Dr. Arthur Blakesley's Journal Feb-Apr 1935 (Patreon)

February 25th 1935

It feels wonderful to have my feet back and planted on dry ground again! The ship voyage from England to Brazil, while happily uneventful, was a grim reminder that I am not built for a life at sea. But here in the port of Salvador, I can take a deep breath and steady my legs. The port is bustling, mostly merchants, fishermen and some visitors, like myself. When I inhale deeply I taste the salt from the Atlantic, fresh fruit and coffee beans ready for transport, as well as fish, and gasoline. My heart is fit to burst from excitement at actually being here! My first field assignment and I just know I am equal to the task! I am sitting in my hotel room writing this, too eager to sleep, and yet I must!

February 26th 1935

Today I met with my expedition leader, a man of quite some renown in the field of archaeology with impressive knowledge of ancient civilizations. I have read everything he’s ever professionally written - he has a brilliant mind! However, Dr. Harold Kingston is not quite what I expected in person. We met at the port in the morning, just as we agreed in our correspondence. I recognized him from photographs, an imposing man with a wild grey beard in somewhat tattered shorts, shirt and muddy boots. I adjusted my backpack and walked up to him, offering my hand.

‘Dr. Kingston, I presume?’ I said, thinking myself quite droll.

The older man’s brows furrowed at me. ‘Who else would I be?’ and then, after adjusting his spectacles, ‘Where are the rest of ya? I asked for three assistants.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m afraid the University only sent me. Something about needing evidence of your current findings?’

His face went quite red as his temper flared. ‘I’m on the brink of something unprecedented down here and they can’t be bothered to send more than one bloody skinny little researcher?! Uh, no offence.’

I took the jab in stride. ‘None taken.’

‘Ever been in the field?’

‘Well I-’

“Ever spent years in the jungle with only your wits and rifle to keep ya safe?’

‘That doesn’t ring a bell, no.’

Dr. Kingston huffed and shook his head. ‘I specifically asked for Dr. Thompson. His time spent in Africa would make him a spectacular candidate for-’

This time I cut him off. ‘Dr. Kingston,’

‘Just Harry.’

‘Dr. Kingston, while I am sorry that you must settle for me, and my name is Dr. Arthur Blakesley by the way, I have an extensive background in ancient written language, customs, and modern advancements in archaeology. My thesis is titled: Commonalities of language and culture across ancient indigenous communities of the Amazon, and I highly suggest you read it. Last, but certainly not least: Dr. Thompson refused your offer and no one else would come. Cambridge hasn’t heard from you in over a year, but in me you have one person who has some faith in your work, with which I am extensively familiar.’

The big man was silent then. He twirled one side of his thick moustache while he thought.

‘Arthur was it?’ The anger was gone from his voice.

I baulked at his familiarity but remained composed. ‘Dr. Arthur Blakesley, yes.’

‘We’ll grab some more supplies while we’re in town and then we have a two day drive ahead of us. After that we’ll be hiking through mostly unexplored rainforest for four days straight. I hope you’re made of sterner stuff than it would appear.’

Not the best first impression, on either side I’d wager.

March 3rd 1935

I’m far from the first to make this observation but it bears repeating: The rainforest is aptly named. I find myself drenched by a mixture of my own sweat and rain at least twice a day and am most grateful for the fact I am no longer aware of my own aroma. Despite my discomfort we trudged onward. I would have liked to have written more since my arrival in Brazil, but I have barely had a moment to myself to collect my thoughts, let alone write them in the last five days. Still, I am trying my best to maintain a positive outlook, and working to appreciate the natural beauty around me. Trees that reach so high, are so dense in their foliage as to block out the sun. There are parrots of such brilliant colours, I find myself struggling to determine them. At night, when we make camp, the chorus of frogsong, insects and birds is at once cacophonous but also, incredibly soothing. Then again, I’ve never gotten so much strenuous exercise in my life and the prospect of sleeping for a time after such arduous days is like a dream unto itself. Never have I been so bone-weary. Dr. Harold Kingston meanwhile (or as he would prefer me to call him, ‘Harry’), doesn’t so much as bat an eye as he swings his machete, carving a path through the endless undergrowth.  Then, miraculously at the end of our fourth day of the trek, still carrying my heavy pack to this base camp which I had started to believe was a myth, we arrived. It’s quite well secluded, I doubt it would even be visible from the air. Clearly Dr. Kingston has put in some work: A decently-sized cabin made of wood and insulated with packed grasses and a canvas roof. It has something of a lab at the back, two cot beds side by side in a corner and a crude kitchen area. Perhaps it is disingenuous of me to call it crude, after all we have the means to make fresh coffee for him and tea for me, which is as near a breath to civilization as we have access to way out here. Dr. Kingston also constructed a shower using an old oil drum strung up by wood scaffolding and ropes with part of its side removed which collects rainwater, filling completely every two days. The metal drum then warms in the sun and if one decides to use the shower just at dusk they will be able to enjoy nearly six minutes of warmed water. There is a hammock of vines, dried and woven into lengths and even a makeshift Bocce Ball court on some cleared terrain. Despite the Good Doctor’s, shall we say… ‘colourful reputation’, he has provided just enough comforts of home to make the camp feel welcoming.

