ACT. AUTH. BODY: Society for British Anthropological Inquiry.

PASS.: Garfield Fitzgerald (Captain), George Bellinghausen (Anthropologist), [TRUNCATED FOR BREVITY]

SHIP: RV Majestic.

DEST.: RPC-331, "Port of Hildaland."

M.O.: Establish outpost to observe/record geographical anomalies. Assess mode of containment in accordance with maritime travel routes.

Thursday 21st January 1891

I am sat inside my cabin as I write, a candle at my bedside. It has been a long day — the trying winters are made no better by the men under the employ of my esteemed associate, Captain Fitzgerald. Today I watched them haul the remainder of the materials and provisions, from bay to bilge; the sun was low when they were finished, and even now I sit here silent while the wind blows outside my quarter. We have received our orders. I and the crew are to travel from London to Shetland and finally, reach our destination at the shores of the Vanishing Isle.

While I am eager to travel, I am wary of the winter seas. The Majestic is strong and her crew God-fearing mariners, but the latter is made of brittle flesh and little but superstition to hold their countenance when presented with the terrible might of that blue hell. I can see the fear in the eyes of a few of the older veterans in the crew. They are look up at myself and others with great apprehension and mistrust; even as I sit here to write, they talk in hushed voices in their cabin of things like sea-curses and fell treasures, of the "shipwrecked grave," that any reasonable sailor ought to be-ware of, as if they were going to the edge of the world itself. However unnecessary this might seem to a man of my sensibilities, I cannot deign to ignore the possibility that even mere superstition might harry us in our journey. Even so, we must make haste - the isle is known to appear almost as spontaneously as it leaves; if we are to find it in such time our benefactors so desire - we cannot be caught in such trivialities as storms or sailor's fancies.

I suppose I am to talk of what I know, or of what little information I have been graced to hold by my benefactor. It is no metropolis yet it holds many names, of which none have arrived from that place yet stories of it travel far. Augustine of Hippo describes the Hallowed Isle of Hildaland from the far-north in old Latin, Danish cartographers' maps mark the Serpent's Kingdom near coastlines in maps from Old Helgaland prior to its annexation by foreign parties, Celtic scholars inscribe it as the Land of the Sagas on old manuscripts, and Finnish runes mention the Monasteries of the Midnight Sun, that vanish after every storm.

Dearest journal, I do not travel only to appease my superiors. I travel out of a moral duty. In every manifestation, strings of bizarre murders are left in its wake. A dear colleague of mine by the name of Jeremy Thorebourne was the latest victim. In my grief it would be an injustice to simply call it unfortunate that he was sent to the Lord so soon, and even now I bear it like a heavy stone in my heart. Not only was he killed, but his body was desecrated, repeatedly stabbed in his sleep from within his beachfront manor. This isle is not some innocuous footnote in a book, not any longer. I was the one sent in to look at his body, and I was the one to first find the bloodied silver coins lodged in his torso and neck, the latter half torn from its perch. Gregory, his five year old son, was never found.
This description is neither cruel nor unusual, however: the injustice is that he died like every other who was murdered in the wake of this terrible Isle, and I could do nothing but catalogue, record, research, move on. At least, until now.

Disappearances are not an uncommon phenomena, apparently. As indicated in manuscripts I uncovered pre-dating the Fifteenth-Century, there are corroborating accounts which tell of children disappearing into the shifting seas by the Monasteries of the Midnight Sun, a seeming analogue to the Isle. If my suspicions are correct, if Gregory is alive, I must find him to honour my late friend. As God is my witness, I shall find him.

May the Lord grant us safe passage.

Sunday 30th January 1891

We have been at sea for three days, and each day I rise with a pit in my stomach. I hone my senses - it is not an easy task to prepare for the unknown, but I am surrounded by old texts, and, I remain convinced that in them lie secrets; knowledge of the culture and ritual that these islanders may follow.

