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<h1> THE LOST CONTINENT </h1>
<p><br/></p>
<h2> By C. J. Cutliffe Hyne </h2>
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<blockquote>
<p><big><b>CONTENTS</b></big></p>
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<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0001"> PREFATORY: </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0002"> 1. MY RECALL </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0003"> 2. BACK TO ATLANTIS </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0004"> 3. A RIVAL NAVY </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0005"> 4. THE WELCOME OF PHORENICE </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0006"> 5. ZAEMON’S CURSE </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0007"> 6. THE BITERS OF THE CITY WALLS </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0008"> 7. THE BITERS OF THE WALLS (FURTHER
ACCOUNT) </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0009"> 8. THE PREACHER FROM THE MOUNTAINS </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0010"> 9. PHORENICE, GODDESS </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0011"> 10. A WOOING </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0012"> 11. AN AFFAIR WITH THE BARBAROUS FISHERS </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0013"> 12. THE DRUG OF OUR LADY THE MOON </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0014"> 13. THE BURYING ALIVE OF NAIS </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0015"> 14. AGAIN THE GODS MAKE CHANGE </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0016"> 15. ZAEMON’S SUMMONS </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0017"> 16. SIEGE OF THE SACRED MOUNTAIN </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0018"> 17. NAIS THE REGAINED </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0019"> 18. STORM OF THE SACRED MOUNTAIN </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0020"> 19. DESTRUCTION OF ATLANTIS </SPAN></p>
<p><SPAN href="#link2H_4_0021"> 20. ON THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP </SPAN></p>
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<h2> PREFATORY: </h2>
<h3> THE LEGATEES OF DEUCALION </h3>
<p>We were both of us not a little stiff as the result of sleeping out in the
open all that night, for even in Grand Canary the dew-fall and the
comparative chill of darkness are not to be trifled with. For myself on
these occasions I like a bit of a run as an early refresher. But here on
this rough ground in the middle of the island there were not three yards
of level to be found, and so as Coppinger proceeded to go through some
sort of dumb-bell exercises with a couple of lumps of bristly lava, I
followed his example. Coppinger has done a good deal of roughing it in his
time, but being a doctor of medicine amongst other things—he takes
out a new degree of some sort on an average every other year—he is
great on health theories, and practises them like a religion.</p>
<p>There had been rain two days before, and as there was still a bit of
stream trickling along at the bottom of the barranca, we went down there
and had a wash, and brushed our teeth. Greatest luxury imaginable, a
toothbrush, on this sort of expedition.</p>
<p>“Now,” said Coppinger when we had emptied our pockets, “there’s precious
little grub left, and it’s none the better for being carried in a local
Spanish newspaper.”</p>
<p>“Yours is mostly tobacco ashes.”</p>
<p>“It’ll get worse if we leave it. We’ve a lot more bad scrambling ahead of
us.”</p>
<p>That was obvious. So we sat down beside the stream there at the bottom of
the barranca, and ate up all of what was left. It was a ten-mile tramp to
the fonda at Santa Brigida, where we had set down our traps; and as
Coppinger wanted to take a lot more photographs and measurements before we
left this particular group of caves, it was likely we should be pretty
sharp set before we got our next meal, and our next taste of the PATRON’S
splendid old country wine. My faith! If only they knew down in the English
hotels in Las Palmas what magnificent wines one could get—with
diplomacy—up in some of the mountain villages, the old vintage would
become a thing of the past in a week.</p>
<p>Now to tell the truth, the two mummies he had gathered already quite
satisfied my small ambition. The goatskins in which they were sewn up were
as brittle as paper, and the poor old things themselves gave out dust like
a puffball whenever they were touched. But you know what Coppinger is. He
thought he’d come upon traces of an old Guanche university, or sacred
college, or something of that kind, like the one there is on the other
side of the island, and he wouldn’t be satisfied till he’d ransacked every
cave in the whole face of the cliff. He’d plenty of stuff left for the
flashlight thing, and twenty-eight more films in his kodak, and said we
might as well get through with the job then as make a return journey all
on purpose. So he took the crowbar, and I shouldered the rope, and away we
went up to the ridge of the cliff, where we had got such a baking from the
sun the day before.</p>
<p>Of course these caves were not easy to come at, or else they would have
been raided years before. Coppinger, who on principle makes out he knows
