The Discussion was excitable,
Whispers that grew,
Too loud were hushed.
Nocturna’s cartographers,
Archivists,
And manuscript enthusiasts
Were alive with activity.
“Where did it come from?”
Arthur Coldbottom
Whispered.
“The journal was concealed
Within the false bottom
Of an old tea chest,
Along with the maps
And other artefacts.”
“The last journey
Of Hermon Von Cramp.”
There were
Audible gasps.
“Thought lost forever
When he disappeared
During an expedition.”
The room fell silent.
No one
Reached for
Their tea.
No one
Turned
Another page.
Upon the great mahogany table
Lay the discovery.
A cracked leather journal,
Its brass clasp
Long surrendered
To the green patina of age.
The faded initials,
H.V.C.
Still clung stubbornly
To the weathered cover.
Beside it,
Several impossible maps,
Their edges frayed by salt,
Humidity,
And years without sunlight.
Arthur Coldbottom
Adjusted his spectacles.
McKinley Gripe
Carefully unfolded
A sheet of parchment
So brittle it seemed
To breathe.
Denham Carter-Smythe,
Already leaning forward
Within his wheelchair,
Forgot entirely
His cooling tea.
Frau Olga Knochen
Quietly rested
One enormous hand
Upon his shoulder,
Lest excitement
Topple him
Onto the table.
Marcel Carreau
Closed the study door.
“No interruptions.”
He announced softly.
Gideon Rook
Drew the velvet curtains.
Even Edgar Brillows,
Having delivered
Fresh glasses
And a bottle
Of remarkably old port,
Remained quietly
Near the fireplace.
However,
Following a quick wink
From Frau Knochen,
The barman
Thought it best to
Return downstairs.
From the conservatory
Arrived
Madame Akiko Tsukishiro,
Her devoted assistant
Masaru Endō,
Latty Flouse,
Oleg Bloom,
Brian Darrow,
And the Crumb Sisters,
Vivienne and Silvania.
Naturalists,
Botanists,
Entomologists,
Collectors,
Drawn together
By the irresistible scent
Of discovery.
Arthur carefully opened
The journal.
The pages
Crackled softly,
Like autumn leaves.
He began to read.
“June the Third.
“The Amazon has ceased
To resemble a river.
“It is now a living thing.
It breathes.
It listens.
And I believe it occasionally
Laughs.”
Henley Marcus-Walker,
Who had somehow
Managed
To invite himself,
Nodded gravely.
“I’ve often suspected as much.”
Nobody looked up.
Arthur continued.
“We ventured inland
In search of a beast
Mentioned only
In tribal whispers.”
“The Moon-Crested Arcthorn.”
Silvania Crumb
Immediately
Began writing.
Brian Darrow
Raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve never heard of such a creature.”
“Nor has anyone.”
Replied
Major Bramwell Thorne.
“Which is precisely
Why we are here.”
Arthur turned another page.
“The forests changed.
Flowers began glowing
After sunset.
Blue orchids opened only
When touched by moonlight.”
Madame Tsukishiro
Smiled quietly.
“Impossible.”
Masaru,
Without hesitation,
Recorded,
“Possibly impossible.”
Latty Flouse leant forward.
“There…”
She whispered.
“Read that.”
Arthur obliged.
“Beneath
The great crimson canopy
Grow mushrooms
Whose caps
Reflect the constellations
Visible only
Upon cloudless nights.”
Oleg Bloom audibly gasped.
“My dear…”
He whispered.
“The Starcap Mycelium.
I thought it mythical.”
“So did everyone.”
Latty replied.
Brian Darrow was already
Turning pages of his notebook.
“What about insects?”
Arthur smiled.
“There appears to be
An entire chapter.”
Vivienne Crumb
Actually applauded.
Arthur resumed.
“The butterflies possess wings
Of clear crystal.
Only their shadows
Reveal their colours.”
“The dragonflies sing.
Though only at dawn.”
“The bees carry pollen
That glows like captured stars.”
Brian Darrow
Looked utterly delighted.
“I must go.”
“You absolutely must not.”
Silvania replied.
“There are crocodiles
There are always crocodiles.”
Added Henley Marcus-Walker.
“There are considerably
Worse things.”
Arthur continued reading.
“At last we found the valley.”
“Encircled by black cliffs
Upon every side.”
“There,
Standing silently
Beside a bottomless lake,
Was the Moon-Crested Arcthorn.”
“Its antlers Bloomed
Like flowering branches.
Tiny white blossoms
Covered every tine.
Butterflies rested upon them
Without fear.
It regarded us only once.
Then quietly walked into the mist.”
No one spoke.
Even Henley remained silent.
Arthur turned to the final pages.
The handwriting had changed.
Less elegant.
More hurried.
“Our supplies have failed.
Two men have succumbed
To fever.
The river
has claimed our boats.
I travel now alone.”
The room fell still.
“Weeks later…”
Arthur read.
“I emerged from the jungle.
Not victorious.
Merely alive.
An old fishing vessel
Took pity upon a broken explorer
Who could scarcely stand.”
“I have hidden my maps.
My journal.
And every specimen.
For should I perish,
Someone kinder
Than I may one day
Continue the journey.”
Arthur closed the journal.
Silence.
It was Major Bramwell Thorne
Who finally spoke.
“There is…
One final page.”
He reached
Into his satchel,
Producing a yellowed letter.
“It was preserved
Separately.”
Arthur nodded.
The Major read aloud.
“Hermon Von Cramp
Never reached home.
Having sailed north-west
Beyond the Caribbean,
His vessel entered
The Atlantic.”
“Several days later,
During calm seas,
An enormous whale
Rose beneath the hull.
The impact split the timbers.
The ship foundered quickly.”
“Few survived.”
“Von Cramp was counted
among the lost.”
The Major folded the letter.
“But…”
He smiled,
Looking towards the impossible maps.
“The journal did.”
Arthur rested one hand
Upon the ancient leather cover.
“So did hope.”
Denham Carter-Smythe
Slowly unfolded the largest map.
Tiny annotations
Covered one corner.
There,
Hidden amongst
Countless contour lines,
A single phrase had been written
In faded ink.
“The Valley awaits
Those who still choose wonder.”
No one suggested
The expedition.
No one needed to.
Around the table,
Every eye had already begun
Planning the journey.
