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A Journey to the Center of the Earth xx-xx-xx BBC (8 of 8) The Journey is Ended
00:27:09
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If you're the purchasing manager at a manufacturing plant, you know having a trusted partner makes all the difference. That's why, hands down, you count on Grainger for auto reordering. With on time restocks, your team will have the cut resistant gloves they need at the start of their shift. And you can end your day knowing they've got safety well in hand. Call 1-800-GRAINGER Click grainger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done. We present Bernard Horsfall as Harry Lawson and Jeffrey Banks as Professor Van Hardwig in A Journey to the center of the Earth. The novel by Jules Verne adapted for radio in eight parts by Howard Jones. Part 8 the Journey is ended. And now I have reached the last chapter of our amazing and incredible adventure. Not that we realized it at the time, of course. There were, as my uncle said, Some 5,000 miles between ourselves and the centre of the earth. But there. Perhaps I should first remind you who I am. My name is Harry Lawson. And my uncle is none other than that brilliant scientist, professor von Hardwig of Hamburg. You may recall that he determined we should follow in the footsteps of a certain arne Saknussem, a 16th century alchemist who had made a lone journey to the center of the earth. As you well know by now, my uncle is a man not to be denied. So off to Iceland we went, and accompanied by our faithful guide, Hans Bjelke, we descended the crater of the extinct volcano called Snaefels. I have described at length the many perils we faced in those underground passages and caverns. Then how we sailed on the great central sea and were there overwhelmed by a hurricane which drove us back to our starting point. Yet that was our good fortune, for we found close at hand the road taken 300 years before by Arna Saknism. The road to the center of the Earth. To our dismay, the the way ahead was blocked by a huge mass of granite. There was no way round it or under it or above it. Nor was there any hope of moving it with pickaxes. I said to the professor, there is another way. We will blast the rock to smithereens. Gunpowder? Yes. To work, Hans. To work. I call my com, Master. What is it you wish? I have a crowbar and pickaxe. You are to make a cavity in the rock here, Hans. No, lower down. Here. A cavity big enough to hold 50 pounds of gun cotton. You understand? Oh, yes, I understand. A big hole here. I will see to it. Now hurry, my boy. We must prepare a fuse of Wick. Then we will wrap our explosive in a bag and pack it into the hole Hans is making. I'll see to it, Uncle. We'll succeed. We're bound to succeed. Of course we will succeed. When everything is in place, all we need is a spark. One tiny spark, and this wretched rock will be blown to atoms. Come, let us have everything ready. Then we may rest until tomorrow. The morrow was the 27th of August, and even now, so long afterwards, my heart beats wildly at the memory of that fate, fearful day. At six o'clock in the morning, we were up and ready. I begged that I should be allowed to ignite the explosive, and my uncle agreed. Our plan was simple. The professor and Hans would wait on the raft, and there I would join them. As soon as I had fired the fuse. We calculated that the fuse would burn for at least 10 minutes before the explosion was touched off, and we should therefore have plenty of time to put out safely to sea. We made a good breakfast. Then the professor, who like myself was a little on edge, asked abruptly, you're ready, Harry? Quite ready, Uncle. The lamp. You have a lamp to light the fuse? I have it here. Then be off. And heaven go with you. Be back as quickly as you can, my boy. I'm all impatient. Oh, don't worry, Uncle. I shan't dawdle. Give me a shout when you want me to fire the fuse. Are you ready? Yes. Then fire away. I could see my uncle watching me from the raft. Chronometer in hand, I opened the lamp and ignited the fuse. It crackled and sparkled, hissed and spat like a serpent. I did not stay to watch it, but pelted for the shore. Hold down, my boy. Hans Kaskov. It is done, master. There is little wind. I must use the pole. With his long pole, Hans sent us flying over the water. My uncle never raised his eyes from the chronometer. In a few seconds we were fully 40 yards from the beach. Then five minutes to go. Four minutes. Three minutes. Two minutes. One minute. My uncle did not move. Half a minute to go. 20 seconds. 10. My uncle took up the cunt. