After an unusually quiet meal, Tavish Cartwright stood and prepared to address his fellow Pickmanites. He cleared his throat, wore a solemn face, and ruffled papers upon which he had collected his notes. 7
"If I may presume to ask for your consideration," he began.
"Not every tale of the Pickmanites can be promptly divulged, as specific circumstances may warrant a certain degree of discretion. In the matter of an impetuous and momentous proceeding in which some of our illustrious members found themselves entangled in an emphatically implausible series of incidents - each succeeding episode less tenable than the former - prudence led those participating to document their summation of the experience in writing only, while withholding this adventure's singular revelation from the troupe to protect the credibility of an important devotee of science, whose contributions to the emerging field of palaeontology are as significant as they are undervalued by the smug elitists of the London scientific community. Because of her expertise, her integrity, and her earnestness, we agreed to make an unanticipated sojourn to Dorsetshire at her urging.
I should add that her request was less a casual invitation than an urgent entreaty. While this account has been subject to necessary concealment for more than one year, recent developments have made it compulsory to share the details of this adventure, with the mandate that all Pickmanites join in a conspiracy of silence - for the benefit of Miss Mary Anning, noted fossil collector of Lyme Regis, and to prevent panic amidst the faint-hearted and unschooled of London who are so prone to fits of panic and delirium."
i.
Unquiet Slumbers
Clifford Balfour, geologist and paleontologist, shambled across the floor and gazed into a mirror above the washstand before splashing water on his face in a futile attempt to banish from his mind the reverberations of an unpleasant night of insufficient slumber - the third such experience since he and his colleagues departed London on their impromptu excursion. This latest eventide had been spent in Bridport, an old Saxon market town found at the confluence of the River Brit and the River Asker. Thankfully, Bridport would be the final stopover before the party reached Lyme Regis, their destination, just a short jaunt down the rambling road.
Balfour cleaned himself as thoroughly as his accommodations allowed, scrubbing and wiping and mopping the accumulated dirt and sweat from the previous day's travel. By the time Tavish Cartwright summoned him for breakfast, he felt satisfied he had attained an adequate level of cleanliness and that his companions would find him at least presentable, if not fully revitalized and reinvigorated.
"How do you find the lodging in the low country, Clifford?" Cartwright stood outside the door of his overnight billet, a knowing look on his face. A portraitist of distinction whose work revealed him as a master of character, Cartwright came from one of London's wealthiest families. He was among the charter members of the Pickman Club, and a close personal friend of Samuel Pickman, the club's founder. "Did you attain any peace in your dozing crib?"
"Less restful than the night before, which was equally disagreeable to the one that preceded it," Balfour said. "If I slept two hours out of eight, I would be surprised."
"My night was similarly discouraging. After a few hours of tossing and turning, I abandoned any attempt at repose and opted to bridge the hours between dusk and dawn reading one of the academic tomes you recommended."
For emphasis, Cartwright tapped the selected volume, tucked beneath his arm. Though its title was hidden in shadow, Balfour recognized it as Visitations from the Unseen World, a rare 18th century manuscript. "Quite an interesting inventory of obscure folklore and inconspicuous mythology. It is fascinating how history omits details, either by accident or intention."
"There are as many gods and monsters as the men whose dreams and nightmares spawn their ilk," said Oldfield Godolphin, a noted historian and author of many books, including his recent well-received publication The History and Antiquities of Dorsetshire. Balfour had insisted upon his inclusion in their modest adventure because of his familiarity with - and appreciation of - legends and traditions associated with South West England.
"I trust you both slept soundly?"
"Not in the least," Balfour said with unintended vexation. He managed a smile as he continued. "Only unquiet slumbers for these sleepers, regrettably. Were you able to doze?"
"Deeply and without interruption," Godolphin said. The oldest member of their entourage, his faced flushed with sudden amusement as he noticed a distinct lingering weariness and dishevelment that had settled upon the faces of his friends. "I must have had the quietest chamber in this Bridport inn, or the softest bed - or the most tranquillising nightcap."
"Perhaps a digestif after dinner would have helped," Balfour admitted. "By early this afternoon, we should arrive at our destination. I have faith that our bed and board in Lyme Regis will be a more pleasant stay."
These three members of the Pickman Club found their fourth constituent gobbling down a gargantuan breakfast consisting of porridge, fish, eggs and bacon. Roland Wallace sat on a bench outside the inn on a wide porch overlooking a small herb garden. He loomed above an overcrowded plate of food perched precariously on his lap. Crumbs cascaded down his frock coat. The youngest of the group, Wallace had only recently relocated to London after serving more than a decade as an agent of the East India Company, working as an administrator at the Trincomalee harbour in Ceylon. His time there had been punctuated by periods of chaos and clamour, with sporadic episodes of rebellion threatening to dislodge British troops from their garrison in Colombo.
Seeing him as source of many interesting tales, Mr Pickman had recruited Wallace for the group. As yet, the 38-year-old had held fast to whatever yarns he might be capable of spinning, showing a patent disinclination to share his experiences in the British Crown Colony - other than to report one evening, after a few too many pints of stout, that he had witnessed unspeakable atrocities throughout the struggle between British forces and the Kandyans who controlled the island's interior highlands.
"Apparently our initiate's appetite was so great he could not wait for the rest of us to feast," Cartwright said with a hearty laugh. "No worries, lad - we older folk find that approaching the day somewhat surreptitiously, with caution and discretion, prevents us from becoming cynical and cantankerous before midday."
Wallace grinned at the comment, but could not articulate a direct response due to the amount of smoked haddock and fried eggs he had just stuffed into his mouth.
