The Glorious Captain Hutchins by Charles W. Dancer – ACCESSED VIA OXFORD UNIVERSITY LIBRARY DATABASE
*Entries marked via asterisk transcribed from a separate series of parchments found within an envelope closed within the manuscript's binds; parenthesized quotes transcribed from annotations along original document's margins, of the same handwriting as its bulk*
May 8th, 1716
Today, I was rescued by the Glorious Captain Hutchins and his crew. They boarded the (Hellish) vessel I was aboard (held upon), slaughtered my captors, and brought me upon The Golden Duchess. ‘Tis a ship more beautiful than any I have seen across the whole of the West Indies, glimmering under the constant maintenance of a dedicated crew. The Captain(, in his expansive wisdom,) has ordered (allowed) me to log his achievements and thereby craft a tale capable of encapturing his eminence. The purpose of this task is unknown for the moment, but (derived of my own volition, as) I truly wish to relay a tale as divine as the Exquisite Captain Hutchins himself. I am (utterly) pleased to make the company of the Captain and his crew.
May 9th, 1716
Today was most uneventful. The motionless ocean reflected a perfectly blue sky, positively a mirror of my newfound life aboard The Duchess. The crew has not yet taken to me. I am sure conditions will improve, as long as I prove myself worthy company. For now, I am merely an extra mouth to feed and a shrinkage in bunk space(, but positively a most welcome one). The Hospitable Captain Hutchins has assured me that the crew just needs time to soften, and that he shall keep me close – in spirit, that is. I suppose the prospect for this series of entries is to introduce the world to the Sublime Captain Hutchins.
May 10th, 1716
They boarded another ship today(, belonging to pirates, once more) – the first of many I’m to witness (a rare occurrence), I’m sure. I stood, leaning against the (exquisitely polished) railing, and gazed into the rippling sea. The mercy of slaughter (pardon) moaned from across the twin decks. It seemed to be a hopeless resistance on their part. I felt quite sickly, listening to the dastardly gurgles (blessed to be among such gracious liberators). I am positive resilience was in the fools’ hearts, as the Compassionate Captain Hutchins would never execute in cold blood. Furthermore, the Ingenious Captain Hutchins, naturally, salvaged all of their valuables, including exotic foods. The crew and, of course, myself were ecstatic. Shouts of pleasure and satisfaction rang through the night, echoing across the whole of the wooden under-deck. I very much enjoyed the rowdy nature of such a group, and thanked God (and the Impeccable Captain Hutchins) for guiding me to(, and allowing me onboard,) a floating piece of Heaven.
May 17th, 1716
We made port in Nassau – truly a beautiful isle. When I ventured from my home in London with my brother, I hoped to sail across gleaming seas and gaze upon landmarks such as this every day. It truly seemed to be a fantastic idea. How lucky I am to have been rescued by the Enigmatic Captain Hutchins! He has allowed me to finally experience the life I set out in search for months ago. Though I elected to stay aboard The Duchess, watching the palms sway in the tropical breeze stoked a fire in my heart after a long week among the rank of such passionate sailors. When the Captain returned, in a dazzling (n impressive) fashion, might I say, he returned to his quarters almost immediately after barking (shouting) the order to set sail once more.
May 18th, 1716
The Scholarly Captain Hutchins examined my progress earlier this afternoon. ‘Twas a most gratifying experience! He graciously pointed out some flaws on my end, recommended I write more in my spare time, and promised to (help) keep me in check to ensure a true depiction of the Consummate Captain Hutchins. How foolish I felt in the daunting shadow (enlightening radiance) of his guile, having fallen short of his desires. I worry not, however, as his guiding hand has a most savoury affection. (He handled the matter most professionally, as if he were a kindly tutour from my days at Oxford.)
May 19th, 1716*
There is an odd buzz in the air – a malaise of speculation among the crew of The Duchess. Last night, I heard excess whispers float about the Duchess’ underbelly during the quiet hours of darkness. They are not quite of doubt, but they are quickly approaching the border.
May 19th, 1716
I do not dare question his temper, (as it is surely justified,) but it is worthy to note that the sensitive (tolerant) Captain has been (newly) truculent since Nassau. I am sure the Brilliant Captain Hutchins has something magnificent in mind and is under pertinent stress in ensuring all goes smoothly. The man most stoically carries the large majority of burden upon this angelic vessel and tends the most extreme minutiae to ensure all of our safety and profit – how benevolent indeed!