all about these things, says that in the old Guanche days they had ladders
of goatskin rope which they could pull up when they were at home, and so
keep out undesirable callers; and as no other plan occurs to me, perhaps
he may be right. Anyway the mouths of the caves were in a more or less
level row thirty feet below the ridge of the cliff, and fifty feet above
the bottom; and Spanish curiosity doesn’t go in much where it cannot walk.</p>
<p>Now laddering such caves from below would have been cumbersome, but a
light knotted rope is easily carried, and though it would have been hard
to climb up this, our plan was to descend on each cave mouth from above,
and then slip down to the foot of the cliffs, and start again AB INITIO
for the next.</p>
<p>Coppinger is plucky enough, and he has a good head on a height, but there
is no getting over the fact that he is portly and nearer fifty than
forty-five. So you can see he must have been pretty keen. Of course I went
first each time, and got into the cave mouth, and did what I could to help
him in; but when you have to walk down a vertical cliff face fly-fashion,
with only a thin bootlace of a rope for support, it is not much real help
the man below can give, except offer you his best wishes.</p>
<p>I wanted to save him as much as I could, and as the first three caves I
climbed to were small and empty, seeming to be merely store-places, I
asked him to take them for granted, and save himself the rest. But he
insisted on clambering down to each one in person, and as he decided that
one of my granaries was a prison, and another a pot-making factory, and
another a schoolroom for young priests, he naturally said he hadn’t much
reliance on my judgment, and would have to go through the whole lot
himself. You know what these thorough-going archaeologists are for
imagination.</p>
<p>But as the day went on, and the sun rose higher, Coppinger began clearly
to have had enough of it, though he was very game, and insisted on going
on much longer than was safe. I must say I didn’t like it. You see the
drop was seldom less than eighty feet from the top of the cliffs. However,
at last he was forced to give it up. I suggested marching off to Santa
Brigida forthwith, but he wouldn’t do that. There were three more
cave-openings to be looked into, and if I wouldn’t do them for him, he
would have to make another effort to get there himself. He tried to make
out he was conferring a very great favour on me by offering to take a
report solely from my untrained observation, but I flatly refused to look
at it in that light. I was pretty tired also; I was soaked with
perspiration from the heat; my head ached from the violence of the sun;
and my hands were cut raw with the rope.</p>
<p>Coppinger might be tired, but he was still enthusiastic. He tried to make
me enthusiastic also. “Look here,” he said, “there’s no knowing what you
may find up there, and if you do lay hands on anything, remember it’s your
own. I shall have no claim whatever.”</p>
<p>“Very kind of you, but I’ve got no use for any more mummies done up in
goatskin bags.”</p>
<p>“Bah! That’s not a burial cave up there. Don’t you know the difference yet
in the openings? Now, be a good fellow. It doesn’t follow that because we
have drawn all the rest blank, you won’t stumble across a good find for
yourself up there.”</p>
<p>“Oh, very well,” I said, as he seemed so set on it; and away I stumbled
over the fallen rocks, and along the ledge, and then scrambled up by that
fissure in the cliff which saved us the two-mile round which we had had to
take at first. I wrenched out the crowbar, and jammed it down in a new
place, and then away I went over the side, with hands smarting worse at
every new grip of the rope. It was an awkward job swinging into the cave
mouth because the rock above overhung, or else (what came to the same
thing) it had broken away below; but I managed it somehow, although I
landed with an awkward thump on my back, and at the same time I didn’t let
go the rope. It wouldn’t do to have lost the rope then: Coppinger couldn’t
have flicked it into me from where he was below.</p>
<p>Now from the first glance I could see that this cave was of different
structure to the others. They were for the most part mere dens, rounded
out anyhow; this had been faced up with cutting tools, so that all the
angles were clean, and the sides smooth and flat. The walls inclined
inwards to the roof, reminding me of an architecture I had seen before but
could not recollect where, and moreover there were several rooms connected
up with passages. I was pleased to find that the other cave-openings which
Coppinger wanted me to explore were merely the windows or the doorways of
two of these other rooms.</p>
<p>Of inscriptions or markings on the walls there was not a trace, though I
looked carefully, and except for bats the place was entirely bare. I lit a
cigarette and smoked it through—Coppinger always thinks one is
slurring over work if it is got through too quickly—and then I went
to the entrance where the rope was, and leaned out, and shouted down my
news.</p>
<p>He turned up a very anxious face. “Have you searched it thoroughly?” he
bawled back.</p>
<p>“Of course I have. What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”</p>
<p>“No, don’t come down yet. Wait a minute. I say, old man, do wait a minute.
