Diary of Katerina MarchmontWhat brutes the Tohlemek are! At the four corners of the base of their temple are metal spikes, below which are carefully carved channels, from which old, dark encrustrations have never been cleaned. Their purpose seemed all too obvious and I have not been able to pass them without an internal shudder. But, if they do indeed practice human sacrifice, today's spectacle at least involved no death. At midday a ceremony was held, but instead of spitting four Damiko or Thylessi, the falcon-headed priest tied four Tohlemek to the spikes. His underlings then, to the accompaniment of much chanting, proceeded to cut patterns into the chests, arms and thighs of these young men, until the channels ran slick with their blood. Barely alive, they were cut free and born triumphantly away by their families. This, it appears, is a Tohlemek ritual of manhood.
We are waiting, as best as gesture and sign language can convey, for the arrival of some sort of envoy. Until that time, we are comfortable prisoners. It has been made perfectly clear that we are not to leave the village, and the Tohlemek have set up a positive encampment at the top of the cliff, making it impossible to retreat in that direction. The Tohlemek and the Damiko watch us closely, but each other more closely still. Although their attitude toward us has not been unpleasant, and in some ways very complimentary, I am growing very aware that we are balanced precariously in a situation which calls more for politicians than explorers. It is fortunate Father sent the runners back before we came down the cliff.
Despite the underlying tension, I am enjoying the chance to sleep in beds, to bathe in hot water and sample the hospitality of a civilised folk.
Journal of Franz ObermeyerVast storehouse of information to delve into. Damiko have shared readily. Function of one substance not clear, though obviously regarded as value. Sample of prepared product given reluctantly, but requests to see preparation process and source herbs repeatedly denied - or possibly misunderstood. Most interesting preparation so far appears to have antacid properties. Highly effective, will follow up.
Notebook of Elsabet MarchmontThere is so much to tell I don't rightly know where to begin. I'm writing this sitting kitty-corner to a brazier, in my own room in a thing Julian Coventry says is a pagoda, which is a building they make out in China-land and places like that. It is a bit like a bunch of fancy boxes sitting on top of each other with little curling roofs on each box.
We just had one of the slap-up-est meals I ever did see, and definitely the strangest. Most of it was all bits and pieces, piled on top of rice. You have a bowl and you put the rice in it and some greens and bits of meat and such - don't ask me what sort, cause I didn't know a one. Then there are all these little sauce things and you either pour the sauce all over everything, or you dip your bits in your own personal sauce bowl. The Damiko like things hot. My mouth is still burning.
That's the end, but I think it really was the best. Right funny food, but awfully nice, especially the paper and nut stuff at the end, which you dip in honey and jam and things. Some of that was hot, too.
The start was up on the top of the plateau, levering up that door. There'd been a building up there, and I could see some of those knotty carvings Mr Coventry thought were so interesting, on the tumbled stone and on the door. It would have been a flat, turtle-shaped thing before someone knocked it down and painted all that stuff on the door. Looks like it happened a long time ago. Lucky we have the horses, because I doubt we would have got the thing open without them. There was some sort of counter-weight system set up in the building, so Mr Ryan reckons, and those doors were worse than heavy without it.
Still, we got through. It looked like someone had tried the same thing, except from the inside, and gone nowhere. The tunnel just inside was also a bit pitted and burned, like a cannon had gone off a long time ago. We spent the rest of the morning going round and round in circles down this winding tunnel. Wide enough to get the horses through. Wide enough for a wagon, even.
Down the bottom it was damp and there were these ferns everywhere, growing right up over our heads and moss in every direction. Pretty. Mist from the waterfall beaded on spider-web and everything all shush and cool. There was a bit of a path, like someone came this way every so often, and we followed it out to the lake and could see Takana just ahead.
That's when all the fuss started. There were a bunch of fellows working in fields just across the lake and they saw us and those that didn't run back into the city ran straight at us and then it was all gabble-gabble and none of us knowing what anybody was saying, but all excited and scared and everywhere at once. Then a bunch of the Tohlemeks marched up and it was all over again, except nastier. From the way they acted, it's pretty much a big thing that we opened the door, and they already got a bunch of folk camped up the top there, maybe like they're worried someone will shut it all up again.
