Tarrant
From the Diary of Harding J. Irvine:
We are travelling south through rocky hills, and I have come to believe that our two Gutus know something of this countryside, for on two occasions now I have noticed them talking and gesturing together shortly before we reached a landmark of some interest. More disturbingly, they seem to be trying to ensure that we avoid these things, whether because of primitive native superstition or for some more malevolent reason, I have yet to decide.
On the first occasion, the place of interest was some sort of camp site, perhaps inhabited only several days ago. Before we reached this site, Musan, the taller of our pair of Gutus, took pains to try to convince me to detour around to the east, saying that he believed the gully we were following was blocked just ahead. Unconvinced that he could possibly predict the lie of the landscape with any accuracy, I determined to continue along our path. Surely enough the gully did dwindle, but only upon reaching the aforementioned camp site. Musan acted surprised, but was quite sullen for the rest of the day. Then later, he again attempted to convince me to take a detour for a similar reason. This time I took him up on his suggestion, for I agreed that the shallow canyon we were travelling along seemed unpromising. After climbing a rocky mountainside, we came across a strange construction on a hilltop. It was a stone circle of sorts, although not as impressive as the ones found in Britain. The stones used to build it could each easily be moved by two men, and were smooth and black with the appearance of giant river pebbles. I have noticed similar stones in the gullies we have recently passed through. Many hundreds of these were used to create a circular tumbled wall, piled no higher than my knee. At the centre of this circle stood a single larger stone, also black but notched with many fine lines, almost as though someone were keeping a tally upon it. This rock was stained with some dark substance, quite possibly blood, although I saw no sign of bones or any other remains in the vicinity.
Musan and Evru had a long elaborate conversation regarding the stone circle, complete with much shouting, glaring, posturing and stamping. They grew quite heated, but soon settled down upon Whimsley's command. Whimsley claims that the two were frightened by the circle, and that they believe some demon spirit resides in the stone at the centre. According to Whimsley's translation, Evru believes we are well and truly cursed, and it is only a matter of time before this demon catches up with us and makes us into its supper. Although regaining an air of compliance, Evru and Musan have remained sullen and edgy since we left the circle. Late this afternoon, Mr. Jones spotted a column of smoke on the horizon, which must be the product of a substantial bonfire. We are lying low and travelling with caution, in case it proves to be at the centre of a hostile native encampment.
Harding J. Irvine
Gunther,
der lunatic Amerikaner ist Annäherungen unsere Headquarters. Entweder führen Sie ihn in das Labyrinth oder entledigen Sie sich ihn direkt.Dr Hemmerling.
Expedition Watch Column - Fashions on the Field - Harold Blake reporting
The rumours are flying thick and fast that many of the expeditions have reached some great plains, supposedly ideal for the running of cattle. Already there is word of potential new fashions to come from this expedition, at least here in Port Moriarty - though the people back home in England may pick up on it. The Mallei expedition ladies have taken to wearing bright and atrractive feathers in their hats, this is a sure fire fashion winner. Other expeditions have been heard to have developed some odder fashions. One rumour indicates that one of the expeditions has taken to wearing loincloths in the Gutu fashion - scandalous in the extreme. The Mad American expedition is supposedly currently all wearing green, in an attempt to camoflage themselves. One must suppose they believe there are dangerous natives in the vicinity The Coventry expedition has taken to wearing what can only be described as modified cricket pads, reinforced to protect the legs from dangerous wildlife on the plains. There are also rumours, of unknown origin, regarding some ladies on the expeditions dressing up as young gentlemen. It is sad to see the lowering of morals when one is away from civilisation.
To the chums,
Have found passage through to the other side of the mountains, magnificent sight. We crested the last rise at sunset and got a magnificent view of grasslands, all pinky purple in the light. Anne has taken to calling them The Lilac Fields. They look quite idealic. There is a small lake here, with some interesting native waterbirds with irridescent plumage. Anne has had some caught and after removing the best feathers for decorating her hat, whipped up a lovely boiled duck soup. Spiffing woman, keeps all our spirits up with these lovely dishes. We are heading out now, to see what lies further along these vast plains. Perhaps we shall find some riding beasts! The bootboy claims to have seeen a giant bird in the distance, but he is an excitable lad, prone to flights of the imagination. Should we see one, Anne has requested we catch one for the plumage. Must go, the Chaps are ready to move out - GrubbyBoiled Duck soup
catch and pluck a fresh duck, then slowly boil in water with local water grasses (chopped) and herbs, until the flesh is easily removed from the bones. Discard the bones and scoop off the extra fat (you may do this by allowing the soup to go cold and removing the solidified fat prior to reheating if you have the time) Add salt and pepper to taste.
Notebook of Julian CoventryThe God-King's armies have wholly fled.
Oh mighty past, in ruins your power has bled.
Tumbled rock all that remains
Where once a stony Emperor reigned.We set out at dawn toward what we thought to be towers some twenty or thirty miles south-west. The animal they have given me is a burr-ridden mule with the heart of a sullen viper, and I was much exercised in keeping it in check during the morning. By the afternoon it had grown too bored or tired to continue trying to up-end me and I was better able to appreciate what we were approaching.
The statue is an awesome sight, and I will not pretend to be able to do it justice. The pedestal alone is twice the height of a man. It was not until we came close enough to make out the feet that we realised we were looking not at malformed towers, but the remains of a sculpture of black rock. All that stands now are two legs, one broken off below the knee, the other mid-thigh. When it was whole, the figure must have risen more than a hundred feet above Aethelfrid's Fields. It appears to have been deliberately destroyed. Vast quantities of rock are scattered in every direction, some embedded deep into the grasslands, as if the stone colossus had not fallen, but literally exploded.
There is writing on the pedestal, but in no script I recognise. I will be sure to despatch a rubbing to Father by one of the runners. There are also numerous bas-relief scenes of gangs of chained men laboriously constructing this monument, directed by figures wearing masks styled to represent the Sun Falcon and wielding impressive whips in a most straightforward manner. Impossible to estimate age, but it is disturbingly unweathered.
We set up camp in the lee of the pedestal, out of the wind, and soon discovered the head of the colossus. It rests on its side, as if sleeping with open eyes, and with typical daring young Zat climbed up to stand on the bridge of the nose and managed to take a rubbing of the symbol inscribed between his brows. Even fallen so low, the subject still retains a domineering beauty, and inspires a chill whenever I look on him. The lips are as full as any of the natives who travel with us, but never have I seen them wear that self-satisfied curve, redolent of malicious enjoyment, if not outright sadism. The nose reminds me of Arabian men - a very strong bridge with a slight hook - and the heavy-lidded eyes turn me queasy and small, my shoulders hunching in anticipation of a blow. Whole, he must have towered above these grassy plains like the Devil himself. Or a fallen God.
And, as Mr Ryan pragmatically notes, he makes an excellent landmark, even toppled over. For some reason he and Lord Marchmont intend to head due west from this point, though I can see no similar feature on that horizon. We currently number sixteen. Lord Marchmont, Katerina, Zat, Mr Curtis and Fitzpatrick Ryan make up what would have to be called the core party. We are reduced to three game hunters - Ratchley, Fairwaring and Cubbings. These are all experienced men. Cubbings is Dutch and a solid man of means, addicted to the hunt. Fairwaring and Ratchley have something of a reputation around Port Moriarty for their long-standing rivalry – fuelled in part by friendship, and partly hatred.
The hunters are all very useful with a gun and tested before in the field, and similar care was taken in selecting the remainder of our companions. Nicholas Audley claims to be writing a novel, or an article for a journal, but is a curiously deadly man. I shall never forget joining him on one of the scouting parties around Last Resort Camp, and watching him simply snatch a bird out of the air when it flew at his face. He let it go unharmed, but has consistently been our main provider of fresh meat. And never a trace of pellet or shot in any of them.
Dr Obermeyer, while not so fit and young as most, is a veritable encyclopedia. He seems to make his living travelling out of way places and questioning the natives on their medical practices in an attempt to isolate useful plants and potions which he can patent and profit from. He has a young assistant, a shy boy named Jon who seems to find Altera more than overwhelming.
Our two bearers appear to hail from the German holdings in Altera, or at least have learned their little English from a German speaker. Eltuk and Bass are what they call themselves, and that is all that I can say, except that they are stolid to the point of solidity. Then there are two native runners - though native to where I am not sure. Tall, spindly men from somewhere in Africa. Mguku and Nga - brothers who have seen much of the world and are now intent on exploring this part. Admirable chaps, well-read and humorous, and apparently capable of keeping pace with our ponies without effort.
