A Journey To The Center Of The Earth Part 18

Suddenly the ichthyosaurus and the plesiosaurus disappear, creating a genuine maelstrom in the water. Several minutes pa.s.s. Will the battle end in the depths of the ocean?

Suddenly an enormous head shoots up, the head of the plesiosaurus. The monster is fatally injured. I no longer see his enormous sh.e.l.l. Only his long neck shoots up, drops, rises up again, droops, lashes the waters like a gigantic whip, and writhes like a worm cut in two. The water splashes to a considerable distance. It blinds us. But soon the reptile's agony draws to an end, its movements diminish, its contortions decrease, and the long serpentine shape extends like a lifeless ma.s.s on the calm waters.

As for the ichthyosaurus, has he returned to his submarine cavern, or will he reappear at the surface of the ocean?

x.x.xIV.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19.-FORTUNATELY the wind blows powerfully, and has allowed us to flee quickly from the scene of the battle. Hans keeps his post at the helm. My uncle, drawn out of his absorbing reflections by the incidents of the combat, falls back into his impatient contemplations of the ocean.

The voyage resumes its monotonous uniformity, which I would not like to break with a repet.i.tion of yesterday's dangers.

Thursday, August 20.-Unsteady wind N.N.E. Temperature high. We sail at a rate of three and a half leagues per hour.

At about noon, a very distant noise can be heard. I note the fact here without being able to provide an explanation. It is a continuous roar.

"In the distance," says the professor, "there is a rock or islet against which the sea breaks."

Hans climbs up on the mast, but sees no breakers. The ocean is smooth all the way to the horizon.

Three hours pa.s.s. The roar seems to come from a distant waterfall.

I point this out to my uncle, who shakes his head. But I am convinced that I am right. Are we then speeding toward some waterfall that will precipitate us into an abyss? This method of descent might possibly please the professor, because it is almost vertical, but as for me...

In any case, there must be some noisy phenomenon several leagues windward, for now the roar resounds with great intensity. Does it come from the sky or the ocean?

I look up at the steam suspended in the atmosphere and try to probe its depth. The sky is calm. The clouds, having floated to the top of the vault, seem motionless and fade in the intense glare of the light. The cause of this phenomenon must therefore lie elsewhere.

Then I examine the clear horizon with no trace of mist. Its appearance has not changed. But if this noise comes from a waterfall, if this entire ocean crashes into a lower basin, if this roar is produced by a ma.s.s of falling water, the current should accelerate, and its increasing speed will give me the measure of the peril that threatens us. I check the current. There is none. An empty bottle that I throw into the ocean stays in the direction of the wind.

At about four Hans rises, grips the mast, climbs to its top. From there his gaze sweeps the partial circle of the ocean in front of the raft and stops at one point. His face expresses no surprise, but his eye remains at that point.

"He's seen something," says my uncle.

"I believe so."

Hans comes back down, then points with his arm to the south and says: "Dere nere!"

"Down there?" replies my uncle.

Then, seizing his telescope, he gazes attentively for a minute, which seems to me a century.

"Yes, yes!" he exclaims.

"What do you see?"

"I see an immense fountain rising from the water."

"Another sea animal?"

"Perhaps."

"Then let's steer farther westward, because we know about the danger of running into prehistoric monsters!"

"Let's go straight," replies my uncle.

I turn to Hans. He maintains the helm with inflexible rigor.

Yet if at our current distance from the animal, which is at least twelve leagues, we can see the fountain of water from its blow-hole, it must be of a supernatural size. Taking flight would be nothing more than following the rules of the most elementary caution. But we did not come here to be cautious.

So we press on. The closer we draw, the taller the water fountain becomes. What monster can possibly fill itself with such a quant.i.ty of water, and spurt it up so continuously?

At eight in the evening, we are less than two leagues away. Its blackish, enormous, mountainous body rests on the sea like an island. Is it imagination, is it fear? Its length seems to exceed a thousand fathoms! What can be this cetacean that neither Cuvier nor Blumenbachbm antic.i.p.ated? It lies motionless, as if asleep; the sea seems unable to lift it, and the waves play on its sides. The fountain of water propelled to a height of five hundred feet falls back down in a rain with deafening noise. And here we speed like madmen toward this powerful ma.s.s that a hundred whales would not nourish even for a day! antic.i.p.ated? It lies motionless, as if asleep; the sea seems unable to lift it, and the waves play on its sides. The fountain of water propelled to a height of five hundred feet falls back down in a rain with deafening noise. And here we speed like madmen toward this powerful ma.s.s that a hundred whales would not nourish even for a day!

Terror grips hold of me. I don't want to go any further! I will cut the halyard if necessary! I am in open mutiny against the professor, who does not reply.

Suddenly Hans rises and points with his finger at the threatening object: "Holme!" he says.

"An island!" cries my uncle.

"An island!" I say in turn, shrugging my shoulders.

"Obviously," replies the professor, breaking out into a loud laugh.

"But that fountain of water?"

