My name is Ryan Feerer,
I am a Designer and Illustrator.

Thy Old Murkville Forest

Jacque Feerer’s Journal Entries (Courtesy Andy Smith)

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31 October 1942
Much has happened in the past few days, so much, in fact, that I have not been able to document anything until this point. I am currently on a cot in the bottom of a filthy military ship headed towards the Winward Islands in the Caribbean. When I got to Charleston, I wandered around the port for some time, waiting for the troops to board the ship. I was in a sad state; I had not bathed in several days, I had not slept since the incident at the theater, and I was most distressed. I was pointed towards a tavern where I sulked for the better part of the day. It is like I have been dragging my soul behind me like a hunted animal on a pony drag. I have been in a stupor ever since I boarded this accursed vessel. I have been eating many pickled vegetables and sleeping below deck ever since.

1 November 1942
The ship we are on is one of old, a wooden vessel. The American government said they could not afford a proper modern craft. It feels as if we are all 15th Century explorers, set forth to discover the New World. But we all know there is nothing left to explore out here. Everything has been taken, everything has been used, and all is burned.

3 November 1942
A strange terror has been gripping the men for the last few days, I am sad to report. The usual vigor and jest they display in their vulgar mucking about has come to a standstill. Instead, they slump about the poop deck like lashed dogs, speaking in low voices and spending hours at a time staring into the distant waters. After picking up a few straggling survivors from a Peruvian shipwreck some nautical miles west of here, there have been rumors circulating, most of which seem to be fantastical. The men talk of a great black beast who circles the air at all times, eager to pluck pink human flesh from their wooden ships. Others speak of a storm of smoke and fire that blows across these waters unexpectedly, setting ablaze anything in its path. And although I am loth to believe these tales of the high sea, I see that they were not made up for the sheer pleasure of their fantasy, but indeed contain an element of truth. As such, I am eager to reach land where I may plant my feet upon the soil and worry no more of the sea’s troubles.

4 November 1942
The Admiral continues to play with his pet crab, “Mr. Benecort,” and work on performances to keep up the morale of the men. Just this evening the Admiral put on a little play for the crew, with Mr. Benecort as the main character. Although the ship is plying through uncharted waters and the men are losing their trust in the Admiral (who spends a good deal of time with the crab), the performances are, admittedly, most amusing, and I should hate to see them go so soon.

We steered our usual course. We made 50 leagues today, a modest amount. There are many floating weeds, dull green of color, and each bearing something like fruit, sour to the taste. Occasionally, bright yellow orbs no larger than tennis balls come bobbing in the water, smooth and hollow. I believe we are close to South America, near the Grenadine islands, although I am unfamiliar with the area and cannot say for sure.

6 November, 1492
I will jump ship today. Two more men were killed during a poker dispute, and as I have become an incorrigible cheater at cards, I can only assume that my turn will be next. And it is only a matter of time before my superiors are notified of the doctor I killed. There is nowhere else to go but the wide open sea. In front of me is companionship with hopeless men in a meaningless battle for power, and behind me lies a past which I cannot return to. Indeed, the thought of Anjanie’s face drowns my thoughts in melancholy as I recall the city of dreams we had lived in, the city built up in my heart, now tumbled down and burning. No, returning home would be returning to this ruined city, and I cannot live there anymore. I must set out on my own and make a life for myself on one of the islands. Possibly St. Vincent, or Union Island. I am terrified to leave the familiarity of this ship, even as it is a floating hell.

6 November, 1492
(page ripped out)

8 November, 1942
I’m quite close to the land now and have discovered that it is not, as I had hoped, Union Island. There are many trees of luxuriant foliage lining the shore, which gather to form thickets of ample extent. And yet they are not like any of the trees I have ever seen, their trunks thicker and leaves broader than even the most impressive trees I have seen to this date. No sir, not in all the golf courses in Miami have I seen specimens such as these; I long to climb them with my bare feet or lie down under them to sleep.

And the water that laps up on the shore is green and clear so that I can see down to the floor where various, squirming creatures are illuminated by the pattern of sunlight through water. The sky is similarly transparent, as bright and blue as polished glass, so that I imagine I might see through its depths to the bottom of the sky, as it were. And I recall that the sky itself is a ceiling of color in the daylight, but at night the ceiling disappears and gives sight to open airs, infinite stars, a sky without end. I am overjoyed to have survived against the odds, against my own weakness and ignorance.

I do not know what this island is, or if it has been explored by men before, but there is something familiar about it as if I am visiting a place I have only visited in dreams. I feel at once at home and a complete stranger here. It is this paradox that causes me to approach the island with both love and curiosity.

It appears that there are active volcanoes spouting steam at a not very great distance [ . . . ] l set foot on dry land tomorrow.

9 November, 1942
It is now late afternoon, by my best reckoning. I did not sleep all through the night as I approached the land. I would not have known what direction I was going in if it was not for the volcano peaks which flickered like candles just above the black water. I steadied my course towards these fires until I felt coarse sand grinding against the hull of my boat. The night had lasted what felt like months, and I could not have been more surprised to feel the solid ground than if I had been a fish washed up on shore. I threw myself onto the sand just as the first peach light of morning was blooming in the sky, and the last thing I noticed before falling like a stone into sleep was the sound of birds twittering above my head, their shadows circling around me on the sound.

When I woke up, the sunshine was full and my clothes had dried out. That was several hours ago now. The first thing I noticed was the way my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth, cottony and parched. The next thing I noticed was that I was being watched. Hundreds of birds the size of tennis shoes were perched on the washed up bramble around me. I have never seen such birds as these, I do not know what to make of it. Their beaks are the color of grapefruit flesh, their white feathers streaked with blue. Their song is melodic, almost purposeful, unlike the common sparrow whose song in comparison seems arbitrary and meaningless. They are most enchanting, these birds, so much so that I have not left them since my arrival. They watch me even now as I write.

The trees in the distance are bright and full of wind. I haven’t seen any signs of human life. What place is this? I begin to wonder now.

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