Excerpts from the "Journal of Expeditionary Days," by June Westriver

July 1, 1862, day 28 upon the Lord’s Right Arm - Land spotted at dawn -

We beached the skiff mid-afternoon. I spent the first few hours of the expedition

landside, sketching the beach.

 [pages inserted illustrate in charcoal pencil a narrow strip of pale sand in a curve along a placid-looking bay. Beyond long shallows were rocky outcroppings, a reef, and a three-masted ship against a pale sky. To the shoreside, a collection of tropical flora burst at the beach line, and a cliff grew up from the edge of the beach to loom over the water. A stony shelf beneath was scratched with deep shadows, despite the obviously bright, cloudless day.] 

My five porters had spent the afternoon cutting into the interior. The cliffs have water thrifting down a few worn channels. Not enough to be a proper flow, but it seems the land continues upwards beyond the impenetrable canopy. Mists are forming above the trees and the hint of a mountain, now that the sun has travelled near the horizon. In this climate and location, one can assume this island to be volcanic in nature.

The porters have set camp for the night. Captain Beaumont refuses to leave the ship. Many of the sailors as well have not set foot to the beach. We consulted maps and the logs, and his First Mate, who does not share his superstition, explained.

As we’d gathered our supplies for the expedition, petrels wheeled over our heads. Black and white wings near as long as I am tall cast shadows over First Mate Will's bald, leathery skin as he talked, tying ropes around my crates for the crane to lower to the skiff.

I quote him, here: “Cap’n say the locals of Oceania don’t come here. Says there’s things on some these islands people don’t mess wit’. Ni’ihau, they says, Cap, he says he been sailin’ a long time cuz he listens to folks. Me? Pay me, I’ll put boots on the ground. I know you’re good for it, Miss.”

I did not deny that I was. My clan had a tidy sum, enough to finance my whimsy to explore Oceania on my own terms, without more chaperone than Mr. Riggs, the family lawyer and co-conspirator. He too, loves an intrepid voyage, and could never have financed one himself.

July 1- that night

The bonfire on the beach was a rusticly lovely affair. Mr. Riggs and I had our five porters and a sizeable jug of rum and lime for company. Bowie, George, Dan, Leo and First Mate Will all lounged on coarse woven blankets from the ship. The men joked while I sketched. 

[pages of simple tents with hemp carpeting and gauzy mosquito nets, piles of crates with empty jars and a few sturdy ship trunks, men passing a big jug, two men dancing while four others stood clapping beside a fire, and a still life of a metal cup on sand with the backdrop of flames and a black sky above.]

There was an eerie noise from deep in the jungle. Everyone went silent for a moment. No one knew what it could be. Our voices grew soft, and after a time, we heard no more of it. We postulated some kind of monkey breed, a night bird, perhaps a jaguar. The men resolved to protect me. Mr. Riggs had his hunting rifle, my porters all had pistols and Will had a monstrous knife. In his cups he said he’d take a go at a jaguar with it, which drew laughter until he got upset. To assuage his umbrage, we all agreed it could be a fair fight.

July 2- Into the Jungle

We pushed into the interior. The machetes never stopped swinging, and for all the effort it felt like we moved at a crawl. The vines tangled, the branches dangled snakes, and the underbrush wrangled us into paths we didn’t choose. We were forced uphill, where the underbrush was less dense. The cliff’s edge was the easiest course, and so we took spikes and tethered ourselves. A fatal slip could lead to a sad end upon the rocks below.

By afternoon we had cut our way to the top, and we stood in sweaty triumph above the majestic ocean view. My linen suit was permanently stained in chlorophyll and perspiration. Mr. Riggs turned to look at the mountain and the interior and pointed and said, I quote him, “Look at that monstrosity! Is that a temple?”

We all turned. Will teetered, he was so surprised. The rest of us were also aghast to see a building made of hexagonal stone logs, for lack of a better descriptor. It was a rough pyramid shape, and the size was shocking. Surely no less than a London city block. I sketched it immediately.

[The jungle canopy filled much of the illustration, to the right a flat-topped mountain squatted in the distance. A scratching of clouds showed the mist that lurked above the trees. The black pyramid pushed up above the trees, a hint of hexagonal lengths shown with modulated tones of charcoal, stacked with smaller cross sections of the six-sided shaped stones between the long beams. Mist brushed against this as well, in the nearer foreground.]

The porters urged me to hurry, and as soon as I was done, we climbed back down. 

July 2- night

Mr. Riggs and I talked excitedly about getting outside funding while the porters prepared coconut, bananas, and rambutan for a refreshing treat before it got too dark. The jungle was bountiful, and it had been easy to forage while struggling to make our way to the cliff top. 

We’d been in bed for perhaps an hour when the screaming started. It was much like the night before. However, instead of wandering away, it drew closer. I lay in bed, clutching my pillow in the dark, jumping as each shriek punctuated the dark night, Minutes would pass, and then another, louder scream would jolt me back into terror. What an awful creature! Near dawn, the last of the shrieks died away, as far from camp as it had been the first night.

July 3 - Morning

We discussed the beast in the jungle. Mr. Riggs made sure he had plenty of ammunition for his hunting rifle. He said it had taken down a tiger before, so it was enough. I was assuaged of any worries.

From my sketch and the nautical maps, we devised a path to the interior. We tried again the cleft the jungle’s interlocking arms, and again made little headway. Mr. Riggs and I had planned to explore the island for a month, but during our trek along the few meters of jungle we could push back, we revised the plan. We would stay the week, and then return. My sketches would compel interested parties, and we could return for a longer stretch.

I found evidence of the beast in late afternoon, just before we decided to return to camp for the night upon the wise bark of a psionis grandis.

