A Letter (I)

In your last letter you asked me what I had been up to, and I have to confess for the first time some trepidation in answering the question. (You can probably tell by the uncertainty of my handwriting in these first few lines). In the end I decided that, you being my oldest friend, and neither a cynic nor a skeptic, you wouldn’t doubt me or my sanity, when you read the remainder of my missive (at least not more than I myself did when it happened and as it was happening, and sometimes still do even now that I am trying to piece everything together to tell you about it).

I did consider briefly writing a fictional account instead, or at least to call it fiction, and have it published somewhere just to get it off my chest without compromising myself too much. This alone should give some indication of the type of thing I have to relate. I decided against it for many reasons, and will tell you what happened as best as I can instead (and as you know, I am no writer; my instrument of choice is the camera precisely because I have no photographic memory). The temptation to curate details is great, however, but I will try to avoid it as much as possible, and have no pretense to literary refinement, so please do not judge my prose for artistry, only take it as a report done in words because I didn’t have my camera (how I would have liked to have filmed it all!).

Before I begin the tale proper, I must say one more thing: while I myself am no cynic or skeptic either, and have seen my fair share of strange things (as a photographer and cameraman working in remote places with odd peoples and cultures is wont to), I am also not what you would call gullible, and was I in your position, I don’t know if I would believe it, except for the fact that it came from the mouth (or the pen) of a friend. Thus, in what follows, all I ask of you is to trust that I wouldn’t lie about something like this. I would very much like to know your opinion on the… let’s call it metaphysical implications of all I am about to tell you (but I am getting ahead of myself!).

Some months before the events narrated in the following paragraphs, some archaeological discoveries were made in the three westernmost islands of the Azores archipelago: Faial, Flores and Corvo. These were independent discoveries, although they occurred within the same week, and there was no doubt they were related, and thus quite serendipitous. There had been, of course, previous findings on the islands, if not of the same kind. In the island of Pico, which sits closely to the east of Faial, for example, archaeologists found pyramidal rock structures that preceded the portuguese settlement in the islands by thousands of years. This time the discoveries were smaller, but equally intriguing. They were occasioned by a small scale earthquake, barely felt by the inhabitants, but that displaced some boulders revealing caves. These caves were then found by regular people. In Faial, by a farmer; in Flores, by children; and in Corvo, by a curious dutch fellow who spends half the year in the miniscule island living as a hermit, in wait of the perfect wave to surf. Inside each of the caves were found paintings depicting two groups engaged in war. The most curious part, however, was that one of the groups, while humanoid in shape, had bull shaped heads disproportional to their bodies. No one knew yet what any of it meant, least of all me. It was suspected, but not yet established, that the paintings, much like the pyramids in Pico, preceded the portuguese occupation by millennia.

I must have mentioned this at some point (though I was probably not as candid, partly out of shame or pride or both, as I am inclined to be now), but I often worked freelance for a less than reputable magazine dedicated to alternative archaeology, paranormal research and other such fringe topics, the kind that is known for its unholy mix of established but little understood fact and purely fantastical speculative fiction, where ancient egyptian tombs share the page with extraterrestrials. Real crank stuff. Shortly after the paintings were discovered, I got a call from an editor of the magazine hiring me to take photographs of the paintings, the surroundings, the people involved in the discovery, plus some of the landscapes found on the islands, all to be included in the article they were concocting, which would be the front page. I was briefly informed of the general tone of the article, which was to feature the customary mentions of Atlantis, as pieces about the Azores always do in such magazines, plus some UFO related nonsense. All in all, it seemed to be a rehashing of previous articles, with some more speculative bits on the paintings included. The truth of it did not much matter to me, and I suppose also didn’t matter to them. It was work, and it was reasonably well paid, complete with expenses. Plus the Azores have a stunning beauty not found really anywhere else, in my opinion, so I was happy to do it.

The trip was badly planned, however, although at least they cleared my visit with the local authorities so that I could work without any hindrance. Normally I am accompanied by a journalist on the ground, who interviews the people while I take pictures. This time, it was me alone. Apparently the opinions of the people on the ground did not matter for the story, probably because they already knew what they wanted to say. So I spent the first two days in Faial, photographed everything that could conceivably be of interest, including the farmer and his family and his house. The next day I found that there was only one boat per week going from where I was to the Flores island, and it had left the day before. I called the editor, explained the situation and he gave me permission to hire a private fishing boat for the trip there and back, since this would still be cheaper than staying longer than planned. And so it was, I entered the fishing vessel the next day, expecting to land some hours later on the island of Flores. The sea was calm when we set out, but in a matter of minutes the weather changed dramatically. The sky became ominous, then the deluge began, thunderbolts shot from the clouds into the sea which was now raging all around us, giant waves threatening to sink the boat. I could see the fishermen were worried and, although I did not speak portuguese nor did they speak english, they conveyed to me through gestures that they wanted to go back. We were turning around when a monstruous wave crashed into our vessel, tipping it to the side. I saw one of the men fall out to sea and then lost my footing and fell, hitting my head against the deck and losing consciousness.

