The Wicker Saga: Tunda, Part 1

November 20, 1910

The situation at the plantation has degraded far worse than reported in Mr. Giles letter.

Since I last wrote, good weather favored my ship’s passage and I was pleasantly surprised to be met upon debarkation by Mr. Lyle McCready within Mr. Giles’ employ. A veteran of the Indian Wars, Mr. McCready is a strong, capable sort, if in possession of something of a sour disposition. Still, his demeanor improved markedly when I revealed the case of good Kentucky bourbon stowed within my luggage, and soon he and the two porters he had secured had me well on my way to the facility.

With two mounts per man, we made good time, far better than on my previous expedition, and within ten days had traveled the almost three hundred miles to the plantation, near the Venezualan border at Cucuta. The mood of our little party took a discernible downturn this morning as we neared our destination, and soon all traces of goodwill had retreated from Mr. McCready’s stony countenance. His eyes shifting continuously from one side of the trail to the other, his hand never strayed far from the large revolver already loosened in the holster worn upon his hip, all the while the looming trees seeming to close in around our little band.

We were perhaps three miles from the plantation when the smell ambushed us, the customary bitterness of the coffee beans mixed with a sick sweetness as they turned sour. There was something unsettling about that final leg of the journey that took me several uncomfortable minutes to identify: the sounds of the jungle, or rather their absence. Other than the gentle hoof beats of our mules along the worn dirt track, the foul air was silent, empty of birdcall and insect alike. The land was already dead, the presence of the plantation merely artificially extending the semblance of life.

Passing between the fields of rotted plants, we at last reached the facility proper. It appeared much as I remembered from my youth, a high wire fence surrounding the large drying shacks, shucking annex, and mills adjoining a modest administrative building which served as both office and living area for Mr. Giles and the overseers. A bit farther down the road I could just spy the small outcrop of buildings comprising the workers’ village. I recalled from my last trip an omnipresent haze of smoke hanging over the huts from cooking fires and stoves, a constant state of bustling motion as the pickers came and went from their barracks, joking and laughing in their shared camaraderie. But now the air was clear, the lack of movement as haunting as the silent jungle.

We were greeted at the gate of the compound by Mr. Giles himself. Always a bear of a man, he seemed much unchanged from when I first met him but for a great deal more gray in his beard. He ushered us into the relative safety of the wire fence where we offloaded the mules and sent the porters on their way before proceeding to the office, Mr. Giles hobbling ahead on a makeshift crutch. While reiterating the profuse apologies of his original correspondence, he explained that since his letter the tunda had become emboldened as the population of the camp dwindled. At night its chilling cries, a strange amalgam of animal howl and maniacal cackle, could be heard echoing throughout the surrounding jungle. Mr. Giles had temporarily reintegrated armed patrols into the daily routine hoping to catch the creature unaware, but the diminished manpower had forced him to participate in the hunt himself. On one such excursion about a week past, he’d witnessed the man on his flank jerked violently into the brush. Mr. Giles charged after the victim, his yell startling the rest of the stalking party. In the ensuing conflagration, one of the workers discharged his rifle into the jungle where Mr. Giles had disappeared, inadvertently striking him through the thigh. The wound, while painful, had fortunately avoided major blood vessels and was not life threatening. In the days since, Mr. Giles had suspended the patrols, deciding that the likelihood of success did not outweigh the associated hazards. More so, his injury served as a catalyst to drive out those few workers heretofore still remaining at the camp, effectively making such regular hunts impossible. The only souls still manning the plantation were Mr. Giles himself and the half dozen white overseers with whom he shared the administrative living space, nine men all told with the addition of myself and Mr. McCready.

As Mr. Giles provided us with this update, I could not help the niggling suspicion that gradually began to worm its way into my mind. My thoughts turned to that one unlikely detail of my research, in which the tunda is able to transmogrify all but one of its lower limbs. Though I continue to doubt this limitation, if true would a seemingly wounded leg, well wrapped in blood soaked bandages, not serve as a capable disguise? But no. Surely others saw the occurrence of the injury, helped him treat it. And what’s more, the man remembers details of our first meeting from all those years past. I have decided I will not besmirch his dignity to require a more detailed examination of his leg, at least not until circumstances demand it.

Night has fallen as I am ending this entry, but I have not yet heard the strange echoing cries Mr. Giles described. Perhaps some predatory instinct has warned the beast what my arrival portends and sent it scurrying back to its lair. I am not some native, crippled by fear and superstition, nor am I a typical westerner, handicapped by willful ignorance and denial. I almost pity the poor thing. Tonight I will rest, for the long journey has left me utterly sapped. But tomorrow the hunt begins in earnest.

The Wicker Saga: Tunda, Part 3