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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.