"Geyser," utters Hans.

"Ah! Undoubtedly, a geyser!" my uncle replies, "a geyser like those in Iceland."bn At first I refuse to admit that I have been so crudely mistaken. Taking an island for a sea monster! But the evidence is against me, and I finally have to acknowledge my error. It is nothing more than a natural phenomenon.

As we draw nearer, the dimensions of the water column become magnificent. The islet deceptively resembles an enormous cetacean whose head rests above the waves at a height of six fathoms. The geyser, a word that the Icelanders p.r.o.nounce 'geysir' and which means 'fury,' rises majestically to its full height. Dull explosions take place from time to time, and the enormous jet, gripped by a more furious rage, shakes its plume of steam and leaps up to the first layer of clouds. It stands alone. Neither steam vents nor hot springs surround it, and all the volcanic power gathers in it. Rays of electric light mingle with the dazzling fountain, every drop of which refracts all the prismatic colors.

"Let's land," says the professor.

But we must carefully avoid this waterspout, which would sink our raft in a moment. Hans, steering skillfully, takes us to the other end of the islet.

I jump onto the rock; my uncle follows me nimbly, while the hunter remains at his post, like a man beyond amazement.

We walk on granite mixed with siliceous tuff. The ground trembles under our feet, like the sides of an overheated boiler filled with steam struggling to get loose; it is scalding hot. We come in sight of a small lake at the center, from which the geyser springs. I dip an overflow thermometer into the boiling water, and it indicates a temperature of 163C.

So this water comes out of a burning furnace. This markedly contradicts Professor Lidenbrock's theories. I cannot help but point it out.

"Well," he replies, "what does this prove against my doctrine?"

"Nothing," I say dryly, realizing that I am up against inflexible obstinacy.

Nevertheless I am forced to admit that we have so far enjoyed extraordinarily favorable circ.u.mstances, and that for some reason that eludes me, our journey takes place under special temperature conditions. But it seems obvious to me that one day we will reach the areas where the core heat reaches its highest limits and exceeds all the gradations of our thermometers.

We shall see. That is what the professor says who, after naming this volcanic islet after his nephew, gives the signal to embark.

I continue to contemplate the geyser for a few minutes. I notice that its jet is variable in strength: sometimes its intensity decreases, then it returns with renewed vigor, which I attribute to the variable pressure of the steam that has gathered in its reservoir.

At last we leave by steering around the very pointed rocks in the south. Hans has taken advantage of the stop-over to fix up the raft.

But before going any further, I make a few observations to calculate the distance we have covered, and note them in my journal. We have crossed two hundred and seventy leagues of ocean since leaving Port Grauben, and we are six hundred and twenty leagues away from Iceland, underneath England.

x.x.xV.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 21.-THE next day, the magnificent geyser has disappeared. The wind has become colder, and has rapidly carried us away from Axel Island. The roar has gradually faded.

The weather, if it is appropriate to call it that, will change before long. The atmosphere fills up with steam clouds that carry with them electricity generated by the evaporation of the salt water. The clouds sink perceptibly lower, and take on a uniform olive-colored hue. The electric rays can scarcely penetrate through this opaque curtain, drawn on the theater in which the drama of a thunderstorm is about to be staged.

I feel particularly affected, as do all creatures on earth just before a cataclysm. The piled-up c.u.mulus cloudsbo in the south look sinister; they have that 'merciless' look that I have often noticed at the beginning of a thunderstorm. The air is heavy, the sea is calm. in the south look sinister; they have that 'merciless' look that I have often noticed at the beginning of a thunderstorm. The air is heavy, the sea is calm.

In the distance the clouds resemble big bales of cotton, piled up in picturesque disorder; by degrees they dilate, and lose in number what they gain in size. Their weight is such that they cannot lift from the horizon; but in the breeze of air currents high up, they dissolve little by little, grow darker and soon turn into a single, formidable-looking layer. From time to time a ball of steam, still lit up, bounces off this grayish carpet and soon loses itself in the opaque ma.s.s.

The atmosphere is obviously saturated with liquid; I am impregnated with it; my hair bristles on my head as it would close to an electrical appliance. It seems to me that if my companions touched me at that moment, they would receive a powerful shock.

At ten in the morning the symptoms of a storm become more p.r.o.nounced; it seems as if the wind lets up only to catch its breath; the cloud bank resembles a huge goatskin in which hurricanes are building up.

I am reluctant to believe in the threatening signs from the sky, and yet I cannot keep from saying: "Here's some bad weather coming on."

The professor gives no answer. He is in a murderous mood as he sees the ocean stretching out indefinitely before him. He shrugs his shoulders at my words.

"We'll have a thunderstorm," I exclaim, pointing at the horizon. "Those clouds are coming down on the sea as if they were going to crush it!"

General silence. The wind stops. Nature looks as if it is dead and breathes no more. On the mast, where I already see a small St. Elmo's fire sprouting, the tensionless sail hangs in heavy folds. The raft lies motionless in the middle of a sluggish sea without waves. But if we no longer move, why leave that sail on the mast, which could wreck us at the first onslaught of the tempest?

