11/4/1902 – Ever since the day my dear father handed me the map—on his sickbed and mere minutes from death, God rest his soul—I have dreamed of this day. Today, we board the steamer Beluga and begin our voyage to Brazil and the heart of the mighty Amazon. Having secured funding through the Royal Academy and with the aid of three wealthy patrons—Sir John Biggins, Earl Gerry Simpson, and Princess Ariana of Denmark, all of whom will be accompanying me—I have arranged a sizeable expedition with all the latest equipment and technology, and a phalanx of scouts and local guides focused on a single goal: to finally achieve my father’s dream; to find the lost city of Zegunda. I hear the bell summoning us to board the ship before she pulls away.
11/11/1902 – Thus far, the voyage has been uneventful with one distinct exception: This morning, at my behest, we made port at Las Palmas on Gran Canaria of the Canary Islands, there to take on our chief guide, a Frenchman of some renown by the name of Pierre Montplace. The man was not awaiting our arrival despite our wireless dispatches the day previous, so Sir John and I disembarked and prowled the streets of the little Spanish town in search of the great explorer. We found him, stinking of gin and barely verbal, in a filthy wine sink tucked between the leaning hovels of a dark alleyway. One of the local whores, who seemed familiar with Montplace, helped us maneuver him into a small cart. We paid a local urchin to wheel him to the dock. Fortunately, Montplace had had the forethought to leave his baggage in the customs office before losing himself to drink, so we loaded him and his luggage onto the ship and left them in a heap in his stateroom. It’s now been six hours and we’ve seen and heard nothing of the man short of snoring.
11/23/1902 – We are a week from the Amazon delta, perhaps ten days from where we intend to disembark and begin our quest. The weather has been fair and warm, the sea calm. In the evening, I’ve grown fond of taking a glass of port while Sir John regales us with war stories from his time in India. While pleasant enough company, the Count and the Princess have comparatively little to say. In regard to Montplace, despite my initial disgust with how we found the man, once he came to and got his sea legs under him, he’s proven to be a most interesting addition to our merry crew. I confess, I find his tales of adventure fascinating. Whether or not half of what he says is true, the passion with which he says it is well worth the price of admission, as they say.
12/1/1902 – Land ho! We have arrived in Brazil and begun our path up the mighty Amazon. After a brief stop in Macapá (where a liberal payment of “travel fees” to the local customs officials ensured minimal delays) we carried on. The rainforest enveloped us within an hour and seemed to close in more as we traveled. If not for the incredible width and strength of this greatest of rivers, the effect would be oppressive. I confess I do not look forward to leaving the boat and setting off into that moist darkness. Father, be with me.
12/1/1902 (pm) – Dear God! Montplace pointed out a huge dappled green log floating nearby in the muddy river. Then the log began to move! Undulating slowly, the giant anaconda made way for our noisy boat and disappeared among the reeds at the shore. What a strange and wild country we shall hike tomorrow.
12/4/1902 – We have reached La Concertina, a large natural amphitheater along the southern bank of the river created millennia ago by an ancient whirlpool that dug the bowl out of the native mud and rock. This is the first of four key landmarks labeled on my father’s map and the point at which we bid farewell to the comforts of the Beluga. We toasted the milestone with a bit of champagne—Montplace wisely abstained—and went to bed early. We set off at first light.
12/7/1902 – Even in full sun, the rainforest is dark and dreary. Sweat soaks our clothes and faces, and the machete handle slips in my slick palms as I swing. I now understand why the native tribes wear nothing but breechcloths, and I envy them. I must say, I worried the exertion and conditions would prove too much for Princess Ariana, but the woman is made of better stuff than I. She is always last to rest and first to start again while the men groan and blather. She’s expressed not the slightest complaint despite nearly constant discomfort and inconvenience as we cut our way from one waterlogged campsite to the next, and she always emerges from her tent looking refreshed and eager to press on. I, of course, do not.
12/8/1902 – We located the village of Ta Mini late last night—the second landmark on the map. The natives there recognized Montplace and were most hospitable. We ate better than we have since the ship, and we were absolutely thrilled when they offered to launder our stinking clothes. This morning, we set off again with assurances that our next stop—the ruins at El Grabe—was but a day’s journey to the northwest. Thus far, father’s map has been dead-on accurate and, despite the obvious challenges, our quest has gone off swimmingly.
12/12/1902 – The last four days have entailed nearly constant torrential rain, such that even taking out this diary seemed pointless. Despite the downpour, we located El Grabe with no problem and then the fourth (and final) landmark we sought, the low granite mound they call *Velho Leopardo*—the Old Leopard of the forest. If father’s hardwon map is correct—and we have no reason to believe otherwise—the lost city of Zegunda should be due north, less than a day’s journey. It’s an auspicious time for the endless rain to cease so we can set off fresh and in the best of spirits at dawn. Perhaps at this time tomorrow, I will hold the golden scepter of King Moholacatheum in my hands! This evening, I’ve been refamiliarizing myself with my father’s meticulous notes, and I’ve come across a small slip of paper on which he hastily scrawled lines in Spanish. Once I translated them, I had to laugh. As a lark, I shall copy here the so-called “curse” my father dug up regarding the scepter I hope to find:
Only one may disturb the great king’s slumber
Only one may take hold of his scepter and wield his might
Only one will return with king and scepter in hand
For only one will return
12/13/1902 – We have not located Zegunda as I hoped, but we did have a disturbing experience. About seven o’clock, we stopped in a small clearing and set up camp for the night. As the Princess took her turn preparing dinner at the fire, Sir John and I sharpened machetes and the Count walked the perimeter with Montplace, discussing our plan of attack for the morrow. Suddenly, Count Simpson looked into the gloaming forest and shouted, and we all jumped and stared. He claimed to see something and gesticulated wildly before dashing off into the undergrowth. I yelled his name, as did Montplace. Being closer, Montplace told us to stay where we were and ran off after the Count alone. Just a few minutes later, both returned, Montplace looking angry and winded, the Count bedraggled and confused. After a nip of brandy and a bite of stew, he returned to himself enough to explain that he’d thought he saw a great golden glow setting off through the forest in the direction we’d come, and he’d felt compelled beyond all reason to follow and attempt to capture it. We all agreed we’d seen nothing, and he eventually accepted this as fact, apologized, and retired early.
