English passengers (54 page)

W
HY SHOULD
I despair? I did not. Naturally I did not. Annoyance this might be—I had been so sure that I would see Eden’s walls glittering in the distance before me—but it was nothing more. How could one small reversal weaken the mighty power of my faith? Why, it was as a mere pebble hurled against a sturdy mountain, an ant blocking the path of towering elephants.

My belief soon won through. After only a few moments of careful thought there occurred to me an explanation as simple as it was true. It is well known that our Lord God will sometimes impose little tests upon His children, so He may be sure of their devotion. Thus it was now: our worthiness was being sought. Why, I even considered that we had been given a kind of blessing. Was this not a wondrous opportunity to demonstrate my own unswerving reverence; to prove my faith was solid as a mighty rock? I would answer this disappointment not with sadness but with joy!

‘‘I have no doubt more will become visible if we proceed further about the lake,’’ I declared to the others.

I could not help but observe Potter and his servant, and the mule men too, casting one another sceptical glances, but none spoke up, so I determined to pay them no heed. Their dismal doubts would be answered
soon enough, by the dazzling light of fact. Once we had eaten our simple meal I led us onwards once more, giving forth with a cheery hymn so faint hearts might be speedily restored.

So the shore became too marshy to traverse. So we were obliged to follow the path as it turned inland. What mattered this? We would soon find our way back to the lake, of that I had no doubt. Such difficulties were mere commonplace on the long road upon which I had been journeying. Had I not overcome the false arguments of atheist geologists? Had I not triumphed over the confiscation of our ship, and endured the trials of the ocean? Compared to such struggles this awkwardness of geography was a mere molehill, to be stepped over by my own indomitable belief. Why, my heart had never been so filled with hope. I took every measure I could to help us, of course. Most of all I prayed. I prayed thanks for our preservation. I prayed for guidance in this, our humble effort to serve His cause. I prayed that my fellows might be helped to pray.

I was not so greedy as to suppose these appeals would immediately find an answer and yet, miraculously though it may seem, this is exactly what occurred. Shortly after we left the lake’s shore I observed something lying beside the path that caused me to clap my hands in wonder. It was, I must tell, the fallen branch of a tree. To the rest this may have seemed ordinary enough—they showed, sad to say, only a muted interest—but to any who had eyes to see there was no mistaking the object’s significance. The alignment of its twigs resembled, with a closeness remarkable to behold, an arrow, while, more astonishing still, it was pointing in the very direction that we were following. This was not all. Within the hour I observed, marked upon a mighty rock, the faint yet unmistakable impression of the letter J, written as finely as if it had been carved for Moses himself, in that other great wilderness. There could be no doubt whose name was signified, nor the glorious hope that shone forth from that stolid stone. Even still there was more. As I stood in wonder, regarding that holiest of letters, I became aware of a faint cry emanating from the forest nearby, of some native bird. I had no difficulty making out the blessed meaning hidden within its call:
E-den, E-den
. I do not believe I have ever felt so greatly blessed.

It was soon after this that the path began to ascend more steeply,
climbing through thick forest. This was hard work, the day being so close, yet I banished weariness from my limbs, keenly leading the way. Finally the trees gave way and I found myself upon a saddle of land, with low hills rising up to either side, rocky and crumbling, in the manner of so many Tasmanian peaks. The path, I was curious to discover, now split into two ways. To my left it followed the land down into what looked like another expanse of forest, while to my right it began climbing one of the hills. It seemed we were being tested with another little puzzle.

‘‘We should go left,’’ insisted Potter, though I had not asked his opinion. ‘‘Down looks a better track.’’

I had no intention of being pushed into a decision. ‘‘What do you say, Mr. Cromwell? Do you know this place?’’

‘‘I don’t know it.’’ The guide looked up at the hill, seemingly lost in contemplation. Then all at once he gave a sudden nod. ‘‘Up is better. That way is more towards that lake.’’

Potter did not like this at all, needless to say. ‘‘It seems hardly prudent to follow the advice of a thief’’ he remarked accusingly.

I had no wish to return to that curious disagreement. ‘‘What do you say, Mr. Renshaw?’’

‘‘Down would save us climbing, I suppose,’’ he answered drearily.