A short time later, Balfour, Cartwright, and Godolphin joined Wallace on the porch to devour their own morning meals - each one consuming a fraction of what the former East India Company agent had procured from the inn's busy kitchen. As they cleaned their plates, they turned their attention to the letter that had precipitated this adventure.
"Do you think she's expecting an ensemble cast to appear on her doorstep?" Cartwright wondered if Balfour's contact in Lyme Regis was prepared to house four visitors. "In her letter, she asked for your assistance. She did not extend an invitation to your colleagues."
"I responded, sending word that I would be travelling with companions," Balfour said. "My association with Mary Anning has always been cordial. I do not anticipate any problems when we arrive. As to our accommodations, I have a distant cousin - Algernon Glyndon - who owns a sizable estate not far from town. He would gladly welcome us in his home, or put us up in the hotel he recently acquired."
"What do you think she is so eager to show you?" Cartwright scratched his grey whiskers. "In the past, has she not been content working through representatives of the British Museum?"
"As well as private collectors," Balfour said. "There are plenty of people willing to pay modest sums for good specimens. Buyers from Paris and Vienna attended a recent auction, hosted by Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas James Birch to raise funds for Miss Anning."
"I've seen the famous Ichthyosaurus she pulled from the fossil beds along the coast," Cartwright said. "So why did she reach out to you directly in this instance?"
Balfour pulled the envelope from his coat pocket and withdrew the epistle, unfolding it carefully before sharing it again with his colleagues. These were its contents:
My dear Balfour: Should you wish to be witness to something extraordinarily inexplicable, I implore you to pay a visit to my precious village at your earliest convenience. I discovered something quite unnatural and unnerving in a remote vista along the dark cliffs of Black Ven. It is like no other structure I have encountered, fashioned from material not found in this region, and assembled in such a way that it is only visible at certain times and under specific meteorological and astrological conditions.
The thing possesses a striking quality of unearthliness, leading me to believe it is - much like the fossils that are my stock and trade - something from a bygone age, not dreamed of by modern man. I wish I could offer more than this rudimentary depiction to express the urgency of my request, but I am hindered by the fact that its distinctiveness makes it quite indescribable - and its high strangeness inhibits me from further investigation, despite my natural curiosity.
Make haste, Balfour: I cannot predict how long this phenomenon will persist.
Mary Anning
"Not to be critical, but it is likely some Roman remnant that has emerged from obscurity following a cloudburst," Godolphin said. "Those cliffs are prone to accelerated erosion. This girl likely hasn't seen the carcasses of old colonies that date back to antiquity."
"This woman," Balfour said, "is far brighter than you might imagine, given her limited education. She reads and writes, and, I am told, she follows every scrap of scientific literature she can obtain that is connected to the fossils she recovers and passes along to the scientific community."
"In that case, I look forward to seeing whatever she has uncovered." Godolphin happily conceded the point. "And I am grateful that this woman, Miss Anning, has invited us to be the first to set eyes upon it."
ii.
The Arrival
The carriage journey from London to Lyme Regis took the better part of three days with frequent detours and nightly lodging. Clifford Balfour chartered two Hackney coaches to ferry his audacious company and their accoutrements. Though roomy and elegant, the transports exuded an air of diminished stylishness, as if whatever heights of respectability and dignity these aging relics had enjoyed when owned and employed by the British aristocracy had been deliberately depleted by overuse and neglect. These particular conveyances had deteriorated to the point of near collapse, and each day one or the other had to stop to make some roadside repair.
That the company arrived without a single broken bone amongst them was a source of celebration when the Pickmanites finally reached Lyme Regis.
At once a quiet little fishing village and a bustling hub of idyllic commotion, picturesque Lyme Regis sat on the south coast overlooking Lyme Bay, flanked by lofty cliffs of shale and clay. The Hackney coaches bounced along Broad Street, the main thoroughfare, before arriving in the small business district adjacent to the Harbor. It took little time to find someone willing to point them in the direction of Anning's Fossil Depot. In the glass storefront, Mary Anning displayed her inventory, including invertebrate fossils such as ammonites and belemnites - marketed as snake-stones and devil's fingers, respectively - along with a few select vertebrate specimens, including a recent find she had tentatively dubbed a "flying dragon."
"That marvellous specimen alone was worth the trip." Clifford Balfour muttered as he gazed upon the unique vestige of a former world. Tucked inside a wicker basket situated on shelf inside the window, he also took an interest in an elongated, oval-shaped, blue-green fossil measuring at least 12 inches long and 4 inches wide. Its surface bore strange swirls and striations, along with scars and pockmarks that hinted at its great age. "I hope Miss Anning is willing to sell these to the British Museum."
"As intriguing as her stock may be, that is not why we are here, Clifford." Cartwright, finding the door locked, vented his exasperation in a muffled grunt. "No one tending the store on a Saturday afternoon, apparently."
At Cartwright's prompting, Oldfield Godolphin and Roland Wallace strolled along the lane looking for local points of interest. Across the street from Anning's business they found the Pilot Boat Hotel which advertised daily coach service to and from Bridport. Just a few doors down was Brown's Stores, selling a variety of staple food items and household goods. The Pickmanites discovered a forge, the fires of which had likely been burning for hundreds of years. The clang of hammers striking the anvil echoed through the nearby neighbourhoods.
Other businesses clustered in the district included a tobacconist, a barber, a cobbler, a tailor, and a chemist.
At some point, Wallace went off on his own, wandering down a shadowy cobblestone lane lined with dismal buildings of a much earlier age, fronted by weed-grown doorsteps and filthy windows that hinted at generations of squalor and decay. The air was tainted by some unidentifiable putrescence, causing the 38-year-old to cup a hand over his nose and mouth as he proceeded. As he descended the slender path, the ancient structures stooped unnaturally, their disintegrating gambrel roofs and unsymmetrical wooden gables pitching clumsily, all threatening to collapse at any moment into a mountain of foulness and palpable degradation.