It is with almost reluctant discontent that I deem my company one of great, if not dismissive, men. They are ingratiated in the nature of the Isle and the events surrounding it as much as I, but I have doubts in my heart of their good faith, or understanding of its seriousness. They did not have friends who died, and their minds are simply set on the voyage ahead, not the bodies behind. John Abernathy, a fellow anthropologist and one case example of such a great man, seemed to think his notion of the Nihil connection of the murders something out of Scripture, though I pray that would not be the case. While the activity of such queer cults has indeed been repeatedly found and surveyed in Shetland in the past, there is little leading me to believe that their murders have anything to do with what I see here, as can be plainly seen by anyone with eyes. Other men, too, seem to have their own notions and theories besides, but I keep my mouth silent, my eyes trained ahead. I am no such great man, of science or history. I am simply a witness, and witness I shall.

Gregory's salvation lies somewhere here, in this room, and until we reach our destination, this queer mixture of fear and resolve in my stomach will not leave me. There are dark clouds ahead, and the water is not kind. Captain Fitzgerald foresees us being delayed a few days. We will stop at Kirkwall to-morrow, to restock supplies, and gain bearings from the Authority's manor-house.

May the Lord grant us safe passage.

Monday 27th February 1891

We have travelled long through ice and fog, with the RV Majestic breaking through the elements with ease. Aiden is still mistrusting of me after the incident several days back, but I cannot bring myself to care. This is too important, too necessary for such enmity to come between us any longer. As we neared our destination, our helmsman spotted the port, with small fishing boats darting along the unfrozen shoreline. The isle appears grey and dour, tall promontories with shingled shores rearing up to either side of us as we draw past the sheltered mouth of the bay.

From my spyglass I saw buildings of every sort and every era; low homes built into the soil and mud stood abreast modern homes of brick, stone, and plaster, though why I could not say. Geoff was taking notes furiously as he often did when he found something excitable, muttering under his rime-covered moustache matters only his lofty brain could reason; to an archaeologist one might suppose there was great importance in such accurate reconstruction, especially in these strange conditions. The fog seemed at the time to cover the rest of the hills and slopes beyond the port. The people who work the docks don simple attire, and had it been for these elements alone, I would think it any other small fishing hamlet along the United Kingdom. But then, as we drew our boats nearer to the cliffs before the harbour, I finally saw the beaches beneath- there were slender objects that appeared as silvery things with mannish form; statues that measured in the hundreds all strewn about and disposed like common rubbish, some bearing debris and sand from what appeared to be old age. Their faces could not be discerned at this distance.

Fitzgerald, John, Geoff, and Michael, along with the others, began to prepare for landfall.

May the Lord grant us safe passage.

Monday 27th February 1891

It has been a long and revealing night, for myself and my associates tenfold. I am currently writing from the east wing of the Town Minister's manorhouse, of which we have been graciously hosted in for reasons we cannot say. For, how can we say anything - the moment our boats moored on that strange beach we were whisked off in frenzied, excitable procession of a people one might even call having reverence equal to imprecise religion! I am still wary, and I am still silent. Even now as they yet ask our names, I do not give anything but what I have told the crew; my name is my own, for I am the witness. After all, they did not give us their names - only strange titles, of professions or otherwise: I stand here greeted by the Town Minister as the Town Minister, his wife as the Town Mistress, his daughter the Speaker, a man to my left the Baker, and so on and so forth.

Of what happened upon our arrival after entering the town, I cannot say much that is of satiable definition or explanation, but I will attempt my best at what could amount to something suitable: we were hosted at dusk in a great outdoor feast before their leader's manor, a variety of people and food and drink of varying foreign taste and countenance surrounding us. Michael and Fitzgerald were quick to get in a discussion with the Minister, of which I only found later was in query of such important topics as mooring and lodging: they would host us so long as we joined the Mayor's family in their outings each day. Michael tried as he could, but the Town Minister professed to know nothing of dead bodies, much to the disappointment of my associates and most of all my own personal expedition. The town is traditional in social structure, at least based on what little I could see in this single feast; the women serve as maids, and the men work as craftsmen and cooks, speaking in their deep voices tales of the sea, and of other things relevant to their lives in the cold land around them. I did not involve myself much (for as a witness I mustn't), save for one person: a little girl that night sat next to me, a girl I had later discovered to have the title of Speaker and a father in the Town Minister. She saw me for what I was immediately, and knew my name was not my own, but did not care. I found myself not caring either; perhaps, I had naively hoped, she would know what had happened to Gregory.

