Part 6

I look to get their knowledge of the phenomena. For its solution I have left home and risked my life. That they fear it not, is evident. Instead they love and reverence its benefaction to them—lighting and warming their homes all winter; their winter daylight—as Roban said, in their interior winter quarters. Unusually quiet this season so far, but this is to outdo all, make up for lost time, unprecedented in grandeur. That they understand it I am solicitous to know. I could catch a word now and then. I could understand in the voluble tonic, stream of talk I read from their gestures and expressive faces some meaning of their patriotic interest.

The morning banquet at an end, all sit back in their seats and look at Savant as though some special ceremony is to ensue. Thoroughly excited, I see him hold a state book and read:

“We receive again God’s sign of the disturbance of aurora—our beautiful mother in the earth—who gathers us each winter around her fireside to comfort us in its warm beams.”

“What is aurora?”

“Yearly we ask this question. None have answered us. We yearly invite our subjects to explore her confines, whence she lights her beacon. We invite now.”

“Who will descend the Glory Hall to pay devoirs to the country’s goddess.”

I had followed him quite plainly. When he stopped, in the silence that followed a great light filled my eyes, as the idea that engendered it filled my mind.

I a“rose” in my seat, which latter is a rose vine—insignia of aurora—which word I hear in suppressed intuition in application to myself as a branch of bloom settles on my head wreath-like. Raising my hands in acceptance of the undertaking, they look calmly at me, incredulous, when I speak in full earnest tones:

“I will go, God of the universe, Creator of aurora has led me hither for that purpose.”

Sitting again, they are convinced, and much upset in their calculations, that I so small should answer the great request.

In their surprise I get full revenge of all I have been subject of so long.

Now, all look at Savant, which occasions me to do the same. The phenomenal wave of thought, individual to him, wraps his countenance in stormy struggle. He speaks:

“We cannot accept, in duty to guest and stranger.” But I gesture firmly.

Again he is submerged with greater struggles to exhaustion of his great strength, when an enduring calm arises in his face, like a smiling island in a hurricane tossed sea. Waving his hands, as I had done, he speaks:

“I will take you.”

All arise in consternation and press about us. Mae, wild-eyed, shakes me back and forth. Father buries his face in his hands. Roba and Charley only, clap their hands. The tide now turns in our favor; all is pleasant bustle. The tender social visiting of their usual tenor and normal habit is changed to agitation in concocting a mode of preparation to ensure our safety, resulting in an elaborate scheme of training, to which we are subjected, separately, next day.

Bandaged securely we are rolled about and tossed. Suspended to a long rope we are dangled in mid air, swung in a circle with increasing speed. Hands are waved before us, jumping and shouting indulged in to harden our nerves. Left alone, click, the floor beneath is loosening, revolving, opening, black darkness ensues, then lights glimmer around; bells, whistles and reverberations fill all the air with din, followed by melody so low as scarcely to be heard—the music of the spheres.

This has taken days, as it has been necessary to repeat each lesson, over and over. Quite unnecessary, I think, is so much pains of preparation.

But at last the day is appointed, as all things are ready.

The city is astir from center to circumference. We are on view in Central Hall. The masses pass by us in solemn file to take leave of us, as of their dead. I feel to smile, but like the dead am turned to stone.

We next are placed in a round crystal globe receptacle. Packed in, Savant’s unique instruments to his hand. Fluid food to our mouths through a tube. Condensed air to our nostrils. We are locked in by Savant.

Now carried out on a long platform pier toward the abyss and placed upon the top of a huge iceberg mass—as weight to sink us.

Dynamite hurls us out over fields and blocks of surging ice, lifting us into the rose enfolding pit. My sole experience is precipitation. Conscious of swift descent, unattended by jar, thrilled to the center of my being, I realize my position.

Readers, what is to ensue, is the special key to the phenomena of Astronomy. For the contents of the next few pages, I have written this story.

I am not the first who has thought the earth to be hollow, and entered at the Arctics. Also that a rolling fire, and open sea, are within. That I _define_ this fire, and its _safe control_, thereby discovering the _secret_ of our planet, and its object in the solar system, is the first time such definition has been given ever. Is of such high importance I deem it my solemn duty to publish it.