We got marched back into Takana quick smart after that and taken before the head Tohlemek. He didn't like that we couldn't understand him, and didn't have much patience with signs and play-acting or little drawings. Sir drew a map, a general one. I saw he didn't put the passageway through the Wall on it. After that the big boss sent us off to stay with Lady Akiko.
I guess I better describe everyone, first. There's more than one type of people here. The folks in charge are the Tohlemeks. They're pretty much like the statue we saw, back on the Field. Really dark, with hooked noses and a lot like hawks. On their temple ziggurat thing some of the soldiers were wearing sun falcon masks. They carry whips, just like those carvings, and they're not shy about using 'em.
The Damiko are Eastern types, or were once. Their skin is a bit darker and some of them have curly hair, but otherwise pretty close. They don't much like the Tohlemek at all, and we reckon Takana was theirs alone once and they want it that way again. They're not all bad, in a do everything just so way. When we were taken into the ziggurat, we saw one of the Damiko in there, a real snotty fellow, quite young. He was wearing these fancy golden manacles about his wrists joined by a long chain. For show I guess, since I don't reckon it'd take me long to get out of them. He was bundled right off almost before we saw him.
Then there's the Thylessy or Thlsy or I can't write it properly. They're tall and thin like our runners, and even darker than the Tohlemeks and it looks to me like they're the ones who get pushed round the most in this place. Most of them have their hair cut almost all off, but there are a few who have great masses of long wavy stuff, all tied up in braids. They are what Mr Coventry calls Stoic, by which I mean that they seem so used to being kicked about they just shrug it off. But I think they're kind of proud under it all, too. Or indifferent in a way I kind of associate with holy. It's hard to put.
There's not absolute lines between the lot, and I think there must be sub-divisions or other groups or something which I haven't figured out. We are definitely a ten-day wonder, though, and for the moment we've been made kind of guests who can't go out on their own. Lucky Mr Ryan stopped the game hunters before they got too excited about that big ox-thing. It's not at all like a cow – much thicker and taller and shaggy, and yet a bit like a guinea pig. It doesn't pull a plough at all - they've trained it to dig up the fields in rows. I wouldn't like to get in the way of its paws. But anyway, the first thing Ratchley did was point his gun at it, and it was the crossest I've ever seen Mr Ryan and he said we weren't to use our guns at all, till we're surer of our ground. They haven't taken our guns off us, and they look at them like they think they might be weapons but aren't rightly sure.
Lady Akiko has been very patiently pointing things out and giving them names. She has a son, Hiroko, who hasn't taken his eyes off Lady M since he saw her. Young Lady M has made a big hit. The locals act like they've never seen anything so wonderful and even Lady Akiko, who is ever so proper, couldn't resist touching her hair. I guess that dark reddish colour isn't common. Julian Coventry is also fussed over a bit, being blond, but nothing like the reaction to Lady M. You can just guess how she's acting back.
As best we can reckon, the Tohlemeks have sent for someone or are going to send us somewhere, but we are to sit about and wait until that happens. But there is so much to see in Takana that that isn't a real bother. From the sounds of it, the interior of Altera - or at least this bit of it - is a pretty busy place with lots of people and cities. And the Tohlemeks are the boss of the lot.
My bed is like a shelf set in the wall. It looks hard, but weren't too bad when I tried it out. Hope I still feel that way tomorrow.