She said that she would not tell her father, so long as I played with her. She led me off to a space between buildings, showing me her toys; they were all richly painted things, pebbles with designs of equivalent craftsmanship to what I had seen lying in the shingles by the entrance to the bay. We were to play a game called Salmonsfelt, where each would toss a stone, and whichever face it landed on, the other would have to act out the scene therein. I had felt foolish to play the girl's father for what I needed so desperately, but I did regardless; it felt stranger around adults in this place than children. I tried to ask her later, as the feast died down, if she knew Gregory. She knew nothing, and soon I found myself trapped in the fancies of a child, in stories of mermaids and beasts, of ghosts and princesses from islands unknown. All of them meant absolutely nothing to me, and here as I sleep, I still curse myself on how fruitless this has been.

May the Lord grant us answers.

Thursday 1st March 1891

I sit here now in short reprieve of the long and arduous day behind me - I am currently writing from my now-acquainted lodgings in the manor. I learned today of the rather curious predilection the townsfolk of Wythe have regarding their hospitality and kindness - they expect service and labour in return. Fitzgerald and his crew, no doubt due to their restlessness since landing, were quick to take him up on the offer as in his eyes "labour kept their wits about them". The Minister distributed roles accordingly, or rather, as he had stated "the roles that were available", given I had received none.

Fitzgerald had busied himself on the construction of a forward outpost, with much aid provided by the natives. I might even be so bold as to say that perhaps, they wished for him to ply his trade when he was done? The Minister had told me that the town was in dire need for a Mason, and Fitzgerald with his long salt-pepper mane and burly physique surely fit the role of such a veteran and worker combined.

Aiden and Geoff had agreed to be Dock Labourers. Michael had been persuaded to take the position of the one Librarian in the entire town and John became a Chimney Sweep (though there was already one such native, a young boy, with the role, he was happy to share a title with such a newly prestiged traveller from the 'sunless-lands' as he so called it).

As I had no duties, the girl suggested I partake in matters of leisure and that I should attend the local theatre; it was where she saw the "lions play with sheep and dance over the moon", in her own words. I thought her father would be proud of such a bright and creative girl, if ever-so-slightly confusing in her word-choice. When I asked if her father had read to her and afforded her a proper education, she shook her head; she instead told me of how she learned everything from sneaking into the theatre, how she learned from the actors as "they came from the Kingdom of the Aos Sí who walked across serpents, rode sparrows, and wore sheep's clothing to eat the grass from the Shepherd glen," again, in her own words.

After having seen a performance, it appears to be filled with idiosyncrasies. It is not unlike the houses here or symbols found on rough flagstones and marble tableau. I cannot speak of its quality, but it appears to share similarities with performances from the Auld Lammas Fair in Kirkwall, Scotland. I will transcribe what I can for posterity.

Saturday 3rd March 1891

I write here at night again, but there is much I have to say once more, and far too little time to write it before the candles are out. I had awoken all too early, plagued with nightmares that should have been months-forgotten, and soon found myself strolling through the lower streets of the town. I passed the stage with the signs and symbols, past the little stream by the Town Minister's house, and soon I was on the shingle beach, the craven bodies and shingle-stones touched by the soft light of dawn.

There was less mist, and I could see to the northeast a tall headland with a crown, looming over shingle beaches and rough surf beyond the harbour. We had not seen it when we first came in, and something in me knew I had to tell Michael, and that we should investigate such a strange crown: it could provide answers, and answers it did. When we visited it later that day, there were many signs and stones of many periods set in a circle of wide berth, some of which are transcribed on the page thereafter. Below the bluff on the north side of the shelving-shore, I found the freshly-dead bodies of birds who had seemingly fallen from the sky the night before - there were nearly thirty. The townsfolk did not acknowledge them, seemingly just stepping around and over them without care; this is troubling for me - if they could simply ignore the deaths of animals in such a great number, what is there to say they would care for a death of a man?