May 20th, 1716
The tragically troubled Captain Hutchins has remained within his quarters for much of the past couple days; the crew has largely ignored me for the time being. I suspect they are worried for their Beloved Captain. He has, luckily, not been sealed away entirely, for he does occasionally emerge to correct our course, which remains unknown for the time being, or to make certain that all is well below deck( – acts we all appreciate greatly). I asked of our destination, to which he snapped most enthusiastically (,stoically,) (did not respond). It must be for our own good to be left in shroud!
May 22nd, 1716
Today was most peculiar. The Pragmatic Captain Hutchins stayed at the helm, trading his feathered crimson hat and billowing overcoat for silken pyjamas; it appeared as if he had not shaven for days – a most rugged and inspiring appearance. His eyes flared with the passion of a thousand ravenous beasts, and his yellowing teeth gnashed against one another. We arrived at a small, forested isle crowned with a lavish homestead – its windows flickering with promise – late in the night. The Insouciant Captain Hutchins, who had never faltered from his post, stepped down and crossed the gangplank long ago – more than two hours, by my best judgement. The incessant flutter of bat wings postpone my slumber.
May 23rd, 1716
We left the island sometime before the sun crept from beneath the horizon. I woke to the typical bobbing and crashing of the divine sea. I am unsure of much, but the Captain has resigned to his quarters once more. I grow weary. He probably won’t show his face for the next few days, considering the incredible toil he has lain upon his body - for the good of the crew, no less! (I am absolutely positive the man need no rest, however.)
May 25th, 1716
Joy! The Tireless Captain has, indeed, resumed his hold over the helm, after dedicating two full days to himself (his study). As to his (exact) activity, I am unsure(, but enthusiastic and confident nonetheless). I was beginning to suspect his interest in the project granted to me was dipping, but I was thoroughly wrong! A mind of such excellence does not forget a project so easily. I had the gall to query the exact purpose of this journal, to which he had a reaction not dissimilar to that of when I asked of our destination. I think I shall hold the remainder of my questions within me for as long as I am aboard this vessel, which seems now like eternity.
May 29th, 1716
His exuberant nature has returned in a rather explosive (cathartic) manner. I stood at the bow when he kicked the doors of his cabin open. Flecks of spit flew from his mouth, as does the ocean spray, when he ordered a drastic correction in course. Without much hesitation, the crew toiled away at the thick coils fastened to massive sails, each requiring three or more men apiece, for the wind was quite persistent. Ascending the wooden stairs to reclaim his mantel, Hutchins’ feathered hat fought to keep its perch. In a few moments – which seemed like ages in my perplexed state – we had adjusted nearly 150 degrees, by my estimate.
I have been trying my best to understand the object of his drive; it is unlike anything I have seen in any man. He reportedly only alludes to one article - it is neither treasure nor territory. The crew is just as puzzled as I, it seems, but I have not the courage to ask them directly. I fear if they are reminded of my presence, they shall simply throw me overboard or disembowel me for entertainment (– an unjustified fear, surely, for no man dare stray from the Honourable Captain’s word, which I am held firmly beneath) (behind).
May 30th, 1716*
I shall learn of His objective’s nature on my own. However daring it may be, I must find a way to investigate the Captain’s quarters, and, frankly, I do not care if I am killed in the process. This ship is vile and I care for it no more than I would a diseased rodent – ironic, as it is captained by one.
I chart this under the 30th only because the experience took place certainly after the peak of night. I waited for the night crew to come below deck, awaking the morning men to exchange positions. When I was certain the last of the former passed me, as I had tucked myself behind a pile of crates, I rushed upstairs and put an ear to the Captain’s doors. Too thick were they to offer any information. Hearing the clamber of boots against wood, I scrambled behind one set of stairs leading to the stern. I could not ascend, for the helm was never left unattended, lest we veer drastically off course – an action surely worthy of a painful death administered by the lunatic himself. Trapped and desperate, I thought of flinging myself over the varnished rails and into the inky sea. It sparked a most idiotic idea. I did just that: flung myself over the rail, gripping it as I vaulted. Finding a foothold, surely overconfident in my strength, I scooted along the side of the Duchess.
