Dinotopia: A Land Apart from Time/Transcript

(Transcript of the book Dinotopia: A Land Apart from Time.)

PREFACE  

A Century and a half ago, Sir Richard Owen coined the word Dinosauria to name what he believed to be "fearfully great lizards." During the time since then, the earth has coughed up new bones faster than paleontologists can raise them up in marble halls. As we crane our necks upward, young and old, trying to reclothe those bones with muscle and skin in a kind of reverse X-ray vision, we keep asking ourselves: what were they really like?

We have moved into this earthly abode without the benefit of meeting the previous tenants. In this instance, The previous tenants had a lease of 150 million years. They must have gotten along well with the landlord.

The Book you hold in your hands is an odyssey for the eye. You can check with the nearest eight year old; All the dinosaurs are real, based on fossil evidence. Whether the rest is real depends on you.

It belongs in the marble hall, not of the museum, but of your imagination, the other side of the mirror, The world that is in the end more true.

HOW I DISCOVERED  THE SKETCHBOOK  

Nearly a year has gone by since I first made the discovery. It was purely by chance. I was tracking down some information about the spice trade in China when my eye fell upon a curious old leather-bound sketchbook. The university library has hundreds of original manuscripts like it. They have all been catalogued, but few have been studied in detail.

At first it seemed to be just another sketchbook diary of a forgotten explorer. All the names were unfamiliar to me:

Dinotopia, By Arthur and William Denison, being the the account of our Adventures and Discoveries on a lost island.

I quickly paged through it, for the librarian had rung the closing bell, and I had to get home. The book had been badly worn and water-damaged long ago.

A very old photograph of a man and a boy slipped from its mount. Pressed into the back pages were some brittle botanical specimens of horsetail ferns and ginkgo leaves.

The Drawings showed people and dinosaurs living side by side. But this was an impossibility. Dinosaurs had disappeared from the earth nearly 65 million years ago, long before mankind evolved.

Was this sketchbook a mere fantasy, or had I stumbled upon the only surviving record of a lost civilization?

Honestly I have my own doubts, being skeptical by nature. But I offer you the facts of the case so you can form your own conclusions.

James Gurney

Will and Arthur Denison

Journal of Arthur Denison  

November 10th, 1862

Having lost all my shipboard journals in the disaster of nine days ago, I will begin with the wreck itself, and the curious events that have followed.

Alas, our schooner Venturer has perished, along with all hands, save only my son Will and myself.

We had been two years at sea, departing Boston on a voyage of discovery, through which I hoped to distract my son from the recent loss of his mother and to assuage, somehow, my own grief.

We were sailing in uncharted waters when a typhoon struck with sudden fury. It ripped loose the topsail and brought a spar down, shrouds and all, with a glancing blow to my shoulder that left me nearly senseless. I do recall Will's pulling me loose before the foaming surge carried us both into the mountainous waves, and I can still feel the sensation of being lifted bodily to the surface by a dolphin, no doubt one of the same that had been following since we left Hong Kong. With the last of our strength, we clung to the fins of the dolphins, who carried us into calmer green seas. We reached a line of breakers and soon our feet could carry use to shore! Where daylight woke us, parched and groggy.

A strange  sign of life  

By morning my shoulder, though stiff, was usable, and Will proved wholly uninjured. We searched the shoreline for a sign of the ship or our companions, sadly in vain.

But we did find, to our delight, a freshwater stream to answer our raging thirst. The dolphins followed our movements from a few hundred yards seaward, leaping and chattering, from all appearances trying to get our attention. In any case, I waved back, and Will hallooed as well, with the hope of reassuring and thanking them for our deliverance.

All at once Will put a hand to my shoulder and hissed, "Father, Listen!"

From some distance in the jungle came a series of low hootings or perhaps I should say bellowings and then again silence. We waited. All remained quiet. Eventually, urged forward by our need to escape the hot sun, we crept into the jungle. Two reluctant Crusoes, we set about to make camp, clearing a stand of small trees ferns and looking for any fruit, berries, or game animals that might provide sustenance. An activity Will tackled with enthusiasm.

The plants resembled  ancient types-living  relics of a bygone age.

ginkgo, conifers, ferns, and magnolia  

I was just preparing a brave speech for my son when a creature appeared.

Hog sized but somewhat resembling an iguana. It circled us, squawking like a parrot through its beaklike mouth, reaching toward Will as though seeking a meal.

I seized a heavy rock and waited for it to come within range.

Whereupon I hurled the weapon, striking the animal on the leg. It let out a loud, anguished squeal. Instantly the bellowing began again, as if in response, and now much closer.

The creature was  not seriously hurt.

Within seconds the jungle erupted with a horde of creatures so extraordinary that I was immobilized, incredulous. Not so Will. He seized me and started to drag me toward the water.

Too late!

Moving with terrific speed despite their size, the creatures surrounded us, displaying an armament of horns and club-like tails. Their stamping and bellowing deafened us. I realized that we were being threatened and I hesitate even now to set this down by living members of the class of vertebrates known as Dinosauria!

I had just thrust Will behind me, preparing to do I know not what, when to my utter amazement, a young girl emerged from behind the the largest creature and soothed it with whistles, cooing noises, and gestures. She then approached the injured hog-parrot and made a bandage from her white headdress. I was dumbfounded and a little embarrassed. I turned to reassure Will, Who was gazing awestruck at the girl.

She spoke in a reproachful tone to us, using a language in which I seemed occasionally to hear a familiar word. So I made a couple of efforts:

"Pardonnez-moi, m'amselle?; Er - Entschuldigung? Do you speak English?" To no avail, although she cocked her head as though she understood a word or two.

However, her main concern was for the injured animal, which seemed to be making a great thus about a minor hurt.

Meanwhile, I kept a wary eye on the larger creatures, who maintained a constant rumbling and shifting about us. I urged Will to keep very still.

Reassuring a  Triceratops  

At last the hog-parrot, which had been watching us intently, squawked out sounds something like "Ank - ayyank-leesh. Yank-ank-kee." There followed a lively exchange of hoots, rumbles, head-bobbing, and foot-stomping, until, of a sudden, the hog-parrot was lifted on to the back of another of its kind, and the entire menagerie disbanded: judge , jury, lawyer, and clerk, leaving us alone with a club-tailed bailiff and the girl herself, who beckoned us to follow.

Both Will and I were tired, not only from our watery ordeal, but also from the shock just suffered.

Nevertheless, Will set out sturdily, and even turned to offer me assistance! His two years at sea have made him more than usually rugged and self-reliant for a twelve-year-old.

Together we trudged in the wake of the young girl for what must have been two hours, without any further attempt at conversation.

Wearily we walked behind her as the jungle gave way to pastureland. The road was twice the breadth of those in America.

In the muddy places I measured wheel ruts fifteen feet apart, accompanied by hoofprints, not of horses or oxen, but of three, four and five-toed giants. The girl and her escort led us to the heart of a large ranch, where we could see, coming and going from high stone doorways, more of the dinosaurs, including several of the family Iguanodontidae, with whom I was already well acquainted. To my astonishment, these creatures - which so recently had threatened us - were allowed to roam free of fences or harnesses, strutting about like roosters in a farmyard, and accorded the greatest respect by all of the people.

At the ranch the girl introduced herself, with signs, as Sylvia, a reassuringly familiar name. Her parents are Giorgio and Maria Romano. Kind souls, they are workers in what turns out to be a dinosaur hatchery, and, I must say, somewhat henlike in their manner. Maria clucked and patted Will, while Giorgio, with immense care, arranged a nest-like bed for our comfort. By early afternoon (as far as I could judge with my pocket watch rendered useless by the saltwater), we had eaten, bathed, and retired gratefully to bed.

The Egg Hatchery

Creatures the size  of ostriches care  for the eggs,  keeping them  warm in transit.

The guest bed was made  in the form of a nest.

A dinosaur "chair- or more  accurately, "resting-couch,  since the larger quadrupeds  do not sit.  

Breakfast was juice, tea, soup, bread,  and nuts-no milk. no meat  and no eggs.

I now know how a chick feels, hatching into the expectant gaze of its companions in the hen house.

Giorgio must have been sitting beside us for much of the eighteen hours we slept. Maria, meantime, had washed my clothes free of salt and restored them to me. She then offered Will some pantaloons and a shirt of local origin, handwoven and of good substance.

At breakfast, to our keen delight, we were introduced to a gentleman named Alec Orchardwine, who spoke an archaic form of English. He seemed to search the air above his head for words, then said to Will something that sounded like "Wilcome, wee laddie." He then pointed to a painting of a dolphin as if he knew the means of our rescue. He referred to himself as Fifteen mothers English, by which I was to understand that his ancestors had landed here fifteen generations ago, or some 400 years. There may have been some error of language here.

From this gentlemen I learned that we are on an island named Dinotopia, that all humans here are descended from shipwrecked men and women, brought to safety by the dolphins, and most astonishing of all, that Dinotopia's main population consists of all manner of Dinosaurs, most of them peaceable, living as equals with the humans.

But if these harmless herbivores exist in such large numbers, what of the great carnivores?

I cannot imagine a natural world more terrifying than one heavily populated by Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Will appears to be undismayed by our strange circumstances ( the recuperative powers of the young never cease to amaze me) and was eager to explore the hatchery with Sylvia.

The Hatchery provides every  comfort for expectant parents.  1. NESTING ROOM, with egg basins made of  hardened clay, and a supply of ferns for padding. 2. PIPE ORGAN can be performed by large feet. 3. RESTING CHAMBER for conversation or  relaxation. 4. INCUBATION ROOM, kept at about 101°  Fahrenheit. Warmer temperatures will change  developing embryos to males; cooler will result in more females. Basin of water over the fire  keeps air humid, protecting the membrane inside the shell.  5. HUMAN SLEEPING CHAMBER, with space  for up to twelve full-time hatchery workers.  6. LIVING AND DINING AREAS for humans.  7. GUEST QUARTERS, usually occupied by  humans traveling with expectant dinosaur females.

