A Mountain Walked, page 41
At some time in the future I hope to make a closer study of Virgin’s Island for a book dealing with the ancient lost civilization of Greenland. Perhaps we will meet in your native city of Halifax. In the meantime, I do thank you again for you interest in my work.
Yours sincerely,
James Churchward
Single leaf of sundry notes in pencil. They appear to be random jottings.
Propitiation: the act of pacifying, appeasing, or conciliating a god with offerings and sacrifices, in order to win the favor of the god, or to regain the good will of the deity.
Euphemism: an auspicious term substituted in place of an inauspicious term.
Example—the Greek Furies were called the Erinyes (Angry Ones), but were often referred to euphemistically as the Eumenides (Gracious Ones) as a superstitious way of turning aside their wrath.
Second example—the fairies of Celtic mythology were greatly feared and dreaded, but were sometimes addressed aloud as the “Good Folk” as a way of pacifying their malice.
High Places: gods of the pagan world were often worshipped on high places such as treeless mountaintops. Witches assembled on sabbat festivals on high places. Refer to the Brocken, Hartz Mountain Range; also the Blocksberg; Heuberg; Lyderhorn in Norway; refer to “Night on Bald Mountain” by Mussorgsky.
Oracular dreaming: the practice of receiving oracles in the form of dream images or messages. It was believed that the gods communicated with men through their dreams, and that to be chosen for such messages was a singular blessing.
Mother Goddess forms: Isis; Astarte; Ceres; Virgin Mary; Matronit; Shakti
Mother of monsters: Tiamat
Mother of abortions: Lilith; Hecate
The remaining document is a dated journal of the climbing expedition to Virgin’s Island, written in Reverend Neeley’s own hand in a bound, hard-back notebook. The paper is of excellent quality, and the permanent black ink has not blurred to any appreciable degree. I will refrain from commenting about the contents of the journal, as it is not my place to do so, but will observe that folklorists may find the material fascinating, should the board determine to acquire the notebook for the Archives.
Journal of Rev. Jeremy Neeley
May 9
We set out for Virgin’s Island from the small fishing port of East Dover before first light. The boat had sat tied to the dock, prepared and waiting for the run, for the past five days. No one was up and about when we left due to the early hour, but the villagers will see my black Packard Coupe parked up the road and notice that the boat is missing. I’ve told nobody where I’m going and gave a false name when renting the boat. What Clyde and I intend to do is against federal law, and because of my position as a member of the clergy I can’t risk being betrayed to the Mounties. I doubt any of the villagers would talk—they engage in a fair amount of smuggling and are not fond of the police—but it pays to be cautious.
Had another of those damned dreams with the deep, throbbing roars and menacing shadows last night but said nothing about it to Clyde at breakfast. His mind was filled with the details of the expedition, and I daresay he didn’t even notice my subdued manner. He’s the least introspective human being I’ve ever known and lives as much in the present moment as any of his Viking ancestors. I let him take the tiller of the Johnson Sea-horse outboard, and we putted out of the harbour over water as flat as a pane of glass, the little four-horsepower engine moving us smartly along. The outboard is only a few years old and should be reliable; the owner of the boat assured me that it would not quit on us.
Conditions couldn’t have been more benign. The air was warm for this time in the spring and there was almost no wind. Both of us were dressed for the worst the Atlantic could throw at us. I suppose the East Dover fishermen would have laughed to see us go out, bundled up as we were, but they wouldn’t have known that we intend to stay overnight, and perhaps longer, on an exposed rock in all kinds of weather.
When we hit the swell of the open ocean the breeze freshened. I was glad I had let Clyde handle the boat. I concentrated on not losing my sausages and scrambled eggs, and kept us pointed in the right direction with my liquid-filled pocket compass. Virgin’s Island can be seen from the heights of some points on the mainland, but not from our port of departure. I confess, my heart thundered in my chest when it came into view. It is impressive enough in photographs, but when first seen with the naked eye it almost appears supernatural, so strangely does it rise up from the deep, like the lone tombstone of some giant in an endless watery graveyard.
