My dearest Jordana,
The story I am about to relate to you is full of wonders and horrors too strange for human minds. Its nature is such that, if placed in the wrong hands, would surely bring the highest ruin and disgrace upon my head. Your uncle is far too weak to bear such disappointment and keep on living. Rather than risk such embarrassment, I have chosen to keep the tale locked away in the darkest corner of my mind, until you were ready to hear it. You, my closest companion and confidant, my partner in adventure and daughter in all but name, the only person who never grew tired of my endless pratting; you must have outgrown fairy tales long ago, yet still I place my story in your hands, most marvelous of nieces.
I wanted so much to tell you in person, to enjoy the look of innocent wonder upon your face as you listened to my adventure. But I dare not. For in truth, Jordana, your uncle is a coward. I could not bear to see myself fall in your eyes. Such is my cowardice that I have elected not to include this item with the other affairs of my estate. I want no possibility that your mother or any other relative will find and defile its contents. I have made arrangements with dear old Mr. Poe for you to receive this only after my passing. Please do not fault him for carrying out my final wishes. He was a good friend to your mother and I, and, I hope, will be so to you as well.
Though I thoroughly enjoyed telling you all those bedtime stories, I always considered them mere entertainment, an intellectual rest on the road to true knowledge. This you know, for I taught you to think the same. If you had ever come to me with a story like the one you will soon read, I would have walked you through the scientific method and pointed out where your story failed to measure up. I would have showed you how, since you could not prove or properly theorize your story, it was not science and therefore could not exist. If it somehow managed to pass my rigorous examination, I would demand you show it to me and would refuse to believe it until I saw it with my own eyes. Then, like so many times before, when you would give way to the inevitable frustration, I would shake my head and laugh, telling you that someday you would understand.
I hope you have not lost your stubborn desire to believe by the time you read this, for I have no proof to give you. No data or empirical evidence exist to substantiate my claims. What you are about to read is an apostasy of science falsely so called; the apostle was referring to men such as I when he spoke of those who resist truth, for I cannot even now admit to myself the truth of my own story. You may be surprised at my reference to the Scriptures; me, your cynical old uncle who used to so ridicule the words of that Holy Book. I have never been one for religion; Charles Darwin has been my master and science my faith since the earliest days of my youth. But in my last years, the years since the events of my story, I have taken to perusing those sacred pages, searching for some small measure of hope to aid me as I take life’s final journey. If any of my colleagues at the university or the Evolutionist Society ever knew of my secret hobby, my name would be ruined. I cannot blame them. But I continue to read, nonetheless. Such is my hypocrisy.
My dear Jordana, you have been the one source of true happiness in my dull, selfish life. Not for all the riches in the universe would I trade the hours I spent with you. Thank you for putting up with my empty theorems and childish stories. Now, I ask you to listen to one last adventure. It may shock or even anger you, but I swear, by all I hold dear, that it is true.
My story begins on September 29th of last year (1940). I am sure of the date because I had just bought my daily newspaper, and it remained with me throughout my ordeal. My classes at the university were going well; Modern Ecology in particular had excited me. As the faculty of the College of Science had never before trusted me with this advanced course, I was nervous about doing a good job and had spent my entire summer preparing. But no amount of study could have prepared me for what I would soon experience.
I had just crossed 5th street in front of Pedro’s Panadería on my way to campus from my flat in Lower East Side when a feminine wail arrested my attention. It came from a thin town house, one of those built by the hundred and sandwiched together, where a small, middle-aged woman was rushing down the stairs after a duo of tall men wearing identical black trenches. The woman grasped the two men by the hems of their coats and pulled hard, weeping and crying out in a language I did not understand, but guessed to be Polish. The two men—thugs most likely—turned around and shoved her, shouting in the same language. She continued to wail, but they shouted louder. Soon children began to issue from the house, as well as an ancient hag who screamed at the men. This distressing situation lay right along my normal route to school. I had no desire to pass through the spat; the two thugs had probably given the woman an eviction notice and, clearly, they were not going to extend their deadline.
I decided to avoid the altercation altogether. Rather than cross the street and then have to cross it again later, I elected to go the opposite direction. The university lay only several blocks away; I would not lose much time by backtracking and taking the parallel street a block over. I distanced myself from the situation with all possible speed.