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. Now, SAP the pieces you can at war. What happened then? Mercifully, my memory of those terrifying moments is dimmed. But it seemed to me that the rocks on the shore were torn aside like a curtain. The sea rose in a mountainous mass, the raft with it. We were thrown to the deck, and there was darkness all about us. The raft seemed to be hurtling down a gigantic well. I tried to speak, but could Not, I could hear nothing but the roaring of the waters. Presently my mind cleared a little. I began to understand what had happened. The explosion had created a sort of earthquake. Beyond the granite wall which we had shattered was an abyss. Doubtless the road once followed by Sacnasan. Into this we had been hurled, dragging, as it were, the Central sea with us. Time passed. We sat close, elbow to elbow, knee to knee, grasping each other's hands. The raft spun, struck the wall, sped on and on, down and down, at horrifying speed. In my heart was the certainty that we were doomed. Presently, Hans spoke. Dark. Dark. I do not like this dark. The room coughs coy. Hans. Will it give a light? No. He smashed in pieces. We can't light a torch, that's certain. My torch will not keep burning. There is too much rain. But there is the lantern. Can you light it? Will it burn? We will see. We will see. Ah, there is. He burns. He flickers in the wind. But here's something. He is better than the dark. Yes, Hans, yes. Better than the dark. We seemed now to be in a wide cavern, hurtling along at a speed, I truly believe of a hundred miles an hour. My uncle and I stared wild eyed at each other as we flung to the master. Hours passed. I lost all count of time. Then it struck me that we should examine our cargo so that we had some idea of our resources. I spoke to Hans and he answered. Cargo? I do not know. Well, let's see. Take the lamp, Hans. First, what are our scientific instruments here? The chronometer. Here is a compass. Nothing else? That's bad. What about ropes and tools? One little piece of rope tied to our mast. No pickaxes, no crowbars, no hammer. Nothing else. Food. You ask for food? Yes. How much food is left? There is this little piece of dried meat. There are these biscuits. What else? Nothing. There must be some more. There is nothing. Nothing. A piece of dried meat, A few wet and moldy biscuits. Terrified at the prospect of starvation, I searched the raft, examined the cracks, poked between the beams, looked into every hole and corner. The result was nothing. Now I was desperate and terribly afraid. I stretched myself on the raft and watched the lamplight as it became fainter and fainter and finally burned out. Perhaps then I fainted. Perhaps I only slept. When I opened my eyes again, the darkness was complete. But something had happened whilst I slept. What was it? Silence. No roaring. No rushing waters. Then my uncle spoke. Harry. Harry, my boy, where are you? Here, uncle. Here is my hand. You realize what has happened? We are going upward. Upward? But that's impossible. We are going upward very fast. Hans, a torch. Can you light a torch? Perhaps there is now no wind to blow him out. I think he will burn in a moment. Ah, he is a good flame. Bravo. Look. We go up. Up in a well. Yes, a well. A narrow vertical shaft. It is clear, Harry, that the waters of the Central Sea have flooded the bottom of the shaft and are now pushing us upwards. Yes, Ako, but the question is, where does this shaft end? As to that, I'm as ignorant as you. But I think we should be prepared for the worst. If there is no opening to this shaft, then we shall either be crushed against the granite roof or suffocated. As it is, I don't seem to breathe very well. It is a desperate situation, Harry. But I say, while there's life, there's but hope. Let us cheer ourselves. He let us eat. Eat. Eat, I say. Come and serve us some food. Oh, master, it cannot be. Come, we all need food. Or do you mean that our provisions are lost? Is this handful of meat there? Are these biscuits? Oh, Else is lost. You are sure? I'm. I'm very sure, master. Well, what do you think of our chances now, Uncle? I think, my boy. I think we must make up our minds to eat. It will do us no good to scare these few scraps. Hans, pass me the meat and biscuits. If a man's heart beats, then I say he continues to hope. There. I have made three portions of the food. Your portion, Harry. Yours, Hans. What are you smiling at, Hans? Master, I have something here to drink. A bottle of Freedom. Freedom. Holland begins. Splendid. Splendid. Approach the bottle, my good handship. Take a drink, then pass it round. It is good. Very good. Excellent. It will put strength in all of us. Good hands. For a long time I lay still and silent. When I looked again at the chronometer, it was five o' clock in the morning. It seemed to me that the temperature about us was rising and the air, or lack of it, at times made breathing difficult. I said bitterly, well, if we're not drowned or fattened like pancakes, or don't spav, we shall have the satisfaction of being burned and alive. What is that, my boy? Hanski, give me the torch. I want to examine the walls of this shaft. Here, my master. Thank you. This is eruptive granite and we are still going up. Who knows? Yes, who knows? I wondered what my uncle meant. Could he somehow calculate the thickness of the crust over our heads? He put his hand on the rocky walls of the shaft and muttered Again. And this is silica's mineral. Good. Doubt. A little transition period. What then? What then? As we ascended further, the heat became well nigh unbearable. We removed our jackets and waistcoats. Presently I touched a rock and found it so hot that I plunged my hand into the