Werner Kranz on the Irvine Expedition:
Here we are in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from civilisation and friendly faces. If we were to all die out here in this treacherous wilderness, no one would ever discover our remains to give them a Christian burial. Far more likely that we would all be eaten by scavengers, packs, equipment and all, before anyone would pass nearby and guess at our cruel fate. My companions seem blithely ignorant of the danger we place ourselves in every day, simply by travelling through this wasteland. I had high hopes when that idiot Irvine fell sick that it would be the end of this foolish endeavour, and suggested that this was the obvious time to return to Port Moriarty. But no - Irvine himself insisted that we continue, even though he was coughing up blood as he spoke, and admitted that the fever is a recurring one! I can not understand how a man can overlook the obvious. If he should suffer a more severe attack of this illness, as might easily be brought on by bad weather or severe exertion, there are no doctors or medical supplies to assist him here. We should be next to helpless to assist him, he would die ignominiously and the expedition would be just as much a failure as if he cut his losses and chose to return now. But there is nothing for it - it is as if God Almighty has ordained that we trudge on, further and further away from assistance, into the very middle of this horrible continent. I wish I had never come here but had stayed at home in Germany. I was a fool to gamble with Irvine, or to agree to come along in order to make good my debts to him. I am homesick for my little country, with its sensible people and all the appropriate comforts.
On Tuesday we reached the mountain we have been using as a landmark, and although Colere wished to climb to its peak to survey the surrounding territory, Irvine was his usual impatient self and insisted that we skirt around the base and continue southward towards the immense range of ice and stone that lies in that direction. For once, Whimsley made a point of staunchly supporting him, showing little interest in the Outlier, or in Colere's precious map.
It fails me as to why they even bother to approach this range - it is obvious even from this distance that those mountains are impassable, and none of us are truly experienced mountaineers, except perhaps for Colere. Jones would never be able to climb even the smaller mountains in that range, and attempting the slopes of the taller ones is a task for lunatics and madmen. No one could ever hope to succeed at such a climb, or even to attempt it and return to speak of his efforts. If there is a path into the interior, it does not lie here. In my opinion, which as usual was completely ignored, it would be better to cut our losses and travel to the east or west in the hope of finding a route around the mountains, but nothing will satisfy our glorious leader but to examine the face of the range in more detail, in the hopes of finding some pass or trail that will lead us safely through with no detour. Only a hopeless optimist could dream of locating such a thing. To attempt those peaks can only mean death - either the fast, sharp terror of a plunge down a sheer rock face, or a slower but equally horrifying demise as one freezes slowly to death, losing fingers, toes and facial features to the ravages of frostbite. If Irvine does attempt to cross the mountains, I shall have to strongly consider the possibility of attempting to return to Port Moriarty, alone if necessary. It may be a very risky and unlikely proceeding, but I am convinced that my chances of survival would be superior to those in the mountains.
We have been slowly drawing nearer to the ranges, travelling towards the forested foothills that lie at the base. We should reach them this evening, and I wonder what we might find there. It seems to me that Whimsley is familiar with this territory, or at least that he seems to be searching the horizon constantly for the sight of some landmark.
Harding J. Irvine
Logbook of Fitzpatrick RyanSent despatch by runners to Port Moriarty informing location. 'Mouth' noted on map low-slung building, deliberately collapsed. Day spent clearing rubble from metal doors. Ornate, two wagon's width, set flat to ground. Decayed symbols daubed in black substance all across surface. Illegible.
Tackle task of raising in morning.
Notebook of Julian CoventryThese past few days - Ah. These past few days we were greatly occupied by a change in the south-east horizon. Blue shadows took form, became spires, stretched and grew into something distant and soaring and immense. Great serried ranks of mountains, far loftier than the Wall and, in honest truth, distinctly daunting. So we turned our eyes ahead, grateful for Lord Marchmont and Ryan's decision to head so far west and hoping that our river course would continue. We are not goats.
Shadows began to appear on the horizon directly ahead and I confess my heart fell. The mountains to the south-east are tipped with white and all I could think of was nose-bleeds and frost-bite. And now we find ourselves at the end of our river journey and I am quite completely at a loss.
There are mountains directly ahead, but some considerable distance away and before them, below them - below us -
I shall call it The Rift, for sake of convenience, although 'rift' implies something narrow, a tear or crack, when what we have found is the far edge of the plateau, dropping down many hundreds of feet to what must be sea level or near enough. The edge of the plateau extends a number of miles to our east before rising up into the foothills of that huge range of mountains, and to our west curves gradually south. The river ends at the point where the southerly curve begins, dropping almost entirely unhindered into The Rift. Directly below the plateau it looks to be a damp, mossy place, dominated by what I suspect will prove to be ferns. With the sun sitting in the northern sky, the base of the plateau must spend a large portion of every day in shadow.