Once I rounded the corner, my pace returned to normal. The sight of the poor woman had rattled my composure, but I comforted myself with the thought that there was nothing I could have done for her. “Besides,” I told myself, “she’s just another animal struggling for life like the rest of us. If she can’t survive, her weaker genes will be eliminated from the human race, and we will be better for it.” I am ashamed to admit such things to you, my dear. I now realize those thoughts were only a shield with which I had learned to protect myself from the harsh reality of life outside my classroom.
But having pacified my pesky conscience for the moment, my mind soon left the woman and returned to my surroundings. As a creature of habit, I had never deviated from my normal route and thus, the street I walked was altogether new to me. It differed little from the others in the neighborhood, except for an art studio on the corner and a curious alleyway halfway down. I recalled no corresponding alley way on the other side of the block, upon which sat the First National Bank. Curious, I glanced down the alley, expecting to see a backdoor, perhaps a private entrance. But I was wrong—the alley ran to the back of the bank and made a sharp turn to the left.
My watch read twenty-eight minutes past seven. I had a good thirty-two minutes to reach the campus and organize my lecture notes. Darwinism, my topic, was as much a part of me as oxygen—I could have given the lecture in my sleep. I decided that a quick detour down the alley, a “scientific observation” as it were, was permissible.
With a spring in my step, I hurried down the alley. Rounding the corner, I ran smack into a tall iron gate. Beyond the gate, the alley turned to the right, blocking my view once again. The gate supported my theory of a private entrance to the bank, but with it barring my way, I would not know for sure. Exasperated, I kicked the door in frustration and to my surprise, it swung open. With a mischievous smile, I hurried through. For such a boring man as I, this bit of adventure gave me quite a thrill. Perhaps the bank president left the gate open on accident, I thought to myself. I eagerly rounded the corner, expecting to find my secret door.
It was a door, but, oh, what a door! Though no larger than that of a good-sized apartment, it filled my vision like a mountain. Its composition was of a substance I could not identify—certainly not wood, nor any common metal. It was the color of stained mahogany, but darker and richer, ornately carved with fantastic angles. Upon closer examination I discovered it was covered in runes, akin to those of Scandinavian origin but softer and more sophisticated, woven together in intricate patterns of decorative beauty. The door seemed to pulse and glow with some inner vitality as if it were a living organism. The soft scent of sweet herbs tickled my nostrils.
I stood fascinated for several minutes while an indescribable yearning to open the door gripped my thoughts. But I remained motionless, my timidity warring with my curiosity. My experiment had yielded results beyond my expectations and therefore required additional study before further experiments could be attempted. Too many unknown variables had surfaced, and my knowledge of the subject was too small. I did not even have a decent hypothesis with which to focus my efforts. The practical man inside me advised that I not open the door until I had properly prepared.
But Jordana, the man of science was not strong enough. Curiosity, the aspect of human nature more deserving of credit for the great discoveries of the world than all the knowledge and good intentions combined, won the day. I reached out and grasped the door handle, a large golden thing in the exact center of the door. I turned and pushed. Nothing happened. It would not budge.
Frustration welled up in me until I realized that it must open outward. Feeling a little foolish, I tried again, pulling instead of pushing. This time the door yielded and began to swing towards me. It was much lighter than I had expected and moved without a sound on invisible hinges. Into the alley spilled light so bright I could not see beyond. I shielded my eyes with my hand but could make out nothing. I had to step through. As I raised my foot, my mind threw up several half-hearted warnings, but they were swept away along with all thoughts of bankers, universities, and hypotheses. My foot came down and I took my first step into the radiant light.
The first thing I noticed was a difference in temperature. Beyond the door, the air was cooler and goosebumps began to form on my arm. Moisture crept into my loafers as they sank into soft, spongy earth. As the great light faded, I found I was submerged in a thick fog, the type of which permits vision for a short distance but dissolves all else into mystery. A soft pink light emanated all around me, but I could not locate its source. The air hung heavy and silent. No wind moved and not a sound reached my ears. It was as if I had stepped out of our world into a realm of nothingness.
