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The Blog of Axel Lidenbrock : August 24th 1863

From: Harry Hayfield <harryhayfield~at~googlemail.com>
Date: Sun, 24 Aug 2008 19:05:07 +0100
To: "Jules Verne Forum" <jvf~at~gilead.org.il>

BlankWill there be an end to it? Is the atmospheric condition, having once
reached this density, to become final? We are prostrated and worn out with
fatigue. But Hans is as usual. The raft bears on still to the south-east. We
have made two hundred leagues since we left Axel Island. At noon the
violence of the storm redoubles. We are obliged to secure as fast as
possible every article that belongs to our cargo. Each of us is lashed to
some part of the raft. The waves rise above our heads. For three days we
have never been able to make each other hear a word. Our mouths open, our
lips move, but not a word can be heard. We cannot even make ourselves heard
by approaching our mouth close to the ear. My uncle has drawn nearer to me.
He has uttered a few words. They seem to be 'We are lost'; but I am not
sure. At last I write down the words: "Let us lower the sail." He nods his
consent.

Unfortunately just as we did one of those flipping lighting bolts came right
between us and more than that exploded with such force that it sent the mast
sailing up into the air but left a rather interesting sight. A fireball,
half of it white, half azure blue, and the size of a ten-inch shell, which
moved slowly about the raft, but revolving on its own axis with astonishing
velocity, as if whipped round by the force of the whirlwind. Now I have
heard tell of these before but never actually seen one, I wonder if I can
take a picture of it. Here it comes, there it glides, now it is up the
ragged stump of the mast, thence it lightly leaps on the provision bag,
descends with a light bound, and just skims the powder magazine. Oh heck! If
it ignites that we're all dead. Phew! The dazzling disk of mysterious light
nimbly leaps aside; it approaches Hans, who fixes his blue eye upon it
steadily; it threatens the head of my uncle, who
falls upon his knees with his head down to avoid it. And now my turn comes;
pale and trembling under the blinding splendour and the melting heat, it
drops at my feet, spinning silently round upon the deck. Marvellous, now
just adjust my feet so I can get a better shot. Hang on, my foot's stuck!
And oh, that smell, it's disgusting, it smells like bad eggs. Nitrogen! It
never rains, but it pours as my English friends tell me, but why can't I
move my foot.

Hold on, what's happening to our tools? Of course, the fall upon our fated
raft of this electric globe has magnetised every iron article on board. The
instruments, the tools, our guns, are clashing and clanking violently in
their collisions with each other; the nails of my boots cling tenaciously to
a plate of iron let into the timbers, and I cannot draw my foot away from
the spot. You watching this Hans, you're not the only strongman on board!
Here goes then! ARGHH! Phew, am I glad to be out of those boots, but sadly I
fell on top of the fireball and broke it (so no picture sadly). In fact,
it's now gone completely dark for some reason. Any ideas, Uncle, Hans? Hans,
are you all right? You seem to be glowing.

Received on Sun 24 Aug 2008 - 21:05:21 IDT

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