Super Nature

“Here’s to you, my forbidden sweet”

10/06/1842. Magnus

We've finally done it, seven weeks and we finally have it right here. I can smell the sparkles of their glitter residue. We’ve tracked the trail I precisely predicted. So long and farewell to the roads, as we bid adieu to the slithers of civilisation that coat this jungle rock. Our trail has brought us right into the thriving bush of New South Wales and it’s more wondrous than we could profoundly describe. The lord has granted sacred access to his archive of exotic monsters. It’s like the lord tucked away these lands away from human obtainment, these are his dirty secrets. Freakish arachnids the size of fists dash and dance around our feet, and ants sharp to the touch congregate in their thousands, tasked with the duty of feasting on our ankles. Everything is out to get us, even the tree bark feels like it’s biting as we grapple to them for balance, as we descend further on our trail.

The land smells greener than any harvest, and the air is searing enough to melt icebergs in heaven. Every night we swelter in the ever growing humidity, boiling in bedsheets within the juices of our own perspiration. Hubert soldiers through the peril beside me without a word of contradiction. Although, I often see his side eye, the constant itching of his palms. He’s hiding his disapproval for my benefit. His disbelief is as potent as the rest, and his inability to actively confront my obsession seems louder than those who laugh scorn at my quest. My comprehensive lectures have since metamorphosed into comedy vaudeville routines, yet the silence of Hubert hurts much more, for I know that his support is done so in protest of his skeptical side. Were he to trust in his instincts, he would laugh to and have abandoned the path long ago. Perhaps it’s too late for him to concede on such a fault? To untangle such a misstep now would require him to admit his disbelief all along. I very much doubt he could.

Despite the land's insistence of its own deadly intent, we are withstanding the fatal trek, with nothing but a shoddy map and two native escorts, both who appear sour towards my very presence, yet they share belief in what I seek. The two biggest advocates for my beliefs, and they can barely communicate with us. Hand gestures are shared universally, if not for Hubert, I’d speak no words at all. One guide mumbles his contempt in my direction, but in his own tongue, the other refuses to even look at us, completely repelled at our image. Hubert has expressed his discomfort at me, uttering "It’s undebatable, we're very much not welcome" under his heavy breath. There was indeed no pageantry on our arrival, as the natives and colonists alike saw us as unworthy chancers, men with too much in the way of money, and not enough in the way of worthy contributions to bolster such communities. These such men that lead us were stewards of these lands, and now demoted to wards on their own soil. I for one would too carry bitterness for all that presented as my oppressor.

And what is it we seek? Is it not obvious by now? Hubert and I have not spend months vomiting every ounce of our meals, on a vessel of scoundrels, for the sake of bragging rights. It is in fact, on the great authority of evidence, that this fraction of the earth is the sanctuary spot of a creature only spoke of as myth. The infamous Red Lily Sprite, a tiny humanoid creature, a fairy of sort, that may be the passage way that sheds light on all of supernatural phenomenon. These creatures are here, we have seen sight of entrails, and a glimpse of the sparkling residue they excrete in their wake. These tiny wonders have the ability to bend the foundations of our reality, and tare the fabric of our nature at the seams. Will they be so obliging as we encroach on their territory? Only blood will tell…

12/06/1842 Hubert

Magnus keeps muttering to himself, I can feel his obsession melting into every footprint of our journey. I do worry for him, it's as if this expedition has infected his intuition. His critical thought is gated off, and the lustful obsession for a needed solution to his pains, dictates with a hard pointing finger. Deeper into the bush we go, the more blue and black we shall be beaten. I fear that we may not return from this heat garden, not with body and soul intact in any case. The shrubs infest every walkway, it's like nature’s hoarding spot, it’s fending us off from its secrets at every opportunity. Regardless, my support for Magnus doesn't wane, wherever situated, I am there. He needs me, this world appears to hate us, I am all that compliments his existence. The struggles press firmly to his shoulder, but my supportive hand rests betwixt such burdens.

These supposed creatures are desperate to remain transparent phenomena. Any evidence available is encrypted to a language only Magnus can read. He refuses to transcribe a syllable, this is his exhibit of nature, us other mere mortals are just spectators to his genius. Our aching bodies can only trust such passions so far, however.

