Ned Balbo

The Whispering Gallery

A chapter in Jules Verne's A Journey to the Center of the Earth

The Ruhmkorf coil snuffed out, its last light gone,
weak current past rekindling thirty leagues
from day or night, alone, I called her name,
last bright place in a darkness too complete--
mother I'd hardly known. Hopeless, I called,
face bleeding, bruised hands following the wall
along the labyrinth, desperate to find
some way out, safe return from this dead end
back to my uncle Hardwigg, scientist
who'd raised me--pliant, fatherless--to join
his quest to find the center of the Earth,
descent through darkness, where my life would end
transformed by time, pure fossil anthracite
future geologists would stumble on.
And then, abruptly, thunder from the depths--
sound carried by dense air, acoustic trick
in total blackness, rippling, echoing--
What was it? Gas exploding in some cavern,
rockslide, or stalactite breaking off?
I listened, heard what couldn't have been voices,
whisperings: the Danish word forlorad--
Hans, our guide--and then, my uncle's rousing
"Harry, is that you?" I stood stock still,
the voice familiar even as it echoed,
bounced, and broke apart. Yes, I was saved,
the thunder--gunshots fired against all hope--
my uncle's final warning to the caves
to give up one who still belonged to him.
I waited out the forty seconds' pause
between my calls for help and each reply....
Come closer, Uncle: entering the crater,
I was yours already, young life spared,
untethered, with no purpose but the one
you gave it. Once more, tell me what to do,
as all my life you've done, and will again,
now that you've found me, close or far away,
your voice split into echoes down these halls
that blast our words into cacophony--
Don't dare fall silent. Lead me home again.

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