We did everything with the Minister's family once more as per contract, but I find myself increasingly touched by the Speaker; she lives a life in a prison of the mind, her father caring little for her well-being or spiritual health. I often find her staring out the window in strange fancy, muttered imaginings disregarded by her family and others in my association. I have such taken it upon myself to provide her that necessary health, while I am here; if I cannot care for Gregory, I might do good with her, instead. I find Michael, John, and the others bothering less with me as time goes on - their attention now enraptured by the generous wealth of the Minister and his house, and less by the mission we were meant to undertake.

The Minister's wife has tried to beguile and bewitch us, for our position as foreigners or otherwise, wearing clothes and making remarks more equivalent to a common wench than a Lady of the town. Abernathy of all of us seemed most enraptured by her, and even now I find him missing from among our midst. As I write I hear bedsprings creaking across the hall, and strange noises in the dark.

May the Lord grant us answers.

Sunday 4th March 1891

John is gone, and so is the Town Minister's wife. I have attempted to discuss matters with the Speaker, for she is the most open to me of the family that hosts us, but I have received no answers. She knew nothing of John, acting almost as if she knew none of the names of my crew and company but my own, my 'cracked mask' as she put it, but what is most curious indeed is she knew nothing of her mother.

In rare lucidity it seemed she almost thought me mad, for in her eyes she had never a mother to begin with; this quick reprieve was followed by yet another request to play that stupid rock game. It is no longer simply a children's game to me - I have suspicion it is her way of trying to tell me something, though of what I do not know. Her game always mentions birds now, birds settling in the salt to help the oceans rise at night, so the seas don't drain. I am fascinated as much as I am disturbed, but my attachment to her is undeniable.

In a meeting with the crew, Fitzgerald and Michael opted for us to ensure close records of our entrances and exits, and a tally-count of our company hereon out. The birds on the beach loom in my thoughts. By day's end, I found my fears confirmed with the recovery of bodies by the south end of the shelving shore - the Baker and the Midwife lie dead on the beach, each with three holes carved in them - one in their chest, and two in their stomach, the bodies bloated and crusted with salt. The townsfolk do not care, and do not notice when we tried to tell them of this event.

I spoke with the Speaker again before writing this, and asked her again for her real name. She said it was taken from her.

May the Lord grant us answers.

Monday 5th March 1891

There is little word on John's whereabouts today.

In the early morning, I awoke to a knock on my cabin door. It was Aiden - he told me how there, he and the others had discovered the body of a small boy by an isolated segment of beach, far enough away from the ship to avoid prying eyes. I, of course, rushed there with him, thinking it had been Gregory's body. However, once we arrived, Aiden revealed his ruse.

He had brought me there to accuse me! He accused me of having something to do with the murders yesterday, even threatening to tell Fitzgerald of my treachery. He had nothing to corroborate his claims, yet he persisted, drudging up my friendship with the girl, as if that was any indication or evidence of my misdeeds. I don't remember how it happened, what argument led to the next, but what I do remember was the pain in my jaw after he threw an uppercut at my chin, then blanks and blurs, then the image of me climbing on top of his wrinkled and haggard face and beating him senseless. Blood trekked along the shelving-shore, as we stumbled like drunken heaps of flesh, fighting in bewilderment more than with any dignity or reason. Those forlorn statues simply stared on like inanimate judges, keeping silent as they watched the flailing men roll around in the beach, kicking up the salt-worn pebbles around us. By the evening, we were too exhausted to continue, and we went our separate ways.

Before we departed, he queerly said, to no one but himself, "we are all mummers." His anger was gone completely, replaced by a red smile as blood trekked down his split-open lip. It was as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. This island wears on our temperaments.