Adding a relevant definition of the Sun, and other sky objects, is but following out the line, struck by the first keynote.

In comparison with the present indefinite theory, this illustration far exceeds it in practical demonstration—ever satisfactory to truthful students.

Shelly in the time of Byron voiced this promise of the Arctics.

Poets have sung of its unknown city.

Capital and life have ever embarked for its discovery.

The smoke has cleared, leaving a steady moonlight, brightness intensified. I think to look below and see there a moon, round and glistening, many miles in width, its grandeur startling. Transfixed, I see it grow, as it is plainly coming up higher. To relieve my eyes I look to one side to see its appurtenances, only to find none. The sides of the cavern are far away and undiscernible. I am puzzled. Resolving to understand this unexpected bearing, I look first at my watch. A new puzzle is on its face. Its calendar declares the passage of days since I have been here. I turn square to the beautiful moon beneath me and bravely steady my understanding, for a queer unrest sensation is trying to creep on me.

Though I throw it off, in its terrifying aspect, yet it wraps me round and permeates my consciousness. That this moon, now so quiet and glittering, is not only the fire producing the Aurora smoke, but something more. The painful solicitude of Arc people at letting me do this daring act, that to me looked like mockery, is demonstrative of their better understanding. If Savant knew what was to happen, I cannot say, for I cannot speak to him, nor he to me, nor see each other’s faces. I am alone with the problem I have put myself in. My old statue sense upholds me. I lean on it as I place straight the lines of new knowledge—that the moon I see is not a moon, but the central fire of the whole earth—the molten mass of astronomical science.

That it does not fill the whole center is second new knowledge, for a haze of distance is each side and above, denoting far removal of the earth-crust, egg shell, undiscoverable even by the powerful lens of the crystal globe around me. Central of the earth, it may be thousands of miles below, though slowly growing. My strained eyes take its impress on their inner orbs. Wherever I look it is there. I settle bravely to scan it, enchanted. A new phase comes over it. A flame column is rearing; breaks and sparks fly upward as coals snap outward. Should the latter hit the crust, so far away, it would stir it somewhat, giving the outward inhabitants a shock of earthquake. I have it—this is the cause of earthquakes. Third new knowledge.

Nearer to the flame that now rolls back and forth as if to engulf us, it bends downward on each side as if the space around it were also below it. Thus have I seen our hall lamp do at home when disturbed by air currents.

Lamp! Lamp! Is the earth a lamp?

Before me is the key note.

Hiss, crack! It is our life preserver—the iceberg beneath us. Melted to vapor it will ascend and carry our globe to Arc again.

Listening with wildly beating heart in intense suspense, I become unconscious as fiery serpents twine beneath me.

At last recovered I look again; but no longer there. Ah, above? Have we passed it?

Below it and still descending. I lean heavily and wholly on my statue. The days make no impress on me. Not even when I see the sky out of southern zone. Coldly viewing the Southern Cross Constellation of sun stars, the planet Mercury comes between, taking on a peculiar distinct phase. I sluggishly remember that in a mine the planets are seen thus at noon-day. Ah! is the earth’s center to be a mine to me?

My eyes become exhilarant as I quickly investigate. I can see its (Mercury’s) rivers, mountains plainly. I can see into it. As I get excited, I see an inside flaming fire, as earth’s. Then it is—yes, a lamp, also.

The planets lamps? Where are their chimneys? I inspect again. There certainly is no chimney to guard the draught. I will study. Oh, why did I not notice before, it is more like a Chinese lantern—candle inside, colored shade outside.

I look in ecstasy for days. It is, as is our dear mother earth, a beautiful Japanese lantern; made by Deity’s hand to revolve around the glowing sun.

A sun ray spectrums the interior of earth. O, beam alive with electric, spirit intelligence, give me a sign. The sun itself comes. My eye, on fire, looks into its soul. O, sun, what art thou? Worshiped by some as God, by all as a great life giver. Ages past and future will you roll, unguided by man.