A light rain fell as he continued, and water dripped from every eave and awning. The rainwater absorbed the ubiquitous rot of these dilapidated domiciles, trickling down the sloping roofs, and dribbling onto the ground - and onto any passersby - as if the buildings salivated at the intrusion.
Reaching the terminus of the path in a squalid cul-de-sac, Wallace confronted an ominous chapel, its stone walls covered with archaic symbols. An uncanny radiance oozed through broad windows, highlighting several peculiar figures whose outlines could not be convincingly characterized as either fully human or beast. What Wallace first thought might be worshippers singing praise to God quickly became a muddle of horrible discordant voices - unearthly voices - chanting unintelligible words punctuated with sporadic yaps and yelps.
A quick glance at the weedy patch of ground between the cobblestones and the building showed meandering trails of three-toed footprints.
Though he felt the urge to approach that awful, unhallowed shrine, and to peer through its mucky, encrusted windows, Wallace hurriedly retraced his steps and rejoined the other Pickmanites in a more hospitable section of Lyme Regis.
By this time, Balfour had managed to squeeze down a narrow alleyway trying to find some other way to access the Anning residence. He knew that the fossil collector lived on the second or third story of the building. His efforts, however, proved unsuccessful, and he reconvened with his colleagues on the street in front of Anning's Fossil Depot.
"A quaint seaside resort, Clifford." Cartwright's perpetual impatience most often manifested itself in bursts of wry sarcasm. "Perhaps we can enjoy sunbathing on the beach while we await Miss Anning's imminent return."
"We will catch up with her," Balfour assured him. "She does have a business to run. She may be collecting samples as we speak."
As the Pickmanites loitered at the storefront, they turned their attention to the inhabitants of Lyme Regis. The townsfolk formed small cliques as they negotiated the narrow, winding streets beneath grey skies. Not far in the distance, dockworkers scurried along the quay, consolidating the bounty of the sea delivered by fishing boats. Seagulls filled the air with their insistent squawking, begging for charity or plotting a daring robbery.
After a short time, a handsome gentleman approached the out-of-towners. He wore a navy-blue reefer coat, white trousers, and carried a yachtsman's cap. His expression revealed neither familiarity nor aloofness. He paused halfway across the street to remove his eyeglasses and polish the lenses. Replacing them, his face broke into a crafty grin.
"It is you, Clifford!" Algernon Glyndon, Balfour's blood relative, threw open his arms to welcome the Pickmanites. "Miss Anning told me you might be arriving in town. She left meticulous instructions on how to greet you. She insisted on showing you the finest hospitality. I have a room ready for you."
"Thank you, Algernon," Balfour said. "Would it be an imposition to ask if you might also be able to accommodate my companions?"
"Of course, I can find rooms for your companions," Glyndon said, introducing himself to Balfour's party. "Any friend of yours, cousin, is a welcome guest in the Pilot Boat Hotel."
"It is good to see you again, cousin," Balfour said, mildly embarrassed by Glyndon's boisterous enthusiasm. "It has been some time."
"Decades, cousin!" Glyndon leaned forward, embracing his relative. "We were both unruly urchins, no more than 10 years old when last we plotted anarchy and pandemonium. We caused monumental turmoil that summer in London at your father's estate. 'Masters of bedlam,' your governess called us."
"I have not forgotten that summer." Balfour shrank in his skin, feeling Cartwright's eyes upon him. He had not realized that Glyndon might be eager to share stories about his youth that he would prefer to keep secret. "Though I confess, I am not proud of some of the mischief we achieved."
"We were young and undisciplined." Glyndon patted his cousin on the shoulder. "Best to rid oneself of those wild impulses before the appalling malaise of terminal adulthood sets in, I think. One should have memories of wanton disorderliness and wild intractability to reflect upon when the countless hardships of life besiege us."
None of the Pickmanites had noticed that the grey skies had grown menacingly black. Though each member of the group prided himself on a keen capacity for observation, none of them detected the gentle breeze had increased to a persistent gale. None of them read the telltale signs that warned of an oncoming tempest. The light rain that had been falling on and off for the last hour at that moment transformed into a soaking deluge.
"Follow me," Glyndon shouted as the winds continued to increase. "I will send someone to collect your luggage from the coaches and have the horses taken to a stable for the duration of your stay."
The group scrambled across the roadway, jumping over a stream of runoff water surging down the thoroughfare toward the harbour. Inside the lobby of the Pilot Boat Hotel, Glyndon spoke with the manager of the inn and asked him to take care of Balfour and his associates.
"This is Joseph Leach," Glyndon said. "He will see to your rooms and your gear. I will join you in the dining room this evening for dinner."
"At your service," Leach said. A thin, genteel-looking man, fetching save for his prodigious bulging eyes, he forced an unconvincing smile as he nodded his head. "Please let me know if I can assist you in any way."
As Leach took his leave to prepare their rooms, Wallace caught a whiff of an unpleasant stench - an odd odour he had encountered a short time earlier as he explored that crumbling neighbourhood saturated by some unidentifiable putrescence.
"Thank you, cousin, for your hospitality." Balfour shook Glyndon's hand. "I look forward to reminiscing with you as soon as I meet with Miss Anning. Do you know where we can find her?"
"I am going to search for her now," Glyndon said, a worried look on his face. "She was hunting for fossils on the beach. I only hope she was paying more attention to the sky and saw this storm approaching. With those crumbling cliffs, her vocation is dangerous work on any given day - but when the weather turns foul, like this, someone caught unaware on that narrow strip of shoreline can be buried in a mudslide without warning."
iii.