8. STAIRWAY to windmill for servicing gears and  power assembly. 9. SIGNAL TOWER with faceted quartz stone.

Sign at  entrance of incubation  room.  Waiting for the egg to be laid.

Ovinutrix  (Egg Nurse)  known  elsewhere  as Oviraptor  (Egg Stealer)

Inside a dinosaur egg, halfway through incubation.

Albumen, Yolk Sac,  Amniotic Sac,  Embryo, and  Allantois .

The children keep a close  watch over the eggs.  Before hatching, the eggs squeak. Puppets help the  babies imprint to  the correct  parent model. Young Maiasauruses  enjoy being lifted  up to meet a  visiting aunt.  The children seem  marvelously  inventive and  co-operative in  their play.  Toys are fashioned  after a child's  favorite dinosaur. Lambeosaurocycle.

Over-worked human parents  are fortunate to have  the help of  dinosaur nannies. ball filled with  burdock flowers,  a dinosaur catnip.

Some days have passed since my last entry. Happy news! My sea chest containing oilskin wrapped sheets of foolscap and my notebooks was washed ashore amongst other wreckage. I will no longer have to borrow the precious paper of this household for my sketches and notes.

This Land is a mecca for a biologist.

How Burton and Livingstone indeed, Darwin himself would envy the chance to document such a place, even if it meant, as I have done today, playing nanny to a herd of young hadrosaurs.

Will and I continue to study the island's local language, apparently a blend of many, at which he is proving far more rapid a student than I. He spends much of his time with Sylvia, very much taken with the idea of a mere girl who can control such great creatures. He is eager to learn how to do so himself, even assisting Sylvia with her charges. All the youngsters who help at the hatchery. He accompanies her every afternoon on long walks to the seacoast in the vain hope of finding more wreckage or survivors.

He may have missed the companionship of young people during our long sojourn at sea. Our kind hosts have been pecking at me with eager questions about the outside world. I have told them a little about Darwin and Huxley's new theories and have described, to their infinite amusement, the recent display of life-size dinosaur models at the crystal palace in London. They seem relatively uninterested in developments like the compound steam engine.

My own inquires are met with remarkable frankness, but I take little cheer in the latest revelation from both Giorgio and Alec that no one has ever left the island. As they say, No eggs have rolled out of the nest. In their view, departure is synonymous with disaster because Dinotopia is surrounded by an impassible coral reef and system of tides and winds that prevent navigation.

I cannot believe there is no way of leaving and am determined to do so. Moreover, Will and I are expected to to register our arrival at a place called Waterfall City, and to supply a list of our skills.  

This sounds too much like regimentation to me but I shall, for the time, cooperate. However, HowI, I must gain command of the language- a matter of several weeks, at least-before planning any further.

The time has come to move on. Giorgio has been  watching the road for a vehicle to take us south  along the coastal route, known as the Mudnest  Trail. Sylvia and Will have borne the prospect of their parting better than I would have expected,  though from their whisperings, I wonder if they  have been working out plans to to see each other again.

Barter has replaced coinage  as a system of exchange.  Giorgio and Alec coping with  an injured foot of a hard-working brachiosaur.  

A dung wagon being readied  for work. This vehicle, the only  transport available for our  journey, is certainty no  Cinderella coach.

We have been a day now on the road to Waterfall  City, having won the blessing of the entire hatchery human and Dinosaur alike to depart.

Our transport, a dung wagon, is a more ill-smelling vehicle than any I have ever encountered in London,  New York, or even Philadelphia. We are the only  humans aboard. Besides the dinosaur in harness,  there is a group of small reptilians who ignore us, despite Will's obvious interest in them. They are long in conversation in a language that sounds to me much like the squeaking of wheels. But I do hear  time and again the word Pooktook, which I have  sophistication that lies along our route.

The first evidence of civilization and mysterious ruins of a lost city.

Copro Carts are kept  spotlessly clean.

On the outskirts of Pooktook, we were met by a crew who proceeded to fill our dung wagon with the noxious droppings of the dinosaurs. The material is rich in nitrogen, more resembling bird guano than horse manure. It will be carried to the surrounding farms to enrich the soil. Dinosaurs are remarkably  efficient at processing their wastes.  They do not Urinate at all: their food is almost completely digested.

The men who collect the dung call themselves Copro Carters, and claim to be of noble lineage, bearing themselves with immense dignity, and a kind of slow thoughtfulness akin to those they serve.

One fellow took Will and me for connoisseurs of fertilizer, recommending his exquisite age-ripened product as a Frenchman might speak of Gruyère or Camembert.

Simultaneously Will and I pleaded urgent business in the nearby city of pooktook and left as rapidly as politeness allowed.

Large  cities  often    have conveniences.

Method for  descending  stairs.

A Muttaburrasaurus with a  message-rider. Each small Dimorphodon can  memorize messages  and will deliver them  to various destinations. somewhat like a cross between a carrier  pigeon and a parrot. Human-powered  taxi, The signs were  written in a  strange script, Traffic  guide, Tuojiangosaurus.

We have spent all day about the streets of the city, Will and I both agape. Side by side, the people and dinosaurs crowd the broad avenues, the street  markets, the grand open-air theaters. I can only  of the zoological gardens have been thrown open and  hippos lounge in the marble fountains of Versailles  while sidewalk cafes cater to amiable rhinos. Yet at  its outer fringes. Pooktook lacks much of this cosmopolitan flavor. In the gathering darkness, carpenters and wheelwrights, potters and tinsmit‍hs were  still at work, accompanied by much banter and laughter.

Most of the houses were open to the evening air, exhaling breaths of curry and cider.

Will and I were debating the possibility of getting some food when a shadow detached itself from the nearby gloom and addressed us in rusty English:Shipwrecked, are you? Lost? Needing a guide?" He tugged the brim of his hat over one eye and grinned. "Lee Crabb, if I may intrude myself. I'm a new starter here, too. Been nine years since a dolphin bucked me on to a beach." We told him, rather guardedly, of the wreck of the Venturer, of our reception at the hatchery, and of  our intended journey to Waterfall City. He listened  with a sour grin. "Dino-topia," he said slowly. "You think the  name means a utopia of dinosaurs. Wrong. Look it up. It means 'terrible place'. I know. I've seen it. The skinnies are the slaves of the scalies. We're all slaves: hatching their eggs, hauling their dung. Or  like me, I'm a slag slag man. Escape? Not today nor  tomorrow. You've had your last grog and your last roast mutton, my good friends, my good skinnies.  Lee Crabb showed us his wagon, designed for carrying copper, bronze, and iron ingots. He is bound  not for Waterfall City, but for the factory town of  Volcaneum, which he recommends as a place to live  and work without drawing attention.  He lifted his hat brim to peer down the now  empty street. He then confided his extraordinary  plan for escaping Dinotopia. Apparently it involves  creating gunpowder from the dung with-he  assumes-my 'scientific' help. It sounds absurd to  me, and there is something in Mr. Crabb's manner  that does not put me entirely at ease. But at the  moment he is the only person who has echoed my  own desire for returning home. Whether or not  Dinotopia is the prison he claims, we shall see once  we get to Volcaneum.     

Lee Crabb  

Because dinosaurs take pride  in their immense strength,  they do not look down on  "heavy work ".

Crabb required my gold watch  in exchange for his services  as a guide. "Gastrolith, a  Pachycephalosaurus.

A settlement near Volcaneum.

The casting and forging room, overlooking  the caldera. Rutiodon helps with the bellows.

Tok Timbu.

Door hinge  and  knocker  made  by Tok.

On reaching Volcaneum, Crabb set to work to earn some credits. His dome-headed companion,  Gastrolith, turns one of the large wooden devices  that operate the lathe room. It would seem that  Crabb more often does the bidding of Gastrolith  than vice versa. When we first met the chief craftsman in metals, Tok Timbu. in the doubtful company of Crabb, the  mastersmith fixed me with a gaze like a tiger. But  he was impressed when I sketched, from memory, diagrams of the workings of foundries and mills I had observed back home. As we got to know one  another. I believe he becarne convinced of my good  intentions. Tok is a remarkable man, strong and a  very talented artisan, with great personal dignity. He is "four mothers African," descended from a  Yoruba king. Eventually I asked him about Crabb.  Was he truly a slave, kept here against his will?  Not at all!" Tok was emphatic. "No one leaves  because no one can. Crabb has been trying for years.  He finally gave up on finding the underground passage. Sering my puzzlement, he went on, "There are old maps and old  ballads-you'll see them in Waterfall City-that tell of caverns and tunnels underground. For a long time Crabb tried to find them. He shook his head and smiled. "We try to  make him feel needed, but he'll probably never be at  horne here. Or anywhere else either.  Will and I live in a guest cottage but take most  of our meals with the Timbu family. Their two sons  are somewhat older than Will a good influence.  With my permission, Tok has put Will to work  here. learning about the machines and tending the  needs of the dinosaur-human teams. He is winning  the respect of all of all. I wonder. though, how his  mother would have regarded his new habit of bobbing his head and cooing like a dinosaur.