It is difficult to estimate the continuing direction of the plateau edge to our west, but it leaves us for the moment in a kind of decapitated triangle, with our section of the plateau wall forming the head, the rising mountains to the east one side of the triangle and the curving wall the other. The base is a further range of mountains, considerably distant and perhaps less formidable than those to the east. It looks possible to pass through them, at any rate. The base of The Rift is a fertile river-valley, the waterfall pooling at the base into a lake and then running on into a winding river, much dotted with pools and smaller lakes which glitter in the sun beyond the shadow of the plateau. And - oh, how immensely unimportant that is!
There is a city. There, I have said it, though I scarcely can credit the evidence of my own eyes. And such a city - no shamble of huts, but a city of stone and streets, surrounded by cultivated fields which appear to have already been plowed and planted for the year. For it is no abandoned husk, but a living city. We have stood for hours gaping down at tiny figures, little more than ants, busy in the streets of this impossible place. Leading carts pulled by something which is not oxen. Carrying palanquins. Swarming their markets. Marching about in soldierly patrol. Playing hoop and stick and pinning out clothing in the sun. Living.
The sun has set now, and there is less to see. Lighted windows, patrols carrying torches, woodsmoke making grey smudges against the black backdrop of the far mountains. There is light there too, on the southern mountains. Another city? A town? An outpost?
I wish my father was here, for this is truly his heaven. The buildings are the most amazing collection imaginable. There are pagodas, fashioned both of wood and stone. Aqueducts. A ziggurat - centrally placed and larger than them all, with a great fire burning at its apex and soldiers whose armour glittered in the sun.
And all of it far below us, beyond any hope of making our way down. Except for the door.
From the Diary of Harding J. Irvine:
It has been some time since I last wrote, thanks to the attack of Meinhold's Fever which left me bedridden for more than a week. I had thought myself cured of this plague, for although I was aware that its nature is sometimes recurrent, I had believed my own fortitude to be more than a match for this foreign ague. I have been proven incorrect - the disease has not only taken its toll upon my health, but also, and to my mind more disturbingly, upon the expedition's progress. Rendered weak as a mewling brat still nursing at its mother's teat, I was wrung miserably by the fits of bloody coughing that are symptomatic of the disease. I found it difficult to rest, as internally I fumed against the necessity of keeping to camp while our rivals were doubtlessly surging far ahead of us, their feet marching inexorably towards the interior.
My impatience was also sorely aggravated the first morning of my recovery, when we were forced to wait upon Whimsley who had gone off on a solo hunting expedition the day before and had not returned by the time the sun set. Upon his return he informed me he was caught some distance from camp by night fall, and thought it wiser to wait until it was light before continuing. He must have travelled a long distance during his foray, for he did not return until quite late in the morning. By this time Colere and Jones, the latter as eager and overenergetic as a puppy-dog released from its leash, had set out to search for him, so we were further obliged to delay our departure until their return. Of course by then it was so late in the day that we would probably have been better served to remain camped where we were, but since Mr. Kranz and I had already packed up camp while waiting for the others, we put in a few hours walk before night fall. I must admit I was still weaker than I had hoped, and glad of a short day although I took care to make sure that my weakness remained obscured from the others. It is best, I have always found, for a leader of men to maintain as infallible a demeanour as possible. Any admission of weakness on his behalf, and his underlings cease to respect him. That blasted Meinhold's Fever can only lead to my eventual rack and ruin, both by attacking my health and by undermining my position as leader of the expedition. Whimsley offered no apology for his lateness, and I was quite irritated with him, although my harsh words seemed to have little effect. He shrugged off my criticisms carelessly, saying nothing in reply. I believe I did manage to aggravate the man, however well he conceals it, for he has been keeping his own company even more than previously, speaking little to anyone but Colere, with whom he spends considerable time poring over our expanding map.