And myself, of course. I have little doubt why Lord Marchmont has brought an incompetent poet along. Whether hopelessly blind to his daughter's faults or perhaps trying to cure her of them, he sees the value in providing her with innocuous male attention. A little glib flattery goes a long way in some ports. In truth, there is little effort in the honey, for she is a true Diana. But I find it hard to like her.
[Editor's Note - no points for spotting the source of the statue.]
Logbook of Fitzpatrick RyanNow party of fourteen, along with two native runners. Expect depart morning of 30th. Riding animals for most part low grade, but sturdy. Supply lines well established through Camp Alfred.
The true name of Gisela is Guruk, rather unmelodious for such a sweet-natured girl. Frieda is Zalga, Helga Urpag, Gunther Bora-Gura and Sigmund Evruk. They are not from the coast at all, but lived in this region until a few years ago, when the troubles began; Guruk has carefully told me the name of every little river and hill we have seen since leaving the Rahama, and those that I can remember I have put into the Glossary at the end of ‘Key to the Scriptures’. Every night there is much discussion in low voices, mostly between Gunther, Helga, and Sigmund; there is some deep disagreement between them that must be brought up again and again. Sigmund maintains his malice towards me, more openly now that I am able to move about, while Gunther usually keeps his distance studiously. He approves of my efforts to learn the Gutu tongue, however, and from time to time will give me an examination of sorts to ascertain my progress, never being entirely pleased with my performance! Helga is more solicitous towards me, but there is an undercurrent of slyness in her manner, some duplicity that is in such contrast to the childlike innocence of the others, that I find her presence quite uncomfortable. I cannot help feeling that in some way she is the real leader of this enterprise, for all of Gunther’s posturing and lordly pronouncements.
Frieda appears to fear me, and has hardly come near since I gained the use of my legs. As far as the relations between the five of them, they do not fall clearly into the categories of our Christian civilisation - I am aware that I am unaware of a great many things that are communicated between them, due to my limited knowledge of their language and culture. As near as I can tell, neither Gunther or Sigmund are the husband of the three women, yet they bear a familiarity that would be excessive among Christian men from Gunther.
We have seen more Gutu, and signs of habitation, these last few days. Early on these encounters were rancourous - there was one, conducted mostly out of my sight, which truly felt like the prelude to a battle; perhaps the main point was to shout the other side down with horrible threats so that all might feel their honour satisfied. For the last day or so, however, we have travelled through a country dotted at distances of five miles or so with the villages of a friendly race of Gutu, and we have presented whatever authorisation we have to the headmen of these places as we passed by. They are smaller settlements than the Gutu villages of the coast, but are organised on a more martial basis, each one surrounded by a ditch and palisade and a considerable cleared area. Altogether we stopped at three villages, at each of which I was immediately surrounded by a crowd of children and had not a moment’s peace. We spent the last night at a village called something like Tupa-Ruba, where about 120 men, women and children live in five or six large communal huts. I was pestered considerably here by a little group of four young men bearing Enfield rifles (long since out of ammunition, and in poor condition, I might add). These young men wished me to express admiration for their weapons and seemed to have an insatiable hunger for such praise. Afterwards I had a very strange conversation with a fifth Gutu youth, perhaps the ugliest young man I have ever seen - the entire left side of his face had been consumed by some strange fungal disease, so that white bone glinted through in several places. Naturally I watched him approach me with some trepidation, and it was with the greatest surprise that I heard him open his mouth and speak to me in fluent english. “Good day, Mr. Whimsley, Sir” this creature said, giving a dignified bow spoiled somewhat by his smile, which perhaps through no fault of his own was distorted into a hideous, smirking parody of good humour. “Good day to you!” I said, overjoyed to hear my own language again even from such a one. “I fear you have mistaken me for someone else, however; my name is Nash.”
“Yes, Mr. Whimsley, Sir” he replied, continuing to smirk.
“I’m not Mr. Whimsley,” I repeated - and the reply came: “Yes, Mr. Whimsley, Sir.” I realised that with these two phrases my interlocutor had exhausted his store of english vocabulary.
“I will pass on your greetings to Mr. Whimsley, should I see him,” I said. Again came the same three words. Things went on in this way for some time, until at last I lost my temper and raised my voice at him. He left with a grave “Good day, Mr. Whimsley, Sir.”
When darkness fell I was directed first to the hut in which the young women of the village were housed, and it was only with great difficulty that I convinced the villagers that such lodgings were unacceptable to me. I fear that the white men they may have encountered before have not been all that we might have hoped for in representatives of civilisation.
This afternoon we left the settled counry behind and began to ascend a very gentle rise into a region of open woodland, notably drier and stonier than the Rapama lowlands. We have camped at the very top of this rise, beyond which is a broad valley with a small river running across our path, and then at a distance of about eight miles a tremendous escarpment, easily a mile high, which stretches off to the horizon both east and west. There are great masses of tumbled rock at its base, but no place where it seems possible there could be any path to the plateau at its summit. This must be what is called the Wall, the fabled range that divides British Gutuland from the utterly unknown regions in the interior of Terra Altera. Guruk tells me that is where we are going. She does not seem pleased at this prospect, and in my weakened condition I am inclined to agree with her.
Tarrant
Brother Amos,I have an urgent request of you, and I hope that you will not be too curious as to deny me - if you have received another letter from me and have not read it - perhaps it arrived at the same time as this one - please destroy it without reading it. I hope that the entreaties on the envelope have convinced you of the urgency of this request.
In any case, the previous letter should be disregarded, as it was written in a severe depression brought about by unfortunate circumstances and what I now discover was a serious illness brought about by eating local vegetation, one that causes vivid hallucinations, distress, and melancholy. To recap: I arrived in Port Moriarty, having lost all my possessions, and for a week had little luck securing a place on an expedition. Things seemed desperate, a condition I now know was brought on by this illness. The illness broke one night, however, as a result of some vigerous exercise, and from then on I have not looked back. I have secured a position in an expedition as a bearer, and according to the other bearers, we await only the arrival of our leader, whose ship diverted on the journey to Terra Altera, apparently due to some kind of whim. We are told to be ready at a moments notice, and as such, I am accomodated rather grandly here, and fed well! I await the opportunity to notify my employers of my cartographical abilities, and things will surely go well from therein.
Brother Cuthbert
Andrew Shellshear
Notebook of Elsabet MarchmontMr Coventry is going to stay at Camp Alfred. I will miss him bad, but he says there is so much here he wants to document that he is happy to stay with the main party. He has given me this book to keep a record of the journey, and I have promised to bring him back pictures of all the really interesting things. He says it's a little thing, just a notebook, and that he has a good stock in Port Moriarty, but it is really too spick a gift for me – I can barely fit it in with my gear, along with the little dictionary, and will have to be sure to keep the leather binding well polished so it doesn't crack. There was even a soft waxed cloth to wrap round it to keep the rain out. I think it absolute the best gift ever, and was hard put not to wail.
We are splitting up because it weren't possible to ship enough horses up the river for the whole mess of us. Mr Ryan says Curtis is a miracle worker to have got any at all, but I think it more that Sir is "in funds" as Curtis would say. [Youd never guess it, since he don't spook at rough talk, but Mr Curtis is a vicar's son! Before he went back to get the horses, he and Mr Ryan was talking about their fathers. They are both from Oxfordshire and Mr Curtis' father is friends with Mr Ryan's father who is some toff at the big school there. Mr Curtis and Mr Ryan grew up together, and that's how Sir got to know of Mr Ryan, and why Mr Ryan agreed to take on this expedition. Mr Ryan said to Mr Curtis – chaffing like – about some girl called Elizabeth giving him plenty of practice running impossible missions and Mr Curtis blushed!]
Only about fifteen of us are to go. A couple of the bearers say they can keep pace with the horses, which we don't know whether to think true or not, but we can let them try I guess.
Best I can tell, Sir and Mr Ryan were expecting some landmark to be straight visible when they got out on these grasslands. Whatever it was, it aint poking it's head up no more. There is something on the horizon south-west of here - a bunch of miles away, which they have decided to head for instead. You can just make it out with Sir's spy glass. It looks like a squashed column, sticking into the air all lonely in the middle of the grass. We will probably set out the day after tomorrow, all going well, but they are right disappointed that the thing they were expecting aint around.
I can talk a little now, though chewing meat or crisp fruit is still well beyond me. Gisela is teaching me the language of the Gutu. It has been bitterly cold the last few days. What I have learned (I think) is that Rapama is the name of a river which feeds into a greater river to the east, which I take to be the Discovery; white men sometimes come here from that direction, but not so many now as previously, for the native Gutu have taken to murdering all strangers who come near; and that there was a great slaughter here a few years ago, when one tribe obtained the aid of a large company of white men with firearms to pursue a longstanding grievance with the others.