Some days ago the clouds above Volcaneum Were pierced by a long, mournful cry. To my amazement, a leather-winged reptile swooped down, carrying a man on its back! As he landed a babble of greetings  announced him to be a "Skybax Rider." He dismounted, unloading from his small saddlebag many treasures-maps, blueprints, medicines, and  toys-while sharing the latest news from around  the island. His mount is called a Quetzalcoatlus  skybax, surely the most majestic flying creature the  world has ever seen. None but the Rider himself  dares to approach it, much less attempt to board it.  Will cannot conceal his fascination with flying.  He lingers near the roost of the Skybax, and has adopted a new greeting, which he learned from the Skybax Rider. With a hand extended, he says: Breathe deep, seek peace. Arrival of a Skybax Rider. Tok told us that the saving has its origins with  the dolphins, who long ago learned to survive by  carrying deep drafts of air into the darkness of the  waters. Dolphins owe their genial good nature and  their playfulness to an almost perfect adaptation to  their watery home, allowing them to flourish,  despite being air-breathers. Or so says Tok. This  greeting has found its way into many Dinotopian  customs. For instance, the Dinotopian word for  marriage or close friendship, cumspiritik, literally  means breathing together. Sometimes land creatures  hold out a claw or wing to represent the dolphin  flipper-which has all the bones of the human  hand. “Seek peace" comes from the dinosaurs, a  reference shrouded in the mists of their history.   Ceratosourus a small cousin of Tyrannosaurus, but not as  threatening. Breathe deep.  seek peace.    The Skybax Rider had just finished his work  here, delivering new orders for the factory, when  upon mounting his saddle, he turned to us with a  simple remark that took us quite by surprise: "Will  and Arthur Denison, they are waiting to welcome  You at Waterfall City.  At which the Skybax spread its leathery wings and took to the clouds. Does the whole island know  of our arrival? It is disturbing. Yet, on second  thought, castaways are surely rare surely rare enough to create  news of the first order. Meantime, Will has declared  his determination to become a Skybax Rider! Walking using  fingers and No fear of diving. Tok making jewelry for a Stegosaurus.  "A dolphinback like yourself learning to fly?” said  Tok to Will. Newcomers are not expected to achieve such control of the wild creatures. But Tok has much  confidence in the boy, and has laid before him the course  for becoming a pilot: because he is a dolphinback he  must first go to Waterfall City to learn writing, history,  and ethics; then: Tretown, a summer camp where  young people and dinosaurs practice living in accord;  and finally to a canyon in the east where pilots win the  trust of their reptilian partners. I expressed expressed to Tok  my doubts about Will's maturity. Tok eyed me and  remarked, "Arthur, your son is reaching out for responsibility. You must learn to let him learn.  He is right. I am too anxious. Tok has been a tower of strength to my son, who has responded with a new sense  of purpose. Meantime my own thoughts of an eventual  return home have turned to the old maps Tok mentioned.  Going to Waterfall City might provide me with an  opportunity to find out more about them. I agreed with Tok's Summon that we have a guide  for our journey, but I was not prepared to see the  hog-parrot again. Tok pointed out that the creature  is female. To be precise, her name is Bix, of the  species Protoceratops multilinguous, an ambassador and  translator, one of the few dinosaurs who can 'speak'  human languages. She remembered me, and said,  "Breathe deep. Seek peace, Arthur Denison. No  rocks, I hope?" Evidently she has a sense of humor.  

Bix, a Protoceratops.

Bix and Will  are fast friends. The capacity for gentle affection among  these creatures is astonishing. I now  understand Bix's exaggerated  reaction to the minor injury I  inflicted, unaccustomed as she is  to any deliberate attack.  She still sports a bandage - utterly  useless, but I believe she is  quite proud of it.

THE FOLLOWING DAY We started out, descending the volcano its eastern flank, while before us the great valley of the Polongo river stretched out to a limitless horizon. The clear air, the amber sunshine, Will's eager interest in all things, and my private hope of discovering a means escape enabled us to bear the difficulties of the  road, which was frequently crossed by streams or  scarred by deep wheel ruts. Had our legs been ten feet long, as were some of the giants Bix described, the fallen logs and muddy mires would have offered  no obstacle. Nevertheless we kept steadily on, Bix commenting and explaining as we went. I learned, among other things, that she can understand seventeen major languages, including Etruscan, Hittite,  and Hypsilophodont, and can mimic, with absolute  precision, the bubbling of a sulphur spring, and  many other sounds in nature.  After several hours she announced, "Short cut, "  and led us away from the road at a point where it  veered to the south. She might as well have said  "Wet feet," for the route we now followed drew to  the edge of a vast, shallow swamp.  She directed us to a thicket of totora reeds,  nipped off a quantity with her beak, and showed us  how to bind them into a serviceable boat, much like  those used by the fishermen of Lake Chad. “Old  Dinotopian design," she said. Our boat brought us to a settlement of crested hadrosaurs and their human assistants, where we  spent a few days drying out in the smoky attics of  their houses.

Each of the hadrosaurs was equipped with its own distinctive resonating chamber, which it used to  hoot at others of its own kind-even if those kinfolk were miles away through fog and forest. After a  deafening concert of raspy honking, a hollow log was drummed to order silence, and all assembled  craned their necks and stared into vacancy, listening  for the answering foghorn.  The humans then took their turn with matching  instruments and costumes. Those people waiting to perform shut their eves and puffed out their cheeks  like frogs who have swallowed fat flies. Such serious  pomp and bombast I had not seen since a visit to the United States Senate.  

Lambeosaurus, Parasaurolophus, and Corythosaurus.

Hylaeosaurus  Polacanthus  Euplocephalus  

We shoved off early next morning. The music  of the hadrosaurs gradually gave way to the distant,  deep, steady reverberation of a great waterfall.  Along the banks of the stream. armored dinosaurs wobbled into the sunny places, giving the appearance as they stood side by side of a gently  heaving cobblestone street. At intervals a head would bob up to watch us, and a mouth would bark  out a warning—a warning which Bix most often translated "Block rocks, white water." The Now  rapidly moving current did indeed gathner even more  force as we swept around the last bend. We had a single glimpse of the city before the boat overturned  in the shallows. Climbing up the rocks and gasping for air, we beheld Waterfall City for the first time. 

A first glimpse  of the city

From our high perch we gazed down on the  foaming water, wondering how we might make a crossing. All at once several objects which at first I took to be Skybaxes appeared above the city. They approached, and to my utter amazement, I saw they were  flying vessels, with sail-like wings, coasting through the air without flapping, and steering directly for a flat table-top of rock not far below us.  At the very moment they settled to the earth. the  captain of the largest craft unstrapped himself,  secured the wings from the buffeting drafts of air,  and approached us, introducing himself as a Wing  Ambassador. He invited us aboard. Will scrambled  to his place enthusiastically, followed by Bix. But I  took some time, seeking first to convince myself that  the silk and bamboo structure was sound and that  our weight would not overload the vessel. Then, filled with apprehension, I boarded, trusting my life  to the skill of the captain, who dashed out over the  boisterous falls with an alacrity born of necessity. Our flight gave us a clear vista of the city and its great  dome, on which I was able to observe, despite the circumstances, a vast map of the continents. But the map-makers are sadly  confused, the land masses being all linked together  in a jumble. We soon skittered to a stop in a lofty, open  square, Will hallooing in a shameless display of high spirits,  while I dismounted with as much dignity as my soggy condition  allowed. A colorful crowd leu us away through the swirling vapors.  

Seldom, I am sure, have strangers been given a welcome. So hearty were the  greetings that I had little time to notice the magnificence of all about us. Presently we were standing in a long marble corridor, with the registry names from many other nations and epochs, some  in unfamiliar scripts. The atmosphere of warm  enthusiasm overcame all my doubts. I wrote  "Arthur Denison, Professor of Sciences, and son,  William, August 6, 1863." We dressed in soft  yellow robes while our other clothes were put to dry, and proceeded into a banquet hall festooned  with laurel garlands, with many small birds flitting about among a company of merrymakers. I am quite content to leave the privations of the trail behind me for a time. We are to stay in a hostery maintained by the city for its many visitors. Inside, the thickness of the stone walls mutes  the thunder of the waters, but there is always a  steady background drone to remind one of the  sublime story of the city's setting.  Will and I spent several days in carefree wanderings, but eventually Bix suggested we might like to begin our formal studies. She said she had  made in appointment for me with a distinguished  Stenonychosaurus named Malik, the timekeeper for  all of Dinotopia. Malik would be willing to  instruct me about time.  I met him in his museum of clocks and   sundials, which I studied with great interest. He showed me his most beloved treasures, including the newest acquisition, obtained from a Skybax Rider: a  gold watch engraved with the initials  "A.D.", cleaned and in perfect condition.  

Stairway' to the  Time Door

Malik, the timekeeper  

The watch was, of course, my own, the very one I had used to pay Lee Crabb for our trip to Volcaneum.  As to how the Skybax Rider had obtained it I could  only guess. No matter. Malik had begun a kind of chatter, with Bix translating: "You of the West, Malik said, "think of time moving in a straight line,  from past to present to future. Your eastern brothers  regard time as a circle, returning endlessly in a cycle of decay and rebirth. Both ideas have a dimension of  the truth. If you were to combine geometrically the  movement of the circle with the movement of the line, what would you have?" He snapped his mouth shut and peered at me with an uncanny resemblance to my old schoolmaster. "The spiral?” I ventured. "Yes, yes. Or the helix. They are our models of the passage of time," he said. “So time moves on, but history repeats itself.” "Precisely," he said, apparently with some satisfaction. "Won't you come with me and have a look at our helicoid geochronograph?"  We missed through another door and entered  a chamber inside the spherical dome. A creaking wooden device, powered by water, turned a   gigantic stone pillar, and as it revolved, a mechanism climbed up the spiraling ledge, reading with its sensitive fingers a series of notches and  carvings. At intervals, colored flags would rise,  whistles would sound, or pebbles would drop down on brass bells. Malik took a step back. "Time for Kentrosaurus to hatch. Time to plant the millet. Time for the  magnolia buds to open. Professor Denison, I'm afraid you persist in thinking of time as numbers. You think of meaningless units of time-weeks, hours, minutes-based on what? Movements of faraway planets? Of what use to us is that? Why not pay attention to the precise 30-year life cycle of the bamboo Guadua trinii or the exactly repeated mitotic cycle of the paramecium? The whole earth has a heartbeat." He paused, swung his tail from side to side, and squinted. "And some things happen too slowly for you to notice. If you sit quite still, you can hear the grinding down of mountains, the stretching upward of trees, the pushing forward of continents-indeed the wearing away of this very waterfall." "Surely not!" "Yes, indeed. Every hundred years or so, we must divert the Polongo River and rebuild the cliff beneath the city. Malik reached his clawed hand for a small silver box and handed it to me. "You will soon become a Dinotopian. And when you do, you will measure your life in a different way. Then this will be useful." I hinged open the lid and saw a pocket version of the  great spiral clock.