An Ancient Ruin
Night had fallen before Algernon Glyndon returned to the Pilot Boat Hotel. He traipsed into the lobby, sopping wet, his fine clothes caked in mud and seawater. His face showed his exhaustion, and his hands busied themselves with brushing aside layers of muck that fell to the floor only to reveal additional stains.
"Good Lord!" Balfour spotted Glyndon first, looking up from a book that had held his attention for hours. "Are you all right, man?"
"I am," Glyndon said, tentatively smiling. Somehow, his smile only accentuated the grime that enveloped every inch of his exposed flesh. "And I bring good news: Miss Anning is fine. She found shelter long before I arrived. I intended to be her saviour, but it was she who saved me, leading me through the darkness back to town after nightfall. I owe her my life."
"Please, Mr. Glyndon, do not consider yourself indebted to me. I have enough obligations and assurances to commit to memory." Mary Anning strolled through the front door of the inn, depositing a cumbersome umbrella near the entrance before surveying each member of the Pickmanites with scrupulous inquisitiveness. Unlike Glyndon, she showed no visible sign of being left the worse for wear after the afternoon cloudburst: not a speck of mud on her clothing, not a hint of dishevelment in her appearance, and not a note of tension in her demeanour. After examining the group, her gaze finally settled on Clifford Balfour.
"You, sir," she said with unambiguous authority. "Though we have never met face to face, I presume you are the honourable Clifford Balfour, geologist and paleontologist associated with the British Museum."
"Yes, ma'am." Balfour confirmed her deduction. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance."
"Thank you," Anning said. "And I yours." She paused, turning to Glyndon who continued to shed enough water to generate a broad puddle on the floor. "Should you not go and find clean, dry clothing, Mr. Glyndon? I will not have you stand here freezing and inviting some respiratory malady to settle in your lungs after I risked my own life rescuing you."
"That seems like sound advice, ma'am." Glyndon summoned his employee with a snap of his fingers, causing Leach to spring into action from his alcove behind the reception desk. The lanky fellow disappeared into a nearby alcove, presumably to fetch clean clothing for his employer. "Give me an hour to rid myself of this filth and we can all have something to eat."
"Be back in less than 30 minutes," Anning commanded. She glanced toward the fireplace and took note of the time reported by the mantel clock. "It is already nearly 10 p.m. If we are to reach Black Ven by midnight, we must leave shortly."
Anning spoke with such confidence and authority, no one thought to question why she felt it necessary to make the trip in the middle of the night. As they waited for the return of their host, Balfour took the opportunity to introduce his associates to Anning.
"I hope you do not mind that I invited these gentlemen," Balfour said, worried that Anning might be aggravated with him. "We are united in a certain fraternity. They share my curiosity and may be more equipped to solve the mystery you described in your letter."
"I welcome anyone who will view it with an open mind." Anning plucked a small ammonite fossil from her pocket. "This relic represents the organic remains of a previous geologic era. Though I recovered it, it is not my property. I do not view it as a possession. Obviously, I make a living selling fossils - but the prices I assign to each piece are for the time and labour that went into procuring my inventory, and for my knowledge and experience."
"I understand," Balfour said. "You believe everyone should have the opportunity to see prehistoric relics."
"Yes, though I do acknowledge some limitations that may restrict access to some individuals." Anning eyed her visitors, half expecting someone to blurt out their opinion that women had no business partaking in scientific endeavours. Of course, Anning did much more than act as an enthusiastic participant: She was a prolific contributor to the field. "Just as one would not give a fragile piece of antique porcelain to an infant with no comprehension of its value, it would be absurd to entrust the discovery of an archaic archeological site to rural residents whose religious affinities might inspire them to acts of defacement or destruction."
"Indeed," Cartwright said, nodding as he stood and approached Anning. He could not disguise the mix of bafflement and respect he felt at meeting such an interesting figure. "That is a remarkably wise consideration."
"For a woman?" Anning studied him, searching his eyes for signs of either deep-seated bias or sincere acknowledgment. She expected tolerance at the least, but hoped for genuine recognition. "I suspect you do not often show appreciation for any females in London who make an effort to be something other than wife and mother, and show interest in anything beyond etiquette and manners."
"Perhaps I should introduce them to you, Miss Anning," Cartwright said. "They could certainly learn a few things."
Cartwright's response evidently pleased the renowned fossil collector, and she rewarded him with a modest smile and a hint of redness in her cheeks.
"Have no fear of Tavish Cartwright, Miss Anning - his querulous deportment is a façade to dissuade the unenlightened from attempting to engage him in mindless banter." Balfour retrieved from his coat pocket the correspondence that summoned him to her small town. "Should I infer from the contents of your letter and from what you have said here this evening that you have not revealed your discovery to anyone else in Lyme Regis?"
"You may," Anning said. "Mr. Glyndon knows I found something of interest, but I have not shared any details with him - for doing so would be tantamount to printing it upon exhibition handbills and posting them around town." Anning's suggestion amused her guests, and she joined them in laughing at Glyndon's expense.
Following the aside, she grew more serious. "As I reported to you, this structure - be it an ancient temple or burial mound or part of some megalithic ceremonial complex - is unlike any other I have seen detailed in history texts. Just from the small portion that can be seen protruding from the cliff, it features asymmetrical design and unorthodox architecture, and seems dependent upon principles of geometry that clash with every axiom mathematicians regard as self-evident."
A moment later, Glyndon reappeared in the lobby of the inn.