Initially, I had planned to scale the Captain’s balcony on the aft of the ship, but quickly found that my fingers would not survive the journey. Luckily, a window sat very near to my left, and its shutter hung agape – what fortune! Managing to position my head just near its opening, I peered within the lavish room. Many instruments had been scattered across the stain-dotted, velvet carpet. The Captain paced ardently, muttering across the ever-growing whiskers upon his chin and pausing to fidget with various apparatuses still standing on the tables. A paper-stand stood atop his desk – which was strewn with various parchments – at a near 45 degree angle; resting upon the documents was a map whose margins were covered with myriad markings of indecipherable origin. I did not recognize the charted area. Pinned in various sections of the cabin’s walls were pages, both torn from books and of the Captain’s own creation. Of these, I could grasp two concepts – fire and fauna. The latter had more images than the former, many of which seemed purely conceptual, and it seemed that in some of these diagrams, the two were even combined to an extent. At this time, I realised my fingers were on the verge of giving; this realisation came, of course, because there was no feeling within them altogether. Exhausting the foothold possessed by my boot, I managed to propel myself back over the railing and began to make my way below deck once more. My path was, unfortunately, interrupted by a man named Presley, who seemed to hold an indifferent opinion of me – the best I could hope for.
“What’re ye doin’ up here?” he had asked me, rather brashley.
“I needed some fresh air,” I responded, desperately trying to maintain a steady breath.
“Y’know, I din’t see ye come from beneath. Or hear ye, fer that matter.” I looked at him blankly. “Methinks ye’ve been up here a while.”
For a man of such vacuity, he made some rather astute deductions.
“Gimme one reason I shouldn’t gut ye right here.”
“I know the Captain’s drive.”
He stood in silence for a moment, then made a quick glance around and ushered me below deck into a secluded alcove. “Talk.”
“His quarters hold notes of queer creatures; he is aiming to discover a new species - solidify himself as an explorer.”
“Tha’s it?” His straight expression struck downwards like a smith’s hammer.
“‘Tis, but don’t you see the opportunity within?”
“Nay.”
“How did you react upon my telling you this information?”
He sneered suggestively.
“Exactly. Your fellow crewmates may be loyal to the man, but this venture is far too eccentric to risk your lives; he’ll be the one to enjoy the spoils! I say you spread the news, carefully. Water the seeds of doubt that are already planted. You’ll have their unwavering devotion once the pompous discovery is made!”
“How ye find this out, anyway?” he asked, genuinely interested it seemed.
“Ah, that isn’t important my friend, but if you must know, I saw it with my own eyes this very evening!”
“Fine,” said he, “but if it don’t go the way you say, I git to gut ye.” He walked sternly upstairs.
I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and stepped gingerly over various snoring shapes, returning to a – relatively – secluded corner of the underbelly. My heart races.
June 2nd, 1716
We have been sailing straight ahead for days now. The Prospective Captain has ordered us to make one last stop before continuing to our destination. He gave no name, and I have seen no settlements along our path, let alone flags. We have made our way generally south, but it has been a long while since I have laid eyes upon any bit of mainland. The days have grown stifling and sticky, and the nights have likewise grown languorous. The sea is at least calm, for a storm brewed of this weather would surely spell ruin for the lot of us.
June 3rd, 1716
We passed a few islands, none of which appeared necessarily inhabited. All were small in diameter and tall with no visible beaches. Jagged rocks spell out a path of desolation, and I crave interaction beyond the occasional glare from a crewman (our most assuredly holy destination). They grow wary too, it is immediately noticeable. The Captain has resumed an alternating position at the helm, usually quite expressionless (stolid).
June 3rd, 1716*
I grow increasingly worried over the matter of Presley. I have seen him look waywardly at the Captain at odd times throughout the day; I fear he may be more conspicuous than he realises, which could allow many, many problems to arise. Alas, if he is caught and fingers me, I shall accept my death most emphatically, though it shall surely be a miserable one. God, please forgive my travels aboard this vessel, and especially my advocation for He who warrants no respect. Forgive me too, William, for my dogged insistence to venture from our homeland.
June 4th, 1716
We made what is purportedly the last stop before our destination. ‘Twas a small isle, more green than dwelling. Its formation was rather odd. The standard tropics we have been cruising through for the past month have been replaced in large by a biome which I have never laid eyes upon before. Just as we had arrived at the homestead a few weeks ago, the silence of night welcomed our anchour. There was no quay, and as such we bobbed in the open sea’s embrace. The Diplomatic Captain boarded a rowboat, which was gingerly lowered to the water. He was accompanied only by a man who would act as a rower; Hutchins (The Insistent (Surefooted) Captain) was adamant about (hesitant, but ultimately agreed to allow) the rower’s duty (insistence) to stand with the dinghy for the whole of his visit. The crew was most disagreeable (impressed) over this the moment the two had reached the shore. As such, they were rather rowdy and paid me little attention, for the Captain has kept them on understandably tight reins as of late(, and permitted their deserved celebration). I looked upon the shore, hoping to understand the Captain’s quest more.