 A pocket watch  

Crustal beacons  relay signals  throughout  the land. A common street game in  Waterfall City. A four-sided top is marked "put, take, all, or nothing. Contestants take turns, adding or subtracting  colored stones.  Dragon horns can be  heard above the roar of  the falls. Apprentices  begin at an early age.  

Bix then showed us to the library. A curious gentleman who called himself Nallab greeted us at the door. His eyes twinkled. “Learning to read?" he asked. “We use scrolls instead of books. Dinosaurs don't like to fumble with turning pages." A growl tore the air, and a Deinonychus craned his head to peer at us.

A Scroll reading Machine in  Operation and The footprint  alphabet.

Our host smiled. "This is Enit, our Chief Librarian," he said. “Perhaps he will show you his scroll-reading machine." Another growl and the machine rattled to life as Enit strained at the treadmill. Gears pulled the paper down past the viewing area and onto a reel in its base. “Dinosaurs do their best thinking when their feet are moving," Nallab explained. “It comes from their ancestry. The early Dinotopian dinosaurs left  footprint messages on stream banks-directions,  warnings, poems, even jokes and riddles.  "If you were a young dinosaur," Nallab went on,  twitching an eyebrow toward Will, you'd learn to  write in a sandbox. But instead we'll get you started with the quill of an Osteodontornis orri.  After his very active experiences at Volcaneum  and the Hatchery, Will disliked the idea of being  shut in with musty scrolls. But as he said to me  privately, “I can stand any amount of studying as long as it will get me into a Skybax saddle  eventually. While Will started learning the Dinotopian alphabet, helped by Bix, Nallab escorted me on a tour of the library. From the outside, the building towers over the entire city; inside, the corridors and reading rooms are equipped with honeycomb shelves for the scrolls. In each room there is a fireplace. "Dratted mildew," Nallab grumbled. “A constant battle to keep the scrolls dry. A waterfall is a nasty place for a library. He set to poking at logs while I scanned the shelves with eager eyes, forgetting what I'd come here to find. By comparison to this vast storehouse of ideas, the Library of Alexandria would have seemed a puny collection cataloguing only the few short millennia of human wisdom. Dinosaurs have mused and argued and dreamed and reasoned for tens of millions of years, watching all things from their calm, wrinkled eyes. I managed to translate just a few of the titles: SONGS OF THE SEA TURTLES , HOW TO MAKE GOLD , PALEOZOIC POEMS ,  LESSONS FROM THE BEE DANCE , THE CARE AND TEACHING OF HUMANS , PERPETUAL MOTION MECHANICS , A COMPENDIUM OF HELPFUL FUNGI , MASTERPIECES OF TERMITE ENGINEERING.

Pachycephalosaurus  Saltasaurus  Ornithomimus  Stegosaurus  Chasmosaurus  

Actually, most Dinotopian writing is not even  copied onto the scrolls. The hazy ideas, the gossip, the dull anecdotes, and the bad jokes are written  out in a sandbox, where they can easily be erased.  "The three-toed dinosaurs are always the scribes,  explained Nallab. “They're fine dancers, with good  clear footprints.  

Northwest Pyramid

At Nallab's suggestion, I climbed the pyramid that loomed above the northwest corner of Waterfall  City. Enshrined at the top was a tablet that translates as follows:  CODE OF DINOTOPIA  Survival of all or none.  One raindrop raises the sea.  Weapons are enemies even to their owners.  Give more, take less.  Others first, self last.  Observe, listen, and learn.  Do one thing at a time.  Sing every day.  Exercise imagination.  Eat to live, don't live to eat.  Don't p...(remaining text missing) I heard a chuckle behind me as I finished sketching. It was Nallab. “You're probably wondering about that last line," he said. "The stone was broken  when we discovered it, So we can only guess. I  believe the last injunction applies only to humans:  'Don't pee in the bath'."  Nallab is a mine of information on matters Dinotopian. I even felt free to ask him about his age.  He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Well, now,” he  said, "how old do you think I am?" I guessed, cautiously, the early seventies. He cackled in high glee.  "Shy by fifty years!"  “One-hundred-and-twenty?" I gasped.  "Actually one-twenty-seven. We are all very  long-lived on Dinotopia-at least by your standards. Comes from that herb we eat-" he waved a  vague hand.  I am incredulous of course, but did not hurt the  good man's feelings by saying So.  Every day after the main meal, Nallab and I  meet to explore a new corner of the city. We have  wandered past canals and fountains, monuments  and schools, gardens and observatories, kiosks and  stone that would shame even Venice.  “I can't imagine," I said one afternoon after a  long silence, "how it could be possible for such a  small island to support enough artists and stonecutters to build all these wonders. And I can't imagine  how all these different people and dinosaurs can  possibly get along without quarreling.  “Oh, it is possible," said Nallab, sucking thoughtfully on a mango, “but only if you do imagine it...   

February 8, 1864. Will and I have dropped anchor here in Waterfall City. We've been here six months  now, and we discover new things every day. Perhaps  we are enchanted by the mist, or we are beguiled by  the siren song of the intellectual life. Nallab tells me  that I will be expected to teach courses in Outer  World sciences and developments. Between studies  and teaching I doubt there will be much time for my notebook.

March 17, 1865. A year and a half in Dinotopia's  center of learning. I have become something of a favorite at the library, and have spent much time  correcting and updating the reports from previous  shipwrecked sailors about the Outer World. The  engineers study my diagrams with thoughtful respect, but they rarely carry my designs into  action. The sewing machine, however, was met with enthusiastic acclaim.  

April 14, 1865. I have at last found the set of mildewed charts and old ballads mentioned by Tok.  They are so primitive as to be useless. Indeed,  Nallab says they says they are the basis of religious myths of a  heavenly underworld sacred to dinosaurs, a curiosity  rather than a practicality. Still, it's a puzzle I would  like to have solved, even though I have lost any  desire to leave Dinotopia.

A window to the dolphin caverns  below the Aqua Stadium. Both Will and I have spent much time  swimming; our chief form of physical recreation.  The water slide is used by all.  including small children riding  the dolphins.

Whenever I grow weary from reading scrolls or  exploring the vaulted passages below the city, I  mount the high places in the western sector and sit  beneath the Lion Statues where two long-toothed,  ancient beasts, carved from red granite, crouch  amid the thunder and mist. Bix told me the legend  that at one time the falling water had no voice and  was as silent as the clouds. But when the lions first  arrived in Dinotopia, they were kept for a time on  the bare rock that later became Waterfall City. Their  roaring awoke the waters, provoking an eternal  answering call.  Could there still be such lions alive on Dinotopia? I sometimes hear talk of the Forbidden  Mountains, a colder region where a great variety of  prehistoric mammals is said to thrive. Bix clarified.  "Meat-eaters, yes," she said, “but not lions in the lowlands. Tyrannosaurus rex. When we set out to  cross Rainy Basin we will have to be particularly careful."   

And now the time has come. The thought of danger has preoccupied the lively family of ornithomimid  scribes with whom we have been living since moving  from the hostelry. They have been scurrying about,  packing scrolls and ink in heavy wooden cases, and  filling many cork-lined baskets with enormous  quantities of strong-smelling smoked eel and sharkmeat. I have absolutely no taste for either. They are  preparing for their annual journey north to the Habitat Conference near Treetown. Will's studies are  complete, and he and I are to accompany them. The  route leads through the heart of danger, but it may  be the only opportunity this year for us to make the trip to Treetown. He can hardly contain his excitement, though I shall be sorry to leave Waterfall City and the good friends we have made here. SUCH PREPARATIONS! A full week was required. I spent two days simply fastening the stiff buckles joining the overlapping plates of armor for our Apatosaurus. Her name is Koro Kidinga. She  bears her added burden with dignified resignation.  By mid-morning of the day of our departure, sharpspined Styracosaurus escorts had arrived. I protested to Bix that Will and I were neither warriors nor did  we have weapons. “Ours is an invitation," she said, “not a challenge.  Tyrannosaurus rex is not evil. Only hungry by  nature, with no love for society, and no stomach for  green food. That is why we we carry fish. "I did not  find this at all reassuring. The convoy lurched into motion with a slow,  rocking gait. We came to a drawbridge, the only  crossing into the lawless jungle. The bridge had  been engineered after the fashion of sauropod neck  bones so that after we crossed over and Koro stepped  off, the vertebral supports contracted and the bridge  sprang back up like a pine branch relieved of a  weight of snow. No retreat was possible. 

Vertebral drawbridge.  

The hundreds of pounds of fish and armor kept  Koro to a deliberate shuffle. Long past midday, we  moved through a grove of lofty Lepidodendron trees,  heavily damaged by the gigantic strength of a troop  of creatures that must have passed by recently. Suddenly Koro lifted her head to the level of the  treetops, fixed her gaze forward, and then wheeled  around-with us clinging to our seats-so that her  whip-like tail could sweep the perimeter of ground  as an angry cat's tail will sweep the grass. At  the same moment, snorting and bellowing, the  Styracosaurus guards backed up into a circle around  our unprotected quarter, presenting to the dark wall  of jungle a fearsome row of horns.

 Baskets of smoked  eels and scribes.