As for Dr. Kingston himself, that is altogether another subject. Easily over two metres in height, covered in muscle and body hair, he can’t help but intimidate me. On some primal level I feel aware of (and am ashamed to admit) that I am out of my depth in the jungle and he simply could not be more in his element. Add to that his direct, borderline discourteous way of speaking and it’s little wonder why he doesn’t spend more time in London. Of course originally he’s from Australia, so it isn’t too surprising that while he was schooled in Cambridge (one of the few things we have in common), unlike me he doesn’t consider England his home. He hasn’t given me his age yet, and I am far too polite to inquire, though I would guess him to be in his late fifties but his energy rivals, and indeed surpasses most men I know who are half his age. At thirty-two, I can barely match his pace at the best of times! When we are taking stock of the ruins nearby, documenting our findings, hiking about, gently excavating some of the stonework, we only take breaks when I am forced to sit and open my canteen, breathless and dehydrated from the heat and exertion. He is tireless, driven, like no man I’ve ever met. Most days I end up preparing us something for a spot of lunch or supper and must remind him to eat! I admit that his zeal for the work is admirable, and makes me work all the harder to impress him. He is still mostly gruff with me but I like to think, on some level he at least enjoys the company. As I’ve said, his published writings about ancient civilizations in this part of the world are cutting edge stuff, brilliant even! He was a hero of mine long before we ended up working together and, now that we are, the genuine article is not what I imagined, but perhaps more impressive in ways I hadn’t considered. I expected an academic, like myself, but he possesses a knack for field work that I will never know.

March 14th 1935

I am beginning to experience some of the Good Doctor’s eccentricities, for which he is somewhat known around the University firsthand. He sleeps, certainly, but it’s not much. I suspect he has severe, undiagnosed insomnia. Often when I wake, even if in the middle of the night, I find Dr. Kingston working to decipher texts in the lab area or standing just outside the cabin, very still, as if communing with the jungle around him. When pressed he waves my concern away and says, ‘If ya ever catch me sleepin’ on the job, we can discuss the matter further.’ in his gruff, but not wholly unappealing Australian accent. Sleeping habits notwithstanding, there’s also the nudity. I always inform Dr. Kingston, as a matter of decency, as to when I will be taking my shower to avoid any embarrassment on his part, but it would seem he has none! Several times I will be scrubbing myself clean of the day when something will occur to him to ask me so he will just strike up conversation then and there! Now I have heard that in the field, or the armed forces, or even within sports teams there is a certain lack of modesty that some men enjoy or mistake for ‘camaraderie’ but I still maintain that a gentleman respects boundaries. I’ve also walked up on, quite inadvertently I assure you - Dr. Kingston in all manner of compromising situations, for which he has no qualms or even apologies! I’ve caught the man showering, passing water in the brush or, in two very unfortunate events, um, taking care of his male urges in the cot next to me while he thought I was asleep! I am loath to bring these things up to him, for I suspect I would only succeed in getting a chuckle out of him and humiliation for myself. So instead I’m getting rather used to seeing the man’s backside, and every other part on display as a matter of routine. Without dwelling on the subject more than I fear I already have, he is what many might consider the pinnacle of masculine beauty, though using such a flowery word for this fellow feels so out of place that I am forced to rethink it even as I write it down. I wonder if in the past he has used his outward appearance to distract from his ill-mannered behaviours. He also swears, has fits of boisterous frustration at the tiniest things and often forgets to clean up after himself. Some days in the camp I feel more like his maid than a respected colleague. Perhaps I’m being too unkind, it’s been a long couple of weeks.