For a moment I stood in silence, unsure of what to do next. Then the fog began to lift, and tall, spindly shapes materialized out of the ether. I shrank back in alarm before I recognized them as thin, bare trees. They surrounded me in more or less organized rows like a park, but just random enough to be a forest. Some were tall, fifteen meters high, though most were only a few meters. They ranged in color from pink to light-purple and glowed with their own inner luminance. Upon closer examination, I found that their branches were not bare at all but covered in short, translucent hairs. The bark was also semi-translucent, and, together with the nearly invisible hairs, served to magnify the soft magenta glow that came from the hearts of the trees. When I poked one, it responded with a dark spread of color where had I touched it, like blood rushing up to the skin after the arm has been grasped.
At that point, I realized I was not inside the bank, but the thought slipped away as the fading fog continued to reveal more of the bizarre landscape. Beneath my feet, a spongy, blue-green moss blanketed the ground. I pulled some up to examine its root structure and found the earth wet and thick with assorted minerals. It gave off a rich, musty smell, like a rotting log, but without the bitterness. No other plants besides the curious light-trees and the moss grew within my vision. Far above my head hung a low, ochre-tinted sky. Neither sun nor cloud interrupted its vast expanse.
By the time I had satisfied my immediate curiosity, the fog had almost lifted, revealing a pathway through the forest. I walked several yards down the path before my brain checked my feet. What was I thinking? I turned and looked back at the door, the last link to my known world. It loomed like a monolith, its outline blurred by the last traces of fog. Were I to take just a few more steps, it would disappear from my view around a bend in the trail.
Right there I almost lost my nerve and retreated to more familiar settings. But then I noticed I had left the door open just a crack. Through it, I made out the familiar dark bricks of the alleyway. I turned and looked back down the bend in the trail, beyond which I could see nothing. For a moment I stood frozen with indecision. But fortunately (or unfortunately, I still have not decided), my curiosity won out. The path beckoned me onward and I followed.
My first few steps were tentative, but they soon increased in length and confidence as I grew giddy with the excitement of adventure. After several minutes of walking, I recognized the sound of the sea, as pure and alluring as the waves rolling upon the shore of Eddington Hovel in my dear old land of Britain. A longing for the ocean, buried deep within the heart of every Englishman, gripped my soul and quickened my pace. This magical land, for it could only be something out of a fairy tale, was drawing me into its fold like a child into the arms of its mother.
As I walked, the thick atmosphere clung to me like cobwebs and the air felt soggy in my lungs. My limbs responded slowly to the commands of my brain. Even my thoughts seemed to come slower than normal. I felt like I was walking underwater, or in a dream. Perhaps this new world (for my heart knew it was so, though my mind continued to rebel) had stronger gravity or a denser atmosphere than Earth. Or perhaps I truly was dreaming. Dream or no dream, I began to pant and sweat like a man much older or heavier than myself.
Soon, I reached a spot to rest, for the path came to a fork in the road. A small stone marker lay between the two paths describing my two options: to the left lay a place called “A’tan” and to the right “Pingtar Bay.” With little other information to aid my choice, I followed the right-hand trail which more or less continued on in the direction I had been traveling and seemed most likely to take me to the sea.
As I turned my heel to go, an intuition tickled the back of my brain. I scanned the area but noticed nothing amiss. My eyes fell on the stone marker. As I reread its simple instructions, I gasped: I had never seen the script before! The words were composed of odd runes like those on the great door, yet I had understood them. “Good Lord!” I exclaimed out-loud but froze in astonishment, for the words which left my mouth were not English at all, but some strange, otherworldly language. Like the runes, I understood their meaning, but the sounds were foreign to my ear. I spoke more words and discovered that I had become fluent in a language I had never heard, much less spoken in my entire life. I cannot describe the experience to you with any accuracy, dear Jorgy. My mind rebelled, but I could not fight the proof of my tongue. The only coherent solution I can fathom, even to this day, is that somehow the act of passing through that door had rewritten the linguistic center of my brain and replaced my native tongue with an appropriate substitute on a world where English had never existed. I know how mad this sounds, but I have sworn to tell you the truth. Though I was to experience many more wonders, none of them shocked me like this miraculous outburst in an unknown tongue.
Once I recovered from my incredible discovery, I continued down the path towards Pingtar Bay. The hum of the sea grew louder and was soon mixed with another sound: a low grunting occasionally punctuated by a high-pitched squeal, not unlike that of an angry hog. Its repetitious and structured nature made me wonder if I was perhaps hearing a language and not just the grunts of a dumb beast. My heart fluttered at the thought of meeting an inhabitant of this strange world. Far from my usual timid self I rushed forward through the last few rows of trees and burst out of the forest into the sunlight.