I am now so hot I wonder if I have partly warmed the inside of my statue being, (so wholly benumbed I became at the knowledge of passing below the earth’s center, inside light—losing all shadow of hope of seeing Arc again—that my marble state was more than ever marbleized). Now that I am treated, in lieu of home, to new explanations of past astronomical phenomena, is some recompense to my constitutionally enthusiastic mind.

Holding down an equally strong impulse to desire to tell this new acquisition, I let it unfold to myself to warm me under my marble shield. What follows fast? Vision upon vision is enlarging my interior sense of human life, until my outside is only cold. My whole inner is seething in ardor until my eyes break through the statue thrall. Too hasty—the light blinds me. I close them impatiently; open slowly.

Is the sun a China lamp? O, no, no; but an American electric arc light. I hurrah unrestrainedly!

Around it dance its gay planets as it sits and beams warmly upon their atlas garniture—a round crystal-globed lamp. I see a marking on the disc. Does it designate a disturbance within? It grows and changes. Would that some astronomer were here. The globe in which I sit is steady in its motion, but the marking on the sun changes oft. I look up toward the earth flame to see coming from its side more coals and smoke; also so far one side as to clear its blaze safely, is a huge mass—yes, ice—coming swiftly directly over me. Having collected all this hard winter, it has rolled over the edge of Arc to complete my destruction for my daring temerity. Resolving to retain consciousness, I look downward at the sun spot. It has changed; is changing, as does the ice-mass above me. Can that mass, in eclipse from the light above, be the spot? I believe it is, and that it will now strike us.

Hitting only on the edge of our anchor, ice, it spins the globe off into space, over and over, vapor spouts adhering. But I have seen behind us a slim stationary object. Is it? Oh, is it a fixture to hold the earth flame?

Relieved of our heavy ice we gravitate to it (as the ice-mass evaporates, filling the interior with Aurora prisms. These escaping at both northern and southern zone outlet, are certain proof of the attending phenomena).

Sliding along its length we curve toward the side of the earth which I shall hope soon to see. Coming at last far away, like a cloud, now to it, we dip down (or the rod fixture on which we slide, as though some inner electric lode drew us).

This quite mysterious direction engages my study as we pass under the earth-crust, as it, China-lantern transparent like, curves by above us as if in a rim. I study; why the crust of the earth turns round and round, and not the rod! Surely no earthly lantern is so elaborately constructed.

Engaged in study I find myself outside. The rod arises now in height of location and branches to each side of the crust-rim, fork like. Extending, we go out, out toward the sun. As we lightly bound hither and thither, side and about, I catch a backward glance of the continent America. Tears fill my eyes. As I press them out I see approaching a white cliff on the rod, covering its width. This side are crowding a swarm of tiny people absorbed in dislodging a huge boulder of which the ground is covered. Clinging about them is a semi-transparent vapor that floats and densifies, collecting over their heads. They jump into the air, whirl over harlequin like and descend to push again the boulder.

No sign of vegetation; there must be no air. Can the vapor be their breath? Why does it not float away? In the globe I have tubes to my nose that supply my breath.

The little fairies, are they (I pinch myself) getting into mischief? An adult makes peace by administering sharp pinches. As one moves its mouth to howl, I do too, but cannot make a sound; neither does the child who cries without. I see the reason. A thin filmy gauze surrounds it confining the vapor breath.

Over goes the boulder lightly as if hollow. Losing its rod gravitation it flies off toward the earth and disappears (dashing on its surface—an aerolite).

Ere they select another we enter their midst. Not seeing us within, they grasp the globe and roll it over. Seeing a debris marring its shining surface they pound it off. This removed from the fastening Savant swings it open, Pandora-box-like, as off they rush. Winding carefully his breath tubes about him, Savant takes tools, solutions, etc., and stepping out carefully inspects the boulder’s surface. (Are they the dust on the rod?) Selecting one he quickly works. Indents and excavates a large round cavity, disclosing a glittering black diamond interior, disappearing inside as he works. I, curiously steer the globe to the entrance. The inside smooth he places a block in the center, obvious as rest to the globe which I steer to and stop on, seeing myself an equal distance from the interior sides. Satisfied, he proceeds to throw a solution over the latter, which brings out a picture or reflection from the globe-disc, camera-like. Is the picture the interior of the earth? I scan it curiously.