"Let's reef the sail and take the mast down!" I say. "That's safer."

"No, by the Devil!" shouts my uncle. "A hundred times no! Let the wind seize us! Let the thunderstorm take us away! But let me finally see the rocks of a sh.o.r.e, even if our raft were to be smashed to smithereens!"

The words are hardly out of his mouth when a sudden change takes place on the southern horizon. The built-up steam condenses into water, and the air, violently attracted to the voids produced by the condensation, turns into a hurricane. It rushes in from the farthest recesses of the cavern. The darkness deepens. I can scarcely jot down a few incomplete notes.

The raft rises up, takes a leap. My uncle falls. I crawl to him. He has firmly gripped the end of a thick rope and seems to watch this spectacle of unbridled elements with pleasure.

Hans does not move. His long hair, blown by the hurricane and falling over his immobile face, gives him a strange physiognomy, because each of its ends is tipped with little luminous feathers. His frightening mask is that of a prehistoric man, a contemporary of the ichthyosaurus and the megatherium.

The mast holds firm yet. The sail stretches tight like a bubble ready to burst. The raft flies at a speed I cannot guess, but not as fast as the drops of water it pushes aside below itself in straight, clear lines of speed.

"The sail! the sail!" I say, motioning to lower it.

"No!" replies my uncle.

"Nej!" repeats Hans, gently shaking his head.

But now the rain is like a roaring waterfall in front of that horizon toward which we speed like madmen. But before it reaches us, the veil of clouds breaks apart, the sea begins to boil, and the electricity produced by a powerful chemical reaction in the upper layers comes into play. Glittering flashes of lightning mix with crashes of thunder; innumerable flashes interlace in the midst of detonations; the ma.s.s of steam glows white-hot; hailstones light up as they hit the metal of our tools and of our weapons; the heaving waves resemble fire-breathing hills, each belching forth its own interior flames, and every crest is plumed with dancing fire. My eyes are blinded by the dazzling light, my ears are stunned by the roar of thunder. I have to hold on to the mast, which bends like a reed under the violence of the hurricane!!!

...... [Here my notes became quite incomplete. I have only been able to find a few quick observations, jotted down mechanically, so to speak. But their brevity and their obscurity are saturated with the emotion that gripped me, and they convey the gist of the situation better than my memory.]

Sunday, August 23.-Where are we? Driven on at incalculable speed.

The night has been horrible. The thunderstorm does not abate. We live in the midst of noise, a constant explosion. Our ears are bleeding. We cannot exchange a word.

The lightning flashes never stop. I see reverse zigzags that after flas.h.i.+ng momentarily rebound back up and strike against the granite vault. What if it crumbled! Other lightning flashes bifurcate or take the shape of fiery spheres that explode like bombsh.e.l.ls. But the general noise does not seem to increase when they do; it has exceeded the volume that the human ear can perceive, and even if all the powder kegs of the world exploded at once, we would not hear it anymore.

There is continuous light emission at the surface of the clouds; the electric substance is constantly discharged from their molecules; obviously the gaseous principles in the air have changed; innumerable fountains of water rush upwards into the air and fall back again foaming.

Where are we going? My uncle lies stretched out at the end of the raft.

The heat increases. I look at the thermometer; it indicates ... [the figure is obliterated].

Monday, August 24.-It will never end! Why would the state of this very dense atmosphere, now that it has been changed, not be definitive?

We are worn out by exhaustion. Hans as usual. The raft speeds invariably to the south-east. We have run two hundred leagues since we left Axel Island.

At noon the violence of the storm doubles. We must safely stow every piece of cargo. Each of us ties himself down as well. The waves rise above our heads.

Impossible to address a single word to each other for the last three days. We open our mouths, we move our lips, but no perceptible sound comes forth. Even talking into each other's ears we cannot hear each other.

My uncle has approached me. He has uttered a few words. I believe he has told me, "We are lost." But I am not sure.

I decide to write down these words: "Let us lower the sail."

He nods his consent.

Scarcely has he risen up again when a disk of fire appears at the edge of the raft. Mast and sail are swept away together in one stroke, and I see them fly up to a prodigious height, resembling a pterodactyl, that fantastic bird of the first ages.

We are frozen with fear. The half-white, half-blue ball, as large as a ten-inch bombsh.e.l.l, moves about slowly, but revolves with surprising speed under the whiplash of the hurricane. It goes here and there, it climbs up onto one of the raft's crossbeams, jumps onto the sack of provisions, comes back down easily, leaps, and skirts along the box of gunpowder. Horror! We'll blow up! No. The dazzling disk moves away; it approaches Hans, who looks at it steadily; it approaches my uncle, who falls down on his knees to avoid it; it approaches me, pale and trembling in the glare of the light and heat; it spins close to my foot, which I try to pull back. I cannot do it.

A smell of laughing-gas fills the air; it enters the throat, the lungs. We suffocate.