With a heavy, bounding gait that shook the   ground, a Tyrannosaurus rex broke into full sunlight. Close upon our circle it paused, eyeing us hungrily, opening its terrific jaws and clashing  its teeth. Bix told Will to stand ready to cut free the baskets of fish while I tried to quiet the  frantic scribes.  Then, to my horror, Bix leapt down from her perch in the saddle on to the back of a Styracosaurus, there to confront the attacker  directly. Aghast, I watched as she addressed the  creature by name, in a chattering discourse  which seemed momentarily to confuse it.  I can only compare her naive bravado to that  of a squirrel whose nut has fallen to the feet of a  passerby. Each time, a rising rumble or a clack  of jaws was checked by a burst of scolding. Bix  signaled to Will to start cutting loose the baskets. One by one they broke open with a thud as they hit the ground, while we edged away,  leaving the creature to gorge.  I helped Bix back into the saddle. Will  exclaimed, “Bix, what on earth did you say?” "We made a deal," she replied, winking. “I  told him he could have our snacks if he promised to leave alone the herd of defenseless prosauropods coming through tomorrow..." A  deception which Bix modestly characterized as  mere tact. I see why she is an ambassador! But  it seemed to me a hazardous defense, at best,  against a clear danger, no matter what Bix  claims to the contrary.  For the next six days our exit from the Rainy  Basin was confounded by a lack of trails and a series  of difficult river crossings. The channels, it seems,  constantly changing. At last the caravan  achieved its destination, a solemn ruin held firmly  in the grip of the jungle at the base of the Backbone  Mountains. Singly, or in groups, people arrived in  the company of dinosaurs, who, having rid themselves of armor and baggage, ducked under the arch  and entered the sacred space within. 

Ceratosaurus Gate  of the Temple Ruins

 Brokehorn,  a Triceratops,  addresses the  assembly.

Bix is  well-known  here.

Bix is well known here and was greeted by all  with immense respect. That she has been designated  as our personal guide makes me realize how important the dinosaurs consider the arrival of new  humans into their society.  A dignified elder Triceratops with a broken horn  rose to address the assembly that had now gathered.  Will and I assisted the scribes, tending the sandbox  of the footprint writers. Our time spent alongside  the sandboxes in Waterfall City was not in vain, yet  it did little to help us follow Brokehorn's quaint  forest-hermit dialect.  He carved a high arc with his nose horn, wheezing. The scribes padded across the sand with great  urgency. He then dropped his beak, lifted the frill,  and barked. The scribes spun in circles. He swung  his head to one side and hooted. The scribes trotted-and then paused.  Will elbowed me. "Father, they want us for something." I looked about. All eyes were upon us.  "Step forward," Bix whispered. "You have just been announced. We would like to make some  introductions." We met in turn each of the so-called Habitat  Partners. Each pairing of human and dinosaur represents a different biological region. Together, their  lifetime devotion is to monitor all living conditions  within their territories, reporting annually at this  conference. Based on the advice and help of the  group, they would return home to supervise planting. pruning, and protection. AERIAL: Oolu and Lightwing, a Skybax, responsible for watching weather, rainfall, pollen, dust.

FOREST: Bracken and Fiddlehead, a Chasmosaurus.  An area of great responsibility, the renewal and  health of woodlands and jungles.  ALPINE: Moraine and Bigtusk, one of the mammoths from the Forbidden Mountains. Their care:  glaciers, tundra, high meadows, sulphur vents.  DESERT: Dorsolith (a Euplocephalus) and Seco (five  mothers Sonoran), masters of sand dunes, erosion,  water management.  FRESHWATER: Magnolia and Paddlefoot, a Lambeosaurus, in charge of swamps, lakes, rivers.  SAVANNA: Draco and Highjump, a Struthiomimus,  range open country to look after grasses, reeds,  insects, soils.  BEACHES and BAYS: These are the charge of the The dolphins who obviously could not be present. I was deeply impressed by the care and concern each  sector displayed for the whole, and glad I'd had  time to study Dinotopia's flora and fauna at  Waterfall City. Will is in awe that he has actually  been introduced to Oolu, the head Skybax trainer  from Canyon City.  

AFTER THE CONFERENCE ENDED, We  continued north. All the way up the  Backbone Mountains Will pestered Bix with questions about Canyon City. He  had learned that her parents live near there,  and in fact she was pleased to talk about her family. I kept quiet, saving my breath for the three-hour climb, but I, too, would like  to meet her kin. We have grown very fond  of Bix.  Eventually we drew near to Treetown. The  village perches in the canopy of an oak forest,  with a fine view of Deep Lake, and with tilled  fields, barns, and botanical gardens within a  short walk.  Bix departed for one of the barns to hear  the latest gossip. We ascended ladders and  were greeted warmly by Norah, matriarch of  Treetown. She soon involved us in busy activity-supplies to be hoisted, yams to be washed, ropework to be mended-however,  not before we had enjoyed a reviving snack of  fried millet cakes in syrup, along with fruit  and cold berry juice, followed by a rapid tour  of the main trees. Norah climbs up and down  the ladders without a thought, and to tell the  truth I was only too glad to sit down to  mending ropes.  A family of Brachiosaurus glided up from  the valley below to receive their daily treats of  fresh turnip ferns and water spangles. As the  day wore on, Norah noticed how tired we  were. She showed us our sleeping arrangements- Will in one of the boys' trees, I in  the big central one-and fed us a bowl of  soup while telling us of the late evening bell  that signals all to rake up the fires, put out  the lights, and retire. I was asleep before the bell rang. 

Norah  оf Treetown, 3 mothers Irish   

View of Treetown from my sleeping basket.

The lumber all came from a forest,  leveled by a windstorm 300 years ago.   

Sylvia of the Hatchery

Norah's granddaughter Melanie is visiting from Waterfall  City. She listens to shells  to remember the  sound of the  falls.

I had scarcely pulled on my socks the first morning in Treetown when Will arrived, breathless and  flushed with enthusiasm, to tell me that his friend  Sylvia of the hatchery is among the girls staying  here.  I am feeling my age. I have only surveyed the  scene, but Will seems to be acquainted already with  every twig, shingle, and slat of the village, as well as  every inhabitant. Well, I will simply take my time  about exploring.  The past several days have seen a wild change in  Will. He met two boys from an eastern city called  Chandara. They claimed to be expert rope swingers  and dared him to take part in some dangerous stunts unseen by Norah, who was busy about the larder.  Then, after the curfew bell, when the boys and girls  had retired to their separate sleeping quarters, he  This basket allied with the boys from  Chandara, and stealthily climbed into one of the  girls trees. With a fair imitation of a Tyrannosaurus  growl and a few well-timed spins of the sleeping  basket a!! the girls to screaming.  The following day, when Norah appeared, she  cleared her throat and tapped on the balcony rail  with a wooden spoon. I braced myself for a scolding.  But she turned to Will, and said simply, "Young  Mr. Denison, let us see that this does not happen  again. May I ask that tonight you spend the night in  the dinosaur barns. Try playing a Tyrannosaurus  there. Now get to breakfast.  Once Will was out of hearing, Norah turned to  me. sensing my embarrassment. "Don't worry about  him, Mr. Denison," she said. “He's a lively boy and  he'll grow up fine. But he needs to keep the company of dinosaurs.   

Will spent an uneasy night among the giants. He reported to me that he slept little, between the  heavy shifting of feet, the wheezing and whistling  noises, and the muffled crunch of rocks in their bellies (Bix has told us this helps them grind their  food). At one point Will opened his eyes to see a  great head, as large wheelbarrow, peering down  from a few feet above him. The head swung up and  vanished into the darkness of the rafters. His dreams  were of walking trees, and mountains that could  inhale and exhale. As a result, Will's behavior has improved and he  seems to be reapplying himself with vigor to his  tasks. I have lately had many conversations with  Sylvia, renewing our memories of the days at the  hatchery. She has a sweetness of character, surely the clue to her extraordinary relationship to all dinosaurs. She and Will seem to be a good influence on  each other. Their days are full with all they must do  and learn, and so are mine. After I complete my  daily chores for Norah, I explore this region and keep up the journal and field notes.  There is a wholly different class of flora at these  heights. We must be at about 5,200 feet of elevation (or, as they prefer to say, 130 necks, each neck  being a unit of approximately 40 feet). I have so far  recognized great trees of rhododendron, an enormous variety of delicate ferns, tiny rock violets, and  many tuberous wild lilies. Cool nights. Hot, sunny  days. A paradise.  

Brachiosaurs sleep in barns  for protection from  occasional stray carnosaurs.  

One morning, Norah cheerfully said to me  "Arthur, it's time you had some company on your  rambles. Take Melanie and Kalyptra with you.  Melanie is her five-year-old granddaughter, and  ‘Kal' the Dryosaurus who always accompanies her.  As we toured through thickets and brambles,  Melanie would stop at a single tiny shoot in the  midst of a mass of vegetation, and say, “My, how  You've grown!" No bud or tendril was a stranger to  her. I soon discovered she was a positive encyclope- dia on plants and, moreover, thoroughly enjoyed her  role as teacher.  I asked where she had learned so much about her  green people". "From Grandma,' she exclaimed. gathering herbs.” What a remarkable  child! I am much taken with her, as it delights me to say—she appears to be with me. And I could  not have found a better teacher. Melanie has reawakened in me the love of Nature, the joy of knowledge  gained in carefree wanderings out-of-doors which, as  a boy, led me to become a scientist.  

Arctium longevus

This is a rare species known only to Dinotopia,  related to the common burdock genus of the Old  and New Worlds. Deep-rooted, and growing to a  height of three to six feet, it bears purple flowers  with hooked bristles. Tinctures of the flowers are  used in medicinal healing, especially to promote strong wing membranes among the pterosaurs. The root is gathered, dried, and prepared in  tea-like infusion, using waters of the springs near  Bent Root, and offered to humans after they have  reached twenty-four summers. The claim often  made is that the tea changes the body's chemistry  to reverse the ageing process. Thus a human can  approach or even exceed the long lifespans of the dinosaurs, known to live beyond their 250th year.  I met a small, wrinkled man from Cornucopia  who claimed to be Cornelis Huyghen, born in Holland in the year 1618, and to have been one of four  shipwrecked from a Dutch East India vessel. He spoke with such familiarity about the old  pepper ports on the coast of Java, and other antiquities that I could not easily discredit his story.  Whether or not the claims are true I cannot say.  Nevertheless, as a practical man-and as a scientist  interested in making even such a long-term experiment-I now make a habit of drinking the tea of  A. longevus. This is obviously the "herb" to which Nallab so airily referred back in Waterfall City.