After the ice border (around the north pole) land with one only vegetation, a white cactus. White is the color of the whole inside except some blackened spots. The cactus skin is clothing of a people who appear, who eat the pulp and work the thorns into houses and into ships as water, first shallow, deeper grows; and again into forts upon the cacti brunches growing up out of the water, thorn protected from sea monsters. Then these last range alone.

A great blur where we passed the light, more sea includes the lower half.

I exclaim to myself in bitter mood, is this all!

I am quite disenchanted. Is this our brother earth man? So flat; more wide than tall, who cannot lift his feet on account of his centrifugal location; thorn artists; skewering hair, umbrella like. Nesting on trees as high as Jack’s beanstalk. A shade outside draws us hastily there. How came this emerald lawn with ruby roses, sapphire lilies, made of the gem rock centers.

The shade increasing relieves my eyes to see distinctly. As the tiny artists finish their work by sprinkling the sparkling dust over themselves and resume their jubilee racket. Suddenly I get an odd sense that they are different from ordinary human beings. Grace in every motion. Fair flowing hair; deep-dell gray eyes are of plain human being species. Still I notice strongly a difference as they gather now and hurriedly consult. Children and adults. Are the latter all mothers or fathers? I cannot tell.

Before solution dawns I look up and find the moon is approaching close over. Is it whence the unique mites have their origin?

Still in the globe, my attention turns wholly to it, for the globe-lense shows it distinctly enough to read its surface. Its mountains, valleys, and—yes, certainly, human cities grow upon my vision. So interested am I, I forget to look for appurtenances or attachment fixtures, in my new custom of practical demonstration.

As I get an important discovery of inventive construction in a certain locality straight in my mind, it is almost knocked out, as now, directly over, I perceive a central light inside the satellite. It is a taper-kind and in disturbance. A burst of blackness drops from it and down toward me. Keenly alarmed, the tots are more so, as they, run and fall down and dig faces and hands beneath the boulder debris.

As trembling thus they lay, I get another impress of them which suddenly takes definite form. The solution is present. The father and mother, before mysterious, are also present. What is quite astonishing, these two are one human being. Uncanny sense gives way to delight at the vision of strength and dignity, so masculine; enhanced by grace and tenderness, so feminine.

I feel to clap my hands, but the inky blackness is coming down so fast I look to it. Wavering white spots are on it; reflections of the white cliffs below. The forks of the rod are plain and take on a familiar contour. Contour of the Milky Way. Is _that_ a mirage of this rod on night sky?

The cloud falls and fells Savant too, nearly breaking the globe, as it splashes upon the nearest white cliff. The air now clears and cools as the deposit whitens, emitting a familiar odor. What! wax dropped out of the moon?

The tots arise and fly with gauzy robes to the cliffside and clamber excitedly about. Savant arises and enters the globe, proceeding to steer that way.

As the moon takes a smiling adieu I turn my attention again to it. I hunt some before I find a faint line, far away attached to the earth-rim, obviously its fixture. Simple but inexplicable in action. Though an electric connection in the rim may turn the earth-crust it would not also turn the moon, as the latter’s motion is monthly, not daily.

Unable to solve this I complete my former broken discovery that the constructions on it are telescopes. Mining, maybe. Informing its people of the earth and how to get there.

Approaching the cliff a digging is heard inside. Then breaks out a waxen aperture, (closed by the splash) and out peeps a tiny head. We follow the rest, unseen, into the inner court of their mountain lodge.

Wax-carved alcoves, cloud styles, line a large area open in the center thinly to the sky. In one a tiny table holds tiny plates of brittle make. In them, what? A giant mosquito trapped in the outer wax, its denuded wings wrapping the imp robbers. Another alcove in high cloud has a choir, lace draped and seated. I recollect the mist people.

