Desolation
The mystery and horror of this day—oh, how could I ever set that down?
- In Amundsen’s Tent by John Martin Leahy.
Day One
I shall write in this journal at the end of each day, as a recording of our progress. It has been over five days since our last communication with Campbell’s expedition. We could have set off sooner, after the final radio contact, but Campbell’s sponsor appears to have deep pockets where a precious mineral survey is concerned, but not for a rescue mission. Luckily, a wealthy uncle of Campbell’s, alongside a few other well-meaning souls, funded us.
I put a team together quickly, utilizing visiting mountaineers and men from Base Camp. I purchased dogs and supplies locally, finding all I needed from trekking poles to ice axes. This region caters well to the explorers’ brave enough to ascend the sky piercing mountains.
Campbell is a close friend: we served together in The Queen's Royal Surrey Regiment, based in China. During our service, we visited much of this icy region, and years later I joined him at Tibet’s North Base Camp to see him off.
I set off early this morning, with seven men, twelve dogs, and two sleds laden with supplies. I hope to reach the point of his last transmission within two days, weather permitting. We made good progress today, the weather proving better than expected, and the men are in fine spirits.
Campbell picked the ideal time of the year for his expedition; for October here is known for its clear skies and moderate temperatures. If the snow lays off tomorrow, we may reach Campbell’s last recorded location sooner than expected.
I contacted Base Camp twice today, once at noon, and again before supper. We are warm in our tents, and I anticipate an early start tomorrow.
It is my sincerest hope that we shall discover Campbell and his team safe and well.
– Ernest Douglas. former Captain of the Queen's Royal Surrey Regiment (Ret.).
Day Two
The morale is high on this, our second day away from Base Camp. The landscape is beautiful, and quite humbling to the eye. The rolling white hills, the spires of black rock, this is nature at its most primal, its plateaus and valleys hinting at secret routes to the Land of Fairie. The weather has remained even and calm, the only snowfall consisting of soft chunks the size of cotton swabs.
I performed drills and manoeuvres here during my army days, but barely passed the foothills unless weather was particularly good. I never dreamt of returning here on such an important task. Campbell needs me, and I would never hesitate to help a countryman in need.
We made fine progress today and I anticipate the same tomorrow. I shall sleep well tonight, with hopes we may find Campbell soon.
– Ernest Douglas, former Captain of the Queen's Royal Surrey Regiment (Ret.).
Day Three
This morning, Base Camp warned us we were in for a severe snowstorm. Not surprising really; I had seen the storm clouds in the distance. We made as much progress as possible while it remained clear, hoping to make up for what would come.
The severe storm hit us early this afternoon, strong winds bringing snow as fine as sand. With visibility poor and our dogs whining, we roped ourselves together and prepared to wait it out. Good fortune came in the form of a herd of sheep, which the keen-eyed Bransfield spotted. We followed the herd and trailed them to shelter beneath a hill. There we dug a snowbank, waiting out the worst of the weather alongside our animal companions, dog and sheep alike.
We have lost much of the day, and only just set up camp proper two hours ago. The harsh weather is to continue according to the radio, which will slow our progress considerably.
– Ernest Douglas. former Captain of the Queen's Royal Surrey Regiment (Ret.).
Day Four
The bad weather continues, and though we reached the spot Campbell’s last communication issued from, we discovered no signs of a camp, or the cache they found. A proper search proved impossible due to the snow and winds, though we did find a solitary trekking pole, embedded in the snow with a shred of paper attached to the handle.
We continued on Campbell’s proposed route, the fine snow stinging all the exposed skin it could reach. Our spirits have lowered considerably, the landscape’s softness replaced by jagged fangs of black rock.
We encountered a party of natives at one point, flanked by two yaks. The furry beasts wore bright tassels on their horns, patterned blankets on their expansive humped backs. Perhaps this is a native tradition, or perhaps it helps to locate them should they wander off.
We paused to parley and exchange information.
The natives wore hooded coats of mismatched furs, canvas shoes strapped from ankle to knee. Beneath the furs, cheeks shone ruddy on brown faces, teeth gleamed as white as virgin snow. I knew the language a little, from which I realized they were all women.
They held battered examples of the Martini–Henry rifles we used in the army, along with long, curious-looking spears with tips shaped like arrowheads.