Chenopodium tluca

To Dinotopians, corn and wheat are virtually  unknown: instead they cultivate a variety of unfamiliar grains, including a variant of quinoa. The  tiny seeds are dried and steamed into a nutty-flavored mash, or ground ground to flour and converted into  delicious pancakes and dumplings. The Aztecs used the whole plant and all its parts  for many different purposes and worshipped it as a source of life.  After their subjugation by the Spanish, the sacred grain was kept alive in hidden pockets in the mountains. In 1582, a crewman named Tluca Uman of Aztec  descent was traveling aboard the San Pedro. When  his ship was wrecked, he was rescued by dolphins,  along with his cache of C. tluca seeds, safely sealed  in coconut shells. The plant has flourished on Dinotopia ever since.  Tluca Uman's likeness, in full headdress, and  astride a dolphin, is often seen painted on dinner-ware-an appropriate place for a symbol of plenty.

Ladder to the  Beehives, The laundry is all washed at treetop  level. Rain gutters collect water.  which is used sparingly. Boys  must wash their own.  Will's experience  in the rigging while at sea has made him  right at home  at these  heights.

Everyone wants me  to try this swing.

The Brachiosaurus  encourages  some dangerous  stunts.  Fortunately  there is a leaf  pile underneath.   

The sauropod dinosaurs use musical notes to  communicate with each other and with humans.  Like whales or dolphins, they begin with an upward glide as a “search” call. A downward glide indicates  concern or distress. A rapidly rising and falling  series suggests great excitement or irritation.  From these simple beginnings, a rich musical  language has developed.

Bamboo  Panpipes  Thumb  Piano  Xylophone

"Rising sun.  "Rainfall"  Pose dancing is a vocabulary  of gestures performed by  a human/ dinosaur  pair.  Water flowing underground"

We have spent many weeks living with and  studying the habits of dinosaurs. Soon this training  period will come to an end, but Bix has particularly  asked me to make these pictures to show how dinosaurs see. The world through her eyes is evidently  different from what we see.  Dinosaur eyes take in a wider field of view, bending in at the edges like a glass globe filled with  water. Nothing is gray or drab or dull; rather they  see swimming particles of color, a moving mosaic  of dancing colored specks. As we would see a starscape in the night sky, they see a sparkling “lifescape" in the woods by day, a world teeming with life.  Some humans can see with dinosaur vision, Bix  explained: artists, poets, and children. But for the  rest of us, as we grow older, the mammalian part of  the brain clouds over the older reptilian part, and  drains away a little of the glory of the world.

Ordinary human vision and Dinosaur vision.

A Song of Dinotopia

Come forth in joy to greet the morn,

Ye ship-wrecked trav'-lers on our shores re-born.

Look up to see the ro-sy ban-ners rise, the dawn's new promise writ a-cross the skies.

Join all and one the great pa-rade,

In bright-hued fea-thers or in scales ar-rayed.

Life's spi-rit garbed in the va-ri-ous at-tire,

Our is-land's ward-robe does its soul in-spire

Breathe deep, seek peace.

Come round the foun-tain, crys-tal spring,

Let an-cient wis-dom from its sour-ces bring;

A drink to cool the war-ring and the strife, the qui-et wa-ters of en-du-ring life.

Take up the chisel and the drum!

Each adding flourishes with claw or thumbs;

So glorious cities rise from stony ground,

Advancing skyward with triumphal sound.

Stegosaurus is a most  fastidious animal.

When around  strangers  Styracosaurus  needs to   be reassured with a rub  under  the chin.

Camarasaurus  needs dental  work often.

"Skyhopping is a  popular sport.

At the end of the training season, the young  people take part in the Dinosaur Olympics, the  crowning contest of which is the Ring Riding Event, held  each year in Cornucopia, a settlement near Treetown.

The object of the event is to capture the greatest  number of rings of the proper color. The banners  strung across the track represent each of the four  quadrants of the island. Rings are loosely attached  with strips of paper.

Northwest  Northeast  Southwest  Southeast

A legendary  saddle  from the 1650's.

The saddle holds two riders: a young woman in  front, who steers by touch signals, and a young man  standing in back, who catches the rings pole as  he races past. Together with the skill and instinct of  their steed, the Deinocheirus, they make a trio.  The human riders are selected by Norah. To  Will's keen pleasure, he was paired with Sylvia, the  two of them representing the Hatchery Sector of the  entire Northwest quadrant. Sylvia's rapport with  dinosaurs is going to be extremely important.  To understand the singular nature of the  Deinocheirus, imagine an ostrich growing three times  its ordinary height, climbing into the skin of an  elephant, diving into a river of bright-hued paint,  and then prancing about with the arrogance of a  camel. Will, Sylvia, and the other contestants spent  days practicing with their temperamental mounts.

Race Day saw crowds pouring into the rustic  stadium from all the villages around Deep Lake,  leaving not a single child in his dooryard, not a its peg.  After many hours of feasting and dancing, a lone  trumpet call from the edge of the forest brought all  to silent attention. Then of a sudden the crash of a  cymbal woke the multitude into a frenzy of excitement. A small Dimorphodon, flying ahead to set the  pace, careened around the great ring, just ahead of  the feet of the running giants. At first I tried to  sketch, but I found myself yelling encouragement  and leaping up and down along with the screaming  spectators.  Will and Sylvia rounded the track, once, twice,  three times: sometimes missing a ring with the pole,  sometimes catching it, until, before the cymbal was  struck again to conclude the running, they had in  their possession no less than four of the hard-won  rings, the most of any team.

The Ring Riders

My son's team was triumphant! Many hands slapped my shoulder in congratulation; many longnecked dinosaurs swung their heads toward me in a  gesture of approbation. Although I had done nothing, in fact, to contribute to the victory, I was  enveloped in a cloud of happy celebration.  

 Will, Sylvia, and Claw paraded through the  crowds, trailing a throng of children. The victorious  trio paused to receive the blessing of all the dinosaur  elders, many of whom had been present at the meeting months before in the Temple Ruins.  Brokehorn gave each of them a token of good fortune for the journey ahead, and said- this time  with Bix translating- "You humans have now  cracked through your shell. You are ready to become  a Habitat Partner. The earth, the sky, and the sea  are all open to you. What region, what zone of life  do each of you choose?"  "The sky," was their simultaneous reply.  Will and Sylvia  riding "Claw a  Deinocheirus. This triumph means  they are assured of going  on to Canyon City to train as Skybax Riders.  We soon departed for Canyon City. I was sorry to  go away and leave Norah and Melanie, even for the  mysteries that surely lay ahead to the east, where  Will and Sylvia could finish their training. For  me, drawn forward by the hunger for new discovery,  the rootless life offered its own consolation. But I  will miss my friends.  We made uncommonly good progress through the Northern Plains, riding upon the high backs of migrating Apatosauruses, affording us a fine view of  the foothills of the Backbone Mountains.  One morning, after brooding a while in silence,  Will turned to Bix and asked, "What did he meanabout Sylvia and I just cracking through the shell?”  Did he see us as living inside an egg all the time  before?"  "You must understand, Will, that Brokehorn  sees all human young as protected—that is, as eggs.  It was a great compliment. Cracking through the  shell is no easy task, nor is living without a yolk  sac." Will saw nothing odd in this. He is settling  comfortably into human-saurian relationships.  Eventually a strong wind coming off a ridge  announced our approach to Canyon City. We disembarked at the edge, seeing before us, Yawning and beckoning, a dreamland of air and stone.

November 16, 1865  

To A MAN WHO CANNOT FLY, Canyon City,  and its nearby Skybax rookery, known as  Pteros, is like a wharf to a man without a  boat. I had hoped to find Skybaxes lined  up like gondolas in Venice, with dashing tour guides ready  to take me aloft. But only one rider can fit at a time on the special saddle, and that rider must know his  mount better than a falconer knows his bird.  But to the earthbound traveler many wonders are  within the scope of a network of trails and bridges. I  have just returned, for instance, from a fine concert  by a single Edmontosaurus, who used the echo effect  of a natural amphitheater to produce sustained notes  of a chord, punctuated by rhythmic bark-coughs.  Many of the apartments are carved into solid  rock, or built up from brick and nestled under rocky  ledges. The windows are small, covered with paper  rather than glass. The inside walls of the human  dwellings are painted with frescoes of frolicking dolphins and bright wildflowers in a Minoan style.  The villagers grow cotton, peppers, and squash  on narrow ledges above the canyon, which drops  down, layer by layer, to the bottom, 145 necks  (5800 feet) in vertical distance. The Amu River, if  visible at all, appears a mere twisted brown thread.  As the changing afternoon sun brings new areas into  bold relief, I fancy I see vast shapes in the rocky  walls. I must find a way to investigate.  Each morning before dawn, Will crawls out of  his bed (in a niche in the wall) and takes the twohour climb to the Skybax rookery. Like many of the dinosaur abodes I have seen, the rookery has none of  the square corners and flat geometry of our European  architecture, blending instead with the natural flowing forms in the rock, and decorated with designs of  interlocking circles or spirals.  I will accompany Will tomorrow to watch Oolu,  the head instructor, prepare the batch of new pilots.

Wall fresco, Canyon City   

Oolu, Skybax  instructor

Oolu and the student fliers assembled on a ledge  beneath the glowing canopy of the Skybax's wings. The creature preened and stretched, shuffled and  ambled, folding and refolding its wings, and finally  perched awkwardly.  "Please keep in mind that this is a pterosaur, not  a dinosaur,” said Oolu. “It will not understand your  human or saurian languages.  "In ancient days, the two large pterosaurs,  Pteranodon and Quetzalcoatlus skybax parted ways,  The Skybax took to the heights above the earth,  and chose the rainbow as its sign. The Pteranodon  remained in the canyons as gatekeeper to the World  Beneath. Both have a needed role to play in the canyons, but you must honor the fact that they are old  brothers who have their differences.  "You will discover," continued Oolu, "that your  Skybax will not fly beyond the Sentinels, who guard the lower canyon. That boundary cannot be crossed  while you are in flight."

