Savage

In that moment, what I would not have given to have this meeting take place somewhere in the wilderness, and not here with so many to bear witness. He came close, and my courage deserted me. My heart beat faster as I contemplated the horror of embracing him as I knew I ought, and it was only through great effort that I did not let my face betray my emotions in front of the Arabs. Rather, I advanced slowly toward him, feigning a dignity that I did not possess.

Coward that I was, I stood at a distance and called out, “Is it you, Livingstone?”

I cannot recount accurately what he said to me then, for he was mumbling and I understood little of it. He seemed oblivious to the others, but he led me away, into the mud-walled house where he was convalescing. There was a sort of platform that served as a veranda, looking out over the square, where many natives had gathered to watch this historic meeting of two white men. Livingstone sat on a straw mat, with only a goatskin between himself and the cold mud wall. Little wonder his health was in such a state.

I told him of my journey to find him, but his attention wandered. Finally, I asked him directly, "Where have you been all this long time? The world has believed you to be dead."

“I am trying to find the Nile,” he informed me, sounding very irritated. “Did you not know this?”

I told him that I did. “I would hear of your travels.”

At this, his face became pinched. “I did not find it,” he confessed. “But what I did find—” At this, he seemed to regain a measure of strength, for he sat up straighter and addressed the Arabs. “I would speak privately, if you please.”

I could see that they were displeased, though whether it was the request or the Doctor’s manner, I cannot say. I have heard that he is greatly opposed to the Arab merchants for their trade in black slaves, but this has not stopped him from accepting their hospitality. Nevertheless, I sent them away so I might hear what he had to say.

“I have dared tell no one of what I discovered,” he began, speaking in the low voice of a conspirator. “Of those who found that place with me, none still live.”

I imagined that he was speaking in a general way about the interior, where he had been wandering these many years, but this was not the case.

“Many days to the east, about four hundred miles, if I reckoned correctly, there is a volcanic mountain, which the natives call ‘the Mountain of God,’ but in its shadow is a lake straight from Hell itself. The water boils and is red as blood. Any living thing that touches the water turns to stone.”

This declaration struck me as the ravings of a feverish mind, but I continued listening.

“The lake is not deep, and the water rises and falls as the tide. While taking the measure of the western shore, I chanced upon a stone footpath, exposed by the water’s retreat. The path led into the lake, which I thought strange, until I realized that it continued to the mouth of a cavern, which was almost completely inundated by the bloody water.

“I became obsessed with the riddle of that path. Who had laid it? What was in the cavern? I concluded that the path must surely have been laid before the lake formed, or perhaps when its shoreline did not reach so far, which surely meant that it was many centuries old, but the cave and the answers I sought, lay beneath the surface of the poisonous water, beyond reach.

“Though it pains me greatly to admit this, one morning, without my permission, several of my bearers took it upon themselves to swim into the cave. Only one of them returned, a good lad named Mgwana, and he was nearly dead when I found him. ‘Baba,’ he told me — it is the word for Father, and a title of great honor and affection—‘I have seen the place of Watu Wa Kale.’ That is their word that means Old People, but I took it as meaning the Ancients. He told me many things he had seen before he died, turning to stone in my arms.”

The recollection greatly taxed Livingstone, and he asked to take his leave. I prevailed upon him to take a portion of quinine from our stores. After he retired, I recorded this account to the best of my ability, but I think it almost certainly an invention of his fevered mind. He is a devout man and his story seems like something from Scripture; I am reminded of the wife of Lot, who was turned into a pillar of salt, and of Moses turning the Nile into blood.

I shall ask him again when the fever has passed.

November 11, Saturday, 1871

The quinine proved efficacious for Livingstone. His strength returned, and he was much more alert on the occasion of our next meeting. We spoke for many hours, and I recounted the stories of my travels, which having already recorded herein, I will not repeat. Livingstone related more of his travels, a great many things, which I will endeavor to record at greater length.

The matter of the Blood Lake and the Cave of the Ancients weighed on me heavily. I asked the Doctor if he remembered telling me the story. He replied that he did not and that I should dismiss anything he might have said as a feverish delusion. Yet, there was something in his eyes and the way he urged me to forget and destroy all mention of the Cave, that now makes me wonder if there is not something more to this story, after all. Does the Cave of the Ancients exist? And if it does, what sort of wonders might it contain?

I shall have to learn more about this, but I do not think Livingstone will speak of it again.