"Unless anyone objects, I think we should respect Miss Anning's advice and dawdle not a moment longer," Balfour said. Cartwright nodded in concurrence, and Roland Wallace was already on his feet and moving toward the front door. "If you would be so kind, Miss Anning: Please introduce us to this ancient ruin."
"Just one moment: Although I am eager to investigate the site," Godolphin said, "I must exempt myself from this evening's foray. The journey took its toll on this old codger's rickety frame, and the thought of even a short hike fills me with unease. This time of year, there seems to be too many hours in a day. I grow weary."
"Find yourself a soft cushion in a comfortable room at the inn, Oldfield." Balfour empathized with his companion's fatigue. Should he allow himself the luxury of relaxing in a snug chair, closing his eyes for just a passing moment, Balfour knew he would drift off into a sound sleep. Only the excitement over glimpsing the ruin kept him from succumbing to drowsiness. "We will report back to you in the morning."
Had any townsfolk happened to gaze out the window that night, they might have seen Mary Anning escorting the Pickmanites - Clifford Balfour, Tavish Cartwright, and Roland Wallace - and the local innkeeper, Algernon Glyndon, through the darkness. No one invited Glyndon, but he found himself an adjunct to their adventure.
It took no more than 45 minutes of travel, walking at a brisk pace through the sleeping town and then along the shoreline, to reach Black Ven. The sand beneath their feet quickly gave way to an endless stretch of pebbles. Anning assured them that the tide would not return until dawn, so they faced no danger from rising water and swirling currents. Tidal pools gathered in basins along rock ledges that appeared at irregular intervals along the water's edge.
Glyndon supplied each member of the party with a lantern that glowed with ample luminosity. With their combined light - added to that of a waxing gibbous moon hanging low in the black dome of night and glimmering on Lyme Bay - even the darkest shadows showed reluctance as they traversed the twilit path.
Beneath that resplendent moon, Black Ven seemed far less ill-omened than its name and reputation implied. The cliff face bisected one of the many hills which divides the valleys of the Char and the Lyme stream. Its seaward countenance revealed parallel veins of compacted layers cataloguing bygone ages. Clays and limestone bordered yellowish brown sand, which lay adjacent to soil and subsoil, and black and dark green loams. One specific stratum held all those treasures Anning had pursued for most of her life: the preserved remains of once living organisms, their bodies buried in sediments after death, concealed from scrutiny for countless millennia, conserved and eventually exposed again by a perpetual interplay of biological and geological cycles.
"Be wary, and mind the cliff's expression," Anning said. She scanned its bulk, taking interest in heaps of fallen mud dislodged in the recent downpour. Rivulets of runoff continued to spill over the escarpment, creating a series of cataracts tumbling down the precipice. "You can sense when an avalanche is imminent. None of you want to find yourselves in close proximity to the cliff at the moment of earthfall."
Anning led them along a tortuous route that lacked an evident destination. Her tedious, meandering course reminded Balfour of a wretched drunkard wandering the streets of Pimlico, a district of London noted for its brick pits and its alehouses. Despite the aimlessness of Anning's progress, none of the Pickmanites questioned her leadership: She advanced with such poise and certitude that they entrusted their fate to her as she escorted them ever closer to the cliffs at the back of the beach.
"Here." Anning stopped suddenly, holding out a hand to caution her guests. Before her, a great crag projected from the pebble beach, its height and bulk and curious configuration reminiscent of certain dolmens scattered across the English countryside - though this formation was more colossal in scope. "This is where I found the structure."
"I fear this may have been an unnecessary sojourn, Clifford," Cartwright said, quickly concluding that Anning had been mistaken in her assessment. "This is nothing more than a common scarp, young lady. Just a peculiar bit of chert stone, jutting through the ground, perhaps recently exposed after part of the adjoining cliff collapsed into the surf."
"Give her a moment, Tavish." Balfour had more confidence in Anning than his mentor. "In her letter, she explained that it is not easily perceived by an untrained eye."
"That is correct, sir." Anning presented her hand to Balfour. "If you would allow me - "
Balfour nodded and took her hand in his. She stepped cautiously as she skirted the crag, searching for the right position from which to view it. As they proceeded, Balfour watched as its contours transformed. Its configuration seemed dependent upon their vantage point, so that each step brought some significant alteration in its silhouette. Then, abruptly, Balfour saw it: an arched temple door, plagued by shadow, beckoning from deep within a slender fissure within the rock. Steps had been carved into the stone along a narrow path that ascended the crevice. The lantern light illuminated archaic symbols along the walls.
"Tavish," Balfour said, gasping. "Tavish: You are going to want to see this. And, I believe you owe Miss Anning an apology."
"Indeed," Cartwright said, his tone now jubilant. He and Wallace quickly joined Balfour at the breach.
Anning refused to enter the natural corridor, alluding to her previous attempt at further exploration which left her unnerved and anxious.
"I simply will not put myself in that position again," she said. "There is something unsettling in that place. You will feel it, too, once the shadows envelop you and the world behind you starts to fade away."
Glyndon volunteered to stay on the beach with Anning, though no one believed his insistence that he only did so to safeguard her. One by one, the Pickmanites entered the slender gap in the rocky protrusion, climbing its polished steps, shifting their bodies into awkward and contorted poses to negotiate the constricted passage. Their lanterns splashed light into cracks and clefts that had gone unseen for countless ages. Their fingers brushed against unfamiliar glyphs that no scholar could begin to decipher. Their eyes surveyed the darkness beyond the temple door, trying to ascertain how such a voluminous sanctuary could be contained within the limited bounds of the outcropping.
