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Chronicles of the Wriggling Jungle

FOREWORD

The writings of Linda B. Wright with regards to her expedition into an isolated region of the mountains surrounding the Amazon basin, from which a major tributary of the titular river flows, has been a source of much controversy. Though the nature of the discussion has yet to be set and a rational conclusion has, thus, yet to be reached, this edition seeks to be the most complete volume of her findings to date in the hopes that clarity may be reached and the esteemed Ms. Wright's name may yet be exonerated after all of the sacrifices she made to liberate me. That history, presented with every aspect, including those of a scandalous but very valid nature, will reach a favorable and rational conclusion with regards to my colleague.

It is unfortunate in our era that we cannot consume the facts of this chronicle, that so many have deliberately turned a blind eye in outrage at the nature of its content, but this is the price of civilization. As such, this volume has been divided based on the nature of the writings therein so that each chapter's nature may be readily discerned. Of course, this means that in some cases, the sequence of events detailed within her memoirs and journals may be incomplete. But, as a compromise between the rational truth and the elegance of a deftly assembled chronicle, I feel this collection will serve its purpose admirably.

-Mr. F. E. Wright

I: On the disappearance of Faustus and a Response Forthwith

It had been nearly a month since my colleague had sent word home regarding his expedition within the amazon basin. This was nothing if not unnerving, especially considering the dispatches that he'd sent of late. What had begun primarily as an anthropologic exercise had encountered what I know he would have (erroneously, in my opinion) called 'opportunity.' But being so far from civilization, I saw the shift in his goals as an unnecessary and dangerous deviation from his originally outlined plan.

The amazon was not a kind mistress, and I knew she would not be kind to opportunism, nor greed.

After making contact with a local tribe, one of the few that had been spared - or spared themselves - from the influence of the Spaniards in the past few centuries, he commenced study of their impressively well preserved customs. He expected a window back to the time of Pizarro, Coronado, their ilk and the tribes that they subjugated. But the more he spoke with them, the more he realized that their history remain preserved and untouched even further back then that.

More worryingly, the more he uncovered, the more strange and, perhaps, twisted, the picture of their history became. This tribe hadn't been in contact with the conquistadors, but neither he nor I had expected that they had been isolated from the Mayans almost as far back as they can remember. They recall old traditions of human sacrifice, of great cities and kings... and of the famine that destroyed their parent tribe from which they had fled. However, from my colleague's correspondences, it was clear that everything past that point became... out of place.

His emissary, who had learned very broken Spanish from a passing missionary that had visited their village on the way to the Amazon basin, often mentioned "un selva del mil serpientes," a jungle of one thousand snakes. Asked further, he said it was a place whose name could be more properly translated from their ancient language into; "la selva que se ondular." From ,y colleague's own understanding of Spanish, he said an apt title would be; "The Wriggling Jungle."

His obsession with that place only grew with each letter home. At first I was supportive, seeing the possibility of discovering the next Galapagos. Now that Darwin had turned that rocky, mundane place into a treasure-trove of scientific knowledge and, indeed, controversy, I was eager to see what awaited new minds in new places with regards to Darwin's findings.

But the stories from the tribe's female shamans grew more and more troubling, of how the first among them had survived for days in this land. How they had been chosen by the creatures, been dragged into... it was worded something like; "The most holy of meetings" and yet they had "escaped with their minds and bodies, and the magic of the forest."

It seemed more and more that this was no Galapagos, but instead the heart of darkness on a new continent. The natives had a begrudging respect for the place. It was cruel and uncaring yet it was also their livelihood, he said. After a few short expeditions into the forest, all of which were uneventful (save a sighting of a mysterious 'woman' at the end of the last expedition) no further dispatches were sent to our university from the Amazon.

My colleagues have assumed the worst, they talka bout writing him a eulogy. But I wasn't so easily daunted.

Within a few fortnights I had sailed to South America aboard a Cuyamel Fruit Company merchantman on its way out to load a cargo of bananas bound for the United States. The journey from port into the basin was surprisingly uneventful and unwanting of mention, Rio Di Jonero was as homely a port as I could hope for on this side of the Atlantic, save perhaps New York or Philadelphia. All the same I felt it necessary to set out with haste.

After leaving Rio I found myself grateful that a few of my colleagues from Cambridge had seen fit to accompany me out as far as the Amazon. The rural villages were full of very pious and orthodox people, and their view of catholocism did not look favorably of women in a "man's field" such as scholarly study and anthropology. Further, most villagers, I knew, had likely never seen a fox before. Of those through which my colleague had passed, he had oft been the first they'd ever encountered. For both of these reasons I found myself often viewed with suspicion and pushed to the periphery. If it were not for my male colleagues I might have even been in danger. It almost made me desire the deep rurality of the Amazon. From what Faustus had told me of the tribe with which he had stayed, at least the less savory influences of western society had yet to stray into their ranks.

After a long week, we were directed through a mountain pass into an unmapped region of the basin - a place the villagers regarded as a land of Satan. I had clear reasons to disregard their superstitious advice.

My colleagues left me at the border of the first village we crossed once out of the mountain pass. The inhabitants were wary but welcoming, offering me exotic fruits and other comestibles the likes of which likely hadn't been seen outside of the village. They seemed to easily make the connection between I and Faustus, for which I was grateful, going on to say that he had ventured deep into the trackless regions beyond the village. It was as I feared. I expressed an interest in seeking him out.

Apparently, they had never seen an outsider woman return from a journey into the interior and seemed curious of what I knew of the place and if I'd have more luck then the man who had preceded me. I was quite alarmed that they already regarded him as lost.

I hoped against hope that they were wrong, and that I would find him.