Master pilot  Apprentice  Beginner

In the coming days, as Will and his fellow fliers  began short excursions down the canyon, he discovered the truth of Oolu's words. At the stone Sentinels, each Skybax would wheel around, like a Baltimore Clipper coming about, and return to its  accustomed space.  What was the secret business of the canyon? Oolu  spoke of the "World Beneath" as if it were an actual place. Could there be any substance to those old  charts from Waterfall City? I now felt intensely  curious about this mystery. During all our travels in Dinotopia, we had  encouraging of honest inquiry, hiding no secrets,  fearing no taboos. Yet direct questions about the  Sentinels now brought an uneasy shrug or, at best,  a remark that the region belonged to others. And  for once, Bix was of no help. She evaded  discreet questions. It seemed I would  have to find out for myself.  A Skybax will  not fly beyond  the Sentinels.

Oolu had warned only against flying beyond the Sentinels. Had anyone explored the region on foot? Yes,  indeed, but so long ago that no one really remembered.  People, it seemed, did not like to violate the taboo out of  respect for the saurians. Would there be any objection to  my taking a look in the name of science? No, indeedbut their tone was doubtful. If I chose to go, that was  my decision to make. Will and I spoke long into the night about this exploration. To my amusement, he disapproved of my “poking about." But he agreed to come part way, at least to  the bottom of the canyon, despite Sylvia's strong-minded  opposition. We provisioned for the expedition: dry food, light  blanket, oil-wrapped notepaper. Although Will had  offered to keep the Journal up to date, of course I would  also need to make my own notes below. I wore my old  coat and reinforced my footwear, envisioning a fairly  rough journey. We descended the cliffs by an old trail that was still in  use. It stopped at the water's edge, and we were obliged  to wade or scramble as we proceeded south. We reached  the confluence of the Ancient Gorge some ten miles  below Canyon City and made camp. Here tumbling  green and white waters mingled with the brown of the  Amu. By firelight the rocky walls above the water  showed a distinct sheen, not of natural erosion, but as if  something had rubbed them to a polished surface.  The next day we followed the pathway of the rubbed  walls beyond the point of the Sentinels, where, rounding  a turn of the river, we came upon an extraordinary sight:  strange monuments, Egyptian in character, along with  carvings that suggested the first meetings between  humans and dinosaurs. Fascinated, we were drawn on.  We swam through through a sunken  canyon of old monuments. The historical reliefs. We continued further downstream.  Even before we saw the Pteranodons, we  expected them. The smell of death hung heavy in the air. The bodies of dead dinosaurs  lay about us, being scoured to the bone by the  scavengers. The Pteranodons did not attack us, but flew up, alarmed and aggravated, to the top of an isolated bluff, where they followed our progress with sober interest.

Portal to the World Beneath

There was no horror for us in this landscape of  decay. It was hushed and somber, clearly a holy  place to the great creatures, who in their last days  would come here by choice to review the sacred  sculptures and to give their flesh for the renewal  of life.  A deep rumble ahead drew us forward to find a  vast circular opening into which the waters of the  Amu River plunged. A broad spiral pathway,  carved from the rock by ancient claws, led downward from the brink. But at this point Will  thought he should go no further.  "Wait here, Will," I said. “I'm going down to  have a look ahead." I descended the sloping ledge  some 100 feet to find the river had created a deep channel into the earth, surmounted by vaulted rock  and flanked by a safe walkway. A blast of fresh,  scented air cooled my face. I pushed forward. Now I  could see a strange illumination, a phosphorescence,  that shone upon growing plants: mosses, ferns, and  then shrubs growing in wild profusion. Among  them was Taraxacum officinale, which I knew to be  edible. I surmised that I lacked nothing to sustain  me on a much longer journey. I scrambled back to the surface to find Will looking upward. High above, in the small patch of sky  that remained visible above the surrounding curtains of stone, his Skybax was descending, showing  concern for Will by daring to enter the hallowed  territory of the Pteranodon.  "This is the chance of a lifetime for me," I said to  Will, “the doorway to a whole new world.” I reassured him that I had ample provisions and would  return in a few weeks, and thanked him again for  undertaking to keep the Journals, despite the new  demands on his time. I am poor at expressing the  pride I feel in my boy. “Good luck with your training,” I said, as we parted. I watched him swoop upward with a rush of  wings. Then I turned to descend into the earth.  

Journal of Will Denison, March 10, 1866 The busy weeks have passed. As I write for the  first time in this book, I can almost feel my father  beside me. Our training is hard. Lying in the saddle makes my shoulders and neck really hurt. Cirrus has a  fierce independence, and she will not be controlled.  After seeing her to her roost, I often spend the evenings with Sylvia and Bix, sometimes at Bix's home.  "Sylvia won't be controlled, either," says Bix. I  don't know what she means. I am not trying to control Sylvia-only Cirrus. Anyway, no one could  control Sylvia. Look how she talked to my father  when he went off. I wonder where he is now.  Bix says the caves are part of a huge network. No  one goes down there now, but it once sheltered all  island life. Bix says that somewhere in the canyon  walls the story is carved: long, long ago, before humans started coming, the sky went black with  dust and it got very cold. The dinosaurs collected  seeds, spores, insects everything-and took  themselves and the whole lot underground. Something like Noah's Ark. Later, when the air got clear  again, everything came back to the surface. The  same ramp that my father went down was the one  the dinosaurs used to come out. Dinosaurs travel past  the Sentinels to die because it feels like coming home.  It's been a month since father left. How could it  be a month? I feel I understand Cirrus better. She  now lets me treat her wings with burdock medicine.  Yesterday practiced launching and landing in a  strong headwind. Besides flying there's a whole lot  of study about clouds and winds. At least I'm better  at study than Sylvia. Bix says it's my father coming  out in me. He ought to be back soon. Oolu has been  working with me to change the habits I learned with  horses. Stop steering, he yells. Sylvia is lucky; she  never learned bad habits. I asked Oolu again today  when we might be considered for full apprenticeship.  "Cirrus and Nimbus will tell you when you're  ready," he said. "You need to win their respect. You cannot ask them to carry you aloft until you have a  feel for what it takes to climb up through the air  with a heavy weight on your back. You have to show  them you are not tied to the earth." "How can I do that?” I said. “I can't fly.  "You can climb,” he said. “You've got feet, and  you can carry a backpack." He pointed toward the  mountains with his chin. "Up there, at the top you'll find an old building called the Tentpole of the Sky. Other Riders have made the climb, but you  would be the first Dolphinback. Sylvia should climb  beside you; you might need her help. It's a hard trip,  but think of Cirrus and Nimbus; you'll win full  partners from it.” Bix blinked when we invited her along. “No, no,  not for me,” she said. "This is for you. I am no  mountain climber, and besides, I have some family  business to attend to.

Home of Bix, with her elder  nestmate Hylo and mother Petra. Skylight.  Shell lamp. family visits last  many  days. Sneaking  platform.

Some weeks later, Sylvia and I left Canyon City,  saying goodbye to our human and saurian friends.  Oolu assured us my father would return, that he  would somehow be taken care of. Cirrus and Nimbus waited for us at the trail head. It was hard to  leave them, especially when Cirrus folded me in her  wings. Then as Sylvia and I left, they both stretched  out their wings in a slow flap, like waving goodbye.

Cirrus

Sylvia was crying. I couldn't put my arm around her  because of the backpacks, but I held her hand.  As far as the eastern foothills of the Forbidden  Mountains the way was easy. Sometimes we met an  occasional traveler. Even this far from the sea there  were monuments-the work of dinosaurs, Sylvia  says-raised to honor sea creatures such as trilobites,  nautiloids, or sea scorpions.

A monument  to trilobites.

Moropus, Brontotherium.  ancient mammals  who live in the mountains. In a few days the wide dinosaur roads thinned  out, replaced by footpaths leading up along the  streams. We began to climb through thickly wooded valleys of silver fir, giving way to dwarf  rhododendron. Sylvia found minty groundcreepers,  which she collected to brew into a fine tea. For some  we had a bad time, slowed by giant piles of sharp boulders, some larger than a house, scattered  around, sometimes separated by foaming torrents.  I was worried, too, about sabertooths, so I found  a stout, sharp pole. Sylvia laughed. I didn't mind  the pole came in handy for climbing. From the  high, barren places, we were able to look down on  the Canyon: it looked like a small scratch in a table.  Once we thought we saw Cirrus and Nimbus far off,  watching us. But it might have been other Skybaxes.  We reached our first goal, a village shared by  humans and large mammals: giant ground sloths,  glyptodonts, and camels, by nature more restless  and rugged than dinosaurs.  A fine sympathetic mammoth, a cousin of  Bigtusk, offered to carry us as far as he could,  being familiar with the terrain. He had good footing, even on ice, and he found overhangs for us each night, sealing our shelters with the warmth of his great body. After even he had to turn back, we  scaled the mountain on foot. With each ridge we  climbed, the remote building far above us seemed to  float up higher, disappearing from time to time in  mist. By turn we encouraged each other, Sylvia  never complaining, and during the freezing nights  we huddled together.