I’m making fast the kodak and the flashlight apparatus on the end of the
rope. Pull them up, and just make me half a dozen exposures, there’s a
good fellow.”</p>
<p>“Oh, all right,” I said, and hauled the things up, and got them inside.
The photographs would be absolutely dull and uninteresting, but that
wouldn’t matter to Coppinger. He rather preferred them that way. One has
to be careful about halation in photographing these dark interiors, but
there was a sort of ledge like a seat by the side of each doorway, and so
I lodged the camera on that to get a steady stand, and snapped off the
flashlight from behind and above.</p>
<p>I got pictures of four of the chambers this way, and then came to one
where the ledge was higher and wider. I put down the camera, wedged it
level with scraps of stone, and then sat down myself to recharge the
flashlight machine. But the moment my weight got on that ledge, there was
a sharp crackle, and down I went half a dozen inches.</p>
<p>Of course I was up again pretty sharply, and snapped up the kodak just as
it was going to slide off to the ground. I will confess, too, I was
feeling pleased. Here at any rate was a Guanche cupboard of sorts, and as
they had taken the trouble to hermetically seal it with cement, the odds
were that it had something inside worth hiding. At first there was nothing
to be seen but a lot of dust and rubble, so I lit a bit of candle and
cleared this away. Presently, however, I began to find that I was shelling
out something that was not cement. It chipped away, in regular layers, and
when I took it to the daylight I found that each layer was made up of two
parts. One side was shiny stuff that looked like talc, and on this was
smeared a coating of dark toffee-coloured material, that might have been
wax. The toffee-coloured surface was worked over with some kind of
pattern.</p>
<p>Now I do not profess to any knowledge on these matters, and as a
consequence took what Coppinger had told me about Guanche habits and
acquirements as more or less true. For instance, he had repeatedly
impressed upon me that this old people could not write, and having this in
my memory, I did not guess that the patterns scribed through the wax were
letters in some obsolete character, which, if left to myself, probably I
should have done. But still at the same time I came to the conclusion that
the stuff was worth looting, and so set to work quarrying it out with the
heel of my boot and a pocket-knife.</p>
<p>The sheets were all more or less stuck together, and so I did not go in
for separating them farther. They fitted exactly to the cavity in which
they were stored, but by smashing down its front I was able to get at the
foot of them, and then I hacked away through the bottom layers with the
knife till I got the bulk out in one solid piece. It measured some twenty
inches by fifteen, by fifteen, but it was not so heavy as it looked, and
when I had taken the remaining photographs, I lowered it down to Coppinger
on the end of the rope.</p>
<p>There was nothing more to do in the caves then, so I went down myself
next. The lump of sheets was on the ground, and Coppinger was on all fours
beside it. He was pretty nearly mad with excitement.</p>
<p>“What is it?” I asked him.</p>
<p>“I don’t know yet. But it is the most valuable find ever made in the
Canary Islands, and it’s yours, you unappreciative beggar; at least what
there is left of it. Oh, man, man, you’ve smashed up the beginning, and
you’ve smashed up the end of some history that is probably priceless. It’s
my own fault. I ought to have known better than set an untrained man to do
important exploring work.”</p>
<p>“I should say it’s your fault if anything’s gone wrong. You said there was
no such thing as writing known to these ancient Canarios, and I took your
word for it. For anything I knew the stuff might have been something to
eat.”</p>
<p>“It isn’t Guanche work at all,” said he testily. “You ought to have known
that from the talc. Great heavens, man, have you no eyes? Haven’t you seen
the general formation of the island? Don’t you know there’s no talc here?”</p>
<p>“I’m no geologist. Is this imported literature then?”</p>
<p>“Of course. It’s Egyptian: that’s obvious at a glance. Though how it’s got
here I can’t tell yet. It isn’t stuff you can read off like a newspaper.