Under Helga’s direction the women expertly constructed a raft from reeds on the far bank, and in this we have travelled eastward along the river for what I make to be 20 or 30 miles. The current is very sluggish, so for most of the time the Gutu have actively paddled us along. We have had several times to conceal our raft in the reeds and crouch down in silence to avoid the indigenes, and once we were nearly upended by something like a hippopotamus or tapir - for some reason my fellow travellers acted as though this was a good omen.
This morning we abandoned the raft on the southern bank in lightly wooded country and have proceeded further south in a very furtive, cautious manner. Once we heard a group of women talking, but have not seen anyone. I have walked most of this last day, and am now very fatigued. Helga has offered me gabak leaves to chew several times, seeing my weariness, but that is one native custom that I have no wish to adopt. The sun is setting beautifully - there is a great wall of golden cloud to the west. Vast flocks of a kind of bird unknown to me are settling down in leafless trees against the rosy sky, filling the air with their raucous cries. I can hear Gisela calling my name. I think Sigmund has decided I did not steal his talisman.
Tarrant
Notebook of Alastair CoventryIt is indeed a subdued and chastened afternoon at 'Camp Alfred', the mound of rocks which marks the grave of our young colleague Boidre serving as grim reminder of our overconfidence. The seemingly benign reaches of Aethelfrid's Fields made us too eager and unwary, and a competition of sorts had grown up between the various game hunters, each trying to bring back something 'worth mounting'- the head of a goat or zathling-rat being too small or ordinary for their tastes.
Their main goal has been to bring down a Sun Falcon (or Sun Demon, as they've taken to calling the grand birds), and perhaps reasoning that a lone man had a better chance of drawing one of the raptors within shot, Nathaniel Boidre left the camp yesterday after breakfast. We found his body a little before sunset, much torn about by small predators, and discovered a hitherto unsuspected killer. Walking amidst a warren of orange-spotted merringtan [the species comes in a variety of coat shades and patterns and is one of the more common animals of the Fields, resembling a long-bodied meerkat - vast communities of them can be found in every direction], it seems he put his foot down a hole where a singular form of vegetation had taken root.
We excavated around his still-trapped leg and discovered a gourd shaped somewhat like a very large pumpkin. It appears that the plant has an adaptation similar to that of a Venus Fly-trap, but with a larger protein source in mind. When one of the merringtan has the misfortune to dive down the hole where the plant has grown (lurking, one would say, in the manner of a funnel-web spider), pressure on the top of the gourd will provoke a contraction of long thorns. Even a glancing blow of one of these thorns appears sufficient to paralyse then kill (and partially digest?) a merringtan, and the plant is provided with a ready source of nutrient. The contraction of the thorns appears sufficiently violent to trap a man's leg as firmly as any forged jaws of metal.
It is difficult to say whether Boidre died from the poison or blood loss. It is possible prompt amputation would have saved his life. As it is, we could do little more than rescue his remains from scavengers. His killer we have named Cucurbitaceae Nathalai - Snare Gourd a more general name. Our every step will be more wary, and Lord M has considerable concerns about the mules and horses due to arrive in the next couple of days. Mr Ryan's common sense was asserted there – a broken leg from a rabbit hole in England, or a jolt of poison from a Snare Gourd here in this vast southern continent would only bring the same result, after all. Care is all that can be taken.
It appears that during the past day's explorations some sign of an object on the far distant horizon has firmed our leader's plans for direction. When the riding animals have arrived, we will be heading south-west.
Werner Kranz, on the Irvine Expedition:
We have scaled the cliff without incident despite the bad weather. Certainly we should not have attempted the climb at all while it was raining, and Mr. Irvine showed he was possessed of at least a little good sense by declaring that we should wait until it cleared up, a decision which I applauded despite the discomfort of our rough campsite. We camped there at the base of the cliff for a whole day, during which Mr. Jones wandered about the nearby countryside, bringing back descriptions and samples of new sorts of insect and plant to bore me with. Is it not enough that I must be assaulted by the constant sight of these things as I trudge along, weighted down by my heavy pack, soaked by the rain and chafed by the wind? Mr. Jones obviously thinks his finds are of some interest, and it is very difficult, if not impossible, to disillusion him of this notion. He simply will not take even the most forceful hint, and in the end I had to turn my back and pretend I did not see him until he went away.
Despite my decision not to play at cards with Colere any more, I played a few games with him and Irvine out of sheer boredom, amusing myself by trying to see how it is that Colere cheats so effectively. As yet I have been unable to discover his strategy, but I am certain he will make a mistake soon. While we were thus employed, Mr Whimsley restlessly prowled about the nearby forest, taking pleasure in killing the small forest creatures that were foolish enough to cross his path. I have become convinced that there is something suspicious in his habit of going off by himself. I mentioned this casually to Irvine, but he scoffed at me calling me an old woman. Yet the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that I am right. Whimsley takes every care to ensure that he departs unaccompanied. Next time it seems possible, I shall make some excuse and follow after him to see what it is that he does.
Upon the second day, Mr. Irvine was overwhelmed by his own impatience and decided that the weather had improved enough, even though it had not properly stopped raining! I attempted to convince him through logical argument that it would make more sense to delay further, but these Americans are impervious to such things. He complained endlessly that the expedition's supplies were growing scarcer by the day, and nothing would please him save that we reach the top of the cliff by nightfall. Mr. Colere foolishly agreed with him, even though he, as the most talented mountaineer amongst us, was expected to make the ascent first, risking his life for Mr. Irvine's impatience. I expected the worst, and there were several moments when only sheer chance prevented Colere from taking a plunge down onto the tumbled rocks where we stood watching, but although it took him a considerable time, he reached the top in the end and was able to let ropes down for the rest of us. It was an easy enough matter to scale the cliff with the assistance of the rope, although Jones had to be pulled up like a sack of flour, since he is no kind of climber at all. Now we find ourselves in rough rocky hills, which seem to become flatter to the west and more substantial to the east. We will head as directly southwards as the geography allows. In the far distance beyond the hills, a tall conical mountain lies, and we are using that as our marker.
Harding J. Irvine
Note found on body of Nathaniel BoidreWarning others - too late me. Holes - gopher burrow prairie dogs. Spikes closed on leg. Spikes. Poison - minutes. Shot - own foot. Leg numb, head wool. Skin turning black. Pins needles. Not able dig. My father regards.
NLB
To the chums;
Its been some time since my last communique. These Demmedable mountains are taking up all my strength. By the time Jeeves finds a suitable camping spot and we stop for the night, I am absolutely wretched. Anne is being a brick, she still somehow has the energy to organise a tasty dinner. I enclose her scorpion recipe. The maid servants have taken to snivelling and it requires some care not to shred our clothing on the sharp rocks. Still we seem to be climbing more up than down so perhaps we are approaching the top...Ah, what a view it will be. ---GrubbyCrispy Scorpion Puffs
Each scorpion should be wrapped entire in a puff pastry layer
This can then be fried or baked over any flat metal surface, preferably with a sprinkle of chilli in the oil
Once the pastry has turned a golden brown, the scorpions can be eaten as finger food. The shells provide a refreshing crunch to the dish. _ best served straight from the oven.
My health has been rapidly improving, despite intermittent falls of bone-chilling rain over the last few days. Today I even walked a little way. It is obvious that my bearers have grown most weary of carrying me across the length and breadth of Gutuland. Until today, the terrain has certainly been such as to try the patience of even the most servile beast of burden, and these Gutu for all their faults are not a servile people. Beyond the valley where last I managed a few moments unseen to write, we rose directly into a tumbled range of hills, where much of our road involved scrambling between giant boulders or grotesque spires of stone. These usually had the advantage of providing some shelter from the rain, though on some occasions served rather to precipitate a veritable river upon us, soaking us all the skin.
The descent of this side of the range was more gentle, but thickly overgrown with forest. Only for the last day have we travelled through a relatively open country, with clear paths through the forest and frequent clearings that looked to have been cultivated fields not very many years in the past. Several times we saw villages across one of these clearings, clusters of the conical huts that one sees in the Gutu villages of the coast, but always in a partly ruinous condition, and never did we see a living soul. My captors took pains to avoid passing too near these villages; I tried to ask Gunther why this was so, and he responded with words that I took to mean ‘sickness’ and ‘death’. I thought perhaps, as has often happened when white men have journeyed into unknown lands - in Peru, in Mexico, in Australia - the first explorers to reach this country brought with them diseases which the natives were constitutionally incapable of resisting, and all unknowing slew their thousands and tens of thousands.
