, I’m going to look in that secret place myself, and see if there are any other treasures.”

  She reached out to grasp Ben’s hand. He felt the small bird-like bones wrapped in the papery soft skin. “Ever since I was a little girl, I loved adventures. But age makes them more difficult to pursue.” She squeezed his hand. “Give me your number. If I find anything else, I’ll call.”

  Ben nodded and did so. He held out the scrap of paper and she gripped his wrist.

  “And you tell me what you find; I smell adventure, mystery, and danger.” She hiked her shoulder and smiled. “If I was 50 years younger, I’d make you take me with you.”

  She handed the ancient notebook to him. “Good luck, and good hunting, Benjamin the 2nd.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The package lay open on the table before them. For several moments, everyone just stared.

  Dan looked up. “I say we go for it…now.” His eyes blazed.

  “We’re not ready,” Steve said.

  “And how exactly do you get ready for something like this?” Dan tilted his head. “We’re all here, all fit, I have the funds for the expedition.” He pointed at Emma, and then to each. “We have climbing skills, military skills, trade skills…” He looked at Andrea, smiled, and then skipped her to Jenny. “We even have a zoologist.”

  “Dan, you don’t trek into the Amazon jungle as if you’re planning a picnic in Central Park. That’s how dumb guys like us vanish.” Ben sighed. “I’ve been there briefly, and it’s one big damn green hell.”

  “Well, I’ve been there, several times actually,” Jenny said. “And we even work with the local tribes for animal procurement, habitat advice, that sort of stuff.”

  “Yes.” Dan fist pumped. “All objections neutralized.” He sat back.

  “Something else to think about; didn’t you say that whatever window of opportunity was going to present itself was only going to be open for a week? And that was coming up soon.” Steve shrugged. “Maybe this once in a generation wet season causes a river to flood that leads the way, or something to drain, or even a certain flower to bloom that points the way. I kinda get excited just thinking about it. And if it’s not going to happen again for another 10 years, well…” He hiked his shoulders even higher.

  “Now or never,” Emma said dreamily.

  Ben had also placed on the table before them the rare copy of The Lost World, now unwrapped. He clasped his hands together as his gaze went from one book to the other.

  Even from where he sat, he could smell the ancient pages of both. The package they’d recovered from Windlesham Manor was now revealed – beneath the oilcloth there had been a layer of wax paper. Once he’d carefully opened it out, the century-old, leather-bound notebook was revealed – it was roughly 12 inches by eight, and a spine-bursting three inches thick. The thing was battered and worn and had been well used in its day. There were even brown streaks marking the leather that he recognized from his military days as undoubtedly being blood.

  There were other odors as well; the smell coming from the notebook was of oil, paper, and perhaps the sweetness of some sort of plant resin. There were initials pressed into the cover – BBC – Benjamin Bartholomew Cartwright, his great, great grandfather.

  He opened it – the inside had loose pages stuck there, some dried leaves, and even a large butterfly’s wing, still iridescent blue, and looking as fragile as the most silken gossamer.

  Jenny had leaned forward, smiling and nodding. “Morpho peleides – the Blue Morpho Butterfly, and sometimes called the sapphire of the Amazon.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Andrea said in a hushed tone.

  “And so big,” Steve added.

  Ben’s mouth curved into a smile. “Long before the days of any sort of quarantine procedures, huh?”

  Jenny nodded. “And I didn’t see a thing. In reality, I’m supposed to report or destroy that specimen. I’m just going to hope any potential hitchhikers on that wing are long dead.”

  Ben continued his examination. The date and notations told him it was Benjamin’s missing field notes for the ill-fated Venezuelan expedition of 1908. Ben had always been impressed with the writing style of the earlier generations, and how they managed to make their script look both precise and beautifully calligraphic at the same time. While his shabby jottings would look right at home on a doctor’s prescription.

  Ben sipped his tea, winced at the bitter taste, and then went back to carefully turning the notebook’s pages. Emma dragged her chair to crowd in beside him on one side and Andrea on the other. Steve, Dan, and Jenny were also craning necks to read alongside him once again.

  “These guys,” Emma began, “were all artists. So many skills.”

  “Yep,” he replied, looking at an artistic drawing of a steamer boat and a detailed description of the ride he and the trip’s sponsor, Douglas Baxter, took to Caracas on the South American continent. Then they endured weeks on horseback to the small town of Zuata in the interior where they picked up a team of bearers – Pemon Indians, Benjamin had called them. He had added in a drawing of a group of a dozen fierce-looking young men with smooth faces, hair in dark bowl cuts, and daubs of paint on their cheeks.

  Ben turned the page, seeing some of the ink had been blurred, perhaps by a sort of sap. “I can’t imagine what the Amazon had been like then, in 1908.” He picked up the words and read, relating the story to his friends.

  “From there, they had set off into an area of unexplored jungle in search of a hidden plateau that, in Benjamin’s own words, would rewrite everything they knew about biology and evolution.”

  “Hidden plateau,” Dan read over his shoulder. “Oh boy.”

  Ben nodded. “In a land, hidden under a permanent cloud – hmm, the rainy season thing, perhaps.” He tilted the notebook towards Emma. “Great artwork.” He had stopped at a pencil picture of Benjamin Cartwright’s hunter friend, Baxter, crossing a river, rifle held above his head to keep it dry. Even in the quick etching, Benjamin had captured a face that was determined, eyes gun-barrel steady and a jutting mustache.

  He placed the leather-bound notebook open on the table. “The later editions of Doyle’s story had fewer and fewer drawings. But the first editions contained a lot of hand-drawn ink sketches, copied from the notebook.”

  He then carefully ope
ned the 1912 edition of The Lost World and flicked through several pages until he found what he searched for. He laid it open next to the notebook.

  It was the drawing, this one of the story character, Lord Roxton, not Douglas Baxter, but exactly the same features, same rifle held aloft. This one was far more stylized for the printing, but there was no doubt the similarities were breathtaking.

  Ben turned back inside the book’s cover board to the inscription by Arthur Conan Doyle.

  “To my good friend, Benjamin Cartwright – your experiences ignited my imagination, and this is the result.” He rubbed his chin. “Is that what Doyle really meant; that over a 100 years ago, Benjamin had actually done what he had described in his work of fiction?”

  “Yes, yes, of course he did,” Dan urged. “And there’s your proof, right in front of you.”

  “I don’t know.” Ben noticed a folded piece of paper in the notebook and flattened it out. He looked at it momentarily, before snorting softly. “And what would a modern zoologist make of this?” He slid it towards Jenny.

  She peered down at the drawing, her lips curving up at the corners. It was a magnificent rendition of a jungle in the rain, the penciled shading managing to impart dripping fern fronds and vines. But they were just to frame the main subject – through a tunnel-like portal of jungle could be observed a dead creature lying in the mud.

  Jenny read the ancient notations. “Unknown dinosaurian.” She looked up slowly. “Un-bloody-known dinosaurian.” She grinned at Dan. “If you guys do go, you damn well count me in.”

  “I’m in too,” said Steve.

  “Me too,” Andrea said. “This adventure will make me famous.”

  Emma raised her hand and grinned sheepishly at Ben. “Don’t know about being famous, but I’d die curious if I was dumb enough to say no.”

  “Ah Jesus Christ.” Ben sighed and leaned back. “This could get us all killed. I don’t want to be responsible for –”

  “I speak for myself, and am responsible for myself,” Jenny said. “Ben, if there’s even a one in a million chance of this being real, you need to check it out. And if, as you said, there is only a small window every half a generation, then what do we do? Wait until we’re all in our forties before finally making up our minds?”