water to cool it. Involuntary, I cried. Take care, the water's scalding. Do I, Terry. The water. It's scalding. Is there a furnace up above us? Impossible. Quite impossible. Then what does it mean? Where are we? Where are we going? Plants. Here is the compass. The thing's gone mad. First it points north, then south, now north again. That means the magnetism around us is in a state of flux. It means that noise. You hear it? God is frightening you, my boy. Don't you hear? Don't you realize the water we're floating on is almost boiling? And the compass has gone mad? It must be an earthquake. I hope for something better than an earthquake. What do you mean, an eruption? I have every reason to think we are in the shaft of a crater, in full volcanic action and vigor. And I beg to tell you that it is the most fortunate thing that could happen to us. Fortunate, you say? We're about to be vomited from the earth with flames, rocks, cinders, and you call it fortunate? Certainly. It is the only chance we have of escaping into the light of day. I tried to calm myself, to think things out logically and sensibly. My uncle was right, absolutely right. We were being thrust up through the Earth's crust. Not on this occasion in an extinct volcano like Snaples, but in a mountain of fire in full activity. From Cape Sacnussem we have been swept northward many hundreds of leagues. Where then were we now? Under Iceland. Should we be belched up through Mount Hecla or through one of the other seven fire funnels of the island? But what did it matter? We were doomed anywhere. Towards morning, our speed of ascent increased still more. The vertical gallery became wider and wider. To right and left, I could discern long, dark corridors emitting thick and suffocating vapor and flickering tongues of flood flame. This, I thought, this surely is the end. My uncle, however, was not in the least perturbed. My dear boy, it is merely burning sulphur. That is the common thing with a volcanic eruption. But if the flames engulf us, they will not engulf us. Well, I suppose it's all the same whether we choke to death, burn to death or drown in scalding water. There is no water. We are rising on a bed of lava. What is the Time. Good hunch. Eight o', clock, master. Eight o' clock of the morning. Strange. It's gone very quiet. What's happened? We do not go up anymore. But is what happens? The eruption has stopped. We are not moving. Do not be alarmed. Before we are many minutes older. We shall continue our journey to the mouth of the crater. We are concerned with a volcano. The eruption is intermittent. It is compelled to breathe just as we do. Here we go again. Hang on tight, my friends. Hang on and tight. We ascended and stopped. Ascended and stopped again. I cannot say how many times the processes was repeated. The heat quickly became intense as I sweated from every pore. I must have become light headed, for I remembered but dimly how the powerful arms of Hans suddenly clenched with me. This is still, Master Harry. Be still. Hold. The razor will protect your head. Open the vault of the shaft. Everything is all right. It is all right. I have only a confused recollection of continual detonations, of the shaking of the granite walls of the raft, whirling like a spinning top as it floated on the stream of hot, Huge flames roaring all about us. A hot, searing wind blowing from the secret furnaces of the earth. My heart throbbing with terror. This is all I remember. When I opened my eyes, I felt Hans clutching me by the belt. With the other hand he supported my uncle. I realized presently that I was lying on a mountain slope, scarcely two paces from a gully, into which I would surely have slipped at the first false step. I was not hurt, but stiff, bruised all over, like a man rousing from a dream. Dinner time. It's more than just a meal. It's when work comes to a halt, where macaroni masterpieces are made and little moments turn into lasting memories. With the Blue Cash Preferred card, you can get 6% cash back at US supermarkets. So you can bring home the flavors that bring everyone together. We did say everyone. Make the special moments even more more rewarding. Learn more at americanexpress.com explore-bcp terms and cashback cap apply With Blue Cash Preferred. My uncle asked, where? Where are we? Who can tell, master? In Iceland. Ah, no, not Iceland. How do you know? Look about you, Master. We should be at Spitzbergen. I thought I expected to see a snow covered cone and widespread glaciers. But no. Here was sunlight. Intense, warming, piercing sunlight. We had been cast from the crater half naked and I could feel the warmth of the sun soaking through and through my body. After some delay, the professor spoke. No, it really does not look like Iceland. Perhaps it's the island of Jan Man. Out of the question. My boy. This is not a northern volcano. It's easy to say that, uncle, but you can't be sure. Look, my boy, down to the base of the mountain. Now what do you see? Trees. What trees? You recognize them? Could be olives, figs. Exactly. And yonder there are vines loaded with grapes. And now, as my eyes became accustomed to the brilliant light, I saw beneath