"Tentpole of the Sky     

At last, at the end of a very long day, we reached  the summit, resting our backpacks thankfully  against the foundation stones. The clouds thickened, snuffing out the final flickers of sunlight.  Above us, bells rang out (we later learned they  announced the "raising of the black tent," that is,  the onset of night). We shouted for many minutes,  until, to our great relief, first one face and then several leaned out over the parapet. A rope ladder  dropped to the snow beside me.  After being greeted, we were led straight to our  host, Levka Gambo, who lost no time in refreshing  us with hot buttered tea in clay cups, blankets of  woven fur (the first we had seen in Dinotopia), and a  strong aromatic incense. All this combined to lull us  into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.  Next morning, after a simple breakfast, we  toured the old frescoes and learned some history. Far  as we were from dinosaurs, we felt their good will,  for this magnificent building was their ideaalthough built by Tibetans. The dinosaurs realized  that certain newcomers benefited from being isolated. Some people needed to be private for a time,  removed from reminders of all they had lost, until  they were ready to take on a new life. Nothing could  be more removed than this place. Since no trails can  be maintained, supplies are brought in by a floating  balloon-boat called a Sky Galley.  The Map Room Living at the top of the mountain has begun  to cast a curious spell over me. At dawn the  silence is utter and absolute. From the balconies  on clear mornings, I can trace the course of both  great rivers, the Amu and the Polongo. I can  even see a tiny grain of white that must be  Waterfall City. Late at night, or when the wind  is howling about the cold stones outside, I sometimes venture down to the Map Room, housed in  the belly of the building. To my great delight, I  have found a chart showing the extensive caves  of the World Beneath. Apparently there are  many luminous passages and chambers, and  several portals through which my father might  exit-although, knowing him, I realize he  would not stop until he satisfies his curiosity.  I told Levka about his journey, and he seemed  to sense the turn of my thoughts. Levka Gambo "You will find your father again," he said, “but  neither of you will be the same." I pressed him  to explain. "Each person who arrives in Dinotopia becomes reborn, and the birth is different for  each individual. Your father will be born of the  Earth. You and Sylvia will be born of the Sky. Sylvia AGREED WITH ME that Levka is a  very ancient man. I hesitated to ask his age but she teased me until I did, whereupon he said, "I have long given up measuring the  years—” and, eyes twinkling, added, “as I told  Your young friend!",  Sylvia's mischievous gaiety has reached out to  the other keepers of the Tentpole. I have often  listened to their laughter as she studies the  intricately beautiful weaving they do, using fur shed by mammals. Both of us help with chores.  Even though we're together most of the time,  she often seems lost in her own thoughts. She's  still a mystery to me.  A great deal has happened since writing the  above. One morning our routine was interrupted by Levka, who sat us down and handed  each of us a stack of very old, faded picturecards. "Look through these,” he said. "Choose just one to return to me." Absorbed, I considered each image: a bridge, a house, a fish, a  flame, a moon, a cloud, a flower, and a trilobite.  I put the cloud card into his waiting hand just  as Sylvia gave him hers. Our eyes met. Levka  held up the cards-twin clouds. We both knew  at once that this was a turning point. Levka had  known, too, and earlier must have sensed the  Sky Galley approaching from afar, for there it  was, drifting on the horizon. By the time we'd  packed and said goodbye, it was looming overhead, secured by its drag line to a bronze ring.  As winches lowered the bundles of cargo,  Levka turned to us and smiled. “Breathe deep,   he said. "Fly high. Seek peace." Then he gestured us up the ladder. We followed the galleyman and crouched in the boat-like gondola.  The rope was freed, and we watched in silence  as the snowy peaks dropped away. prow shaped  like Skybax,  at full speed, a headway of  6 knots. twin rotating  air paddles  pedal- powered Bags of rocks  are added or  removed  until the  lifting force  is correct. With arms  outstretched,  the silk  tassels  help signal  changes  in wind  currents. a qalleyman    At first we drifted like a leaf on a lazy river,  revolving slowly as the sun alternately warmed each  side of the gas envelope. Until we began to pedal,  all was silent and serene. Pairs of galleymen took  turns at the squeaky pedals, which moved us along  fast enough to feel the bitter air on our faces. The galleymen knew Canyon City well-one was  a retired Skybax Rider-and were pleased to carry  us as far east as they could.

But the sea of clouds  under us was beginning to look ruffled and uncertain. By the fourth hour, we struck a hot updraft  from the eastern face of the Forbidden Mountains,  and we noticed the world sinking even further away.  The sky above was a dark, deep blue, the air so thin  we were panting. A tug on a red rope released prehelium, and we reversed direction, plunging  down into the clouds. We dropped perilously low,  despite bag after bag being cut free. Violent gusts  hurled us about, plunging us at one moment into  gray obscurity, and the next desperately near the  rocky clutches of the mountains. It was a solemn  kind of fury, quite unlike the wild screaming of the  typhoon that wrecked our ship. When we stopped  pedaling, the only sound was the soft groaning of  the gondola and the eerie whistling of the wind over  the mountain passes. Poor Sylvia was in misery from the swinging  and spinning. I held her securely in my arms and  soothed her, telling her that whatever happened, we  would be together. In the fading light we could see  that the ropework and the rudder had been damaged. The galleymen jettisoned everything they  could, but still the balloon scarcely held us aloft.  At some point each of us realized we had lost all  control. There was nothing left to do. Darkness  overcame us, but oddly enough, I felt no fear. We  all wrapped up in as much covering as possible and  secured ourselves for a hard landing.  But our aimless flight took many more hours.  There was no sense of movement or direction. Sylvia  and I even dozed off for a time, and woke to the feel  of warmer air.  Suddenly a galleyman shouted, but his words  were lost in several bouncing jolts that ended in a  splintering crash. Luckily the final impact was softened by what later turned out to be a field of flowers. At the time, after making sure no one was seriously hurt, we all curled up on the ground and  slept, exhausted, until dawn woke us to reveal a  shattered ship.  In the growing light we could see a large city on  the horizon. Our pilots recognized it instantlySauropolis, capital of Dinotopia. After eating what  remained of our food, we set out.  Even from a distance away, through the grand  entrance gate we could hear music and laughter.  Apparently no one had been able to observe our  crash. We simply joined the stream of people—all  carrying flowers and colored banners-and entered  the capital city.

A crowd of merrymakers  preparing for a parade  swept us up in its  spirit of happy abandon.     

Sylvia took my arm and we drifted like dragonflies, careless of the sudden rattle of drumbeats, the  blare of trumpets, or the squeals of children running  wildly past us, their long-tailed nannies in anxious  pursuit. I know there was some residue left in me  from the solitary mountaintop peace, and the skytossed surrender that we had just experienced. Sylvia moved beside me, and I felt great joy knowing  she had shared in every step of the journey. My father had once told me the words of Malik, the  timekeeper: "-the whole earth has a heartbeat."  Now for the first time, I sensed that pulse of life  animating all of us, every creature, large and small.  Presently a woman, apparently an official of the  city, approached us, looked us up and down, and  exclaimed, “It's you! Sylvia and Will.”  "Yes, you're right," said Sylvia, puzzled that we would be recognized. "Great eruptions! Did you know? Of course  not. Arthur and Bix have arrived. That is, they've  left. Oh, you've just missed them. They left for  Waterfall City a few days ago. It's a three day trip by  land, so they should. "My father and Bix?" I interrupted. "What were  they doing here? They should have been in Canyon  City."  "Well, I don't know about that. They were certainly here. They arrived by sea, popping up right  in the harbor, in a most extraordinary vessel. Come,  I'll show you. Bewildered, we followed our guide to the harbor. An odd and primitive craft was hoisted  up on display. Glass domes, brass hatches, coils,  straps, hinges, and steering fins fitted roughly  together in what appeared to be an underwater  vessel. Isn't it ingenious?" said the woman. “Put  together by Arthur, with the help of Bix.  I was amazed. I had no idea my father was so  handy with machines.

The submersible vessel

Rudder  

Breathing pipes, with  valves

Propeller  for ascent

Balance  chamber and  "depth gauge

Stabilizing fin

Bottom skid

Propeller for motion  forward or astern,  hand cranked   

Rather than joining the parade, Sylvia and I were  content just to watch, to see the spectacle unfold as  if in a dream. Sylvia was given a basket of violets and a tiara of daisies. I will see her so forever in my  mind, whatever happens in the future. I was not  really certain of her feelings, although sure of my  own. One thing I realized-our parents would  think us both too young for cumspiritik. But at least  we are going to share the life of Skybax Rider  together. At last, Cirrus and Nimbus arrived, to our great  joy. Strapped to their saddles were our new flying  outfits, emblazoned on the shoulders with the badge  of Apprentice. We unrolled a note from Oolu:  "Congratulations! You don't need my permission:  you have theirs. Fly high, seek peace. Cirrus and Nimbus carried us to the landing  platform of Waterfall City. We stood for a moment,  thrilled to feel again the cascading thunder of the  waters. Before long Bix arrived, wiggling with  excitement.  Sylvia knelt down. "Why didn't you tell us you  were going in after Arthur?"  "I didn't want to make you worry. You had your  own work to do. I felt Arthur might be in need of  some assistance.  "But for a dinosaur-going to the World  Beneath-wasn't that breaking an old custom?" I said.  "We Ambassadors have freedom to go wherever  we can be of service. Now come, there's someone  who wants to see you.  She took us to the library, where at last we found  my father, the center of an eager throng of geographers and historians. He broke off as soon as he saw  me to rush over and hug me for the first time since I  was a little boy. When I got my breath back, I said,  "I'm told you just arrived. What happened down  there? Were you in danger?”  Well, uh-," my father hesitated, “in a way, my  boy, in a way. But-Oh, Will, you won't believe  the wonders I've seen, the fantastic discoverieshe put his arm around Sylvia, “but the truth is, I have never-never in all my life-been so glad to  see any two people!”

the new  studio,  with easy access  to the library  and to the falls.

Reunited, we stood  and watched  the falls.  

Journal of Arthur Denison

I HAVE READ WILL'S NOTES, and I smile at the transformation they reveal. When I left him he was a boy. He entered the library door a young man. Seeing Will and Sylvia both wearing the uniform of the Skybax Rider fills me with a father's  pride. Will has the furrowed brow and the square  shoulders of a man of purpose. And from the little  glances they exchange, Will and Sylvia have become  good friends who respect-and love-each other.  Have I changed as well? Perhaps so. My friends  from the dear old world we left so long ago on the  wharf in Boston-those fellows surely would wag  their heads at me. But I wonder if I shall ever see  their faces again. No matter. Our old life was richly  rewarding, and I am grateful to it. But here on  Dinotopia my eyes have been opened to the wonders  of a new world. Seeing with fresh eyes has rejuvenated me. I find enormous enthusiasm filling my  designs-and most of all my recent field notes,  which at the moment are in disarray, having been  made under difficult circumstances in the World  Beneath. There is a lifetime-a long lifetime-of  work to do here. I cannot start soon enough.