The guides are so resilient to everything this land lunges at us. This home of theirs is ferocious; they never flinch at the oncoming blows. Storm or burning mist, on go our leaders, with not a sigh nor stagger. I admire the courage of these people, they were dragged to us, with little, if any dignity. The unpalatable Captain Joyce was rough in his instructions, "You lead from their instruction, boys. Any funny business will end with no laughter. You stray away, then we’ll have you swinging from them trees like you’re decorations”. I remember the words vividly, the venom in their conviction ran through my mind long after they were delivered. The poor bastards didn’t register a single sound, but the pointing was made very clear. That evil Joyce spoke the perilous paragraphs with a fierce glare in his eyes, it was enough to sentence anyone to hard labour, for fear of worse punishment.

We are chasing fairytales and these poor chaps could be dying if we come home empty handed, I don't know how to keep humouring something we may never find and something that I can't understand...

14/06/1842 Magnus

The stench of smouldering body fluids has fended off my appetite for days now, all that I take in eventually evacuates the way it entered. My body struggles to even hold onto water, even my heaves remain mostly dry, and my private orifice supremely soaked. Hubert has taken to wringing his own sweat drenched garments to his head for some cooling effect, as so not to waste any canteen water on such an action. The whiff of such perspiration has me beating my knees as I kneel and vomit once more. The trek has grown far more humiliating, as every stop appears to be us foreign gents. Our guides just press on, sighing only at our incessant halting. Hubert has expressed that we recoup for a day to rethink our strategy, I fear he is stalling the inevitable, the walk is bumpy and our maps poorly realised. He would never suggest to turn back, so to stay put a day is his best strategy of avoiding any further hurt. I admire his profound loyalty, and even so, I loathe the suggestion, for every minute we remain stagnant, the creatures venture deeper into their heat haven. I will not lose their sent again. I can’t. The only time is now, we lose them and then all of our intent vanishes, and all this becomes pointless self harm.

They all asked, “Why sprites? Why risk life and sanity for a hollow chance to rub shoulders with a myth?”. My responding question; “Why ignore such an opportunity?” Most interlocutors abandon any answers and move on without a thought. So few understand the possibilities. These creatures bend physics to their will, they hop through timelines unknown to us, their magic enhances crops, and the wishes granted do not conform to any will of a higher power, these little Red Lily Sprites are the dictators of their own wonder.

Many sprites are wise in their living habits, they wear clothing and wield tools much like us, and yet they are wild and harness a vicious temptation a temptation that has one acquainted with a hundred stab wounds. The sprites are best friends with agony. The twinkling of their wings chime through the bark of the trees; the wood being a conduit to their pilgrimage songs. They are interlinked with the forest, the calcium decay of their tiny ancestral burials enriches the soils of this burning, enchanted playground. They are paradoxically wonderfully harmonious and also ravenous, feral critters.

The sprites hold enchantments within, that spill like cherry juice through their land, illuminating all the eye can view with a warm, radiant rouge glow. The sprites themselves nest in bulbous red lilies, a type not attainable in any region of anywhere a human can touch. By day the lilies wear a disguise that hides all enchantment, and as night soaks the skies, the red pulsating bloom glares out in all directions, and the feral sprites slip from the floral boudoir and flutter off with the twinkling chime following on. All sprites are carnivorous, and require blood to cater any spell. The more ambitious the spell, the longer the red flow must persist.

I hope to be granted the spell that quenches my ever-aching longing, the longer it goes by, the more resistant I am to failure. I must persist, for the sake of my forbidden sweet, I must persist…

16/06/1842. Hubert

The heat is keeping us awake longer, the paper of the journal is getting damaged by the elements, my own sweat is caking the words. I hope we can retain our travel logs for the sake of anyone who may find us if we perish. I abhor being so pessimistic; I can't let Magnus down. He requires my tenacious support, he warned this mission may empty us of our will. Everyone else has since abandoned him over this fantasy. I have to say, I admire his unbreakable spirit, I always have, and always will.

These so call sprites have seemingly feasted on us as we slumbered. Bites far too elaborate for any mite or insect have started making their acquaintance. Are we just dinner to these mystic pests? This uneven ground we rest on is their dinner plate. This soil seems to be sprouting more shrubs the deeper we venture, perhaps our blood really is powering their land? Magnus swears we are close, had the creatures been eating us, we may be stroking the very ground where they excrete their pent up magic.

The guides appear wise to this hazard, despite the sodden heat, they wrap up tight on the ground with the spiders, whilst Magnus and I strip off our layers in our hammocks. I worry and wonder if Magnus is letting us strip to lure the creatures in for a bite. How can the guides know of the night biting risk and not him? He assures me that it were a blunder on his part, but I fear we may now be bait for his very own trap. I hope not, after all I’ve done, the betrayal would burn deep.