My first enquiry was regarding Campbell and his expedition, but we were the first white men the natives had encountered in weeks.
They were keen on trading for a few of our dogs, if they could hunt, in return for furs or other supplies. Our team master, Powell, decided against this, so instead we swapped ammunition for some furs, our two groups going our separate ways.
Soon after our encounter with the natives, we found ourselves struggling through mounting snow, every footstep proving a battle of wills against the winds interminable force.
A landscape I found beautiful mere days earlier is now ugly to my sight, filled with hidden, deadly pitfalls we are pushed toward by demoniac winds.
–Douglas. former Captain of the Queen's Royal Surrey Regiment.
Day Five
Today the snows left us alone, but the wind proved brutal. We lost supplies, and a team of dogs. We began our day early, still following Campbell’s proposed route. At one point, we reached a high escarpment which should not have been in our path.
Unless he took a long detour, Campbell’s team must have traversed it, and I discerned recent tool marks upon the black rock. I decided we should ascend the escarpment, to avoid losing further time, and surrounded by howling winds, we climbed it two men at a time. Others in the team prepared the sleds, fashioning slings for the dogs with ropes and the furs we acquired from the native women.
It proved long, dangerous work, but the escarpment provided shelter from the worst of the wind. Once safely up, we discovered a small plateau ahead with a steepening ascent beyond. As we continued in earnest, relieved we had traversed a most difficult obstacle, disaster struck. I did not believe this landscape could bring more treachery, but as we progressed across the plateau, one of our sleds careened directly into an unseen gulley. The dogs’ howls were terrible as they fell to their doom, tangled in their reins with the weight of the sled falling after them. Powell, driving the sled, very narrowly escaped with his life.
We stood powerless as the dogs’ cries petered out within whatever chasm they had dropped into. Powell was the most upset, but he pulled himself together enough to take an inventory of our remaining supplies. By some miracle, the lost sled did not contain our food and medical supplies. We continued on, subdued and shocked, making camp in the mountain’s foothills. Our later attempts to contact Base Camp brought naught but static and corrupted whispers. Perhaps this is due to the weather, combined with our sheltered position. I shall try again in the morning.
The winds shriek continuously beyond my tent. Hate-filled voices, issuing from the bowels of the mountain, disturbed perhaps by our dogs and their sled. I do not believe I will sleep tonight.
– Douglas.
Day Six
A day of nightmares, as if the night terrors many of us experienced last evening escaped the locks of dream to bring havoc to the waking world. I slept uneasily, but did not experience what the others did: strange lights floating beyond the tents, the hints of something huge moving around outside. Surely, they all dreamt it.
When we rose for breakfast, we found Smith and Weddell missing, gone from their tents with not a footprint in the snow to show for it. We awaited their return for some hours to no avail. Before we continued, I made a signpost using a trekking pole, a sheet of paper rolled up within the handle. Paper from this very journal. This made me recall the trekking pole we discovered, when? Two, three days ago?
The hours and days pass in a confusing white blight.
We headed on, two men down, our spirits stretched thin. It felt like a funeral procession. Where had Smith and Weddell gotten to? Had they followed some Will-o'-the-wisp into the night?
Later in the day we discovered an abandoned camp, half concealed within the natural shelter of an outcropping.
I felt sure we had found Campbell’s camp, as did the others, yet this did nothing to bolster our mood. The torn tents and discarded supplies mounted another horror upon what we had already experienced.
A thorough search followed, with Bransfield, our quartermaster, distributing Lee-Enfield rifles in case the camp’s destruction had been wrought by some animal.
Wilkes, a seasoned explorer of these lands, confided in me this could not be the case; he knew its animal denizens kept well away from human invaders. Still, the guns made everyone feel better, me included.
More horror followed as we searched the ruins. Amongst torn tent remnants and sodden sleeping bags, we found a human arm, neatly severed off just beneath the shoulder. How much this disturbed us I cannot begin to say. There were no identifying marks upon the arm, no wristwatch or anything to indicate who it belonged to.
Wilkes, who also has a medical background, believes that from its appearance the arm was removed with surgical precision, using a tool only available in a hospital environment. He also believes, but cannot be certain, it was removed pre-mortem.