"The pathway stretches farther than my cursory assessment projected," Cartwright said, half whispering his growing trepidation to Balfour. "Either some optical illusion is at play, or there are forces at work here that I do not understand."
"No matter which phenomena explains this enigma, it was worth the journey," Balfour said. "And we have yet to see what treasures await us inside the antechamber."
"Treasures?" Wallace, the last in line as they traversed the passage, sounded dismayed. He recognized the symbols etched into the stone. He recognized the stench of an unidentifiable putrescence, its loathsomeness only slightly surpassed by the pungency of seaweed and other marine life that comprised the coastal ecology. He even thought he glimpsed a brief twinkling of uncanny radiance spilling through the arched temple entryway, and perhaps a fleeting echo of discordant voices muttering blasphemous hymns.
"I would not expect treasures in such a place," Wallace said. "I would expect to find something not meant for discovery - something ancient and monstrous."
Before either Balfour or Cartwright could respond to Wallace's pessimism, a more palpable peril confronted them. Overhead, the glimmering stars visible through the narrow fissure disappeared behind an ominous, black mass. Thunder rumbled across the beach, and the crag shook with violent tremors. Realizing what was happening, the men froze in their tracks for a moment before scrambling toward the temple door as fast as their feet would carry them.
Mary Anning screamed the last word they heard as they clambered for shelter. Her warning echoed along the corridor."Earthfall!"
iv.
The Old Religion
Morning brought Oldfield Godolphin back to the lobby of the Pilot Boat Hotel, though he felt no sense of urgency in greeting the new day. He selected a few items from a bountiful breakfast buffet, engaged in conversation with fellow guests, and inquired about where he might find someone capable of repairing a hole in one of his shoes. Though he made repeated inquiries at the reception desk as to the whereabouts of his colleagues, he found no one able to provide him with an update.
Waiting in the lobby, the historian finally encountered a man of similar age who seemed equally isolated and eager for some distraction to lift him out of boredom. After brief introductions, the two men discovered a shared affinity for folklore.
"I have found these folk to be a superstitious lot," the man told Godolphin. "As beholden to local legends as to any modern church. I believe some of them may secretly embrace pagan gods from some forgotten religion that was practiced before the Romans arrived on these shores."
"You would be surprised at how common that is around Europe," Godolphin assured him. "There are pockets of cultists to be found in any country. Adherents of ancient creeds are as common as crofters who make offerings to fertility deities."
"I am told that the people of Lyme Regis have a unique cycle of stories involving creatures from the sea that emerge from dormancy once or twice each century," he explained. "Even now, their town elders blame recent livestock mutilations and a few unexplained disappearances on these small, amphibious beasts."
"That is very interesting." Godolphin recalled a local legend he had once researched. "This place is not far from Weymouth and Portland, and the perilous banks of Chesil Beach, where locals claim to have found a monstrous finfolk hag washed up and decomposing on the shifting pebbles of the coastline not more than three quarters of a century ago. I'm told there are a few lifelong residents, now at an advanced age, that witnessed that particular horror."
"Perhaps the events are related," the man said in a serious tone. He then laughed, amused by the charm of such unbelievable stories. "Or, perhaps the inhabitants of both locales indulge in the same hallucinogenic toadstools when constructing such tales."
At that moment, Algernon Glyndon burst through the front door of the hotel, covered from head to toe in mud.
"We need help on the beach." His eyes gleamed with panic. His face showed a mix of fatigue and dismay. "People are buried on the beach. Part of Black Ven collapsed. Miss Anning and I escaped, but others are trapped in some kind a rock formation that is now resting beneath the landslide."
"Bloody Balfour and his adventures," Godolphin said, rising to his feet. "How will you get yourself out of this one, old friend?"
As Glyndon rallied rescuers in the street, a thin, genteel-looking man - a man with prodigious bulging eyes - approached the only member of the Pickmanites who had avoided the overnight calamity.
"Mr. Godolphin, a word if I may. I cannot overstate the danger your friends currently face." Joseph Leach spoke with a degree of dramatic intensity that filled the historian with sudden dread. His voice sounded oddly different, deep and sharp, with a strange frog-like croaking underlying each syllable. "They are likely still alive, but they will not survive long given their situation. I believe I can assist you in locating them, if you are willing to do what I ask."
"Of course," Godolphin agreed. "Whatever you need."
"Then follow me, quickly." Leach grabbed two lanterns from behind the reception desk on his way toward the door. "Be aware that our route will take us through a network of underground passages filled with hibernating creatures. Silence is critical. Should we rouse them, none of us will see the light of day again."
Leach led Godolphin down a shadowy cobblestone lane. The edifices in this neighbourhood differed from those elsewhere in Lyme Regis. The dwellings predated the community that had blossomed around them, and centuries of neglect and stagnation hinted at both their antiquity and at the vileness of those who populated the homes. More than disrepair and dereliction maligned this neighbourhood. The very composition and design of each abode contradicted basic architectural motifs and opposed the laws of physics. The geometry employed undermined logic and, if viewed continually over an extended period of time, might destabilize one's grasp on reality.
In a squalid cul-de-sac, they reached some form of depraved chapel. The morning sun, now climbing toward its midday zenith, failed to dispel vast patches of shadow encircling the house of profane worship. Leach passed through a gate before arriving at a doorway. From his pocket, he plucked a key that fit the lock, giving them access to whatever wickedness held sway within the building. Inside, strange symbols covered the walls from floor to vaulted ceiling.
"I have never seen these markings." Godolphin hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching for a single familiar character that might help him understand their derivation. "How old is this place?"