Magnus often appears exhilarated by our bond, and I feel so too. It’s the passion that grounds me to his presence. It all felt like any other kinship, a companionship with weighty admiration. Though soon that grew, and burrowed deeper into my being. A look or a smile would brighten any melancholy, and still I crave more. My waking body aches from the sadness of the dreams that riddle my mind with quacking urges. Though what more could I ever expect? It’s a curse to withhold to oneself. I wish there were a way for me to express my appetite further, just a peak further into his heart, it’s where I feel I belong. I pray to never let it slip, I just stand firm and wait for the opportunity to assist him further...

18/06/1842. Magnus

Nights are getting just the slightest bit longer now. The whiff of sweet citrus occupies the nostrils as we all follow the scent like the sprites have us under their mystical grasp. The sprites have gnawed away at us as we rest. The heat has gotten to us and I feel drastic action must be taken. Our bodies are ripe with abundant sustenance. I had to let them have a taste. And thanks to that decision, we are back on a trail. And soon enough, those critters will rear their tiny mystical heads. Their bite marks heal so quick, but I still feel the pattering of their minuscule limbs to my flesh, as if they’re still present.

I hope the blood strengthens them up for the night we reach them. With all the will on earth, I hope to wish upon them to grant him a visit. If only for one day. I need to see those curious eyes just one last time. I want to know the colour and see the wondrous life in them once more.

Craven was a man with dizzying intellect, genuinely inquisitive to all creatures of this earth. Without him, I’d never had heard of such enchantments. I need him here, my life is lost with him gone…

It’s a frightfully hard request for such tiny creatures to fulfil, the payment must be of a vast quantity… I hope to deliver…

19/06/1842. Hubert

It happened. We’ve finally found it. The mystery is breached and now we shall enter. Magnus found one today, a carcass so small in structure, recently drained of all life and left rotting in the boiling bog. Its wings so fine and dainty, it smells like sweetness, with faint whiffs of lavender. We seem to be rapidly approaching their haven. The guides are true to their efforts, we may arrive soon. Magnus keeps on muttering about payment, though I don’t feel he means to the guides, they don’t require payment. Is he talking about the creatures? Is he in communication with these beings? Is he expecting an audience with them on arrival? So many questions that only he can answer, but he evades any point I direct him to. Perhaps it’s the paranoia of the jungle, but I fear we may be walking into a story with an end that’s hard to swallow…

19/06/1842. Magnus

We’ve stopped for a breather, the chirping of crickets is deafening. Our torches light the way, we are on the doorstep of their kingdom, the gleaming of the red lilies are peering through the swamp, the sweat is flowing off of us like fountains are within us. I’m excited to make the payment. I understand the risk of such, but to wish on them, you must be prepared for the sacrifice. I tremble with worry, but if it means to bring him back, then I will pay ten times over to know the deed was done, and he was of this earth once more. I may not be here to see it, but knowing he can return, there’s hope I may be so lucky one day. It brings me comfort to know that he is to be plucked from eternity and made whole once more. I hope to see those curious, beautiful eyes in my final gaze. I hope he returns…

20/06/1842. Magnus

I can’t find the words…

It’s been hours now since it happened. The guides led us close, and the redness was blindingly strong. The sprites swarmed us like locusts to crops. Their fluttering twinkled with the stars, and shon just as bright. Hebert and I lead the way forward, leaving the guides to watch in awe at the sight. I held out my hands to make the wish and seal my fate as an offering. And before I could…

Hubert held out his and said the words. He told me he had read my writings, he knew of my plans and he felt compelled to offer himself in my stead. Overcome with anguish, I pleaded with him not to go forth, but he fought off every argument and physical reprimanding. I ordered him away, yet he waved his torch in our direction and welcomed the sprites to take his flesh and panting breath.

The wish was yelled without hesitation or jitter, he was prepared for this to be his end, and now it has all since vanished. The lilies are now hidden as the sun graces us with its presence. The guides remain silent and solemn at the loss. Nothing of Hubert remains. And the sprites? As invisible as the wind, all there is now is the growing morning light…

And… And at my side, shocked and breathing heavily, as if awoken from a dream, it’s Craven. Bright eyed and curious as ever. He’s been reborn now for three hours, and still I can’t rest in this moment without weeping. My tears may drench the paper further, but I can’t hide it any more. My love sits before me, and it’s Hubert who allowed me to witness it. One love found, and another lost. My eternal gratitude is all I have left to pay. And to my very last day, his final words shall echo in the deepest crevices of my mind.

“Here’s to you, my forbidden sweet”