Besides, if anything, Michael would have had greater connection to the local "oligarchs", given his near-consistent communications with the Town Minister; I fear my dismissal of Aiden in the voyage to the isle has remained present in his thoughts, but still, I cannot let that impede my investigation - of which there is a significant advancement. Fog had come down in the night again, and there was a new body on the beach; she wore very similar clothes to those I had noticed the Minister's wife wearing the night John disappeared, but whether she is the same I cannot say - her face is completely carved in, a hollow cavity filled with silver coins. I am reminded of Jeremy, and I am fearful.

I write here again, though there is little more of note to say - there is a shanty I hear them singing at night, outside my window. It is low, but I hear it regardless. I cannot say if it is true, or real, or fiction, but it continues on and on, cutting at me like a chopping-knife. It appears to share a common origin with The Dead Horse, a reasonably popular shanty heard throughout the British Isles.

There is mist outside again, covering the moon.

Wednesday 7th March 1891

There are still no answers, and ever-more questions. Birds dropped into the street from the sky without warning, dying upon impact. We barely got out of the way in time. There was another play hosted at the players' stage, which was much the same as the first. My playbook remains empty, and I am yet confused as to what my mask ought to be.

More bloated bodies on the beach, yet again unseen or disregarded by the Town Minister and his people. Geoff thinks them a rich family given the origin of their clothes (though most of them had been torn off by the current); their faces are carved off like the others, and their torsos embedded with three holes each. A chimney sweep's broom is lodged in the chest of the woman.

May the Lord save us.

Thursday 8th March 1891

[This and subsequent entries until March eleventh were affected by severe water-damage due to improper binding. The information was salvaged in the transfer as best we could]
… priest drowned… truncated skull. There were silver coins in his eyes. I do not like the island, and I do not trust the gated west-end either, where we are not permitted. We must leave. The townsfolk here wear masks, and … in trouble…. Aiden disappeared.

Friday 9th March 1891

[Heavily water-damaged]
… feast was held. I have good reason to suspect the Minister of wrong, though Michael refuses to believe me…. too many bodies, and the townsfolk act like nothing happened, death simply a prop in some play thrown by the mummers in their….Corpse…longer.

Saturday 10th March 1891

[Heavily water-damaged]

A grand feast was held, bigger than any before. _{Fitzgerald did not attend}. We have not seen him for three days, and several of the crew have become all-too-comfortable with the townsfolk. I worry for them, though I know there is no act to be carried out, not for my…. the _Minister gave a toast, with fine wine, wine they should not have had access to given their geography… the Speaker, I do not know if she would help me, and….

I am writing here again, later on. The food did something to the crew, and the men in my circle. Michael was not himself, they all weren't. I do not know what to do anymore, but I can't trust anyone. I can never trust them again.

May God rest them. They do not live to me anymore.

Monday 12th March 1891

I awoke this morning to a cold chill, and the dockyard below me shrouded in mist. I still do not feel it in my heart that what my associates have taken is right, nor good. There was devil’s flesh in that food. I saw it in the actor’s eyes. The others are not in their chambers to-day, and the town minister is out, though where I do not know. Deeply worried - The little girl tried to knock on my door earlier, but I did not answer. I know now she is a part of all this, though I cannot bring myself to reject her fully, I must still push her away.

Went out, came back. Storms ahead from the west. Cormorants are falling from the sky, dying on the street. The travelling troupe’s stage remains, but all the seats are moved. When I…

I have seen something truly and utterly reprehensible, God willing. They are gone. They are dead, they have died, and they are gone. I saw John. The people in the town were on the western side, at the silvered pier we had found not even a week prior. I am afraid, I fear for my life, as I sit here writing while the lights move in the town below me. They look for me. I didn’t play my hand. I do not know how I will find a boat to leave. I went to the cove, they almost caught me. They didn’t catch me. My associates, lined up. Minister raised his head, dark horns blowing, dark shapes in the water. Dark shapes in the fog, black lanterns.