We had to round the shoulder of the island to reach the eastern face. As we did so, we saw the towering expanse of the cliff, blood-red in the rising sun. A thrill went through me such as I have never before experienced, a mingling of expectation with dread, and a kind of fatalistic relief that the long waiting was at last over. The image of the Madonna and Child was not yet visible, which was a pity, I reflected to myself, since by the time it became highlighted by the angle of the rising sun we would be too close to the cliff to appreciate its beauty. White-feathered gulls dipped and wheeled above us as we approached the monolith, the air filled with their indignant cries. I was glad that I had decided to wear my canvas fishing hat.
As agreed, we selected the most likely landing spot and worked the boat in with the emergency oars to secure it to the rock face. The rise and fall of the boat on the gentle swell made me queasy again, but I tried to give no sign of it. Below the high mark of the waves the cliff was cloaked in a thick mat of dark-green seaweed that smelled strongly of salt. Clyde deftly transferred himself to the rock and clung on its side like a fly, with his left hand wedged in a fissure. With the other hand he inserted steel eye-loops into narrow cracks in the stone and drove them home with a hammer that was lashed by a cord around his wrist.
Never was I more thankful that he had decided to accompany me. I doubt I could have done what he did. At last the lines were attached to the bow and stern, and the rubber tyres draped over the landward side of the boat to absorb the inevitable shocks when the waves sent it against the rock. It was impossible to fix the boat firmly against the rock because of the rise and fall of the waves, to say nothing of the tides, but we did the best we could to make it secure and safe.
As I write these words sitting in the stern, Clyde is working his way up the first pitch, driving in pitons and trailing hemp rope behind him. Soon I will begin to inch my way up the cliff. We both have heavy packs, but plan to pull them up on lines as we go. Clyde is completely at home on the rock face. I can hear him whistling to himself, so still is the sea. The wind must be from another direction, for there isn’t a trace of it in the boat. It really is a fine morning. Even so, I have checked the flotation compartments to make certain they are tight. This boat will not sink, even should the waves capsize it. Just as well, since it is our only way back to the mainland.
(later)
We completed the climb without mishap. As I sit here cross-legged on the top of the cliff, facing the open ocean with my journal on my knee, my pen so trembles with excitement that I can scarce still it enough to write these words. The object of my enthusiasm is before my eyes, resting in the crease between the pages of my journal. It scarcely seems real, yet there it is. But I must record its finding in proper order and not let my wonder and delight carry me away.
I found the climb arduous but manageable. I have often climbed the mountains of Cape Breton as a recreation, but have seldom faced sheer walls such as this one. I confess that I was nervous at the beginning, but this soon passed thanks to Clyde’s expert lead. As the sun rose and began to move more southwardly in the heavens, shadows showed themselves on the warming rock face. By bracing my feet against the cliff and leaning backward on the rope, I could make out above me the curve of the Virgin’s shoulder and the rounded head of the Christ child. At that distance there was no definition in the features of the infant’s face.
What people think they see in the features is mostly an illusion, I think, similar to the illusion of the so-called man in the moon, which looks nothing like a man. Psychologists have determined that our minds are ordered in such a way that we automatically seek to perceive the human face and the human form in abstract patterns and textures. The detail that passers-by on ships think they see in the image of the Madonna is a product of their own expectations, projected onto the random patches of light and shade on the cliff.
The birds proved a constant distraction. Their shrill cries never ceased, and they swooped and soared quite near to us as they passed, agitated by our inexplicable presence in their world, where no human being had ventured before or, at the very least, where no human had ventured for many centuries, if the legend of Glooscap is to be given credence. Following with my gaze one uncommonly aggressive northern gannet that flew close over my head, I saw it vanish, seemingly into the face of the cliff above. I knew this could not be and fixed the location in my memory; then, as I ascended, I worked my way across toward the spot, insofar as the rope set in the stone by Clyde would allow lateral progress.