12/14/1902 – It is dawn and we awoke to find Count Simpson’s tent open and empty. The Count is nowhere to be found despite a diligent search. Montplace has a wilder look about him than before. And I believe even the unflappable Princess Ariana is disconcerted. We will stay and see if he returns.
12/14/1902 – I grew quickly impatient with waiting for the Count when it became clear he had no intention of returning. Despite the group’s initial arguments, I prevailed upon them to leave one man behind for the Count’s sake, and allow the rest of our company to seek our quarry. Sir John volunteered to stay so Montplace, the Princess, and I set out once again to the north. I have never claimed to possess a finely tuned sense of direction, and with no direct view of the sun, I kept my eyes glued to my compass. Our way was impeded by thicker vegetation than we’d seen thus far and I quickly became exhausted. As we sat to sip water from our canteens, Princess Ariana tipped her head toward me and asked in a hushed tone whether I thought Montplace knew where he was going. I gave a halfhearted response in the affirmative, but I confess I was shaken by her words. Later, with the thought now embedded in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder.
12/14/1902 – It is nearly midnight. As sleep escaped me, I decided to revive the fire and sit by it for a while. I was troubled in part by our failure to find Zagunda once again, but more so by what we found upon our return to the camp. Sir John was standing at the edge of the clearing facing the way we’d come. He had removed his netting and jacket and stood there in his undershirt, assailed by biting flies and mosquitoes, staring blankly into the forest. When I placed a hand on his shoulder, he startled and shook his head as if to remove fog from his mind. Then he muttered that we should not stay, before kneeling by the fire. He has not spoken since. Sitting by the fire just now and thinking over our unsuccessful efforts today, I was struck with inspiration and made my way to Montplace’s pack, which hung on a low tree branch near the edge of the clearing. Quietly retrieving his compass, I compared it with my own. They showed dramatically different readings. And, as I watched, both moved slightly, in opposite directions. Is this some trick of the atmosphere? Or perhaps manmade machinations? I replaced his compass and have returned to my tent, but I fear sleep won’t come tonight.
12/15/1902 – We woke to find, to our horror, that Princess Ariana has now disappeared as well. I think it highly unlikely either the Count or the Princess can survive alone in this vast and harsh forest, but I confess their disappearance irks more than frightens me. Sir John sits cross-legged in his tent, muttering about leaving “this cursed place” and Montplace has apparently found where I’d secured the brandy. They intend to stay in camp and await the others’ return, but I am determined to seek out the lost city, even if I must go it alone.
12/15/1902 – I am sitting upon Moholacatheum’s soapstone throne in the vine-encrusted ruins of Zegunda’s holy temple-throne room. The ruins lay not an hour’s walk from where we have been camping for the last three days, and I cannot explain how we did not find it before now. While I was inexorably drawn directly here when exploring on my own, I recall our previous efforts taking a meandering, illogical route that, in retrospect, seemed to avoid this very spot at all costs. I simply followed Montplace as the expert in jungle navigation, but I now feel he may have been trying to withhold the discovery for himself at some later date. When I return to camp, if he is sober enough to comprehend speech, I will have some words with the shifty Frenchman. I will spend the remainder of today exploring and documenting the ruins and, providence willing, locating the king’s golden scepter.
12/15/1902 – I have found the scepter and it is secured in my pack! Father, if you can hear me, your work is complete! I am so excited and overwhelmed, my head swims and my limbs weaken. I will rest here momentarily before setting out back to the camp before nightfall.
I, the great and immortal King Moholacatheum, have risen as the prophecy foretold. And, with my golden scepter, have slain the interlopers who dared to seek my tomb and treasures. I have seized the mind and body of The One foretold, and I shall now complete my conquest as the legends describe. I leave these words, written in the blood of my enemies, as evidence for all future interlopers who seek holy Zegunda: you need not seek, for I have come to you.
12/20/1902 – I’ve finally reached the Beluga after a harrowing trek through the rainforest alone. I fear I’ve contracted a tropical malady of some sort as I struggle to remember large portions of the past several days. My diary is of little help. Moisture must have seeped through the pack and attacked the most recent pages as they appear a blurry mess of black and red to my eyes. Also strange, the captain of the Beluga, upon helping me gain the deck, immediately inquired after my companions. I do not know who he refers to, and I told him as much. After some argument, he saw me to my stateroom. Most importantly, the scepter is safe and I eagerly await my return to England. In the meantime, I must rest.