Not surprisingly the Gutu have been very subdued travelling through this country, perhaps fearing the spirits of the dead.A few hours past I had the misfortune to see one of the ghastliest sights of my life, an indication of another reason why this apparently bountiful country should be so sparsely populated. Of a sudden in the forest we came across a strewn heap of bones, many gnawed and crushed by wild beasts, but numerous and certainly human. I cannot estimate the number of unfortunates there disinterred at less than two or three hundred, from the numbers of fragmentary skulls. I saw one skull almost entire, that could not have been from a child of more than eight years, with a neat bullet hole through the forehead; and I saw bullets embedded in other bones. No mere microbe devastated this land, but a ruthless conquistador, a murderer in the bloody tradition of Pizarro and Sherman.
I am becoming more and more irritated by the actions of Sigmund and Gunther towards Gisela, whom they treat most unchivalrously. She is forced to do all the most unpleasant work, and takes long stints as a stretcher bearer while neither of the men condescend to touch it. It is obvious that she is a mere girl, and ought never to have been brought on an expedition such as this. I wish I could speak with her, for she has an innocent and kind-hearted nature, and would be sure to tell truthfully where we are headed and for what purpose. I grow more mystified day by day as to our ultimate aim.
We have camped for the night on the edge of a marshy country, which apparently we must cross. Gunther told me emphatically that it is called ‘Rapama’, and was angry when I did not recognise the name. Perhaps it is some lake or river known to the cartographers? From all the hours I spent poring over maps of Altera in my cabin, I can remember almost nothing.
Tarrant
Port Moriarty
22 July 18__Dr Henry Prescott
Consul of the United States of America in British Altera
Port FortunaSir,
I regret that we can furnish you with no information as to the present health or whereabouts of Mr Septimus Nash, citizen of the United States normally resident in St. Albans, Hertfordshire. He is recorded as arriving in Port Moriarty on the 21st of June of this year, but has not been reported since. It is entirely possible, as you surmise, that he left Port Moriarty immediately to join an expedition into the interior; a number of parties departed shortly afterwards and are still in the field. In light of the additional facts outlined in your letter of the 14th July, however, it is prudent to view Mr Nash’s disappearance as a potentially serious matter, and the case has been referred to the Colonial constabulary.Yours Respectfully,
Mr Edmund Simons
for Neville Wintergreen CL
Colonial Secretary, Port Moriarty
Tarrant
Tarrant
Dearest Evan,
There is no way for me to send you this letter, but it is such a comfort to write it that I find myself doing so anyway! Writing letters is a reminder of civilisation and all the multitudinous comforts it has to offer. Of course I could not be tempted back by such things yet, even if it were easy to return to Port Moriarty, which I strongly suspect it may not be, at least not for a single man travelling by himself. But perhaps one day I will sit by your side, and smilingly watch over your shoulder as you read these missives to yourself.
Mr. Irvine's determination to find a path into the interior is addictive, and I find myself buoyed up by his courage and admirable enthusiasm. He drives us all quite hard, but the one he drives hardest is himself, so I can find nothing exceptionable in his manner. He seems to be relying on me more heavily now, Evan, giving me tasks of greater responsibility. He oftens sends me ahead to scout, and listens closely to my reports. Mr. Kranz, however, seems to be turning out to be a rather bad egg. He complains volubly of favouritism and unfairness, and then falls into fits of sulleness when no one responds favourably to his complaints. Surely there is no room within such a small expedition for such politics! I have done my best to cheer him up, but he refuses to respond. He is very determined to remain despondent, and I have decided for the moment to abandon my efforts since I do not wish to alienate the man even further. Mr Colere is in good spirits, and spends much time sketching the landscape, and poring over his maps and navigational instruments. Mr. Whimsley, being a creature of solitary habits, has continued to hunt in the forest on every oportunity, and usually manages to bring something back for the pot, thus saving our supplies and putting Mr. Irvine into very good humour.
All of us, save perhaps for Mr. Kranz, have been encouraged by a change in the line of cliffs we are following. They have become substantially lower and rather worn and crumbly, and Mr Irvine has called a halt at a place where a shallow gully winds its way up into the cliff-face. The path looks treacherous in the extreme, and Mr. Whimsley says the rock looks as though it is quite rotten, but Mr. Irvine is eager to attempt an ascent nonetheless. Hopefully the weather will clear tomorrow. The past few days we have been drenched many times by the periodic bands of rain that the strong westerly wind has swept over us again and again. Between the showers the sun shone only enough to nearly dry us out in time to be soaked by the next shower that came along. Rain, of course, would make the climb up the cliffs even more dangerous, if not impossible.
Your devoted friend,
Bernard
Harding J. Irvine
Notebook of Alastair CoventryAlthough rather chilly and damp at night, "Athelfrid's Fields" (a name Lord M has chosen for reasons best known to himself) is proving a pleasant place to explore. Goat-tracks and lush grass make for easy journeys and comfortable rests and there is, as I expected, myriad tiny springs where we might refresh ourselves. I am even provided with stimulating debate by the company of one of the game hunters - Dr Obermeyer - who has proven most learned in a variety of fields.
Dr Obermeyer has put forward the theory that Altera and the island continent Australia were once both part of the same continent (known in some circles, I believe, as Gondwana or Gondwanaland). It cannot be denied that there is a marked similarity in the native species - both countries are mainly populated by mammals of the order Marsupialia (characterised by premature birth and continued development of the newborn while attached to the nipples on the lower belly of the mother). In Athelfrid's Fields, as in the coastal region of Altera, I have sighted and am beginning to document that abundant marsupial life. All of the rodents young Zat has so far snared for me have had the distinctive pouch of this order. Even the big cat predator proved to be of this kind, resembling in some respects a small Australian arboreal hunter (genus Dasyurus) which has some outward similarity to possums, yet in others the African serval cats.
Placental mammals are a rarity in Australia, limited only to rats, mice, bats, and the dingo. And in Altera there is not a convenient path of islands to explain away the presence of animals such as the goats we have discovered in Athelfrid's Fields. These resemble most of all the Swiss Toggenburg breed, but with a finer coat comparable to a shaggy Cashmere. Yet the length of neck speaks of the American La Mancha. Dr Obermeyer and I have had a most stimulating discussion as to whether this is an introduced species or whether placental and marsupial mammals have developed side-by-side in Altera. Dr Obermeyer insists that on proportional evidence alone species such as the goats can only be considered interlopers, and pooh-poohed the few other examples of placental mammals I could produce. I countered with the clear adaptations to local thorn-bushes to be found in the structure of the goats' muzzles and thought myself trumped when Dr Obermeyer pointed out the lack of predator of a suitable size to constitute any danger to the goats. Nature so rarely leaves a vaccuum.
This morning however - what a sight! A raptor with a wind-span to put a condor - an albatross! - to shame stooped out of the sun to snatch one of the goats from Athelfrid's Fields and bore it off as lightly as a child plucking a dandelion. It left our camp rather quenched and cowering, for the difference in size between a goat and a man is not so great, and some of our smaller members, especially a few of our bearers, would not present so great a challenge. Young Lady Katherine has dubbed the creature an Imperial Sun Falcon (rather inappositely, but I did not feel it politic to explain how inappropriate 'falcon' is for a bird of such magnitude). And, for the moment at least, Dr Obermeyer is speechless.
In truth, I cannot but secretly agree with the good Doctor. Very likely the placental mammals are latecomers to Altera, but that only excites me in speculating over who brought them and how. Can the zoomorphic carving truly be Celtic? What wonders lie in the heart of this magnificent, boundless land?
It is time for lunch - we are cautiously sampling the local berries the goats eat so enthusiastically. More later.
I have been watched most of the time for the past two days, and have been unable to reach my charcoal and writing paper. I think Sigmund is beginning to suspect that I had something to do with the disappearance of ‘Science and Health’. I have been watched because we have been on the move - upon Gunther’s return the natives decamped with great rapidity, bearing me on a crude litter through the forest. Yesterday we travelled from dawn until dusk, and at night the party flung themselves down exhausted and went directly to sleep, but tonight the Gutus have left me alone to have some sort of celebration. I can hear their atonal singing through the trees. They have been drinking the juice of pounded gabak leaves, and Gunther has been very free towards the women. Perhaps we have passed a perilous spot, and they are thanking their Gods for their safety; or perhaps they are celebrating their imminent freedom from their white man burden, who will be sacrificed to the same Gods on the morrow. In truth I am almost too weary to care. One does not recover quickly being jostled through the wilderness on a bundle of sticks.