We have seen no more signs of the inhabitants of this territory, besides a column of smoke originating from the same position on a number of occasions. Now the smoke trail has dwindled to insignificance, obscured by distance and the greyish brownish haze that hangs over the rough hills and canyonlands that lie behind us. Ahead looms that single conical peak which we sighted from the top of the cliffs. It makes a useful landmark and we are still heading for it, although it has become apparent that it is only an outlier for a vast range of mountains that lies beyond. These are truly enormous in magnitude, daunting peaks that beetle high above the surrounding lands, bearded with ice and snow and making the cliffs we have passed seem like a simple flight of stairs in comparison. The sight of their snow-shrouded countenances fills me with dread and foreboding as they seem an insurmountable obstacle to our progress further south. Still, I refuse to be unmanned by any wall of rock and ice, especially when we have not yet examined the range in any detail. Perhaps a convenient pass or passage will become apparent when we get closer.
Tonight the Outlier looms above us. We will climb its lower slopes tomorrow. Colere is debating the possibility of climbing at least partway to the summit, suggesting that we might well see something of use from such a vantage point. He doubtlessly hopes to add detail to his map, but I have not yet decided whether the benefit would adequately compensate for the time such an excursion would take.
Harding J. Irvine
A journey into the depths of Terra Altera, by S. NashAt first I hoped that this worn volume contained the story of those who built this place, but alas it is no more than a painstaking record of scores at some card game played by the mysterious figures “H.” “C.” and “J. M.”. At least it can serve me as a journal, replacing at last the copy of ‘Science and Health’ which I lost to Evruk some weeks ago. The consequences of this loss were most unpleasant to me, both immediately and for some time afterwards.
I have also been fortunate enough to find a largish box of pencils.We are perhaps 100 miles south of the Wall, well into the foothills of the most prodigious range of mountains I have ever seen. For several days they have been visible in the distance, approaching with a terrible slowness that emphasises their true magnitude. We are now at the feet of a wooded peak I make to be as high as Ben Nevis, only one among dozens that stretch from east to west. When there is a break in the cloud we have seen behind these mountains a veritable wall of ice, crested with terrible towers and battlements of stone that dwarf all works of man. It is something of an utterly inhuman scale, a remnant from the days when monsters walked the earth.
There was a light dusting of snow on the ground this morning, and had I not become habituated to the Gutu costume I think I should have died of exposure long ago; as it is we are all cold, and have spent most of today huddled inside around the fireplace. If only the nameless expedition that built this place had left some clothes behind! There must have been dozens of them, for a very great amount of work went into building this place. Five stout huts wooden huts are still standing, and we have taken up residence in the finest of them, which boasts a stone fireplace. There is one other hut that has collapsed, and piles for seven more huts that look to have been dismantled. Furniture has been left behind, chairs, beds and tables all admirably put together from the local timber, but there are very few lighter items - some broken crockery, a sewing machine, a whiskey decanter carefully wrapped in butcher’s paper and laid in a bookcase, several hundred ginger beer bottles piled on the edge of the settlement. I have searched assiduously for a token that this may have been a winter camp of my Uncle’s lost expedition, but can find no proof.Where did they go from here? And where are we to go? Guruk has indicated that we are to wait here for someone, someone she has not met, who has only ever appeared to Bora-Gurra. And that worthy is quite reticent to disclose anything to me. He clearly feels ill at ease in this place of the white man, as does Ebruk, and they have been treating me with an unusual respect, as if they have only just recalled the vastly superior resources of civilised man. Urpag has not changed her manner in any way. I have been instructing Guruk in the rudiments of the Christian religion since the incident in the temple atop the waterfall, and she is proving an able study. I am resolved to take her with me, should ever I have the opportunity to return to civilisation, though it render my own escape doubtful. She is a true lily among the thorns.
I make it to be 47 days since I regained consciousness. I will now reprise the events since that time. Perhaps one day this book will come into the hands of another explorer, even if I never return.
