Work Text:
A packet of papers lies upon the desk of the Editor for the Annals of Anthropological Discoveries. The crisp folds of the brown sheet enveloping the packet belie the contents within—papers with crumbling edges yellowed with sun and time and marked with hardened ripples from water long since evaporated. In some places, the ink has smudged, running in dark trails like seaweed. A long string of jute twine tying the package closed remains the only thing that keeps the delicate contents from falling apart.
A square of note paper is wedged beneath the string. In handwriting with sharp, meticulous strokes, it reads:
Salvaged from the site of the lost expedition of 1932
Includes fragments of various writings:
- Unpublished manuscript
- Draft for “Letters From the Field” journal section
- Field journal entries
Some contents are unsettling but may provide valuable insights
Please review and consider for publication
Manuscript page 3
…some of the artifacts in our possession include a tribal mask, a wooden spear, and a bangle carved from conch shell. At first glance, these items do not seem to share any commonalities that would suggest they originated from the same culture.
However, a curious pattern on the bangle may present an answer: a cluster of small circles with a set of lines protruding from one end. This pattern seems to be replicated on the handle of the spear in a stylized fashion. Roughly circular shapes are carved into the spear shaft at several intervals. Extending from these circular shapes are lines that twist around the shaft toward the spear tip like fingers growing and elongating toward their prey. The mask has presented a conundrum for some time, but the circle-and-line motif is represented in unusually large eyeholes and slashes cut into the lower lip of the mouth (Figure 2).
The age of these artifacts is unclear. However, we estimate that they are at least one to two decades old, and possibly even older, judging by the weathering of the wood of the mask and spear. The spear was discovered in 1928, among the detritus of a shipwreck that had washed up on a small island near the town of Greater Marrow. Two years later, the mask was recovered shortly after the ship carrying the item mysteriously sank in the bay of a whaling region known as the Gale Cliffs; where the mask originated is unknown. The bangle was purchased in an estate sale in the village of Little Marrow and was subsequently housed in the Ironhaven Museum for the past fifteen years. How the previous owner came to possess the bangle is unclear.
The manner in which these items were discovered has stirred the imagination and birthed rumors about their significance; the bangle in particular is famously said to haunt its owner with spirits seeking a body to inhabit [the rest of line is smudged]
Manuscript page 5
…and based on this evidence, we suspect these artifacts originated in a region known as the Twisted Strand. This region lies in the remote waters northwest of the Marrows and is home to a vast, unexplored mangrove forest.
[Several lines are smudged and illegible]
In a Letter to the Editor in last month’s issue, Roberts et al. argued that such an unwelcoming environment cannot sustain even a small tribe of people. Curious individuals from passing ships or the Marrows have ventured into the Twisted Strand. Reports from these explorations describe only the outskirts of the mangroves, which consist of maze-like waterways choked off by winding roots. Few adventurers have penetrated the interior; alas, these intrepid souls were never heard from again.
Additionally, no reports exist regarding contact with the hypothetical inhabitants of the mangrove forest. Roberts et al. maintained that isolated mangrove forests barely contain the resources necessary for human survival, let alone the potential to nourish a culture capable of the craftsmanship that produced the bangle, mask, and spear.
Our esteemed colleagues also suggested that these artifacts may not belong to a single culture at all, but instead to several unrelated cultures in various places in the world. The workmanship of the mask is crude compared to that of the bangle and spear. They also questioned the unity of style we observed among these pieces: “The motif of circles and lines that supposedly connects these artifacts is a hypothesis built on reasoning more porous than a slice of swiss cheese” (Roberts 3).
We acknowledge the merits of the arguments by Roberts et al. However, humans have subsisted in environments as harsh as arctic ice fields, and items produced by a single culture can vary widely in quality, utility, and design. The resourcefulness of our species has astonished anthropologists time after time. With confidence in this resourcefulness, we will embark on an expedition to the Twisted Strand to make first contact with the tribal people who created these artifacts.
The artifacts will accompany us on our journey, as offerings of [blotchy smudges] and good fortune…
“Letters From the Field” draft page 2
…is not without complications, with the primary one being fog. So thick that it completely obscures our vision at night and hangs like a humid shroud during the day. The fine mist coats everything—the gunwale, our belongings, our skin. We have sealed the artifacts in a bag to preserve them from damage.
The residents of the Marrows claim the fog is a new phenomenon that descended after an accident at sea several years ago. According to local hearsay, the fog is a curse that blankets the waters from the Gale Cliffs to the Twisted Strand, causing ships to run aground and driving people mad. The legend has caused unease among the superstitious members of the crew. There must be a more mundane explanation for this strange fog, and I am certain this reassurance will calm their rattled nerves.
We have set up our camp on one of the many small islands that ring the mangrove forest of the Twisted Strand. Though the fog leaves us blind, we are not deaf. The trees groan and creak as though straining from under some unseen, mysterious weight. Nighttime is filled with the sounds of waves rushing against the shore and nocturnal denizens splashing in the mangrove waters. Some of the creatures seem to find us a curious sight, and they certainly do not attempt to conceal their presence as they trail behind our vessel! If only we could catch a glimpse of them beyond the eddies they create in the water.
Most promising, however, are the sounds that carry on the wind. Sibilant whispers, voices in another tongue.
Waters rich in wildlife, and hints that point to the presence of other humans. Naysayers may make their arguments from afar, but putting boots on the ground is the only way to discern the truth.
Tomorrow, we embark on our first foray into the mangroves. The anticipation among our team is palpable.