"It is believed it was here before the Romans came," Leach said. "And the labyrinth below is far older." Leach arrived at a trapdoor in the floor of the chapel, sealed with a heavy bolt. He slid the bolt aside and used a winch to roll back a chain, opening the access point just enough to reveal a series of steps leading down into darkness. "We must move quickly. They will stir at nightfall, but they sometimes leave watchers to guard their nests."
"Who lives in this subterranean world?" Godolphin took the lantern and reluctantly peered down into the cavern. "What are these creatures?"
"The remnants of an old civilization," Leach said. "Their merchants once engaged in commerce at trading posts in the subterranean realm of K'n-yan, and with scrounging exiles ejected from Y'ha-nthlei and Y'lu-Y'loa. Their explorers once catalogued the black idols of Tsathoggua found buried in grim caverns of N'kai. Their diplomats once decreed an alliance with distant Mnar, long before the fall of that empire's famed capital."
"I have not heard of any of these kingdoms," Godolphin said.
"From what source have you learned of their history?"
"They existed before our eldest ancestors had developed the tools and the skills to communicate, much less record history," Leach said. "We are left only with the scraps of their documents, most of which remain undeciphered. That - and the brutish inheritors of their legacy, perverted by millennia of inescapable disease and degeneracy."
"And this place?"
"This place serves to keep them confined to their fetid underworld," Leach said. "The earliest settlers of this land built this shrine, both to imprison them and to furnish them with sustenance by making ritual offerings from time to time. Over the centuries, their custodianship somehow deteriorated into shameless worship. Instead of fish or poultry, the zealots began throwing their own children into the pit."
"And the townsfolk did nothing to stop this madness?"
"Other than the families that live on this street, the residents of Lyme Regis have no knowledge of this abomination," Leach said. "They refuse to see it - just as so many people in your great city turn their gaze from ubiquitous scenes of poverty, intolerance, and cruelty." Leach began descending the steps into the darkness. "Come with me, and keep quiet. If my memory of this warren is intact, I should be able to find your friends - assuming the creatures have not already claimed them as their next meal."
Having been entombed in the temple following a landslide, it only took the Pickmanites a few minutes to come to a consensus on the best course of action. Clifford Balfour and Roland Wallace agreed that it might take days - if not weeks - for the residents of Lyme Regis to remove the debris and reach them. None of them knew for certain that Mary Anning and Algernon Glyndon had even survived the calamity, or that they were in any condition to make the return hike back to the town and raise an alarm.
"We may well die in this sepulchre, fellow travellers." Balfour maintained his characteristic composure, unruffled by the disastrous event that might bring about their doom. "If death is fast approaching, at least I have an interesting milieu to explore as I await it."
"Always eager to put your quest for knowledge above self-preservation," Cartwright said, chiding his friend. "Although I will agree that this discovery is unparalleled. Still, I should inform you that if I do die here, I intend to return as a spirit and haunt your family members as retribution."
The Pickmanites shared three lanterns, each with a limited span of usefulness. They possessed neither food nor water. They had unlimited time, assuming the air within the chamber did not grow too thin or foul to breathe, and they found they had much to explore.
From the temple's antechamber, a long corridor stretched into infinite darkness. Its direction suggested that it followed a linear path inland, beneath Black Ven and back toward Lyme Regis. The passage's low ceiling meant they had to bend at the knees and proceed cautiously, but the possibility of additional access points scattered amidst the Dorsetshire landscape gave them some amount of hope.
"Imagine how long it has been since men have wandered this passage," Balfour said as he stared down the corridor. His lantern light failed to expose any immediate revelations. Its radiance seemed to infuriate the clustered shadows, and they mustered in the distance as if preparing to repel any attempt at incursion. "Shall we conduct what may be our final investigation?"
"Let me go first," Wallace said, stepping into the corridor. "I have seen tunnels like this before, in coastal villages in Ceylon. I have an idea of what may populate this grotto." He stooped low, holding his lantern before him. "If I am correct, then it is entirely possible that men have never set foot in this place."
Joseph Leach and Oldfield Godolphin maintained as brisk a pace as the elderly Pickmanite could endure, though even now his legs ached and his lungs burned. At Leach's insistence, they did not deviate from the main corridor, though countless spur trails branched off at regular intervals on either side. At times when they came upon a fork in the path, Godolphin could not understand why Leach chose one over the other. He could discern no difference between any two channels.
Godolphin glanced down one or two of the smaller tributaries, scanning as much of those passages as his lantern light illuminated. He saw clear evidence of predation in the form of animal bones picked clean of flesh and meat. He saw foul pools of filth in spaces that may have been designated as communal latrines. He saw signs of perpetual tenancy, as though countless generations had come and gone, gradually declining from their civilization's peak in the distant past into the perverted, parasitic clan of savages that persisted only because of the misguided veneration of an ancient cult. He saw along the route countless objects crowded into inexplicable burrows: elongated, oval-shaped, blue-green formations that seemed too numerous and too uniform to be geologic anomalies.
And Godolphin saw the creatures, too - in a myriad of malodorous lairs scattered along the corridor, each horror curled in upon itself in an embryonic affectation, their slimy bodies twitching as they dreamed of unspeakable excesses and violence, their three-toed feet jutting into the air, their hideous faces twisted into appalling veneers that blended ferocity with unintended innocence. Something about their descent into uncultured barbarism made Godolphin suddenly feel sorry for them. In their slumber, he saw traces of simplicity and naiveté, and of forgotten grace and decency.
In that instant, he questioned whether humanity might be equally inclined to eventually lapse back into uncivilized brutishness.
"I see a light in the distance," Leach whispered. He slowed his gait and thrust a hand against Godolphin's chest to bring him to a halt. "Yes, it must be your friends."
"They must see us," Godolphin said, smiling. "They seem to be hurrying to reach us."