Except for this morbid discovery, we found no other trace of Campbell or his men.
With the weather growing worse, I decided to make camp here, despite some misgivings from the men. I bundled the arm up in furs: it now sits in the corner of my tent. It may be the only remnant of Campbell’s expedition I have to return with me. Contact with Base Camp proved impossible again. The radio received nothing but static today and tonight.
The wind outside sounds like the accusing screams of the dead. Just how many souls have perished in these desolate wastes, the flesh flensed from their bodies by corroding winds and snow, until only the bare bones remain, those too being blasted into particles as fine as snow?
I doubt we will discover Campbell’s expedition alive, and considering the mysterious fate of our predecessors, I believe it is time we returned to Base Camp, and safety. A human arm, severed just beneath the shoulder. What in the hell happened here?
– Douglas.
Day Seven
Another day of mystery and horror. How to begin to write it down? This is not the sane world I am accustomed to.
A draft peppered with snowflakes woke me, and I found my tent open, just a little way, but enough to make the air cold and icy. Another surprise: the arm was gone, unwrapped from its fur bindings which lay open on the tent floor. Had someone taken it? This was my first thought, and the explanation I am sticking to, for to consider the alternative…
I found an odd trail outside my tent, half obscured by fresh snowfall, but unmistakably that of— NO! One of my men did it, for reasons I cannot fathom, unless madness is overcoming us.
Madness.
This morning, we built a fire from some wood we discovered in the camp ruins, and with the warmth, some tea and provisions, our spirits were reignited. Snow was falling, gentle flakes dancing in the growing winds, though the outcropping still provided adequate shelter. From the clouds on the horizon, I expected a storm to begin soon enough. I kept the news of the missing arm to myself, thinking this the best course of action. Upon our return to Base Camp, I will say I left it by accident, or it fell from our remaining sled during our return.
I prepared to broach this return with my men, expecting reluctant agreement from all, when Weddell stepped into the camp.
Dishevelled and shivering, his expression was one of confusion as he scrutinized us as if we were complete strangers. We sat him down, wrapped sheets around him, and brought him a mug of tea.
Black spots were visible on his cheeks and nose: the telltale signs of frostbite. This made me worry for his hands and feet, though these were well-covered. My immediate concern was to ask him where he had been, how he found his way back to us, and what happened to Smith.
My questions went unanswered, for Weddell soon proved to be virtually mute. He did nothing but gibber back at my enquiries.
Weddell kept pointing to his mouth, I assumed in an attempt to indicate an injury. Bransfield thought to grab paper and pen for him, however, and with shaky hands, Weddell began writing.
He filled out one, then two pages of the pad, his writing large and clumsy. He returned the pad to Bransfield, who read the notes with a furrowed brow. Bransfield passed the pad around the team, me included, but I found the words disjointed and confusing. It took Biscoe, a literary man, to translate the script and provide an explanation. Much of the writing was gibberish, but Biscoe found that one section came from a story by Edgar Allen Poe. The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. He read it aloud, filling in missing words and translating the poor writing:
“And now we rushed into the embraces of the cataract, where a chasm threw itself open to receive us. But there arose in our pathway a shrouded human figure, very far larger in its proportions than any dweller among men. And the hue of the skin of the figure was of the perfect whiteness of the snow.”
As the narration ended, Weddell began to convulse in a spastic manner, and if not for our timely intervention, he might have fallen face first into the campfire. When his spasms calmed a little, we carried him to a tent, where Wilkes administered morphine to him from the medical kit.
Weddell sleeps now, and until he awakens, we cannot question him over the story fragment’s meaning.
I envy his opiate-imbued slumber, for I lie awake, unable to close my eyes.
– Douglas.
Day Eight
How to explain what befell us today? Whoever reads this will believe I have gone completely mad. This would be a mercy, compared to the cold hard clarity which I face, have experienced since my awakening early this morning.
I write what is probably the final entry in this journal. The horrors which came before: nothing compared to our eighth day in these blighted wastes. So much has happened. Where to start?
Sometime after midnight, almost a lifetime ago it seems now, I awoke to the cacophonous noise of our dogs, howling in distress. Leaving my tent, I joined my bewildered party and discovered no sign of the disturbed animals. The pitiful wails appeared to be coming from the snow-filled sky above!