The character’s a variant on any of those that have been discovered so
far. And as for this waxy stuff spread over the talc, it’s unique. It’s
some sort of a mineral, I think: perhaps asphalt. It doesn’t scratch up
like animal wax. I’ll analyse that later. Why they once invented it, and
then let such a splendid notion drop out of use, is just a marvel. I could
stay gloating over this all day.”</p>
<p>“Well,” I said, “if it’s all the same for you, I’d rather gloat over a
meal. It’s a good ten miles hard going to the fonda, and I’m as hungry as
a hawk already. Look here, do you know it is four o’clock already? It
takes longer than you think climbing down to each of these caves, and then
getting up again for the next.”</p>
<p>Coppinger spread his coat on the ground, and wrapped the lump of sheets
with tender care, but would not allow it to be tied with a rope for fear
of breaking more of the edges. He insisted on carrying it himself too, and
did so for the larger part of the way to Santa Brigida, and it was only
when he was within an ace of dropping himself with sheer tiredness that he
condescended to let me take my turn. He was tolerably ungracious about it
too. “I suppose you may as well carry the stuff,” he snapped, “seeing that
after all it’s your own.”</p>
<p>Personally, when we got to the fonda, I had as good a dinner as was
procurable, and a bottle of that old Canary wine, and turned into bed
after a final pipe. Coppinger dined also, but I have reason to believe he
did not sleep much. At any rate I found him still poring over the find
next morning, and looking very heavy-eyed, but brimming with enthusiasm.</p>
<p>“Do you know,” he said, “that you’ve blundered upon the most valuable
historical manuscript that the modern world has ever yet seen? Of course,
with your clumsy way of getting it out, you’ve done an infinity of damage.
For instance, those top sheets you shelled away and spoiled, contained
probably an absolutely unique account of the ancient civilisation of
Yucatan.”</p>
<p>“Where’s that, anyway?”</p>
<p>“In the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. It’s all ruins to-day, but once it
was a very prosperous colony of the Atlanteans.”</p>
<p>“Never heard of them. Oh yes, I have though. They were the people
Herodotus wrote about, didn’t he? But I thought they were mythical.”</p>
<p>“They were very real, and so was Atlantis, the continent where they lived,
which lay just north of the Canaries here.”</p>
<p>“What’s that crocodile sort of thing with wings drawn in the margin?”</p>
<p>“Some sort of beast that lived in those bygone days. The pages are full of
them. That’s a cave-tiger. And that’s some sort of colossal bat. Thank
goodness he had the sense to illustrate fully, the man who wrote this, or
we should never have been able to reconstruct the tale, or at any rate we
could not have understood half of it. Whole species have died out since
this was written, just as a whole continent has been swept away and three
civilisations quenched. The worst of it is, it was written by a
highly-educated man who somewhat naturally writes a very bad fist. I’ve
hammered at it all the night through, and have only managed to make out a
few sentences here and there”—he rubbed his hands appreciatively.