Both men suddenly realized that it was not in recognition of their salvation that they made haste: They were being pursued.
Cartwright, Balfour, and Wallace raced down the length of the corridor, grunting and gasping for air, their lanterns swinging wildly and frequently crashing into the walls. Each sound stirred more creatures from their slumber, adding to the number of predators scrambling to catch their prey. When conscious, these mindless beasts thought of nothing other than filling their bellies. Hunger drove them to madness, leaving no room for thought of strategy or cunning. That attribute gave the Pickmanites a fair chance at eluding them. But as more and more creatures joined the pursuit, the good fortune of those being hunted diminished.
Wallace felt one at his heels. He spun around and pounded his fist into the thing's chest. He felt its brittle bones snap upon impact, and it uttered an awful squeal as it fell to the floor. Immediately, half a dozen of its cannibalistic brethren surrounded it, tearing it apart even as it continued to howl. The things ripped its limbs from its small body as others snapped at its head, its neck, and its torso. Within seconds, its final cries subsided, and the ravenous beasts had all but devoured it.
Realising that the others could be delayed if presented with a corpse, Wallace grabbed two of the creatures and shoved them headfirst into the wall, causing their skulls to burst. He tossed them at the oncoming horde before resuming his flight.
By the time the Pickmanites reached Leach and Godolphin, the creatures had encircled the small party. They lingered along the periphery of lantern light, desperate to satiate their hunger but hesitant leave the sanctuary of shadow, even for a moment.
"They will not approach," Leach said. "The light prevents them from doing so, for now."
"These lanterns will not last forever," Cartwright said. "If you have any thoughts on how we can escape this catacomb, now would be a good time to share them."
"We walk," Leach said. "Slowly, carefully, we walk down the corridor, remaining in a circle, holding our lanterns aloft, maintaining this pocket of illumination. I will lead us back to Lyme Regis - if they will allow it."
"If you are capable of such a feat, we will all be indebted to you, Mr. Leach," Balfour said. "But these corridors form a formidable maze. I cannot imagine how you will find your way out this place."
"These corridors are etched into my memory, Mr. Balfour, because I once dwelled in amongst them." Leach kneeled and removed his shoes. He displayed his misshapen, three-toed feet, which matched those of the creatures. "I was a born into this nightmare, along with many other unfortunate people that live in an isolated neighbourhood of Lyme Regis. These creatures are our shame, our remote past, and - sadly - our family."
Upon recognizing Leach as a distant relative, the creatures receded slightly into the shadows, though they did not entirely abandon their hopes of picking one or more of the outsiders from the group as a luscious repast. They trailed the small party for some time, gradually slipping further into the darkness, until finally, they disappeared altogether.
Leach made good on his promise, delivering the Pickmanites back to the Pilot Boat Hotel, much to the delight of Algernon Glyndon and Mary Anning.
After a celebratory meal and a night of much-needed sleep, Clifford Balfour and his friends prepared for their return to London. Before departing, he visited Anning's Fossil Depot, hoping he could persuade the fossil collector to sell him a few choice pieces from her inventory.
"I apologize for bringing you here and putting you and your friends through such a trial," Anning said. "I am afraid that the town does not possess the manpower or the equipment to excavate the temple."
"I am not certain that it should ever be uncovered again, Miss Anning," Balfour said. "I am not sure it is something that should be brought to the attention of the masses. Its existence may be best left a guarded secret."
"I am surprised a man of science should wish to conceal knowledge." Anning glanced over Balfour's shoulder. "Your cousin is beckoning you."
"He can wait." Balfour directed Anning's attention to the fossils on display in the storefront. "I wonder if you might be willing to part with one of these exquisite pieces, as a memento of my visit."
"I am afraid the flying dragon has already been acquired by another collector in London," she said. "Should I find another, I will give you the opportunity to purchase it before contacting anyone else."
"That is gracious of you, Miss Anning." Balfour eyed the elongated, oval-shaped, blue-green object resting in the wicker basket in the window. "And what about this piece?"
"That is available," Anning said. "And I will let you have it at no cost, if you promise me to make me an honorary member of your little fraternity."
"The committee might not approve." Balfour smiled. "Which makes me all the more willing to accept your terms. I will see to it as soon as we return to London."
"Thank you, Mr. Balfour. I look forward to meeting you again someday." Anning raised an arm and waved. "Your cousin is growing a bit impatient."
"I think my cousin may be smitten with you."
"His starry-eyed adoration has not escaped my attention," she said. "Sadly, I have little time for romantic entanglements. I have told him this repeatedly."
"I hope he does not bother you so much that you find it distracting."
"Mr. Balfour: Nothing distracts me from my work."
Tavish Cartwright, still standing, surveyed the room. He surmised that the Pickmanites found his tale as engaging as it was inimitable, but could sense among them an element of bemusement. He anticipated their unspoken queries:
"As mentioned earlier, this account was subject to concealment for more than one year," Cartwright explained. "Last week, Clifford Balfour brought to my attention an internal memorandum issued by the British Museum. It presents an account of an incident involving an unidentified artefact, described as an elongated, oval-shaped, blue-green object' the surface of which displayed swirls and striations as well as multiple stress fractures. Because it was not part of a current exhibit, the object was secured in the museum's extensive collection area. The memorandum reads:
On the morning of November 17, a museum employee found the object on the floor, shattered. The museum launched a routine investigation to determine how the object - which was housed in a small wooden box - was destroyed.
Though the comments do not appear in the memorandum, Clifford Balfour states that the employee who discovered the object also stated that he observed a trail of crusty, three-toed footprints. He followed the trail into a subbasement in the museum, where they subsequently disappeared…"