“They’re up there, in the clouds,” Cooper said nervously.
The rest of us agreed the sound was carrying, as is its want in mountainous regions.
After a swift preparation, and despite the severe weather conditions, Powell and Wilkes headed out in search of the dogs.
We waited a full six hours for their return. At one point during our wait, Bransfield thought he heard gunshots in the distance, but no-one else did.
After we decided to pack up and move on, I found Weddell missing from his tent. The furs and sheets we had wrapped him in appeared strangely undisturbed, as if he had wriggled his way out of them. Or he had never been with us in the first place.
This left me, Bransfield, Biscoe, and Cooper, just half of the original rescue team, with the remainder lost and quite possibly dead.
Without discussion, we packed our tents and belongings, whatever supplies from the dog sled we could carry, and began our descent down the mountain.
“And now we rushed into the embraces of the cataract, where a chasm threw itself open to receive us.”
The mountain threw its own chasm open to receive us, in the form of crushing winds and stabbing ice.
For the sake of our lives, we roped ourselves together, then making our slow way back toward Base Camp.
We were not long on our journey when we encountered a huge bulge in the snow. A dead yak, we discovered, and from the tassels and blankets, quite possibly one belonging to the native women we met during our ascent. After further explorations in that area, we found a Martini–Henry rifle, some scattered boxes of ammunition. Far stranger, a backpack which from the contents proved to have belonged to the missing Wilkes. How it made its way so far down the mountain, how it found itself with the natives’ supplies, I cannot say. Just more evidence of the dangers and mysteries the mountain has thrown at us.
We made good time throughout the early afternoon but became so exhausted I decided we should make camp during a lull in the storm.
I shared a tent with Cooper as the wind and snow assailed us without mercy.
From his demeanour and speech, I felt recent events had proven too much for the man’s mind to bear. He insisted he could hear whispering voices outside the tent, and became nervous and agitated at sounds only he could hear.
After a short, troubled sleep I awoke to find him gone, this followed by the sounds of gunfire beyond the tent. I investigated quickly, and to my shock witnessed Cooper firing his rifle into Bransfield and Biscoe’s tent. Upon seeing me, he screamed something unintelligible and ran off into the storm.
Bransfield and Biscoe are dead, murdered by the unhinged Cooper. Their tent will be their tomb, for as long as it remains standing.
I returned to my tent, in acute shock over the loss of three more companions.
This time I did hear whispers, but not the whispers of men. I saw spots of light outside the tent, followed by a brighter light I was forced to shut my eyes against.
An eerie silence followed, which sent me outside in curiosity.
I am not where I was hours earlier.
Beyond the tent lies an endless plateau of snow. A different world, or landscape at least. I write “world” because the plateau is far from untenanted, and many of the objects there appear strange and alien.
Tents spot the plateau by the score, the hundreds even, ranging from animal skin Teepees to ones made from materials I do not recognize. A multitude of ships lie run aground, including old wood and sail vessels, contemporary-constructed ships, and behemoths as huge as cities.
This past and future vision includes planes, the closest, most recognizable one being a modified Dornier Do J Wal.
One of Kenneth Arnold’s so called “Flying Saucers” looms in the distance, embedded in ice and towering over the gigantic city ships.
I am but a mote of dust upon this child’s playmat of abandoned toys, in this once and future realm of stolen histories.
What is its purpose? Why have I been brought here?
The answer must lie somewhere upon the plateau, and I intend to find it. I shall pack what supplies remain and approach a distant cluster of tents that resemble my own. Perhaps I might find Campbell’s team there.
I will leave this journal here, a testament to my strange travels, a silent eulogy to the men lost.
Everything I have written is true. I am calm and completely sane. I must face this new world as an explorer, whatever my fate may be.
– Ernest Douglas. former Captain of the Queen's Royal Surrey Regiment (Ret.) in the year of our Lord 1950.
[Note: this journal was discovered in an abandoned tent, four miles from South Base Camp in Nepal, 28°0′26″N 86°51′34″E. After a month of searching, no sign of Ernest Douglas or his team has yet been discovered. Campbell’s expedition, however, returned to Base Camp alive and well, three days after Douglas’s team departed.]
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