In the center of the sward plaza, or esplanade, is a circular fountain, enclosing within its circular wall of water a dell or green glen. Covering our top, we steer through the fountain side and to it. Discovering ourselves to the others, who scurry angrily behind us, we descend the dell, sloping down like a funnel, to find it shortly cut off. But lower down—ground again. While gazing at the latter a sensation strangely affects me, that it is moving——moving slowly by.

What is it? In the fixture—lubricated by the fountain in each white cliff (cooling the wax), moving as does the earth-crust. We are both lost in study.

The tiny fiends’ anger culminates, as altogether they give the globe a sudden push. That taking Savant unawares, it is precipitated through the funnel and to the moving ground below. Electric tremors shake us up, but, insulated, our globe survives, and passes on the ground motor out of sight of the enemies above. A signal from Savant, but e’er I look ahead, a cake of wax drops upon my lap. I look up and see the wee gnomes above, clinging like fireflies to the ceiling. Their fun is shortened, though, as one accidentally, also drops, landing safely in the cake of wax. Zip, down comes a gauze ribbon, up which goes the little gnome too frightened to fly.

Breaking up the cake, I see in it a mould of the harlequin form, which I proceed to restore and dress, to his consternation. My attention thus diverted sideways is attracted by the width of the cavern. The cause soon obvious. It contains other motor ground beds. The twin of this on which we lazily ride is close by, but moving in an opposite direction, like a band reaching out and returning. Does it contact with the earth-crust, and turn it in daily curve? Then what do two others, on each side of these, farther out, but opposite, also, and smaller in size, turn—more slowly turn? Is it the band of the fixture of the moon, _attached to the earth-crust rim_?

I now look ahead—in my head—a sun—earth and moon. What next?

The tube “O! O!” is a telescope: greater than that of earth center; as so much longer. Shall I see God?

No, only a comet! “What art thou—a sky steamboat, or a torch flambeau? If the latter, then is the universe a _campaign, illumination, ratification_? And hast thou a human hearer on mighty sidereal parade?”

A living being is by it. (Oh, only a babe chub swinging in the tube.)

It is gone, and we too are going out.

Globe protected from the dazzling light, we look around and see a slow-going meteor—the rest had flew so fast, we had not time to read them.

This is so like our globe in which we ride. I cry, “Is _this_ a sky meteor? This our globe?”

Answering not, Savant claps his bands, a reverberating crackling following. The other slops and turns our way. In it, as Engineer, sits the Traveler, at whom I will scowl no more, for by his side is Robet, in bridal phase.

Wuu, wu, w——

“What big, round eyes.”

I look around me, as I lay in my hammock on my little porch. Directly in front of me is Saucy, a grown-up young lady, as genial and ingenuous as ever.

“Now you are really awake, I will tell you what you have been doing while you were asleep. When I found you here and began slowly swinging you, you sang out: ‘Give me a butterfly’s wing.’”

When I fanned you, you groaned, “Lost, lost, oh, the ice.”

“Then Charley came.” (I see him, laughing behind a vine); “then talked gibberish to you, to see if you were asleep. You commenced making signs with your hands. Then slept soundly for a long time.

“Getting restless you held to the hammock sides, as if you felt to be falling.

“A branch of wistaria brushing your cheek, you grasped and began eating it. So I laid a banana on your hand, which you threw off as if it were a snake and bit you. Bernard (the dog) licked your hand, when you fainted clear away. To restore you, we shook the hammock. You then made your feet go as in dancing, ending as in prayer.

“Then you opened your eyes and looked straight ahead for a long time. Charley got a glass of water and sprinkled your face. Dropping the glass on the stand, you spoke in absorbed fashion, ‘Meteor,’ then awoke.”

* * * * *

A dream! Only a dream! It was more—it was a grand inspiration. I will write it all down.

The beautiful coach, with sail wings, the sea and ice tour. The city of Arc, city of Zion! The marvels of perpetual amusements, science and spiritism—of God(?).

Going down the earth’s center—the awed terror. Seeing into the planets—I did, too, I know I did.

I will write it all out.