How close I was to waving my hand for us to proceed upon the downwards road. It was as I stood thus, considering the matter, I became aware of a sudden change to this savage scene. The day had grown overcast and the land to the left was hazy and grey, but, glancing up at the hill to our right, I saw this was now bathed in faint, yet glorious sunlight. ‘‘There! That is our way.’’

Potter was still sulking. ‘‘A bit of sunshine proves nothing.’’

My heart was soaring. The best answer to doubters is action, and so I simply called out, ‘‘Onwards,’’ and set forth to the right with a hearty stride.

There is mystery in hills. This one had seemed nothing very large from below, but the effect proved deceptive. As we climbed higher, rain beginning to fall, I several times supposed we were just below the summit, only to find another ridge rising into view beyond. Little by little, I realized we were ascending nothing less than a mountain.

‘‘There it is,’’ I exclaimed, catching sight of a line of clear ground just
ahead. We had entered another forest and it was quite a game to follow the trail, which had grown playfully elusive.

‘‘Surely that’s it, over there?’’ countered Hooper, his clothes quite sagging in the wet, as he pointed to another line to the left.

Renshaw, as ever, added a dismal note. ‘‘Are you sure this is right? They look almost like animal tracks.’’

As if they could be any such thing. Our guide would certainly have alerted us to such a thing. ‘‘This way,’’ I insisted cheerfully, stepping towards a path that was easily the clearest, and on we went once more. As the path rose higher, I caught tantalizing half-views of other peaks, looming through the trees. Who knew, Eden might be just beyond the summit of this very mountain. I could picture the scene with such ease, such hope, that it caused me something almost like pain. There! A mighty cliff of smoothest white rock, rising up steep and clean, a fortress wall of giants’ construction. There! A way creeping back and forth upon it, steps hewn from the very stone, to an entrance, perhaps still guarded by the sword of fire. Beyond this, a glimpse of ancient greenery: a scene to amaze the imagination of men, infusing them with wonder, and regret.

One single glance upon that glowing greenery would suffice. That, and a sample of the rock upon which it lay, which would be, I had no doubt, both unknown and resolutely resistant to even the mightiest heat, and would be proof enough to overcome even the most sceptical minds. As I strode onwards, I found myself imagining my opponents in that war of pamphlets, sat in their lonely book-lined studies, blindly unaware of the momentous events occurring on this remote side of the globe. My feelings towards them were not angry but kindly, being those with which a guiding parent might regard his errant child. They would, I was sure, be happier of heart to find themselves proved wrong. Henceforth they would be blessed with new and reassuring certainty, finding in the Scriptures a mighty tree upon which to lean their dismal, doubting limbs. It was these very men, my foes, indeed, that I was endeavouring to save, quite as much as my dearest family and friends.

One glimpse would be enough. Or would it yet? Having been guided hither through so many months and miles, across wild seas and harshest wilderness, I found myself uncertain. It would be wholly improper for lay
members of the expedition to enter such a sacred place, I knew, while I myself had no wish to trespass, of course, and yet, as the first ordained churchman ever to arrive at this most hallowed spot, I could not help but wonder if to keep away might be to neglect my responsibilities? There was more, besides. On several occasions during my long journey I had been visited by strange and vivid dreams, each of which followed precisely the same course.

I would find myself walking in that place, awed by the lush magnificence about me. For a while all would be purest enchantment, but then, suddenly, I would be met by a sight terrible to behold. There it would stand, a tree like none I had ever seen before: not large, yet possessed of a kind of awful portent, its trunk black and gnarled, and its branches heavy with glistening, vile-coloured abundance. Even as I looked upon it, in horrified study, I would find myself addressed by a might voice, that filled the air with its wisdom, and breathed purpose into my limbs. As if by magic I would find a golden axe lying in my grasp. So it would come to pass that I, lately a mere pastor of a humble Yorkshire parish, would stride forth, with smiling resolution, towards that hateful growth, and deliver to it a mighty blow, then another, and with each strike I would beg, with all my heart, that forgiveness might be granted for that first and greatest of sins. With a mighty creak, the dread plant would tumble, its deadly harvest smashing upon the earth. Most miraculous of all, hardly had the deed been done when I would observe that the air around me seemed somehow subtly clearer, more innocent, than I had ever known it before. Such dreams might, I knew, be merest fancy, and yet, by their very repetition, they did seem to suggest a significance beyond mere reverie.