I have never felt so desperately keen to have an object as simple as a glass bottle as I do tonight; we have stopped at a reasonably sized stream in a deep narrow valley, and it is maddening to sit here and watch the stream, which almost certainly flows into civilised lands, without a bottle in which to put my letter to Alice.In the interests of science I will write a few words about the country through which we have travelled. As near as I can tell we have travelled perhaps twenty miles as the crow flies over the past few days, trending in a south easterly direction, though the distance we covered on the ground has been very much greater. The country has been very rugged, dissected by steep ravines and overgrown alternately with dense forest and a nasty sort of thorn scrub. From the sun, the streams are trending east-west, and we have met no river of note in our journey. It is impossible for me to tell whether our path has tended generally uphill or down. Left to myself, I think I should have despaired of finding a trail through this land, let alone hold any kind of course.
A dreary and forsaken landscape the forest seemed to me at first, so thick the murk that lies beneath the giant trees, and so inhuman their scale. There are vast fortunes to be made here for timbermen, if they can ever get a road into this country. The scrub on the other hand is a petty, worthless sort of country, covering the ridges between the forested valleys. Though it is laced with numberless criss-crossing tracks, they are no more than waist-high tunnels through the bushes, being made by the tegurong, the spined marsupial pig of Gutuland. The spoor of these creatures is everywhere. You could use these tracks, if you did not mind going on hands and knees, being gored at intervals, and going around in circles. My captors have taken pains to keep me from being scratched by the bushes, often letting themselves be struck instead as they forced their way through, but nonetheless I have taken a few cuts, which sting heartily and have slowly wept instead of scabbing over. Once I had seen the scrub I was more reconciled to the forest. There is a certain grandeur to these enormous trees, especially when seen from the top of some awful precipice, their full stature plain to see.
Tarrant
Notebook of Alastair CoventryFrom the relatively flat coast of British Gutuland, sweltering in subtropical raiment, the 'Wall' as it is called locally, makes little impression. It does not rise abruptly or to the impossible heights seen in more familiar ranges, but it is formidible all the same, blocking passage some fifty to sixty miles inland for much of the vast coast of Altera. Limestone and sandstone combine in a most unusual way to provide jagged and difficult terrain, and passage over the Wall is a matter for mountaineers foolhardy enough to risk its unpredictable stability.
Katerina Way has been driven through a sandstone band, and most ingeniously reinforced at those spots where the support is less than ideal. At this stage, an estimate of its length can only be sketchy at best. Once the passage had been cleared of concealed pitfalls, it took some eight or nine hours of travel at ordinary pace, maintaining an almost straight line up a slight incline. This easy walk has taken us well above sea level and we now camp at the far mouth of the passage, which is unconcealed and decorated with the same zoomorphic relief found at intervals along the passage.
After our ascent, we expected to be confronted with an immense vista over the inner fastnesses of Altera. The fabled inland sea, perhaps a steamy tropical valley or even canyons such as are found in Nevada, Arizona and California. Imagine our surprise to discover ourselves again in almost flat land, furnished mostly with grass and a lavendery-gorse bush, with occasional wind-swept trees specked into the horizon. Long-necked goats (with a fine and no doubt valuable cream and tan coat) appear to enjoy an idyllic existence grazing this landscape and the vast blue sky is specked with falcons hunting the extensive communities of rodents and song-birds to be found in bush and grass. One of the bearers (much awed by this singularly contrasting scenery) has already spotted a large cat, a striped black and gold creature (though not of the size of African lions).
There is no sign of a track or path beyond those left by the goats, but we were relieved to discover a small stream draining from hills behind us. Of the Cuthbert there is no sign. It appears we are to spend several days here, by 'Arthur Stream', while sorties are made to discover the availability of water for the journey ahead, and also in the hopes that riding beasts can be successfully shipped to us. Given the lush freshness of the grass in all directions, I would suspect the area (a tableland, no doubt) is well provided with rainfall, even if we do not encounter a large river to follow.
Young Zat has captured one of the rodents (no more than two hands across, brown specked with black) and I must assist her in properly naming and categorising it. There is an abundance, indeed an incredible wealth of life here. This shall merely be the first.
Diary of Katerina MarchmontThe man is intolerable! We have been waiting for days while Ryan creeps and cringes, tests and double-checks. And I, merely because of that unfortunate contretemps with the pit, cannot object to this excess of caution. We have at last a passage - they tell me they've actually sighted the end, that it opens out on some kind of plateau, on open land with the remnants of a road - and we go nowhere! A discovery like this, and still we dance to the tune of a milk-sop piper who will have us sitting here until the world freezes over.
Tomorrow, surely, there can be no more objection. Tomorrow we will move on, into the interior. At last.
To the Chums;
A group of wild eyed Gutus stumbled on our party in the night, making wild claims of devil creatures after them and claim to have fled from a doomed expedition - they say they heard the dying screams of the group behind them - Complete poppycock - we've seen no other expedition and I expect they are from some village, hoping to gain employment with us under this guise. Still, its an ill wind...The crack we found in the cliff does appear to wind up through them somewhat, but the going will be tricky, and extra hands to carry the baggage would be helpful. Everyone appears cheerful about leaving the jungle for more arid climes. Anne is hoping to try out that scorpion recipe, she thinks there will be plenty in these mountainous regions. The servants are all well - Grubby, Sir Mallei
Werner Kranz, on the Irvine Expedition:
Mad!
They are all completely mad!
Especially that obsessed autocrat, Harding Irvine. Yes, he is the maddest of them all. It is obvious now to me that he planned upon tricking me to join his doomed expedition into the interior of this God-forsaken continent. At first I was not completely averse to accompanying him - but this was before I learned the extent of the man's lunacy. Any sensible man would have seen it was impossible to continue once we lost our native retinue, but Irvine is as determined to continue onwards as ever, even though his face has probably been permanently scarred by those insect-bites.
We have spent weeks squatting in narrow, leaky boats, and trekking through tangled forest, travelling through terrain inhabited only by the most barbaric of native tribes and the most vicious and unpleasant sorts of animals. Each day I see some new specimen of the local fauna which makes me shudder. There are many kinds of abhorrent insect here - one is not safe even in one's bed, and it is necessary to check your boots every morning before you put them on. I have discovered so many unpleasant surprises inside mine, that I have taken to wearing them even while I sleep.
Now that our native bearers have all fled, save for the two most belligerent and disobedient specimens, we have been reduced to carrying great loads upon our backs as though we were common pack animals! Our leader completely failed to notice that Mr. Whimsley, who put himself in charge of distributing the equipment amongst us, put all the most heavy things into my load, so although it appears somewhat smaller than the packs carried by the others, it actually weighs far more. When I naturally complained about this to Mr. Irvine, he had the audacity to claim that I was being lazy, without even checking to see if what I was saying was true. He said we all had increased burdens and that I would doubtlessly grow accustomed to the extra weight after a few weeks of lugging it through the jungle. His own pack seems to be loaded primarily with comestibles, and thus will obviously grow lighter with time. When I pointed out that such was not the case with mine he flew into an unprecedented rage, calling me all sorts of unpleasant names and telling me that I could run off after the natives for all he cared. Of course this last is completely impossible, since I have no idea where they might be by this time. It would be ultimately foolish for me to attempt to return to Port Moriarty on my own, since the forest is very dangerous and one man travelling by himself would soon fall prey to one of the large predators that hunt it. When I told Mr. Irvine this, he merely nodded in a smug and self-satisfied way, and none of the others had the common decency to help me argue my case.
We are currently trailing along the bottom of the cliffs, which are impossibly rugged and steep, and continue on ahead of us for as far as I can see. It seems unlikely that we will ever find a way to navigate them. There is much rocky debris lying in our path - were we to walk through the forest we would make much faster progress, but when I suggested this to Mr. Irvine he said that we must follow the cliffs closely so as not to miss any likely place to make our ascent. Thus we must scrabble and sweat over unstable piles of rock which catch at our feet and make the going extremely hard.
I have made a decision not to gamble with Mr. Colere any more. You can never trust the French at cards, because they always cheat.
Harding J. Irvine
Dear Uncle,I too am now lost in Terra Altera, though I think you would smile a little to see how pitifully far I have yet to go! I have written a letter to Alice on the other endpaper of this book, and thought I have probably at least as much chance of getting a letter through to you. I am either captive or ward of a little band of Gutus somewhere inland of Port Moriarty, having been beaten unconscious and left for dead some weeks ago. All my things were stolen - I think you will realise what that means. I can only hope that whoever has the package does not know what he has, and that it may fall eventually into safe hands.
