By then, we had left the bright, crystal-clear forest far behind us.
We were too stunned to speak. A strange numbness had taken hold of us, almost like indifference. Yet we kept running, as if something inside us forced us onward. It felt exactly like one of those terrible dreams where you run without knowing why or where you are going.
Without thinking, we headed back toward the Central Sea.
I cannot describe the wild thoughts racing through my mind, or the foolish things I might have done if something had not suddenly brought me back to reality.
I knew the ground beneath our feet was completely unfamiliar. Even so, from time to time I noticed groups of rocks whose shapes looked remarkably like those we had seen near Port Gretchen.
That discovery agreed with what the compass was telling us. Somehow, after that terrible storm, we had been carried back north of the Central Sea. And the landscape looked so much like the place where we had begun our journey that I could hardly believe we were anywhere else.
Hundreds of streams and waterfalls poured over the countless rocky ledges.
For a moment, I thought I could see Hans ahead of us, with his usual calm expression, and the wonderful cavern where I had regained consciousness after my terrible fall.
But as we went farther, everything became confusing again.
The position of the cliffs was different.
A stream appeared where I did not expect one.
A strangely shaped rock suddenly looked familiar, then completely unfamiliar a moment later.
I became more and more uncertain.
Eventually, I told my uncle what was going on in my mind.
He admitted that he felt exactly the same way.
The whole landscape seemed to repeat itself endlessly, making it almost impossible to know where we were.
“There can be no doubt,” I said, “that we did not come ashore at exactly the place where we first started. But the storm must have carried us back to a point above our original position. If we follow the coastline, I believe we will eventually reach Port Gretchen again.”
“In that case,” my uncle exclaimed, “there is no reason to continue exploring! The best thing we can do is return to the raft. But are you absolutely certain, Harry, that you are not mistaken?”
“It is difficult to be certain,” I replied. “All these rocks look almost exactly the same. There is hardly any difference between them. Still, I have the strongest feeling that I recognize that promontory. I believe it is the one where Hans built our raft.”
I pointed toward a narrow creek.
“We must be close to the little port. Unless, of course, this is not the same place.”
“My dear Harry, if that were true, we should find some trace of ourselves here. We should see our footprints or some other sign that we had passed this way. But I see nothing.”
“But I do!”
I suddenly rushed forward.
Something was shining in the sand beneath my feet.
I bent down and picked it up.
“What is it?” my uncle cried, staring at me in surprise.
“This.”
I handed him a rusty dagger with a strange, unfamiliar shape.
“Why did you bring such a useless weapon with you?” he exclaimed. “It must have been nothing but a burden.”
“Bring it with me? I have never seen it before!”
“You mean it is not yours?”
“Of course not. Are you sure it does not belong to you?”
“Not that I know of,” he replied, looking puzzled. “I have no memory of owning it. It certainly was never mine.”
“This is very strange,” I said, turning the dagger over in my hands.
“Not really,” my uncle replied. “There is a simple explanation. The Icelanders are known to preserve the use of old-fashioned weapons. This probably belonged to Hans. He may have dropped it without noticing.”
I shook my head.
“No. That dagger never belonged to Hans. I know him too well. He would never carry anything like this.”
“Then what could it be?” I wondered aloud. “Could it have belonged to some prehistoric warrior? Perhaps to one of those living men from the ancient world we have just escaped?”
I examined the blade more closely.
“But no. That is impossible. This is not a weapon from the Stone Age, or even from the Bronze Age. It is made of excellent steel—”
Before I could continue with my theories, my uncle stopped me.
“Calm down, my boy. Use your reason.”
He took the dagger from me and examined it carefully.
“This is a genuine dagger of the kind worn by gentlemen during the sixteenth century. It was used to deliver the final blow to an enemy who refused to surrender. It is clearly Spanish workmanship.”
He turned it over in his hands.
“It belongs neither to you nor to me, nor to Hans, nor to any other living creature that might exist down here.”
“What are you saying, Uncle?” I asked, my mind filling with possibilities.
“Look carefully at the blade.”
I did as he said.
“These marks along the edge,” he continued, “were not caused by striking human bones or flesh. And look at the rust. This is no ordinary surface rust. It has been here for a very long time.”
He became more excited with every word.
“It is not a few days old, Harry. Not a year. Not even a century.”
His imagination was beginning to race ahead of him again.
I opened my mouth to speak, but he stopped me.
“Harry! We may be standing on the edge of another great discovery.”
He pointed to the dagger.
“This blade has been lying abandoned in the sand for perhaps one hundred, two hundred, or even three hundred years. And look at these marks. Someone used it to carve something into the rocks!”
“But this dagger could not have come here by itself!” I exclaimed. “It could not have walked here or thrown itself into the sand. Someone must have been here before us.”
“Yes,” my uncle said quietly. “A man.”
“But what kind of man would have come this far?”
“A man who left his name somewhere with this very dagger.”
He looked toward the cliffs.
“A man who was trying to show future travelers the correct path into the interior of the earth.”
He grabbed my arm.
“Come, Harry. Look around us. You have no idea how important this discovery may be.”
We immediately began searching.
We followed the wall of rock, examining every crack and opening, hoping that one of them might lead to the passage or shaft we had been desperately searching for.
At last, we reached a place where the strip of shore became extremely narrow.
The sea nearly touched the foot of the cliffs. The rocks rose high above us, steep and forbidding.
In some places, there was barely six feet of ground between the water and the cliff.
Then we saw it.
Beneath a huge rock that jutted out over the shore was the entrance to a dark, gloomy tunnel.
We hurried toward it.
Inside the entrance stood a square tablet of granite. Its surface had been carefully smoothed by rubbing it with another stone.
And there, carved into the stone, we saw two mysterious letters.
They were badly worn, but they were still unmistakable.
Two initials.
The initials of the daring traveler who had come here before us.
My uncle stared at them.
“A. S.!”
He turned to me with triumph in his eyes.
“You see, Harry? I was right!”
He raised the dagger in his hand.
“Arne Saknussemm. It is always Arne Saknussemm!”