Tarrant
Notebook of Elsabet MarchmontThe canyon is dropping further below us every day, though not so fast we can't still fish each night, or climb down to get water. It's none so difficult a climb, but it means that if it turns out important to keep travelling west, we've a long way to backtrack if we want to hang on to the animals. The rock's all yellowy sandstone, a bit crumbly in places, but with plenty of hand-holds. Just these past couple of days I've started seeing a new type of merringtan living in little holes in the canyon walls. These are right different from the burrow-dwellers, with good gripping paws, and a nice cream, brown and yellow pelt which blends in with the rock. The little ones hang on the backs of their ma while she races up and down. Ratchley, as usual, blasted away as soon as he saw them move, and now they won't come near us.
There's no sign of any road along the bank we're travelling, but Sir and Mr Ryan looked pretty much like they were expecting the river when we got here. I've heard them talk about 'the valley', when they think they're alone, though I still haven't gotten my mitts on the map they're following. But we are for sure getting a long way from our base camp - it's way too long to really hope for the supply line to be maintained, so we're living off the land as much as possible.
A weird thing happened last night. Ratchley had followed me out away from the others - he just don't get the message. I was just thinking I'd have to try out some of the knife moves Mr Ryan showed me when Jon, of all people, turned up and laid into Ratchley. He flailed away like he was drowning or something, about as useful as a daisy on a battlefield, but Ratchley was so right-out surprised that he just upped and left. Then Jon runs off without a word. I don't know what to make of it. I've been thinking the kid a right gaby, but you can't be a complete coward to go up against someone like Ratchley. I'll have to keep a look-out to make sure Ratchley doesn't get his own back somehow.
Notebook of Alastair CoventryI am finally making some progress on the most interesting rubbing sent to me by Julian. His description of the statue made me suspect that its function was something other than a navigational aid, and my partial translation of the inscription suggests it served more as a mark of claim - much as placing the English flag in Alteran soil laid claim to British Gutuland. To my immense interest, the script and root of the language appears to be Persian. How arrogant we were to believe that Edward Burridge was the first civilised man to set foot on this continent!
As to the inscription, my best translation is:
All that I survey is beneath me.
Dearest Evan,
We have made little progress over the past two weeks, thanks to Mr. Irvine's ill health. The delay has taken a considerable toll upon our supplies, and Mr Irvine, who makes a very poor patient, is most irritated and despondent about the whole matter. Still, he is not in a bad temper with any of us, since the blame for our delay rests solely upon his shoulders - or not even entirely there, since a man can not truly be held responsible for his own illness.
Four days after leaving the mysterious stone circle in the rocky hills beyond the cliffs, we progressed slowly but cautiously through the hills, avoiding the smoke from a steadily burning fire which we believed might well lay at the centre of a camp of hostile natives. We took a considerable detour to avoid its location, and spent much time scouting ahead for fear that we should be spotted by a hunting party. We saw no sign of the natives however, and upon the fourth day, we were forced to make camp in a concealed gully, where we have remained ever since. Throughout that day, Mr. Irvine had become more and more heavily afflicted with a case of the lung fever which plagues him so - apparently he has bouts of this disease regularly. The symptoms include fits of coughing, which produce unpleasant clots of phlegm steaked with blood. They leave him quite weakened, and he has been forced to take to his bed while the rest of us do our best to keep the expedition well supplied with fresh meat. Mr. Colere and Mr. Kranz seem bored but not displeased by the delay, while Mr. Whimsley seems most discontent, roaming impatiently through the countryside on solitary expeditions which have become more and more far ranging each day. Tonight, for the first time, he has not returned upon the fall of darkness and should he not appear promptly tomorrow morning, Mr. Colere and I will set out in search for him. Mr. Irvine has been much recovered today, and he has high hopes of continuing to the south tomorrow. He seems most annoyed by Mr. Whimsley's late return and has been taking his temper out upon our two Gutu bearers, finding fault with most everything they do.