I do not think I will be able to walk for at least another week. Besides my head injuries, I am certain that I have sustained rather a lot of internal bruising - I am no longer coughing up blood, but there is a deep ache in my side, where the ribs end. There is a disturbingly spongy patch at the back of my head; the world is thrown into tumult whenever I move my head with anything but the most excruciating care; and my broken jaw makes the consumption of solid food impossible. When I first gained consciousness I found that the native women - particularly the one I have called Gisela - had been for some time in the habit of feeding me pre-chewed food from their mouths, as if I was a cuckoo. I effectively communicated my distaste for this practice, and was fortunate enough to be able to spoon mush into my own mouth a day or so later.
I do not know where I am. The nights are colder than I was told to expect in Port Moriarty, so I must be some little distance from the sea. Dressed in native attire through want of any better, I shiver through each night. The Gutu do not of course notice the chill at all, having the natural insensitivity to discomfort of the lower races. There is no one here who speaks English much beyond “yes” and “good day”; they seem to know rather more german, but as you know I was never any good at languages. With my injured jaw,I have been unable to make any progress in educating the natives. If they have taken me in as a stray, they have been exceedingly kind to me; but if they have done so, why did they not take me to my own people? They seem to have no plans to do so, and indicate if anything that I am to be brought further into the interior. Why then are they taking such pains? I find it impossible to read their faces, these strange brown men and women who do not laugh and seem to go from smiles to rage in an instant. I can only wait on their good graces, and harbour my strength until the time is right to make an escape. I hope that the substance of this letter will disabuse you of the notion, so forcefully expressed before your departure, that I was a ‘whinging prat’ unsuited to exploration. I feel that I have already borne up stoically under suffering that would have driven many lesser men mad.Regards,
Septimus
Tarrant
From the Diary of Harding J. Irvine:
We are proceeding eastwards along the cliffs, our heavier burdens making progress much slower. The ruinous road continued some distance along the cliffs past the buried temple, but then all of traces of it vanished abruptly. Perhaps it lies buried beneath the tumbled rocky scree that mounds along the base of the cliffs here, or perhaps it has succumbed to the erosive forces of the forest. We have not yet discovered any likely path up the cliffs.
Kranz is in poor humour, having been thrashed soundly at cards by Colere, while Whimsley seems preoccupied and keeps muttering something rhythmical over and over again under his breath while refusing to respond to any of my questions. Young Mr. Jones remains pathetically eager to prove himself and is getting on my nerves. Have sent him ahead to scout. Perhaps something will eat him.
Harding J. Irvine
MSucceeded in winnowing subject's native following to bare minimum. Can confirm operative now placed with all major expeditions.
From the Diary of Harding J. Irvine:
Curse and damn them, all save two of our natives have run off in the night. Questioning the two remaining natives, Evru and Musan, has revealed that they were all in terror of some sort of devil-creature which they believe will hunt down and kill anyone who sees the two taboo statues we examined yesterday. Evru and Musan also seem fearful, but believe that they are more likely to find protection with us and our modern weapons than out in the forest with their friends. We are dividing up the extra gear amongst us as best we can, while leaving the remainder hidden with our canoes. No sign of the people Kranz claims to have heard last night.
Harding J. Irvine
Logbook of Fitzpatrick RyanEstimate minimum three-day journey through Katerina Way at current rate of progress. When clear, should take little more than a day. Structure seems to have held up well.
From the Diary of Harding J. Irvine:
Whimsley has discovered some interesting native artifacts during his hunting session, some distance along the cliffs to the east. Firstly, along the base of the escarpment, runs something very like a ruinous road. Great slabs of rock pave it, although many of these are partly buried with soil, fallen rock, and overgrown vegetation. Large square stone markers stand at intervals, alternating along the sides of the ancient road. These are carved with large-eyed lemur-like creatures, and deformed dragon things which Whimsley insists are iguanas. Our native bearers seemed highly disturbed by these signs of ancient tribal activity, and muttered together in their own tongue, doubtlessly speculating the presence of ancient gods, evil spirits and the like. Some way along this path, in a shallow cleft in the cliff, Whimsley lead us to two huge statues carved out of the orange-tan rock of the cliff face. Our native guides cried like children and flung themselves on their faces at the mere sight of them, and it was only through liberal use of my whip, and threats of a more severe flogging, that I could prevent them from turning tail and fleeing back the way we came.
The bas relief figures stand facing each other, and each is at least as high as a three storey building. One is obviously female - a many-breasted mother-goddess of some sort, but with a horrid leering expression and many teeth in her wide, frog-like mouth. Her eyes protrude from the top of her head on short, fat stalks. Her consort is a scaley snake-like man with the hind-legs of a dog, a twisted, hunched back, and a sharp, pointed face complete with long, forked tongue. It seems that there may have been some sort of dwelling or cliff temple here, but much to our disappointment, the way in is blocked completely with yards of fallen rock.
While the rest of us were investigating, Mr. Kranz was loitering back along the path under the pretense of relieving his upset stomach. He insists he heard voices in the distance - clearly speaking English - debating the potential of some kind of animal as a source of food. It is possible that one of the other expeditions is not far away - perhaps they have even been following us. I have no desire to meet anyone at this juncture, so I have ordered everyone to remain close to camp. We will only have a small, well-shielded fire tonight, and will move eastwards from our waterfall camp at first light tomorrow.
Harding J. Irvine
Dear ElsinoreMr Coventry has given me his dictionary and made me promise to look up every word. It is a pest, but he's a nice old gent and very particular, so I guess I will. He is going to learn me Latin, so that I can do a proper record of all the critters we meet. He says my pictures show promise, and that I mite one day earn a reputation as a naturalist. I don't know if I could manage to do such detail as him, but - he is just about magic.
There has been lots of to-do and the like here because young Lady M took herself off and got trapped in this great, long cave right near our camp. Mr Ryan spent the whole afternoon following every footprint everywhere until he found a set which led into this right neat little entry-way - you can't spot it but from right by and if you're looking in the right angle. Everyone is v. excited now, not just because young Lady M is back and in one piece (bruised and even snarkier than usual) [snarkier isn't in this dictionary - did I get it rite?]. The cave isn't natural, you see - or some of it isn't. It's a whole series of interconnected ones, with all this fancy stone-work in between the rough caverns. Squat little pictures of men with big eyes and funny head-dresses, and whole bunches of animals which are all stretched and twisted into patterns. Mr Coventry says it is Celtic knot-work, or close as like, and keeps saying he can't credit it. We are doing lots of pictures.
Anyway, the best and biggest thing is, this is what Mr Ryan and Sir have been looking for all along (though they're keeping that quiet, well enough). Seems like the map they're pretending they don't have says this is the best and quickest way south, and they reckon we should be able to take the boats along it and join another big river on the far side of all these scraggly little mountains. O'course, we've to take into account a whole bunch of pits and things like the one young Lady M fell into, but Mr Ryan seems like he knows what to do there.
Sir has told young Lady M that they will call it "Katerina Way", and that has stopped her griping a bit.
I still haven't got a good look at the map, but what I have seen is very scrawly and vague, with a whole heap of stuff marked on it. It goes on forever. They reckon Altera goes all the way to the south pole, but I don't think we've brought enough warm clothes if we're going all the way there. Sir is thinking of getting a bunch of riding mules shipped up to Last Resort Camp. He says that with the fuss about young Lady M being found, and so many people in the camp, there is no way to keep the passageways secret. I reckon Mr Ryan's a bit peeved at that, but what can he do?
Had to slap down that Ratchley fellow, and will have to watch him close from now on. Is another good reason to get lots of learning from Mr Coventry, because I'm left alone then. Otherwise I stay with Sir or Mr Ryan. Mr Ryan give me a knife the other day, and is teaching me how to use it. He's a downy one, is Mr Ryan.
Have to go now, for the scouting party have just come back from the next cave along and says we can go on. I will stick a picture of some of the drawing at the end of this letter, if I get the time.
Love
Zat
To the chums,
Just a short note . Found some cliff like features. Anne's ladies maid - Jane - was chased by a large cat like creature and ran shrieking abominably straight into it. The nose bleed is being mopped up now. Jeeves found a narrow crack we are going to explore - must go, Anne has made some lunch. Fried cat.
From the diary of Harding J. Irvine:
Today we have met our first real obstacle and a pall of despondency has fallen upon the whole party. The stream we were following grew faster and more difficult to row against. Slowly, we grew closer to the towering line of cliffs that run from east to west. The stream eventually opened up into an expansive green pool, ringed by jagged rocky shelves. Into this pool, free-falling from a spectacular height, is a thin stream of water. Obviously the stream is not going to serve as our path any longer.