[The bark of a Grand Devil’s Claw tree is slashed by five deep claw marks, an illustration of Mr. Riggs standing beside it to show the height. Mr. Riggs is depicted cradling his hunting rifle, a light suit jacket of pale color, a light, flat-brimmed hat, and spectacles on a long, narrow face with a curling mustache. The scratches are just above Mr. Riggs’ head.] 

A note was written to the back of illustration: If one were to judge by the rifle, one could guess he was near 1.7 meters. The five scratches themselves were thicker than a stout man’s finger. The paw span of the creature could clearly tear a man’s chest open, given the evidence.

July 3- night

The moon was out tonight, a sliver of a boon, and yet I was grateful for it. I sat closer to the fire than usual, already suffering for the screams I knew I would hear. The men were likewise less jovial. We discussed going back on board for the night. Perhaps it was stubborn, but I voted to stay, so of course the men couldn’t but follow. Who of them would claim to be less brave than Miss. Westriver? We ate fish, the skin fire crisp and perfect. It was a delicious respite from the looming night to come.

July 4 - Morning

I do not know what happened to Bowie and Dan. Their tents are empty, and there is no sign of them. The campsite is riddled with footprints from past days, and our foraging has left our mark everywhere. There are no other beastly prints to be seen. We rowed out to the ship after a breakfast of fruits and nuts. The Captain said he’d seen nothing of them. He stood in the shadow of a mast, packing his pipe, and listened to our plans quietly, his jacket’s tails snapping loosely in the brisk morning breeze.

He said, I quote, “ Ni’ihau, Miss. Westriver. I don’t recommend it. There are smaller, less cursed places you can visit. It’s not too late to go.”

I showed him the illustration of the pyramid, and he was irritatingly unimpressed. He merely nodded and repeated the word, ”Ni’ihau.” As if it explained anything, and was not a momentous discovery.

Mr. Riggs, Leo, Will, and myself rowed back to the island. George didn’t want to go, and I didn’t make him. I’ve no use for trembling ninnies. We have a hunting rifle. My theory is that they went out to relieve themselves, and got lost. We will have to find Bowie and Dan.

July 4- afternoon

We assumed the only way to the jungle was by our trail, so we searched it, thoroughly. Leo spotted a small trail of blood spattering across the trail and up a tree. However, who is to say if it was not from birds above? I’d seen different species chasing after each other, and though I’d not seen such as a falcon, it would suffice as an answer.

July 4 - night

We had a silent meal of salt pork and pickled cabbage, as if we were back on the ship. We sat up a long time, sipping rum and water from the cliffs, listening to the sounds of the jungle. It is a lively place at night. Bats flew in a swarm over the canopy, something like an owl hooted, things skittered, quite likely the rat-like melomys we’d spied. Lonesome dove calls perked from time to time, when restless in their sleep.

The scream came at around midnight, by my watch. My blood runs cold at the sound. During the day, rationality and reason reign and yet when the shadows devour everything but the campfire and that slender curve of moon on the horizon, I seem to become as primal as any other animal.

I write by the fire as the men sit facing the jungle to my back. We shall not sleep this night. We have not yet given up on the boys. I refuse to believe the jaguar or whatever it was dragged two of them off so easily or bloodlessly.

July 5 - afternoon

Too much to tell. I can only hope that the Captain won’t leave me here. I am using a beam of light that filters in from between the pyramid’s walls. It is constructed of a black basalt, and within the towering roof there lies a maze crafted of the same material.

The creatures took us. We had not expected them to come at us from above. I saw the whites of Mr. Riggs’ eyes as he looked up and aimed. The rifle deafened me, and yet somehow I could feel the screams from the monstrosities. Their membranous wings blotted out the stars.

My shoulders ache from where they dug their talons. I am sure I am diseased, I feel like poison courses through my veins, making my blood toxic. They deposited me here and retreated into the heart of this black temple. 

I see motifs of bats carved in stone everywhere. My eyes are adjusting to this darkness slowly. I found the others. Dan and Bowie lie dead, their skin having turned from a sailor’s brown to a necrotic shade from head to toe. Their clothes are soaked in blood. Upon examination, they are still supple. I flexed their wrists, which seemed oddly fleshy. I did not recall any sort of dangling growths on them, but some dark, stringy material on their arms made me drop their hands. Perhaps it was some insidious fungus growing beneath their flesh, pushing out in some horrid branches. I could not say. Something was growing within their bodies, coming out, and I wanted no part of it. I left their corpses quickly. 

 Mr. Riggs, Leo, and Will are here as well. Will has gone mad, and won’t stop screaming profanities. He was smashing his fists against the basalt. His teeth seemed oddly feral, and even though he struck stone over and over, no blood flowed.

Leo has curled up in a ball in the darkest part of the maze he could find. One of his arms is wrapped around his knees, the other falls limp at his side. It is already turning black under the blood that coats it. I left him to his grief.

Mr. Riggs is prosaic in contrast. He found the entrance, overshadowed by thick underbrush. He was sitting there crosslegged just inside when I stumbled onto it. When I ran for it he said softly, I quote, “Wait. Don’t go into the light.” When I asked him why, he held up his hands. They were blistered and peeling. At his cuffs, beneath arterial soaked linen, lines of black were forming. He said, I quote, “You will burn, too. Ni’ihau.”

I chose not to argue. The jungle is too dense to penetrate. We hadn’t cut even a quarter of the way to the temple. I wouldn’t be escaping on foot. The undersides of my arms were itching. Soon, my flanks were feeling the same irritation. 

And so I found a shaft of light to write by, and here I sit, occupying myself. I can theorize what will happen next, but in essence, I have nothing to do but wait for the inevitable. I pray the Captain will come to find us, but I know we are doomed.