A collection of field journal entries
12th May 1931
10:16 AM
Today is our first trip into the mangrove forest. I was so nervous that I forgot my hat, and now water insects keep buzzing furiously past my ears.
The Anthropologist tasked each person with keeping our own log of the expedition. As the Intern, I’m not certain how useful my observations will be, but he seems to think that every perspective is needed. Perhaps my novice eye will spy something useful, though I find that unlikely. But my role is to help out, and to learn. And if I can contribute something that will prove that Roberts was wrong to doubt us, then our team will be part of history in the making!
We spent the last few hours navigating the waterways. Mangrove roots grow thick and wild, a jungle that will dash our canoes if we are not careful. Fog covers everything in a sickly shade of yellow; it fills my lungs with the stench of decay. I cannot help but wonder how an entire culture can survive, let alone thrive, in this oppressive environment. But I cannot allow such thoughts to linger, as doubt will do me no good on this journey.
It comforts me to know that our Guide is familiar with these waters. She hails from Greater Marrow, and her sense of adventure has brought her to the Twisted Strand time and time again. She has not navigated past the outer waterways before, and probably for the best. Making first contact can be fraught with uncertainty and danger, even when the contacting party is prepared.
I do wish that I was assigned to the rowboat leading the way. The Anthropologist and Guide often have their heads ducked together in conversation, and I long to hear the tales and theories that must pass between them.
12th May 1931
1:54 PM
We have lost sight of the lead boat that carries the Anthropologist and our Guide. It must have happened when we rounded a particularly massive tangle of mangrove roots. The other three boats, including mine, are accounted for.
I must not panic. We will find them. We HAVE to find them.
It is only early afternoon, but the fog has taken on an unusual gloom. Dark shapes loom and fall away as we drift on the water. Alarm seems to distort the senses, for even the tree roots appear to shift without warning.
If we cannot find them [the ink here has run, obscuring the rest of the sentence]
12th May 1931
4:48 PM
We still have not found the Anthropologist’s boat. Sunset is over an hour away, but the fog has already grown thick and covers the forest in a putrid cloud.
We paddled for hours but discovered no sign of the missing boat. At first, we dared not raise our voices. But soon we threw caution to the wind, shouting into the dank air without caring if we attracted the attention of the mangroves’ inhabitants, whether animal or human.
Our efforts received no reply.
Through the occasional break in the trees, we can see birds flocking above the treetops. Their bodies are blots of ink against the sky, and their eyes glitter red in the sun. I cannot help thinking of them as carrion eaters circling a carcass. Their cries echo like screams.
[The next line is blurred and completely unreadable]
We must exit these waters before darkness falls, or we will have no hope of finding our way out.
12th May 1931
7:33 PM
We have returned to camp. Worry and nerves hang on our every move, and few of us have any appetite for dinner.
Though unease turns my stomach, it cannot smother the excitement about our new find. During our journey, the Assistant retrieved an object from the silty shallows of the mangrove forest: a spear.
The length of the spear was caked in mud. We scrubbed off what we could, but some of the muck clings stubbornly to the shaft. The tip of the spear is embedded in a gelatinous substance that almost glows when observed at certain angles in the dimness of dusk. Are these the remains of partially decayed vegetation? But the substance appears to comprise a single, rubbery clump, as though torn from a much larger host.
When examined side by side with the tribal spear among our artifacts, the spear we retrieved today has notable differences. The workmanship is crude, and the shaft appears to be hewn from a branch with the rough strokes of a blade. The tip is but a sharp rock lashed to one end of the shaft. In contrast, the tribal spear was carved and polished by a skilled hand.
A tribal people may reside in the Twisted Strand, after all! However, I know the Anthropologist would caution us from jumping to conclusions. I can hear him now: “A single retrieved spear is not enough evidence to support this hypothesis.” Furthermore, the differences between the spears are significant. I can’t help but wonder if they truly were produced by different and unrelated cultures; the possibility that Roberts might be right irks me so much, it could drive me mad.
The spear found among the mangroves deserves further study, but we have more pressing matters. As per protocol, the Assistant broadcasted a distress signal via radio. The rest of the night will be spent making preparations for our search, which will resume at dawn.
13th May 1931
5:42 AM
A paddle washed ashore overnight. The torn remnant of a straw hat was also found among the rocks, snagged on a rotted log. No one says anything, but we all know it once belonged to the Guide.
Our search begins this morning. The Assistant argued that each boat should explore a different waterway, but the other members of the expedition talked him down. We shall go as one group, for there is safety in numbers.
The sun has only just dawned over the horizon. We will set out when there is more light to see by. But even through the fog that hangs over the water, I can see shapes that lurk in the mouth of the mangrove forest. Glowing mounds that appear without warning, then disappear just as suddenly.
My hands shake as I write, from nerves and a sleepless night. The wind carries sounds like voices, faint murmurs with tantalizing half-words just outside of my hearing. Voices of an indigenous population, or [illegible]. Or is it insanity, as the unending hours I’ve spent awake melt into the recesses of my brain?
What manner of human or beast awaits us in the Twisted Strand? I do not know. Fear has shut our mouths from guessing. We swallow our dread with the aim of accomplishing our objective and leaving this place as quickly as possible.
We must hold out hope, and search. There is nothing else we can do.
The sun is well above the horizon now. The carrion birds from yesterday circle the trees, not far from the entrance to the mangroves. Their red eyes are a beacon.
The birds are our best and only clue—and there, we shall commence our search.
I wish us godspeed. I will report our findings in my next entry, after we return.
[The rest of the page lies blank]