As I stated, this isle was like none other I have seen, especially in the tropics. Though it was dark, the lantern toted by Hutchins (our Captain) seemed to sink when he stepped from the dinghy, as did his whole figure, into the very shore. The “village” he entered – I should not even call it that, as there were merely five stilted shacks within view – was dotted only with small lanterns which illuminated nothing more than boards. Tiny orange orbs danced among a series of sagging trees, many of whose roots seemed to lay tangled in the water. Though I yearn to learn more of this place and its location, the night provides me with little more information, and I know we shall set sail once more the moment Hutchins (the Captain) returns, surely before morning.
June 4th, 1716*
Presley is a most dangerous confidant. He approached me, asking how I could possibly know what the Captain’s cabin beholds; he tested the doors during the night’s commotion and found it locked tight. He was most bitter at my assertion of his wisdom, or lack thereof. Threats ensued which are too vile for the sophistication of written language, but I largely ignored him, for he could not execute me without reason and we were both aware of this fact. Perhaps I can find a way to accuse him of insanity; alas, everyone on this galleon would qualify in the office of a professional.
June 5th, 1716
I was mistaken about our departure within the night. I awoke to the blazing ball of fire cresting the sea, which graciously bestowed upon me a better look of the land. The shore was, indeed, not composed of sand, but rather mud, which was now cluttered with a variety of crates and loose planks. Wiping the grime from my eyes, I climbed above deck, joined the morning crew, and watched two men, each ornately tattooed and draped in viridescent leathers, assist Hutchins (The Unfettered Captain, who truthfully needn’t any assistance) and the rower, who presumably spent the night in the dinghy. The group struggled even to return the small boat to the water, as the mud gripped its hull tightly.
Once it bobbed freely once more, the rower took hold of its rope, which was quickly snatched (graciously accepted) by Hutchins (the Agreeable Captain Hutchins), who held the boat steady. The remainder piled the stacks of crates into the dinghy. Under the weight of its cargo alone, the thing struggled to stay above the water’s crest, which was even furthered upon the boarding of its two crewmen. A steady journey saw the dinghy return to the Duchess, and by the time all of the cargo had been hoisted onto its deck, the sun stood high above, watching down. We set sail shortly thereafter, and I was tasked with bringing the crates below deck – the first to be assigned besides the documentation within this journal. The majority of the crates were stocked with provisions, while a smaller, gilded case was filled with various flora. It was divided into four hollowed segments: the first held small, spheric cacti; the second, an intertwining collection of vines; the third, a neat stack of long, dagger-like leaves; the fourth, specifically carved to hold a mortar and pestle, both inlaid with gold tapestry. Alongside these crates, I brought the loose planks below deck and contemplated their utility. This last matter still eludes me.
June 7th, 1716
The Pedagogic Captain Hutchins met with me today to review my notes once more. Within this meeting, he gave me the most insight I have seen thus far into our goal. I shall be left to my own devices until after our destination has been reached, after which he will review the manuscript in full to ensure it ready for “testimony.” I find his diction interesting, for I assumed (had hoped for) the end goal to be publication. No matter, I am happy to see his (our) project complete and the Deserving Captain satisfied.
June 8th, 1716
We have been sailing without halt for many a day, with one major change in the ship’s demeanour. Each shift works twice its length, and the Captain has not left the helm for any purpose, and yet I have never seen him sleep upon his perch. I suspect the contents of the case to play a role in allowing such a feat; beige discs are cut from the crown of the cacti and stirred alongside ground leaves and vines in a small cauldron that hangs in the centre of the below-deck. The concoction is then consumed upon the start of every shift. The crew has taken to calling it “yagé,” apparently stolen from the language of that queer, isolated isle, and the potion is typically chased by rum, ale, or even seawater to dispel the reportedly foul taste.