We made camp early, upon the aforementioned rocky shelves, although well back, so as to avoid the spray.
Currently Kranz and Colere are sullenly playing at cards, while Jones, mad Englishman that he is, is off having a bathe in the icy pool. Whimsley has taken the opportunity to partake in his favourite pastime of solitary hunting, doubtlessly hoping to bring back something to fill the stew pot and thus save our valuable supplies.
I myself am considering the choices available to us, and I hope to reach a decision before tomorrow morning. As I see it, we can choose to go back and continue on up the Cuthbert, in the wake of the other expeditions. Secondly, we might attempt to navigate the cliffs, which although sheer and treacherous, have several routes which might prove accessible to an experienced mountaineer. Lastly, and probably most practical, we might follow the base of the cliffs hoping to find an easier path forward.
Whimsley is calling from the forest – he seems to have discovered something of interest.
Harding J. Irvine
Dearest Alice,I hope you will forgive me, but I have been physically unable to write for some time. How long, I cannot be sure for certain. I am writing to you on the endpapers of a ragged copy of Mary Baker Eddy’s “Science and Health”, the only paper I have been able to procure. It was the prized possession of the Gutu I have taken to calling “Sigmund”, a sullen creature whose only joy seems to be in perpetrating petty indignities upon me; he does not suspect I have it, though he is now in a very bad mood indeed, and spent most of last night quarreling with the women. Though I could not understand what they said, I have no doubt Sigmund believes that Helga or Frieda, or perhaps young Gisela, has taken his talisman to use its magic powers. Gunther is absent on some mysterious errand - it is he, I believe, who brought me here, though I remain ignorant both of why he should do such a thing and of where, in truth, I am. He knows enough english to deny vehemently that he was the one who beat me unconscious or stole my things, and I am sure I would have seen my waistcoat paraded about by one of these vain savages if it were in their possession.
I do not when or how I will get this letter to you, my dearest polliwog.
Alas, I seem more than just a hemisphere away from St. Alban’s, from Bunty Wills, and from the rest of the clan in little old ‘New Dixie’. I feel that I have fallen into some other world entirely, sundered from you by more than mere distance. At the same time - how can I explain - I entertain not a pale hope, but a glorious blue and crimson certainty, that I am closer to uncle than I have ever been, and that in some way the events of the last few weeks are bringing me nearer to him, more swiftly and surely than my conscious exertions ever could.
As near as I can tell, I was found in the swamps outside Port Moriarty by Gunther, having suffered a number of severe blows to the head. My vision took some days to return, and fits of dizziness and nausea overcome me if I attempt any exercise more vigorous than sitting propped up against the wall of the hut, but I am confident that I will see this through and be the same energetic fellow you bid farewell to all those months ago in Elspeth Pierce’s rose garden. I have gathered only that I was unconscious for quite a number of days, and that for some reason Gunther did not see fit to take me to the white men in Port Moriarty. I have been aware for nearly a week now, but today was the first day I had the strength and wits to obtain some writing materials.
Young Gisela reminds me somewhat of Penny. She sits and babbles at me sometimes (making about the same amount of sense!). I always attend carefully, but I have as yet made no headway in my study of the Gutu tongue. It is a funny thing, how much resemblance there can sometimes be in something that is in all other ways entirely unlike. I do not want you to be sad on my account - remember, ‘per aspera ad astra’!
Tarrant
The Diary of Adelaide Pressworth. 12 July 18--
Finally, some good fortune has fallen in my lap! (No, dear diary, this is nothing to do with my clandestine encounter with the Prussian ex-hussar at the stables on Tuesday. Shame on you!) Somehow the demented perceptions of the Reverend Nogood, in continuing to present me as a delicate petal to be shielded (and rather that than one of his specimens, to be mounted on the most convenient pointed object to hand! Perish the thought!), have led him to the conclusion that I must not be permitted to accompany him in his exploratory adventures. When he first ventured the notion at dinner last night, my fury was virtually uncontainable. But just at the moment when I was preparing to let him have it with a blunderbus barrage, a though occurred that rendered my wrath quite subsident.
Dear diary, you know I have only endured his prattling anecdotes and banal observations on the Creator's marvels this long because I supposed him vaguely capable of stumbling into adventure. I have confessed to you many times my growing suspicion that this supposition is magnificently erroneous. He is as far from the mechanism by which I will meet my destiny as am I from becoming Queen of the Moon. My course, then, is set; I will demurely accede to his (gloriously silly!) command that I remain behind in Port Moriarty for 'the season' - I can only presume that he means the monsoon season, which in any case I understand to be a feature of summer, for I most certainly shan't be another gaudily decorated fixture on the social circuit! - while he gallivants off into the interior with Lord Whomever.
After which I shall of course get my own expedition together and beat them to wherever they happen to be going!
CYour conclusions re Lord M correct - definitely searching for some known landmark. Yet to establish what, but seems he must have J's map. Returned today from scouting along river - slow, dangerous going over jagged, crumbling rock. Cuthbert definitely impassable - action of river forms whirlpool five miles down. Also large water animals - similar periascai vitarns - sunning themselves on rock shelves about what we've dubbed "Lanner's Cauldron". Calling them 'river dragons' - not something to get close to.
Believe Ryan was intending to cross Cuthbert and search far shore today, but all plans up in air as Lord M's daughter missing. Seems to have taken small pack and gone off on own. No sign of where. No progress will be made until found, in one condition or the other.
Too risky searching Ryan's belongings, even during distraction.
K
Dear Evan,
Two weeks have passed since we left Port Moriarty, and thus far my luck has held out – there has been no disaster to ruin it all – not yet anyway! I feel I am well on the way to clearing my name and proving that the silly rumour about the curse is completely unfounded.
Mr. Irvine, our stalwart leader, a fine explorer and excellent judge of human character, signed up two more members for the expedition before we left P.M., bringing our total numbers to five, not including all the native bearers, boatsmen, and general lackey-types of course.
The first of these is Mr. Colere, a rather zesty and impractical Frenchman, with unpleasant personal habits but possessed of applaudable enthusiasm and diligence. Colere is a wiry and hirsute fellow, with a quick, sharp face, thin limbs, and very large hands and feet. He tends to talk very quickly, and considerable amounts of spittle fly from his protruding lips whenever he grows passionate about the topic of conversation. Although he is new to The Continent he has considerable expertise gleaned in wilderness areas in other parts of the world.
You may wonder, Evan, why I call it “The Continent” now instead of Terra Altera. I hate to criticise Mr. Irvine in any way, and really, you must not consider this next to be criticism at all, but he is just a might touchy about the title we address this great uncharted expanse of land, and flies into a God-awful rage if ever I call it by its real name. Since calling it Chester Allen Arthur land in the American tradition would make me feel downright un-British, I have decided to compromise, and thus I call it “The Continent”, which seems to satisfy Mr. Irvine, or at least not spark his temper.
As to our second new companion, Mr. Horace Whimsley is another American, although he seems to lack Mr. Irvine’s obsession for discovering the interior. Where Mr. Irvine seldom leaves off discussing his plans for “a quick and decisive stab to the heart of the interior”, as he likes to put it, Mr. Whimsley is of a solitary and rather gloomy nature and spends most of his time apart, reading a small weathered leather-bound volume which he carries in his breast pocket. He has intense brown eyes, which are nearly black, and dark, thick hair which he wears extremely short. He is a thick-bodied muscular man with amazing endurance. Mr. Irvine seems to have heard of Mr. Whimsley prior to his appointment, and holds him in high regard. My personal impression of the man is that he is a bit of a thug, and were I leader, I would have had doubts in including him as a member of our party. Still, Mr. Irvine doubtlessly knows best, and I am certainly not about to compromise my position this early in the game by questioning his judgement. Whimsley is a man of few words, and came equipped with his own weapons, of which he carries a considerable number. Although I personally find the man a bit of a mulish bore, of the sort who keeps his head firmly pointed in the same direction even if he has already run into a brick wall thrice, there can be no doubt regarding his personal courage. What concerns me is that he may well have a personal agenda to go with it – several times during our journey up the Cuthbert river I noticed him taking a piece of loose paper out of his book, which he studied in some detail before returning it to its hiding place. My curiosity is starting to badger me, and I hope to find out something of this matter before much more time passes.