The seals were swimming. A grey boat came in, I think it was made of bones or corpses or rotting wood, but I cannot be certain. The boat had light in it. Corpse-light. It does not matter now. Someone was on it, something was it, some blackened thing of light and dark and salt and lust. It drew forth its lantern with one of four arms, and I saw it briefly in the sea-light, all long arms and cold lips and bright eyes. They looked over us, oh God how they looked over us.

It wanted me, it wanted them, it hated life. It would devour us whole.

The light shut off, and it was black once more, a shrouded cloaked thing that stained the sky behind. It was like the play, like the stories, but different. It didn’t speak, not really. My associates lined up. It whispered to the minister, a shallow breath in the wind. I didn’t hear what it said. Corpse-Lodin. The minister said it wanted their names. The seals were swimming, foam at their maws. The ocean was a charnel pit. What did they give the sailor’s man? Michael tried to stay strong, Geoff too. They were too strong, so it took them. The minister took them and filled them up until they died, and gave them away. Two dead. The rest are part of the mummers now, dead to me. Roles, roles, what’s in a name?

A body, a human body was thrown from the boat, John’s body. Women crying, dancing, screaming, making love with his corpse. That was not love. That was not love. It is not John’s anymore. What did they give the sailor’s man? Then it left. They saw me, the boatman did, singing its horrible song. Names, names, names (crossed out). I ran. They almost found me, but I ran.

Now I hide. I don’t have long. Silver. He was given silver. Silver pays passage. Silver engraves name. To purchase travel from pallid psychopomps, it is the corpse of silver that is called to the seas.

Tuesday 13th March 1891

I am on a boat now. I found it behind the dry dock. They were looking for me in the town, but I got past them. I was smart. She tried to hug me with her little hands, she wanted answers. I should have seen a child, but instead I saw a wooden doll, half-made of straw and armament; I hit her and screamed at her; a child, a child, I hit a child. She became Gregory, the one I was meant to find, meant to save but rather I pushed her away and locked her out.

I am no great man. I am no witness. It was fine, my role was spent, my time there finished. John died. How could I play a role when I could not even fit on the mask? I didn’t give up my name. Were the others better than me? I left that place at dusk yesterday. It is dusk as I write to-night. There are shadows in the water. What did they give the sailor’s man? I will go south to the nearer islands, get supplies. The ice that should be there is not there.

Then I will go back, and she will be waiting. Gregory too. I was supposed to find him, and I will. I still see the silver running out of their mouths that were shut forever, when they became props. That was what it gave them….. I still see it when I close my eyes, with its bright eyes and grey hands and dreadful voice on that boat made of bone. What’s in a name?

It is fine, though.

They will all be waiting.
They will all be waiting.

I know they will.

The isle is all that matters.

Wednesday 14th March 1891

…The sea salt kisses the cuts on my arm from when I had run. I fear I am mad, but I do not think it truthful to say whether I am or am not. I will go back. There are seals swimming in the water beneath me; a part of me thinks they are here from It, rat servants of the pale beings in the fog.

There is no fog today, though.

ThursdayFiftheethMarchOneEightNineOne

Long day at sea. Supplies imminent. I talked to her today, she sat on the bench across from me….. I cannot say why she keeps [coming] back, but I tell her to go away anyway. She tells me to go back. I need to say me treatment of her was remiss, for the sake of my own….rapture within…[salt?].

SundayEighteenthMarchOneEightNineOne

Restocked. Man at harbour called me mad. Fell asleep, woke up with blood on my hands. I woke up in the harbour with a knife. I hit him. I killed him and drowned him. I carved his face, I carved his body. I don’t remember doing it. I was sleeping. There are lights in the water. They are calling. Corpse lights in the air. I saw her eyes while dreaming. I saw John’s face, bed-springs in the night.
I will go back.

__ __

Dearly departed derelicts. Below the stage. Bedrock made faces, architectures made dreams. [Illegible for several paragraphs].

I saw the Majestic come in from the fog, I saw my Being come ashore.