Before long the forest came to an end and the path led to the base of a steep ascent, where it vanished away, lost upon the rocky slope. Its tale was clear enough, however, and I did not hesitate. ‘‘We must go up.’’

Potter seemed bent on causing difficulty. ‘‘It looks very steep.’’

His words encouraged the mule drivers in turn to complain, which was, I felt sure, his intention. ‘‘I’m not sure at all,’’ Skeggs agreed, with a kind of obstructive satisfaction. ‘‘Especially in this wet. Would be better if just you fellows should go up, and we stay here with the beasts.’’

I glanced at our guide. ‘‘What do you say, Mr. Cromwell?’’

He pondered a moment. ‘‘No, I think it is better if the mules come also. Dark will come by and by, and we cannot stop here.’’

The half-caste was finally proving of usefulness. ‘‘Quite so,’’ I agreed, stepping brightly forth.

I dare say the ascent was a little difficult. As we climbed higher, the slope grew gradually steeper, narrower and more strewn with boulders, while these last were often so close together that one had to quite scramble between them, grazing knees and arms. Matters were not helped by the rain, which was falling ever harder, the sky having grown quite dim, and which made the rocks slippery underfoot. For all this, Skeggs’s trepidation seemed excessive. What if the mules showed reluctance? They are creatures well known for obstinacy, and this was no reason to abandon our efforts, yet he complained more than once that we must turn about, and I believe he might have done so had not the way been so prohibitively narrow. Fortunately we were by then almost at the summit.

First among all the party, I clambered over a low ledge of rock and found sky suddenly all about me. I was, I realized, stood at one end of a long ridge, while this was tilted, almost like a sloping house roof The effect of the slant was, I suppose, a little unnerving, but not unduly so, while it was easy enough to stand upon if one took care. What caught my attention most of all, however, was the view, which made me feel as if I were upon some balcony overlooking oblivion. Making my way upwards to the highest edge, I found myself looking into a deep valley, beyond which rose a vast slab of mountain. Then, clambering carefully down to the lower side, I found a vista more dizzying still: as far as the eye could see, variously hidden and revealed by the dark clouds, lay a jagged sea of cliffs and peaks, of tumbling rocks and desperately clinging greenery, extending to the horizon. Closer below it seemed the mountainside was formed into a shelf as a line of trees reached up, their tops only a few yards below.

I must, I realized, with greatest excitement, be looking across a great part of the central wilderness of the island. Somewhere here must lie the answer to all my questions. I set to work, paying no heed to the complaints of the others as they gathered with the animals above, but scanning the great expanse before me, hurrying before the sky darkened
further. There was the river, where we had walked only that morning, though it seemed already half an age ago. I waited, impatient to my bones, as a swirl of cloud pulled away, revealing the lake, long and narrow. Now, surely, I would see.

‘‘We should never have come here,’’ Potter whined. He was quite crouching beside me, his hands gripping the rock. He gave the view a sour stare. ‘‘It all looks much the same to me.’’

The gall of him. The hateful, plumped-up arrogance. As if he were capable of recognizing what we were seeking, when he had no knowledge of geology. I would not be hurried by such a man. If I had seen nothing unusual beside the lake, as—mystifyingly—seemed to be the case, then it must simply lie in some other spot. What of the part further on, where the cloud had yet to draw away?

‘‘Oh,’’ murmured our guide, who had taken his place at my other side. He seemed agitated, shaking his head as he looked upon the view.

‘‘You have seen something?’’ I asked encouragingly.

‘‘That mountain.’’ He pointed at one far away—though it looked no different from its many neighbours—regarding it strangely, lost in some kind of savage reverie. ‘‘I lived near there before.’’

‘‘Indeed,’’ I answered somewhat coolly. I had been hoping for something more useful than mere reminiscence. I simply could not understand. For all the drama of the view I could see nothing out of the ordinary in geological terms, either beside the lake or anywhere else. All looked of a similar rock. It made no sense. Had I not been guided here, even from England’s distant shore? Had we not been shown kindly signs to lead us along the way?