There is little change in the surroundings – the typical tropics have returned, marking the previous isle an outstanding blemish, yet some members of the crew seem to be convinced of our imminent doom. Perhaps it is the reaction to the sickness endured by a select few men, consisting mostly of vomiting and occasional convulsions. Death, in His swiftness, is not unfamiliar with those who have experienced the latter.
June 11th, 1716
I do not know whether to properly log this under the 10th or 11th, but this endeavour ended with the dawn of the latter, and so I mark it as such. I am fuddled and remember little now, but I recall being asleep – surely the deepest of the crew, for I believe myself to be the only one not under the yagé’s influence – when I was awakened by an incredible commotion above deck. I, at first, believed myself to have slept beyond dawn’s precipice, for the sea reflected a brilliant yellow-orange radiance. Upon mounting the deck, I found not the sun, but rather our destination. The small isle appeared to be wholly engulfed in flame. I vaguely recall a thin din, which quickly subsided to the recesses of my attention, as I was enamoured by the flickering wicks which swayed in the breeze, topped with Hellish leaves. We raised half of the sails, easing our approach, and laid anchour far out to avoid stray embers.
The Captain held court. He selected a group of six: himself, the aforementioned rower, Presley, myself, and two others. I was then forced to my knees. The Captain approached and gripped my chin with one cold hand. Taking a glistening goblet from the burly rower, he pressed its warm rim to my lips and slowly poured the thick liquid down my throat. Indeed, my immediate reaction was to vomit, but the rower was quick to hold my jaws together and my nostrils shut, forcing me to swallow. We then boarded the dinghy, the others loading only loose planks while I attempted to comprehend my surroundings, though they had not changed. Presley took up the oars as he had already processed, and was therefore enjoying, the spoils of the mighty brew.
I must pause to consider the legitimacy of my memories, for even I cannot decipher what is reality and what is idle imagination. Alas, my humble companions still whisper promises from their crude cage. I feel their presence – their heat – and truly believe that my altered senses are not entirely faulty. I digress. I must hastily conclude my tale, as I have recounted it to them.
The sea turned ebullient as we approached the shore, heat radiating from the trees. After a most tumultuous venture, we hit the charred soil and moored the dinghy; Hutchins removed his hat - an act I remember vividly, silhouetted by a haze of flame. The other men, save Presley, hoisted me to my feet and dropped me to the black sand when I did not carry myself, turning back for the planks. Again, I recall vividly the complexion of the ground, as it was akin to the outer reaches of the night sky; solid black, jewelled only by a sprinkling of twinkling embers. Hutchins appeared to be shaking in anticipation, or perhaps due to the yagé, for I too could not steady myself. He removed something from the confines of his coat, then dropped the extravagant woollen thing into the sparkling abyss in a heap. The object he removed must have been the thick pair of coated gloves he dawned thereafter, though I at first believed him to have always been wearing them. He pushed into the flaming jungle, parting the burning vines excitedly. The others, besides Presley and myself, followed suit, and the two of us were left to follow in their midst, mostly useless.
The flames licked the air around us and sucked the oxygen from our very lungs; by this point, I had surely shed a pound’s worth of sweat, and was beginning to feel very uneasy; I instantly remembered the thrashing of the men’s bodies as they fell into a most unsavoury death. Many indiscernible sounds accompanied the cacophony of crackles and pops the dry trees around us shed, and flashes of movement caught my gaze in glimpses.
Nay, the outskirts of my vision were constantly plagued by the insatiable quivering of static trees. But, I am convinced the flutter of wings returned to constrict me. I am quite unsure of the whole experience, and yet these circumstances were unmistakably realistic.
The tree line broke before us and, as I approached, I saw a horrible pit, I am sure of it. ‘Twas just as ablaze as the flora surrounding us. The unholy maw opened, nearly a half mile in diameter, and I could see no bottom, though I had no intention of approaching its precipice. I recoiled in fear, trembling at the heat, the horribly cacophonous flutter, the light, the screams – everything. God, the screams…
I swear I had a look at what had caught my attention through the jungle, and ‘twasn’t just the oscillating, reality-defying trees. Nay, these were nothing short of demons – are nothing short of demons. They call to me. Flaming birds, devils, they call me, whisper my name. Flaming birds, they plagued the skies, nay blessed the skies, and were not endowed with the grace or beauty of the mighty phoenix, but rather with flames in place of feathers and claws instead of talons. Their screams were not – are not – melodious; they echo the souls of the damned, condemned to Hell itself. We found the gates and its residents were angry. But it wasn’t my fault. It’s not my burden. None of it mine, not this. William, I am sorry.