It is easy to feel impatient and uncomfortable here, Evan, for the gully we are camping in is a dusty hole in the ground. The vegetation surrounding it is dense and thorny, inhabited by a large assortment of ticks and a particular kind of red shield bug whose bite causes inflamed itchy welts which weep and are slow to heal. There is little game, save for the wiry brown prarie-dog like creatures, which are common everywhere. These have a tough gamey flesh which is not very palatable unless cooked for hours in the stew pot with plenty of salt. There is a constant water supply, although the stream is small and the water stained yellow with some impurity which lends it a nasty brackish taste. As to the weather, fortunately the rain has eased, and we have had day after day of grey overcast skies, with little or no precipitation.
Hopefully we will continue on our way tomorrow, Evan, and reach some more hospitable landscape soon.
Your good friend,
Bernard Jones.
Harding J. Irvine
Notebook of Julian CoventryCompared to the seething dangers of the coast, Athelfrid's Fields is an Eden, and the Governor is sure to quickly establish a solid hold on the area. Perhaps, in fifty or a hundred years, some descendant of mine will stand on this very spot and look out over a teeming city: a Rome, a London, a Babylon.
We have found a river, you see. Wide and flowing rapidly - south. It seems to originate in the thick heights of the Wall to our north-west, where the mountains climb to alpine proportions. The banks are a mix of granite and sandstone, a touch precipitous, but easily traversed so long as we don't attempt to keep too close to the water.
After the quiet of our journey, where even the Sun Demons kept their distance, I must admit to a qualm or two to be pressing once again south. I can see no sign of mountains rising in that direction, and it would be pleasant to believe that the grasslands stretched on forever - perhaps to the inland ocean so beloved of tavern legend.
We have stopped for the night on a rocky shelf typical of the river's edge. It is cool, but not unpleasantly so, and in fact pleasant to be out of the wind which is a constant feature of the plains. After trying our hand at fishing for only a short time, we furnished ourselves with a very pleasant meal, and Dr Obermeyer provided an only slightly pedantic discourse on the various southern constellations which blaze above us. There is an air of relaxed satisfaction about our small troop, and anticipation of new discoveries.
Young Jon is an unfortunate exception. He has never been a talkative boy, and has become increasingly withdrawn over the past few days. The Doctor's adventurous spirit only tries him further. Obermeyer positively relishes making small exploratory trips each evening when we set up camp, taking Jon along to carry his samples. Sadly the lad is not an adventurer at heart and on their return will stare out into the night as if convinced that doom will leap from the shadows at any moment. He has not been eating, but I suspect any approach from me would only provoke resentment. I will speak to Curtis - he is equal to anything.
We will travel south in the morning, along the newly christened Diogenes River. For the most part, I look forward to it.
To the chums,
The Gutu porters have shown their lack of British spine and fled, apparently our success at downing one of those monstrous birds (Jeeves and his elephant gun - good chap in a scrum) has given our porters the willies. They made wild claims of bad luck and taboos, at which we all of course scoffed, then when Anne selected some of the tail feathers for her hat and displayed them for us -they drape down her back almost to her feet - they screeched something incomprehensible (it sounded a little like Blempudray, Ligo blempudray), made strange gestures, almost knotting their fingers together and then threw their packs down and fled back the way we came. The servants have taken up the luggage in good spirits and we hope to meet some more natives somewhere on the plain to employ. Locals are always better anyway, they know the territory and Anne has suggested they may know new recipes. Anne says to add that the very large bird has a strong gamey flavour, is tough and seems best in stews or smoked as travel rations. -Grubby
Scratched onto a flat white stone left among among a circle of black stones atop a prominent hill in treeless dissected moorland, approximately 200 miles southeast of Port Moriarty and 30 miles south of the landform known as the Wall:here in winter 187- S. Nash of St Albans captive
bearing S with five Gutu they do not expect to
return unknown destination God preserve us
Tarrant
REWARD!£500
For information leading to the current whereabouts of
Septimus Jefferson Davis Nash
Arrived in Port Moriarty on June 21st, 187-, upon the SS Rebecca.
Has not been seen since that date.All information or inquiries to
Constable D. Hyde, Port Moriarty Police or
H. Prescott, Consul of the United States of America in British Altera, Port Fortuna
Tarrant
Logbook of Fitzpatrick RyanWeek's travel without incident, compass west. No sign, as yet, of river.