In this way I found the recess in the cliff that Clyde had missed, for he had made his ascent some three yards to the left of the opening. When I pulled myself up level with it I got a bad fright. I had forgotten the bird in my excitement. Of course it was still in the recess, hidden by shadow. It exploded out at my face with a thunder of wings and a shrill scream. My grip on the rope faltered and I slipped several feet before I caught myself. The abrupt drop had the useful consequence of sending the bird harmlessly over the top of my hat, but it make my heart freeze for a full beat.
Pulling myself back up, I peered into the shadowed opening. It was curiously regular, as though it had been cut or bored into the rock by some artificial means. In size it was some two feet high and eight or nine inches across. I glanced up. Clyde had stopped and was gazing down on me with curiosity, his face framed against the sky in the golden halo of his curling blond hair. I waved to show that nothing was wrong and put my hand into the opening. Amid the bird droppings and bits of browning grasses I felt a nest that was deep enough to be concealed from sight. It was not the sort of nest we encounter in our walks through the woods on the mainland, but was merely an irregular mat of fibers. My fingers brushed an egg, still warm from the breast of the absent and very annoyed mother.
With care I extended my arm as far into the cavity as I could reach and felt beyond the prickly twigs and straw of the nest to the space behind it. I thought it was empty and was about to withdraw my hand, when I brushed something that felt like a flat piece of wood. I drew it out and saw that it was, of all things, a small ivory carving! You may imagine my astonishment. Several times I turned it in my hand, then realized the risk I was taking and with the greatest care slid it into the deep pocket of my trousers. Had it slipped from my fingers, it would have been lost forever. I spent several minutes feeling around blindly in the cavity but discovered nothing else, not even beneath the nest, which I felt obliged to move since I could not risk missing anything that might be beneath it. Apart from the carving and the nest, the recess was empty.
Busy with the packs, Clyde had not noticed me draw forth the ivory tablet. I decided to refrain from mentioning the find until we could examine it together. Twenty minutes later, I found myself standing on the comparatively level stone surface of the summit, which in that wind-blown place was bare of grasses. Clyde was hauling up my pack. I did not disturb his work, but leaned out and gazed down at the boat, no larger than a postage stamp against the emerald-green waves of the sea. A few puffy clouds hung along the distant eastern horizon, but otherwise the sky was a glorious blue vault.
The panoramic view was extraordinary, made all the more so with the knowledge that I was only the second man to see it in modern history—Clyde having seen it first. To the east and south stretched the uninterrupted rim of the Atlantic. I turned in a slow circle and gazed across the island, its green expanse descending gradually to the western edge. Beyond, I could see the misty coastline of Nova Scotia, diminishing to invisibility as it extended northward. It had a bluish coloring. The island itself was a jumble of irregular stones covered with green grasses, lichen, and scatterings of white and blue wildflowers, over which hopped and walked and sat such a profusion of seabirds as I had never seen before. Every so often a flock of them would rise up into the air and mill about before settling once more. As they did so, the squawking swelled to a deafening level, then diminished, resembling the sound of a wave breaking on the rocks of a beach.
Toward the center of the island I saw the mounds of tumbled stone blocks that were so evident in the aerial survey photographs. I confess my disappointment, for at this near distance they bore no resemblance to any habitation, not even one fallen to ruin, but merely appeared to be a natural formation. White droppings from the birds frosted their planes and angles like drifts of snow. I might have wandered down among them immediately, but my mind was still on the carving, and on who could have placed it into the high recess of the cliff, which was almost 500 feet above the sea.