The meaning of the planks revealed itself; one of the men removed a hammer from his belt and clubbed Presley across the skull, rendering him unconscious but breathing. Hastily, the three men constructed a box – their cage – while the Captain turned to me.
“Dancer,” started he, “I spared ye out of mercy. Me crew be quite loyal, y’see? Seems dear Presley did not hold that belief.” I began to speak but was met with the press of a gloved finger to my lips. “Feel not the need to repent. Ye’re unhappy with our arrangement. A shame ye were such a fool. Ye were to be rewarded handsomely too.
“George of Hanover, that pompous fool, was to receive us, paying out our discovery, while ye were to present a fine testimony of our travels. Together, we could’ve strolled through the heart of vanity, laughin’. No ma’er, with yer journal, the sods in Buckingham will still damn themselves colonising the Hells.” He trailed off, almost sadly.
Once more, I went to speak but was met with harsh words. “The plague needs a rat to spread. Let’s subdue yers.”
He grabbed my face with his left hand once more, still gloved. He shook the right glove off most aggressively and removed a dagger from his belt. In one jagged motion, a flash of pain momentarily silenced the screams – the fluttering – the crackling – the heat – the breeze – all. The once-quivering serpent in my mouth shed crimson iron and fell from its cave, limp, into the cosmos – into unknown territory – alongside my very ability to speak. I fell to the floor and sobbed, hawking the thick wine from my mouth as it attempted to drown me.
Looking up, I saw the completed box, and the other men lifting Presley inside – a coffin — a cage. They are trapped. Trapp
Hutchins kicked the grounded glove to me, saying, “Put this on. Ye need only one hand to write.” He hoisted me to my feet by the collar and threw me to the box. The others readied themselves to hoist the thing, as did I, focusing on everything and nothing simultaneously. The lid was still strewn on the ground beside the open faced casket. We lifted him onto our shoulders and stood, waiting for the demons to take the bait. They took notice quickly and swarmed the poor fellow - I never liked him but no man (other than Hutchins) deserves such a fate. And yet they would not do so to me. They are quite sociable. His cries were far worse than those they emit, and lasted far longer. I do not mind them so much when I remember poor Presley. Poor Presley — Poor William…
Hutchins had thrown the lid on top before his cries had ceased, trapping them in with his scorching corpse. We made progress back to the dinghy quickly. The box had caught dim fire, heating up intensely, and burning my shoulder rather badly. We stopped momentarily, as an ember had caught my shirt, and Hutchins quickly cut the thing off, carelessly boring into my flesh in the process. I noticed it scarcely. That was when the Hellish screams evolved into a series of melancholy pops and hisses. The very same that refuse to leave me be. I shall not repent! Not to them.
The rest is a blur. The journey before this point is too, truthfully. I did not row, for I could – and can – no longer operate my left arm, which is no more than a withered crisp. I remember the shape of the sun, peeking its divine head from beneath the edge of the world, holding the Duchess under its gaze. The crew was noticeably absent upon our return. They had taken up residency below deck, either asleep or dead; I cannot tell, for it is too dark to watch their breaths and I care little. Hutchins returned to his quarters brusquely and ordered the cage below deck and myself watched carefully until my completion of this entry. I was then to be bound until Hutchins requested me. My sole guardian followed me down, yet I watched him closer than he, I. The man had evidently not slept since before our initial departure. At the first heavy nod of his head, I was quick to jam my quill through his throat. He bled out most quietly, thank the Heavens – perhaps the Hells.
I quickly found the box, drawn to it by forces unfamiliar to me. Perhaps my mind is – and was – fading quickly, but I know they call. They were pleasant conversationalists, really, but they plead to me now incessantly. I have recounted my tale to them, and they were most sympathetic, but I cannot trust myself. Alas, they shall not cease, and I have no other option, save resigning myself to the sea. The yagé is losing its effect, I can feel its grasp leaving me. I suppose there is no harm in opening the cursed box, and I may as well make the sole request to have this journal and its separate, less conspicuous entries taken to the mainland – one they have already agreed to, readily.
Let it be known that I have lost a tooth, toe, or finger – exclusively from my left hand – at each word that has been bitterly stricken through. Perhaps I can finally rest. Thank you, my dearest unlikely companions. I come to greet you now, brother. Please, grant me forgiveness.
— Charles W. Dancer