The scene that greeted me took my breath away. A murky sea, tinted ochre in reflection of the sky, lay before me, gently undulating in the light breeze. Its yellow-brown waves lapped against a beach of burnt-orange sand speckled with shellfish and strange echinoderms of all colors. The beach curved around to either side of me and ended miles away in two long, thin peninsulas, like two orange fingers about to touch. Beyond them, the ocean extended as far as my eyes could see.
But it was not the bizarre landscape that stole my breath. It was not the odd shellfish that captivated my attention, nor the half-starfish, half-slug creatures dazzling like firestones in the sand. No, the most startling thing before my eyes was the originator of the grunting. He crouched at the edge of the water on his chubby haunches with his broad back towards me, unaware, for the moment, of my presence. He wore a thick vest and short trousers reaching only to the center of his wide, muscular thighs. His skin appeared rough like that of a warthog, but rolled and fitted together like the plates of an Indian rhinoceros. He had the large, rounded feet and blunt toenails of an elephant. His head was hairless, except for a thin, scraggily ponytail of wiry strands dangling between his shoulder blades. Short stubby arms ended in short stubby hands with short stubby fingers. He continued to grunt and squeal like an old sow, his attention focused on something in the water.
I watched him for a minute in child-like fascination. Most of my life has been spent in a laboratory or classroom as opposed to the open field, yet I have always dreamed of discovering a new species on a distant island or in an obscure corner of the jungle. Now I had made perhaps the most important zoological discovery in the entire history of zoology. I could not take my eyes off the little man.
Lost in wonder, I took a small step forward. My foot crunched on the orange sand. I froze, hoping he had not heard, but he froze too. Two long, pointy ears shot straight up into the air, flicking back and forth in search of the disturbance. After a few seconds, he whirled around. Two beady eyes glared at me from deep ocular pits formed by wrinkled folds of skin. A blunt, round, upturned nose dominated the upper half of the face while the bottom half was taken up by a wide, lipless mouth complete with two sets of short, but sharp tusks protruding from blackened gums. At the moment, the entire face was twisted into a vicious snarl.
For several longs seconds we stared at each other. But soon, hostility gave way to curiosity. The little grunter stood up and cocked his head. After several more seconds, he beckoned for me to come nearer. I hesitated. He continued to beckon. I continued to hesitate. He gave a frustrated snort and raised both of his stubby hands in the universal sign of surrender.
Hoping he meant no harm, but too far gone to turn back, I approached. His head only came up to my shoulder, but his chest and waist were much broader than mine. He was quite chubby, but his mass looked solid and powerful. He was even uglier up close, but his tiny eyes betrayed an obvious intelligence. I suspected he was analyzing me in the same way I was analyzing him. His clothes were covered in small pockets and loops from which all manner of gadgets and tools protruded. Was I perhaps in the presence of some alien scientist like myself?
I could have gone on studying him for hours, but he was apparently in some kind of hurry. Grasping my arm, he tugged me to the water’s edge and pointed in excitement at something in the surf. Through the murky tide I detected a square piece of equipment the size of a jewelry box sitting just past the reach of the waves. The little man continued to point and squeal, indicating that he wanted me to fetch it for him.
Now, the box was retrievable by anyone taller than a field mouse, but this grunter seemed agitated by the waves and refused to advance beyond them. He wouldn’t even walk where the sand was wet. The reason for his peculiar aversion to water I never discovered. Perhaps his species had an allergy to H2O or a deep phobia of the sea. Anyways, I decided to aid him. Indicating that I understood his desires, I removed my socks and loafers and waded out to the device, retrieving it with ease. It was heavy and covered in blinking switches and dials like a small transistor radio. I returned it to his owner, who danced and squealed with delight. After a brief celebration, he began to fiddle with the device, pressing switches and turning dials. Nothing seemed to be happening. But then I detected a low roar that rose in volume until it drowned out everything except for the beating of my heart.