Stepping away from the edge, I drew the carved piece of greenish ivory from my pocket. The top of the tablet was tapered in the form of a shallow pointed arch, so that in overall shape and proportion it somewhat resembled a Gothic church window, although no Gothic architecture ever used an arch that flat. The elongated aperture of the recess in the cliff had also had an arched top with similar proportions.
“Hullo? What have you got there, old chap?” Clyde asked, coming over.
I told him how I had discovered the little carving. He took it and held it up to the sun, then tossed it in his hand in a way that made me cringe.
“Be careful,” I warned him. “It’s absolutely priceless.”
With an easy smile he gave it back to me and clapped my good-naturedly on the shoulder.
“A little souvenir to remember the expedition, eh?”
He left me to ponder the tablet and went back to the packs. Looking at it now as it rests like a little ivory bookmarker on the page of the open journal spread across my right knee, I am filled with a sense of sacred reverence. It depicts in bas-relief a highly stylized version of the tableau that adorns the cliff face, and appears to my judgment to be none other than the Madonna seated on a high-backed throne with the Christ child on her knee. The two human figures are delineated with uncouth angles and strange proportions, yet their general posture can be puzzled out after some squinting. However, the bone structure of their faces is very badly executed, so that they almost seem two distorted masks. Across the square back of the Holy Virgin’s throne, which projects some distance above her head, are engraved markings, quite deeply incised as though with a jeweler’s wheel. They seem to be some sort of hieroglyphic writing, but they are like no script I have ever seen.
The style of the bas-relief image, with its rounded limbs and conventionalized features, reminds me of Esquimaux soapstone carving, but it is not Esquimaux art, or the art of any other primitive culture that I recognize. It seems to be completely new—or rather, very old. It is almost abstract, like some pagan Picasso. The ivory resembles elephant tusk and is uncommonly hard, like glass under my fingernail. It shines in the sunlight with a satiny greenish luster, semi-translucent. The tablet is more weighty than I would expect of ordinary ivory.
It’s a curious thing to relate in the chill rationality of written words, but when I look away from it, the memory of it in my mind appears to dance. That is, the memory of the image seems to show a standing figure frozen in the act of some sort of ritual dance. Yet when I return my gaze to the carving, I cannot make out any trace of a dancing figure, only the enthroned Madonna and Child. I must put the carving away safely in my pocket. I tremble to think of its value to anthropology. My guess is that it represents some hitherto unknown native culture, unless perchance it is an artifact from lost Atlantis. The thought makes me smile, but I do not entirely dismiss the possibility.
(later)
Clyde and I have explored the island. With one exception there is little enough to see. We first walked the perimeter, which drops sheer to the sea like the eastern cliff and is swept clean for several yards in from the edge by the wind and rain, giving a secure enough footing for those who are not inclined to vertigo. But the stench—there are bird droppings everywhere. We thought we had smelled the worst of them during the climb up the face, but once we descended from the height of the eastern ridge and put the body of the island between our noses and the sea breeze, the full odor of the place became evident. I don’t believe I’ve ever breathed in anything quite so foul. Or in this instance, so fowl, if you will forgive my pun.
When we turned our progress toward the center of the island, we had to watch our feet and take care to step around the nests. For the most part the birds behaved well and got out of our way, although they gave shrill voice to their disapproval. Thank heavens not all the species are nesting. It was only when we drew near the stone blocks and I looked up at them that I began to realize how large they were. Each was the size of a small house. I could almost fancy that I saw signs of tool marks on their lichen-mottled sides, but the impressions were too widely spaced to have been made by any chisels used by men, so I dismissed the notion.
We found that we could walk through gaps under and amid the stones. They leaned at crazy angles above our heads, forming a maze of passages and grassy open courtyards. They gave shelter from the wind and muted the cries of the birds, which for some reason did not descend to the grass between them. The dark shadows and abrupt turns began to play on my nerves. Clyde may have felt it also, for he was uncommonly silent. The sensation was almost palpable, a kind of dream that is sometimes felt when entering an ancient tomb or holy place.