Although the delays in establishing a reliable crew have allowed a number of other expeditions to gain a head start upon us, Mr. Irvine says that none of that lot could fight their way out of a wet paper bag. Well, in actual fact he said something a good deal less polite which I hesitate to repeat here. Mr. Irvine says the other expeditions are over-large, burdened with unnecessary luxuries, useless equipment, and hampering female personages, and will doubtlessly not prove much competition. What those expedition leaders considered they were doing, bringing females along to face the dangers and tribulations of the inner wilds, Mr Irvine said he could not even begin to speculate! I agree in some regards, but can not help considering that the ladies look especially charming in their tailored explorer's outfits!
In any case, Mr. Irvine directed us up the Cuthbert River, which is quite an easy boat ride, although he insisted on taking his time about it, since he wants to map the territory we pass through as we go. Did I tell you that Mr. Colere is a talented navigator and map-maker, Evan? On the second day of our slow but steady row against the current, Mr. Whimsley made the interesting discovery of a previously unmapped stream which feeds the Cuthbert, not far from Remest, but concealed by a trick of the local geology and vegetation working in combination. Mr. Irvine insisted upon christening this channel Whimsley River. Although narrow, the Whimsley is deep and steadily flowing, giving plenty of clearance for our canoes. Near the lower end of the Whimsley, the vegetation grew darkly and thickly on either side, and rose far above our heads, curving above us so that it was almost as though we were navigating some sort of underground passage. Mr Irvine was hoping that the stream would prove to be an alternate route past the rapids, and leap-frog us past the other expeditions.
The sixth evening of our trek along the Whimsley, we made camp in a little damp clearing not far from the strea’s edge. Mr. Whimsley shot one of the spiny boar-like creatures that forage through the undergrowth, and even though he took it through the head, the thing scarcely knew that it was dead and continued to crash towards him, only stopping at the very last moment. Mr. Whimsley’s arm was gashed by the monster’s tusks, but he stoically bound the wound himself, refusing assistance and saying that it was nothing. During the night we were plagued by swarms of insects. Mr. Colere was badly bitten all over his arms and chest despite being so hairy, while Mr. Whimsley, Mr. Kranz and myself all suffered itchy welts in various inconvenient locations. Poor Mr. Irvine was the worst off, having suffered the brunt of the swarm. His face was so badly bitten that it swelled up so he could scarcely see. The welts have proven tenacious, despite repeated application of salve, so our glorious leader has been forced to grudgingly rely upon our assistance for the past few days, which he preferred to delaying our progress entirely. We have travelled a substantial distance during that time, and this afternoon the vegetation is gradually becoming more stunted and twisted, enough to give us a view of a daunting line of imposing cliffs unmarred by passes or gullies save for a thin waterfall which we can only assume is the origin of the stream we currently follow.
Tomorrow, my dear Evan, we shall doubtlessly discover if this is indeed the case.
Your wandering friend,
Bernard
Harding J. Irvine
From the Journal of Reverend James Halliwell Thurgood, 10 July 18--
I find myself placed in the most dreadful quandary. An exceptionally agreeable offer has been extended by none other than Lord Ashbury, whose embarkation is profoundly imminent. This expedition and its esteemed founder exhibit precisely the virtuous characteristics of ruggedness, intrepidness and Britishness that I have dreamed of joining all this time. Such an invitation has been my fondest hope for many months! However the terms of this tremendous opportunity regrettably exclude Miss Pressworth.
When her dearest mother Gertrude upon her deathbed extracted my promise to preserve the young lady's virtue as her legal and moral guardian, I recall shedding an emotional tear at her selfless dignity. She had my word, I assured her, that Miss Pressworth was in the most vigilant company from that moment on. Her subsequent uncanny recovery from terminal gout was quite miraculous, but to her credit she would not have me sully my personal honour by withdrawing my promise.Shortly before she disappeared in Barcelona in the company of the sinister Colonel Ramirez, I reiterated my vow to stay by Miss Pressworth's side, fending away such moral threats as may besiege her.
His Lordship's offer to establish Miss Pressworth in Port Moriarty society tempts me sorely, I confess. Though I am certain that she would lodge the most fervent protests, it has long been my fear that her participation in a journey into uncharted territory would constitute the most unpardonable breach of my pledge to her undeparted mother. She should not be exposed to the treacherous dangers of untamed wilderness -why, the thriving bustle of Port Moriarty society provides all the excitement that a frail and whimsical lass could ever hope to entertain! She would forever be beset by insects and venomous reptiles and all manner of alarming vermin were she to accompany me to the heartlands! And to think that such a porcelain-perfect exhibit of British womanhood should be forced to bear the sight of sweating, cursing native labourers, with their shady cast and their unintelligible babbling - why, it is unthinkable! Yes, the more I consider his Lordship's proposal, the more its multitudinous merits suggest themselves.
I shall deliver the good news to her after this everning's meal. I expect she will take the slight disappointment with jolly good sport.
Expedition Watch Column
Welcome to the inaugural Expedition Watch Column. I'm Harold Blake, investigative reporter and in this column I will endeavour to keep you up to date with the expeditions goings on. The current news on the Mallei expedition indicates they may have taken a wrong turning and be totally lost, but this is not as bad as the Lanner expedition, believed lost with all hands. Ryans expedition seems to be firmly based at their Last Resort camp and short sorties into the wild are not leading anywhere. The Americans have launched an expedition seething with foreigners of all types. There is some indication that this group is truly cursed with a myriad of minor disasters befalling them. The word is that their leader, Irvine, has been infected by some tiny flies which have rendered him temporarilly blind, required to be led by the hand through the wilds. I have no firm news of the other expeditions although unbased rumours of snake bite, native traps and endemic fevers continue to filter back to civilisation. Harold Blake investigating.
To the Chums,
I'm sending this via carrier pigeon, We seem to be making great strides. Jeeves is muttering about us being lost and doomed, but the man always was a sourpuss. I'm sure I know exactly where we are. The last river we crossed had some sort of carnivorous fish in it. The bootboy appears to be recovering well - he certainly can move when he wants to, Wot! Now why can't I get him to move that fast cleaning my boots. My dearest Anne has whipped up a lovely grilled fish dinner so I must send this off before she decides to add a poultry dish.
Grubby.
The Logbook of Fitzpatrick Ryan
Last Resort CampIdentified wreckage which has been washing up these last few days as from Lanner expedition. No sign of bodies.
Way over escarpment very rough going. May have to try other side of river. No sign as yet of 'Way' marked.
Diary of Katerina MarchmontI have a secret.
These past few days should have been complete tedium. First waiting while the camp was established, then sitting about it while high and mighty Fitzpatrick Ryan has every man and his dog out scouting the immediate area, always talking caution, caution, caution. The man has no gumption, none at all!
One single thing has redeemed Last Resort Camp. There is something of an escarpment to the back of our camp, with little caves which make useful dry storage. It was not past a day before I discovered a most cunningly concealed entrance, not visible from any distance. This is what I came here for. It is lucky indeed that Elsabet tags after Fitzpatrick Ryan like an overeager pup. It would not do to have her looking over my shoulder during my explorations.
KSM
From the Port Moriarty Times:Cleaner Streets in Our Colony!
During recent days, a number of long-term residents of Port Moriarty have remarked upon the noticeable decline in rodents infesting the town. The numbers of large Black Ship Rats, and the smaller Scaley-Tailed Brown Rats have been dropping quite radically, most especially in residential areas, although a marked lowering of numbers of ratty pests has also been observed in less salubrious regions surrounding the docks.
"It used to be that it was neither safe territory for man nor beast," remarked Mr. David Hollins, who has been the stocky, bronze-haired overseer of loading and storage facilities of our town's harbour for the past seven years. "A man would be in fear of his life from swarms o' rats," Mr. Hollins described. "Each bigger than a bread box and with terrible yellow fangs as long as a lady's finger." And the present situation? "Now I find meself hard put t' find half a dozen of the mangy brutes." "Do you find the reduction in rats to be an advantage in your workplace?" I asked him. "Why yes," he replied. "It is alt'gether much safer and quicker t' get things done."
Other residents of more primitive parts of the city have been heard to complain of the shortage.
"There's nothin' left fer the stew pot," one colourful character told this reporter. And as to the reason for the decline in the number of rodents: "There was some posh well dressed wimmen wot went around shootin' 'em all."
The identity of the erstwhile rat-hunting ladies has not yet been uncovered, but readers may be sure that this reporter will keep his eyes and ears open as to the details of their identity.- Mr. James Everidge, Reporter.
The Logbook of Fitzpatrick Ryan
Last Resort Camp2/7/18--
Day spent clearing forest back of beach to series rock shelves make exc. base camp. Expect spend up to a week here, casting into ridge-line for best route/scouting actual lay of river through canyons. Sufficient personnel at hand for multiple sorties.
Arkwright Lanner stopped on way past - heading upriver with party of four. Waste of a good man.