When I came to there was no sign of any storm, the sky was as clear and as blue as could be. I was on a beach, but there was no sign of wreckage from the boat, nor any of the fishermen. My camera was gone, as was my backpack, and my cellphone, though still inside my coat pocket by some miracle, was dead after having been in the water too long. I was happy to be alive. The beach was closed off on both sides by waves crashing into sharp rocks, so my best option was to venture into the thick forest that began even before the sand ended. The first steps felt like entering paradise, everything was green and lush and alive, but soon the dampness and the heat and the difficult terrain started to take their toll and I had to stop. I was thirsty and had found no sign of human life, it was all and only jungle. I tried to listen for running water, but found it difficult to focus, the wood was full with sounds of nature, near and far and further still, if one stopped to really listen. But then I heard a different kind of sound which I recognized. Steps, someone or something was approaching. I almost yelled for help, but then it occurred to me that it might be a wild animal, perhaps a dangerous one. I had never been to that island and had no idea what kind of wildlife to expect, so I stayed quiet. I never saw anything, just heard the rustling of leaves. After a while I was pretty sure that the creature was walking around me, avoiding me. And soon the sound was gone. The episode made me realize I was exhausted, and so I sat down at the foot of a tree to rest. My legs hurt less, but my mind was still preoccupied and tired, plus the mild panic of the episode with the animal made me feel even thirstier. So I didn’t sit for long. The day would end, and likely soon.

After what seemed like an hour walking through the jungle, I finally found a clearance, and then something unexpected. A settlement in ruins. It had been, quite noticeably, a village, with simple buildings made of stone, and once of wood, burned or rotten or both by then. It took only a few minutes to understand there would be no people there at all. No sign of recent human activity anywhere. I did consider then the question of which island I had landed on, but it was obviously impossible to know. In any case, this soothed my fears a little. The island, whichever it was, whether within or outside of the archipelago of Azores, was populated. And none of the islands where I could have landed was big enough to disappear into. Eventually I would find someone, and that someone would have a phone. I walked around the village, and a few steps into the jungle on the other side there was a well. In hindsight I probably should have thought twice before drinking the water, but I did not. It tasted fine. I drank what I needed to satisfy my thirst, and then I drank some more, as compensation. I still don’t know if that is what made me sick, or if it was just the heat or the air or maybe a mosquito bite, but by the time the sun was fully set, so was I laying on the ground, shaking and hallucinating.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, but eventually the tiredness and the sickness got the best of me and I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes again it took me a minute to realize I had opened them, for the darkness was darker than any dark I had ever experienced. Then little blots of light appeared, one by one and then many by many, but the low crescent moon still failed to illuminate my surroundings. I tried to get up, but I was too weak to move. Soon there were steps coming from my right, I heard both the ruffling of leaves and the stamping of twigs, and then the low thumps of feet as they approached. Then it was quick. Men with torches and spears, dressed in simple, handmade clothes, found me, and discussed among themselves what to do with me. Because of the fever, it was even harder to follow what they were saying. They were speaking in a language whose sounds were all familiar, but with words that always seemed to escape my understanding (what comes to mind now is the experience of hearing the dutch language as an english speaker, although perhaps a little further removed). One of the men was gesturing towards me, and then I understood he was pointing at my head, specifically, and whatever it was he was saying they all seemed to agree, except for a couple who were scouting the area around and did not participate in the discussion. Then another of the men who was standing around me seemed to ask a question, and in response another took some herbs from a leather bag he had tied around his waist, gave them to me to chew on, and then some water from a skin. Then finally, the one who was clearly the leader (he was the only one wearing anything on his head, a simple band decorated with feathers, somewhat akin to those used by native american tribal leaders, though less flamboyant) looked around one last time and gave an order, which apparently was to tie my hands and feet to a pole, and carry me with them. At this point I was too tired and too sick to even feel fear. (In fact, to be very honest, at this point I considered the possibility that I had died, and then that I was simply dreaming).

I may have fallen asleep several times during the trip. One of those times I woke up to a frenzy. When my eyes and my mind were finally able to make sense of what was happening, I saw that every one in the party was running at full speed, including the people carrying me. (It is fair to remark here, though due to sickness and tiredness I didn’t think of it at the time, that anyone else, even the most expert runners we know of, would have for sure hit a tree or tripped over some root if they were running at such a speed through such a dense jungle. But they never did, such was their expertise and physical prowess). Then at once they stopped, and were quiet, listening. A guttural roar made the men run again at full speed, and then I lost consciousness again. When I regained it we had stopped. The men were still vigilant. They noticed I was awake and gave me water, and more leaves to chew on, and then something sweet to eat, a fruit of some sort, though I couldn’t identify it by either taste or appearance. Then their whispered talk lulled me to sleep. One word kept coming back, over and over again. I render it here as “skoros”. This is what I think they were saying. To my feverish and tired mind, even though I didn’t know what it meant, I could feel, perhaps by their tone, that it was fearsome, and what they were running from before. I tried to imagine what kind of foe would terrify men like these, and had horrible dreams about monsters. My nightmares then became mixed with reality as we crossed the jungle. It was completely dark, our torches must have ran out, only faint orange lights swayed in the distance, and to my eyes they were dragons slithering in the air. They got brighter and fiercer as we approached them, and then my eyes returned from the dream, and I saw crackling fires over a high stone wall. A few people walked back and forth on top, some stood by the fires, all of them had spears in their hands and were dressed similarly to my captors. It was at this point that I felt a pang in my stomach, the constraint on my hands and feet, and finally daring to imagine what exactly it was they planned to do with me.

(to be continued)