me the waters of a sea or lake which made an island of this enchanted land. Over towards the rising sun was a small port clustered with houses. Strange looking boats were anchored in the harbour. Far beyond, numerous small islands could be seen. So many that I was reminded of bees about a beehive. To the west lay a distant mountainous coastline with one prodigiously lofty cone surmounted by heavy clouds. To the north there was nothing but water sparkling in the sun. I asked, where can we be? Wherever we are, it is rather warm. And what is more, the volcano is erupting. And I see no sense in staying here to receive a piece of rock upon my head. Let us descend and find somebody who will tell us where we are. To tell the truth, I feel I am dying of thirst and hunger. Forward. We slithered over piles of ashes, avoiding the streams of hot lava which glided horribly beside us like serpents as we slipped and scrambled. I said, we must be somewhere in Asia. On the coast of India perhaps, or Malaya. We've crossed through the globe and come out at the Antipodes. But the campus. My boy, explain the compass. It always pointed north. I can't explain it. It's a mystery. No mystery at all. The compass, light, the compass lied. How do you know? Because if it didn't lie, we are now at the North Pole. Does that strike you as reasonable? I did not know what to think, nor did I much care, for I too was tormented with thirst and hunger. After a two hours march, we reached a beautiful spread of country where olives, pomegranates and vines abounded. What a delight it was to press these fruits to our lips. Not far off, near some fresh and mossy grass, I found a spring of fresh water. And here we paused to wash our hands, feet and faces. While we were doing this, a small boy appeared between two tufted olives trees. I cried, Ah, here's a small inhabitant of this happy land. Boy. Boy. Here runs away. Catch some hands. Catch him. I will. Boy, come here. Come here. The boy was poorly dressed and terribly scared at her appearance. And who would blame him? Half naked, with tangled hair and ragged beards. We must have looked very ill favored in his young eyes. Hans caught up with him and dragged him back. Here he is, but he will not speak. Nothing will he say. Let me try. Hence the heist is a berg. He does not speak. So we are not in Germany. Boy, what is the name of this mountain? Is he dumb, I wonder? Let us try a little Italian on him. Dose noisiamo, boy? Must I give you a good shaking to loosen your tongue? So we were in the central Mediterranean, amidst the eastern archipelago of mythological memory, in the ancient Strongylos, where Aeolus chained up the wind and the tempest and those blue mountains which rose towards the rising sun were the mountains of Calabria. And that mighty volcano which rose on the southern horizon was the fierce and celebrated Etna. Oh, what a journey. What a marvelous and extraordinary journey we had made. For we had entered the earth by one volcano and had come out by another, more than 1200 leagues from snowfills. So was our great adventure ended. There is little more for me to add. We were kindly received by the fishermen of Stromboli, and after a rest of 48 hours we started our homeward journey. On the 9th of October, we arrived in Hamburg. And here our faithful Hans bade us farewell and departed for his native Iceland. Shortly too, I married my uncle's goddaughter. My dearest, my ever beloved Gretchen. Though that, as they say, is another story. My uncle's greatness as both a scientist and an explorer was speedily recognized. Hamburg gave a festival in our honor. A public meeting of the Jahanian Institute was held, at which the professor related the full story of our adventures, omitting only the mystery in connection with our lying compass. Ah, that compass. Why did it point to the south instead of to the north? It battles me, Harry. It battles me. I think I can explain it now, uncle. You can? Yes. For six months now it has lain untouched and unnoticed here in your study. As you see, the needle still points to the south plus Missouri does. But why, my boy, why? Because during that hurricane on the central sea we encountered a ball of fire, remember? Of course I remember. But what does that to do with it? The ball of fire turned our raft into a magnet, didn't it? And look likewise, uncle, it turned the compass topsy turvy. So it was a trick of the electricity. Brilliant, Harry, brilliant. Now I am happy. You have cleared up for me the one great mystery of our journey. Our unforgettable journey to the center of the earth. That was the eighth and last installment of A journey to the center of the Earth, adapted by Howard Jones from the novel by Jules Verne. The cast was as follows. Harry Lawson was played by Bernard Horsfall, Professor Von Hatfig by Geoffrey Banks and Hans Bjolke by John Daglish. It was produced in the north of England by Trevor Hill. Tomorrow, in story time on Radio 4 at 5:25, you'll be able to hear the third installment of the Flight of the Heron by DK Broster, which has been abridged for reading on radio in eight parts. And tomorrow's episode is called the Flood Tide. That's tomorrow.