What happened next, my dear niece, may be the most fantastic thing I have told yet, but please remember, I have sworn to tell you the whole truth. As the roar grew to a crescendo, there appeared in the sky a horrible flying insect, fat and bulbous with large, dark, shiny eyes, bristling with irregular hairs all over its body. It made a beeline straight for us. In terror I turned to flee but saw that my companion showed not the slightest trace of fear. Puzzled, I gave the flying monstrosity one more glance and was astonished to find, upon closer examination, that it was not in fact an insect, but a machine of metal, like a great flying ship the size of a schooner but as different from a ship of the line as a toy boat is from a flying fox. What I mistook for eyes was some sort of smoked glass viewport, and hairs were metal projections. The ugly snipe hovered above my bewildered head for several seconds and then landed in front of me on four short, thin legs. A hatch popped open and a ramp extended to the ground.
My pudgy companion scurried up the ramp and disappeared inside. I, not knowing what to do, waited on the beach. After several moments he reappeared and beckoned. I followed him without a trace of hesitation.
Upon stepping inside the ship, I noticed a change in the atmosphere. The air was cooler, crisper, and drier. Some hidden cooling system, more advanced than any I had experienced, must have been moderating the pressure and temperature. The ship itself looked much the same inside as out. Dark metals composed every surface and odd levers stuck out from every angle. Dim lights illuminated the interior with a faint reddish glow. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of the interior of naval submarines, only there were more blinking lights and clicking dials. Strange characters flashed across television screens with such clarity it was like looking through a window. As the grunter led me down a narrow hallway, he pointed out things with obvious pride, babbling in his strange language. Had I been able to understand his words, I still would have been confused, for such was the fantastic nature of the ship. The technology was far beyond even the most advanced wartime equipment we have on Earth.
The grunter led me through various rooms to a cramped cockpit, chattering all the while. We sat in the command chairs while he pointed out and tweaked various buttons, dials, view screens, and steering yolks. With each tweak, switches clacked, lights changed colors, and sounds rose in pitch or volume. I understood not a word yet was utterly fascinated, by both the wondrous technology and its operator as well. Oh, what I would have given to dissect the creature and study his anatomy! My mouth watered as I thought of the physiological secrets I might unlock and of the evolutionary lineage I might piece together.
Eventually, he seemed to grow tired of my silence (though I thought my face telegraphed my true feelings) and led me to another area of the ship. We entered a dark room which, unlike the rest of the ship, flooded with bright light at the flip of a switch. Under the lights I recognized my natural habitat: a laboratory. Gleaming tables presented various pieces of equipment I had never seen but recognized as performing standard laboratory functions. Boxes of supplies filled metal cabinets lining the walls. A sharp antiseptic smell hung in the air. Clear containers held a plethora of strange organisms suspended in fluid. Other creatures lay on trays in various states of dissection. My joyful heart skipped a beat.
My companion sensed my delight and, with a squeal, began to lead me around the room to each specimen. Like two school boys we giggled and gasped at each new creature, forgetting the fact that neither understood a word the other said. Though separated by a language barrier and eons of evolutionary development, we could still connect over the joy of scientific discovery. In him I sensed a kindred spirit, one fascinated by the natural world and eager to unravel its mysteries.
I don’t know how long we spent studying those specimens, for time seemed to disappear. I saw so much that I do not have the vocabulary to explain. My own zoological training, considerable by the standards of our world, was unprepared for the extravaganza I experienced in that alien laboratory. I could have spent a lifetime there and still not have been fulfilled.
As we moved across the room, we neared two tall rectangular objects covered with sheets. After showing me the last jarred specimen, my companion moved to the two covered objects. He paused for dramatic effect, and then, with a flourish, whipped the covers aside to reveal two large cages. Cages! Cages meant live specimens, not just these dead carcasses over which I had heretofore been gawking. Jordana, you who know me so well, are at this moment picturing the boyish grin of delight that so often graces my face whenever I am excited. You are picturing my hands, gripped into tight fists and bouncing up and down with joy. My mousy giggle is no doubt playing through your mind. In your mental picture of me, I am the epitome of foolish delight, overjoyed beyond reason, for you know better than anyone else how much I love the act of scientific discovery.
However, my dear, you are mistaken.
I did not giggle, I did not smile, I did not grip my fists in delight. Instead, I gaped in horror. For the two creatures confined in those cold, hard cages were not alien beasts.
They were men.
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