March 29th 1935

We made our way deep into some new ruins today, just a kilometre south of the main site! It was terribly exciting, and while I managed to get stung by some horrible insect on my chin, and disturbed a rather ornery arboreal snake which bit me on the forearm (thankfully nonvenomous), my spirits are high indeed! I didn’t notice the ruins’ entrance whatsoever, but Dr. Kingston seems to miss nothing when we are in the forest and recognized it immediately: stone work near the entrance, mostly covered by vines and roots of massive kapok trees. During the exploration of the interior, cramped and dark as it was, Dr. Kingston managed to tear a deep gash out of his calf on a jutting bit of rock. He assured me it was nothing serious but infection is a very real concern so I had to nanny him a bit on our return to camp later that night. We had a cramped crawl through a partially collapsed tunnel that brought us to a larger chamber further underground. Inside was an altar, covered in ancient writing that I am still working to decipher. Extinct languages are a specialty of mine, and should be after nine years of thorough study on the subject but this imagery is new to me. A riddle then, and I must admit I am thrilled at the prospect of solving it! Dr. Kingston is also excited by the discovery and has been hovering over me every moment since as I pour over the charcoal etchings I took. Of course the details of our find will be better documented in my expedition notes. I prefer to keep this journal of a personal nature. But again, HUZZAH! Today is an excellent day!

April 3rd 1935

Work on the altar, and its surrounding antechamber has reached a dead end, at least for now. Dr. Kingston is frustrated, and curses like a sailor when he gets stymied. The more time I spend with him, the more I question his motives. I am not suggesting anything nefarious on his end, but he is a curious man. While I am over the moon with what we have already unearthed, he seems to expect… answers? In truth I’m not sure what to write here. He’s looking for something specific, of that I am certain, but what that could be I’m unsure, and he is not one to provide affirmation one way or the other.

We had a conversation today, he, naturally was mid-shower (I’ve learned this is often when he gets his best thinking done) and he called me over to him. I had gotten back to camp a couple minutes behind him, still carrying my pack, and he was already stripped and whistling a tune under the water. Reluctantly I capitulated and he proceeded to ask me questions about the writing we had found and if I had made any new progress. He seemed to imply that I might know more than I was telling him, but then sighed and admitted it was likely just wishful thinking.

While he soaped up his front I couldn’t help but notice his left leg - the same leg he had taken a gouge out of only five days earlier. What I saw was astonishing. There was no mark remaining on the skin!! Now, I helped clean the wound with peroxide several days ago, and have some experience with minor wounds (I’ve always been rather accident-prone) but this was something else entirely. It should have had a tremendous scab, and likely one day a rather ugly, if manly scar, but there was nothing remaining.

‘What happened to the gash on your leg?’ I asked him.

‘Hm? Oh, that, well, it wasn’t very bad, it’s already healed as you can see.’

‘That’s not possible.’ I said.

He smiled warmly and leaned against the wooden shower stall side while he lifted and began scrubbing one of his feet. ‘It looked worse than it was, Arthur. I’ve always had a strong immune system.’

On hearing that explanation I spent the next couple minutes, awkward though they might be surveying my colleague’s nude form from top to bottom, looking for any signs of scarification or even blemishes, perhaps from childhood accidents, burns, ailment, something! I myself have plenty of freckles, small scars and even a wart behind my elbow I’ve always detested but somehow, impossible as it seems, I couldn’t find one imperfection on Dr. Kingston’s body. At this point I left the man to finish what he was doing as I didn’t want my lingering there to be misinterpreted. As I lay down to sleep, writing this by lantern light, I find myself confounded.

April 5th 1935

I have been thinking about the case of the missing leg injury almost exclusively for the last two days, and I have come to a conclusion: I am not an idiot. I know full-well that in times of stress, for example - being isolated with one other person in a dense jungle, with no other human contact for weeks, and struggling to make sense of a new, likely important discovery with minimal success can take a mental toll. The most likely explanation is that the wound was more superficial than I realised, healed up at a normal rate for someone as healthy as Dr. Harold Kingston clearly is, and my brain was trying to make a mountain out of a molehill as it were. I shall redouble my efforts on translating the language from the altar room and leave my colleague alone for now.