“It will take me a year’s hard work to translate this properly.”</p>
<p>“Every man to his taste. I’m afraid my interest in the thing wouldn’t last
as long as that. But how did it get there? Did your ancient Egyptian come
to Grand Canary for the good of his lungs, and write it because he felt
dull up in that cave?”</p>
<p>“I made a mistake there. The author was not an Egyptian. It was the
similarity of the inscribed character which misled me. The book was
written by one Deucalion, who seems to have been a priest or general—or
perhaps both—and he was an Atlantean. How it got there, I don’t know
yet. Probably that was told in the last few pages, which a certain vandal
smashed up with his pocketknife, in getting them away from the place where
they were stowed.”</p>
<p>“That’s right, abuse me. Deucalion you say? There was a Deucalion in the
Greek mythology. He was one of the two who escaped from the Flood: their
Noah, in fact.”</p>
<p>“The swamping of the continent of Atlantis might very well correspond to
the Flood.”</p>
<p>“Is there a Pyrrha then? She was Deucalion’s wife.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t come across her yet. But there’s a Phorenice, who may be the
same. She seems to have been the reigning Empress, as far as I can make
out at present.”</p>
<p>I looked with interest at illustrations in the margin. They were quite
understandable, although the perspective was all wrong. “Weird beasts they
seem to have had knocking about the country in those days. Whacking big
size too, if one may judge. By Jove, that’ll be a cave-tiger trying to
puff down a mammoth. I shouldn’t care to have lived in those days.”</p>
<p>“Probably they had some way of fighting the creatures. However, that will
show itself as I get along with the translation.” He looked at his watch—“I
suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself, but I haven’t been to bed. Are
you going out?”</p>
<p>“I shall drive back to Las Palmas. I promised a man to have a round at
golf this afternoon.”</p>
<p>“Very well, see you at dinner. I hope they’ve sent back my dress shirts
from the wash. O, lord! I am sleepy.”</p>
<p>I left him going up to bed, and went outside and ordered a carriage to
take me down, and there I may say we parted for a considerable time. A
cable was waiting for me in the hotel at Las Palmas to go home for
business forthwith, and there was a Liverpool boat in the harbour which I
just managed to catch as she was steaming out. It was a close thing, and
the boatmen made a small fortune out of my hurry.</p>
<p>Now Coppinger was only an hotel acquaintance, and as I was up to the eyes
in work when I got back to England, I’m afraid I didn’t think very much
more about him at the time. One doesn’t with people one just meets
casually abroad like that. And it must have been at least a year later
that I saw by a paragraph in one of the papers, that he had given the lump
of sheets to the British Museum, and that the estimated worth of them was
ten thousand pounds at the lowest valuation.</p>
<p>Well, this was a bit of revelation, and as he had so repeatedly impressed
on me that the things were mine by right of discovery, I wrote rather a
pointed note to him mentioning that he seemed to have been making rather
free with my property. Promptly came back a stilted letter beginning,
“Doctor Coppinger regrets” and so on, and with it the English translation
of the wax-upon-talc MSS. He “quite admitted” my claim, and “trusted that
the profits of publication would be a sufficient reimbursement for any
damage received.”</p>
<p>Now I had no idea that he would take me unpleasantly like this, and wrote
back a pretty warm reply to that effect; but the only answer I got to this
was through a firm of solicitors, who stated that all further
communications with Dr. Coppinger must be made through them.</p>
<p>I will say here publicly that I regret the line he has taken over the
matter; but as the affair has gone so far, I am disposed to follow out his
proposition. Accordingly the old history is here printed; the credit (and
the responsibility) of the translation rests with Dr. Coppinger; and
whatever revenue accrues from readers, goes to the finder of the original
talc-upon-wax sheets, myself.</p>
<p>If there is a further alteration in this arrangement, it will be announced
publicly at a later date. But at present this appears to be most unlikely.</p>
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