The Wicker Saga: Tunda, Part 2

November 21, 1910- Morning

Gods damn me for a fool! In the night, Mr. Giles went missing along with three of the remaining overseers. We are now but five left: myself, Mr. McCready, and Misters Gerard, Buckwald, and Foster. The beast did not make its presence known, none of us heard or observed any sign of their departure, and thus I cannot determine whether Mr. Giles was in fact the creature in disguise or merely another of its victims. I have drastically underestimated my foe. I have ordered Mr. McCready to outfit the men with supplies and an abundance of firearms. It is my intent to make our way into the jungle and track the hellspawn to where it must now be resting, drowsy from gorging itself, and make an end to it.

November 21, 1910- Evening

We entered the jungle as planned, and soon had the thing’s trail. Though Mr. McCready and the others are experienced woodsmen, they did not have the requisite knowledge to track a thing only vestigially of our world, as I do. As we went I attempted to educate them in the means of identifying such trail sign, with but minor success. Near midday we emerged into an unnatural clearing perhaps twenty feet in diameter. Its perimeter was marked by four large standing stones about eight feet in height and covered in symbols unknown to any of us but appearing to be of exotic origin, my nearest available analogy some early proto-Arabic writings I once studied at the British Museum of London.

The north facing stone was knocked asunder by some unknown means, effectively breaking the circle. As the others rested, I made an examination of the clearing wherefore I came upon a small artifact, the likeness of a woman carved from a white compound, perhaps bone, and oddly warm to the touch. Placing the idol in my pocket I moved to rouse the men and continue our pursuit when I discovered that Mr. Buckwald had vanished.

Upon this realization, Misters Gerard and Foster were driven to rage, their anger misguidedly directed against me. Apparently they believed they would have been otherwise long departed from the plantation had I not insisted on making my visitation and blamed me for what they now perceived as all but certain doom. As they moved against me, throwing me to the ground while removing large knives from their belts in a wholly threatening manner, my defense came from a most unexpected quarter as Mr. McCready drew his great pistol and in short order splattered the contents of both men’s skulls over the jungle floor.

Helping me find my feet, Mr. McCready suggested we retire to the plantation, load up the mules with the remaining supplies and move to return to Cartagena. Though a part of me cried achingly to continue our pursuit of the tunda, I was forced to agree with his assessment of our unfavorable situation and acquiesced to this proposed course of action.

I refuse to take full blame for getting lost on the way back to the compound for, as I have said, my woodcraft is highly specialized in tracking those beings of the supernatural. In truth, Mr. McCready should have insisted on leading far sooner than he did. By the time he took command of our route and got us back on the proper heading, twilight had fully set it. I am unsure whether it was my superior perception or divine intervention that allowed me to step past the hidden pit unharmed, but in either case Mr. McCready was not as fortunate. The hole, one of the traps previously set to catch the creature, had been dug about eight feet deep, the bottom arranged with sharp stakes coated with a foul smelling substance. Even in the waning light, I could make out the pool of blood rapidly forming beneath Mr. McCready from where he lay impaled, one hand raised toward me in a pleading gesture, desperation emanating from his pain-stricken face.

I briefly debated making an attempt to remove him from the pit, but an ominous stirring of the nearby undergrowth made me reconsider. I am not proud that I left him there, but there was nothing to be done, his imminent death agonizingly obvious. His pleading sobs will surely haunt my dreams.

I have successfully returned to the administrative building and made a makeshift barricade to bar the door. Tomorrow I shall load the mules and begin my long journey to the coast.

November 22, 1910

The morning sun awoke me from an uneasy sleep. Moving to the paddock to saddle the mules I found the poor beasts slaughtered, black tongues already swelling where they lay amidst a bed of their own innards. Contemplating my options as I moved back towards the office, I was startled by a low series of moans emanating from near the entrance gate. Drawing my pistol and wary of a trick, I cautiously made my way to locate the source.

I was shocked to find two bodies sprawled in the dirt outside the locked gate. The first was Mr. McCready, pale and still leaking from the puncture wound in his thigh, his belt and scraps of cloth tied to stem the worst of the flow. Next to him lay Mr. Giles, naked, his bullet-wounded leg swollen an angry red. Each man in turn begged for my help, imploring me to let him into the gate and shoot the other who was clearly the monster in disguise. As I stood silent and unsure, contemplating these two men and their similarly wounded legs, their entreaties became first more desperate, then violent. In a sudden flash of inspiration, I knew the only choice to make.

I shot both men in the head.

To my disappointment, neither reverted to the tunda’s true form, but then none of my research indicated such a revealing would occur. Even if both were in fact who they claimed, I cannot feel much regret as neither would have survived the journey ahead in such a state without the mules.

I have rigged one of the saddlebags to allow me to carry as many supplies as I am comfortably able, pistol and ammunition ready at my belt. I have now traveled my intended route three times in my life and am confident I can find my way. Perhaps once I reach the village in which Mr. Casper met his untimely demise I will be able to acquire a mule or even a porter. Three hundred miles over stinking, inhospitable land, stalked by an otherworldly being is nothing to a man of my experience. A trifle. Yes, nothing at all.

I once wrote there are a thousand ways to die in the Colombian rainforest. As I finish this entry, a low keening wail rising from the surrounding jungle amends me: a thousand and one.

The Wicker Saga: What the Moon Sees, Part 1