Chap­ter XI brings a shift in mood as Gulliver’s quest to find Heru takes him into unfa­mil­iar and per­ilous ter­ri­to­ry. His depar­ture is marked by an under­tone of sad­ness despite a play­ful farewell with his com­pan­ions. Alone in a sea canoe, he relies on a mea­ger stock of cakes and water, unsure of the exact direc­tion but cer­tain of his intent. As the Mar­t­ian cur­rent tugs him north­ward, he fails to notice he’s bypass­ing the intend­ed route, even­tu­al­ly veer­ing into a place entire­ly unlike the famil­iar warmth of his ear­li­er adven­tures. This stark, col­or­less region feels aban­doned by life, its still­ness pierced only by dis­tant cries from unseen crea­tures. The eerie silence begins to weigh on his thoughts, cast­ing doubt on both his path and his pur­pose. The landscape’s life­less nature makes it seem as though the plan­et itself has drawn a veil between him and sal­va­tion.

The jour­ney soon takes a dark­er, almost spir­i­tu­al turn as Gul­liv­er is caught in a chill­ing pro­ces­sion drift­ing along the water. These are not trav­el­ers, but Mar­tians in death—motionless and dressed in cer­e­mo­ni­al grace, with one boat car­ry­ing a roy­al-look­ing woman whose face remains com­posed in eter­nal sleep. The sight is both sur­re­al and trag­ic, a solemn pas­sage of souls guid­ed not by oars but by a cur­rent that seems to know its final des­ti­na­tion. The riv­er, called the Riv­er of the Dead in fear­ful whis­pers, begins to reveal its pur­pose. Gulliver’s hor­ror inten­si­fies when he real­izes his canoe is being swept into the same flow. Though pan­ic ris­es, a strange calm set­tles as he watch­es these frozen pas­sen­gers sur­ren­der to fate. It’s a scene paint­ed not with dra­ma but with qui­et res­ig­na­tion, a vision of the Mar­t­ian phi­los­o­phy toward life’s end.

In a last burst of resolve, Gul­liv­er attempts to steer his craft away from the relent­less pull of the cur­rent, but the water resists. The effort only brings him clos­er to dan­ger as tow­er­ing cliffs and frothy falls loom ahead, threat­en­ing to drag him over the edge with the dead. Scram­bling with what strength remains, he man­ages to beach the canoe onto a nar­row ledge, bare­ly escap­ing cer­tain doom. The brief relief he feels is quick­ly tem­pered by the freez­ing mist and haunt­ing silence that sur­rounds him. With nowhere else to go, he climbs the slope above, hop­ing for shel­ter or guid­ance. What he finds instead is a cav­ern of ice that opens up like a shrine—an enor­mous nat­ur­al archive where cen­turies of Mar­t­ian fig­ures remain sus­pend­ed in death. These are not stat­ues, but real beings, their lives frozen at the moment of pass­ing.

Each face in the ice holds a story—some peace­ful, oth­ers con­tort­ed in anguish. Togeth­er, they form a mosa­ic of a civ­i­liza­tion that reveres the still­ness after life as much as its fleet­ing moments. Gul­liv­er stands among them, hum­bled, grasp­ing that Mar­tians don’t just die—they are remem­bered in the very fab­ric of their land. The wind that howls through the cave doesn’t just chill the skin; it whis­pers of lega­cies, tra­di­tions, and for­got­ten kings. In that frozen cathe­dral, time stands still. For the first time, Gul­liv­er is not think­ing of res­cue or Heru, but of meaning—what it is to live, to be remem­bered, and to van­ish with dig­ni­ty. The solemn atmos­phere does­n’t offer fear, but reflec­tion.

By morn­ing, the sky remains dim and no clear path presents itself. Food is scarce, the cold inten­si­fies, and the strange calm of the frozen crypt begins to weigh heav­i­ly on his spir­it. He knows he can­not remain in this place with­out becom­ing part of it. Gulliver’s deter­mi­na­tion reignites as he resolves to find a way forward—not just to save Heru, but to escape becom­ing a rel­ic like those sur­round­ing him. Mars has shown him much, but it is not done test­ing him. His feet press for­ward even though the way remains uncer­tain, for sur­ren­der­ing here would mean being etched for­ev­er into the walls of an alien past.