I Am Olafsen, Hear Me Posit
THE TALE OF THE CONCOMITANT BEAST.
Part the First
As with all stories so fantastical in nature that it afflicts the sensibilities with barely registered meaning, i find it most difficult to grasp a thread, a sound, sufficient in strength to lend a less than tenuous hold or audible voice to what i am set to by oath to share in these pages. I will, as is my solemn promise to those who gave their lives and something more precious, their sanity, i will fulfill this bonded declaration of all that passed to my charge and i, myself experienced during those dark days aboard a train bound for Dar Es Saalam via Tanzania. I must relay, to ensure your fullest understanding, how this nightmare born of some unknown Stygian depth began. So i reproduce relevant parts of the letters first sent to me by my then colleague and friend Professor Simon Walters. Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries. London.
Letter sent 24th June 1924 to Peter Grade Dar Es Saalam. From Simon Walters near Mpanda, lake Tanganyika.
My dearest Peter, I cannot relate how wonderful it was to receive your gift from Old Blighty. Astounding it took only 3 weeks to reach these remote jungles and more remarkable the Crate of Scotch arrived undamaged and unopened. I can only attribute this good fortune to none of the natives reading English. As i write we are close to unearthing what can only be described as a truly unique and astonishing tomb of some kind. Although the outer structure is similar to other African tombs of the same era it bears an uncanny Sumerian quality. I would hazard at Late Uruk dynasty but this seems preposterous considering our location. perhaps a lost expedition or convergent design but still, i feel instinctually, this is more than coincidence.
We will understand more of this minor mystery when the vaults portal is cleared of the debris. I can barely control my excitement when i consider the significance of a burial chamber undisturbed for millennia and with no known origin or equal yet discovered. I must rejoin my companions. Ericsson our crew driver has indicated the main doorstone blocking the way is ready to be hauled. All hands to the task my friend. I shall return with word of our discovery and i have little doubt, it will be the tale of glorious new things.
(At this point i must make it known that when Professor Walters returns to his missive, his letters are not that of the previously strong and capable man and mentor i know but that of a shaking hand filled with some dread and as unsteady as that of one writing aboard a storm tossed ship)
Peter, my boy, i bear the most tragic of news. As expected the tomb was unsealed and indeed, great wonders lay within. A central chamber held a large stone sarcophagus surrounded by the unmistakable handywork of ancient Sumer artificers. More fantastic than the pyramids by their very placement some 4000 miles from their historical beginnings. Atop the tomb some human form carved from what seemed like Obsidian and even the ground a carpet of tektites. Black and almost impenetrable with our torches we carefully entered. Oscar Reynolds, my geologist and recordist was first to reach the forboding shape of the coffin. He no more than drew his hand along its black glassy surface when a roar filled the space, the likes i think unheard since mighty Zeus subdued the last of the Titans. So powerful the all consuming rent of the air even our vision was as useless as our ears. And then in a moment of deathly silence the tenebrous casket exploded showering the barrow with its grim shards. The screams of the workers and that of my own barely recognisable sound tore the air as the deadly needles ripped at our flesh. Then all that remained was dust. All that remained of poor Oscar Reynolds was dust. Each man although injured was accounted for and living but Reynolds was simply gone. No of his once presence some shreds of clothing lingered, torn and bloody but of his body, his skin and bones there was nothing. The sarcophagus and whatever it may of contained sent to the same fate as Oscar, into nothingness.
That was some time ago. Think me not mercenary but in light of there being little to do concerning funerary matters for Reynolds, we occupied our shattered minds in retreiving the grave goods still intact. There will be a sizable catalogue. I am finding it difficult to keep my focus. The night is drawing in and the camp feels as i do, that we may not have had our last moment of terror in this godless pit. Something seems changed, i would even attest to the very air tasting rank and fetid. My imagination sent wild from the cruel and hellish happening in that accursed deathhole no doubt. I must seek rest and the safety of my tent. I will meet in you in Kigomba in 1 weeks time if you still desire to join our party. Although i will relish your company and your expertise i cannot say it will gladden me to place you in our cursed company. You may think me melodramatic but you did not hear nor feel the abominable and vicious presence in that souless anteroom to some Cimmerian Hades. I can only hope this is some shellshock as that of the trenches and not some diabolical essence that has fouled my being. Forgive me. I will await you in Kigoma.
Your constant friend Simon.
I was so taken aback by the sincerity in my friends depth of emotion i packed immediately and had my servant book the next train. I consider myself a practical man, never taken to flight of fancy or foolish notion of the supernatural and the professor is as pragmatic and meticulous man as ive known but this had shaken me to my foundations. As if hearing fear from a the mouth of Hercules it was unthinkably out of sort to hear talk of hellishness from my mentor. I would do my duty as a friend and Englishman and rescue him from whatever doom his fevered mind had created for itself. I set out for Kigoma and what destiny i encountered there..
To be continued....
Part the First
As with all stories so fantastical in nature that it afflicts the sensibilities with barely registered meaning, i find it most difficult to grasp a thread, a sound, sufficient in strength to lend a less than tenuous hold or audible voice to what i am set to by oath to share in these pages. I will, as is my solemn promise to those who gave their lives and something more precious, their sanity, i will fulfill this bonded declaration of all that passed to my charge and i, myself experienced during those dark days aboard a train bound for Dar Es Saalam via Tanzania. I must relay, to ensure your fullest understanding, how this nightmare born of some unknown Stygian depth began. So i reproduce relevant parts of the letters first sent to me by my then colleague and friend Professor Simon Walters. Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries. London.
Letter sent 24th June 1924 to Peter Grade Dar Es Saalam. From Simon Walters near Mpanda, lake Tanganyika.
My dearest Peter, I cannot relate how wonderful it was to receive your gift from Old Blighty. Astounding it took only 3 weeks to reach these remote jungles and more remarkable the Crate of Scotch arrived undamaged and unopened. I can only attribute this good fortune to none of the natives reading English. As i write we are close to unearthing what can only be described as a truly unique and astonishing tomb of some kind. Although the outer structure is similar to other African tombs of the same era it bears an uncanny Sumerian quality. I would hazard at Late Uruk dynasty but this seems preposterous considering our location. perhaps a lost expedition or convergent design but still, i feel instinctually, this is more than coincidence.
We will understand more of this minor mystery when the vaults portal is cleared of the debris. I can barely control my excitement when i consider the significance of a burial chamber undisturbed for millennia and with no known origin or equal yet discovered. I must rejoin my companions. Ericsson our crew driver has indicated the main doorstone blocking the way is ready to be hauled. All hands to the task my friend. I shall return with word of our discovery and i have little doubt, it will be the tale of glorious new things.
(At this point i must make it known that when Professor Walters returns to his missive, his letters are not that of the previously strong and capable man and mentor i know but that of a shaking hand filled with some dread and as unsteady as that of one writing aboard a storm tossed ship)
Peter, my boy, i bear the most tragic of news. As expected the tomb was unsealed and indeed, great wonders lay within. A central chamber held a large stone sarcophagus surrounded by the unmistakable handywork of ancient Sumer artificers. More fantastic than the pyramids by their very placement some 4000 miles from their historical beginnings. Atop the tomb some human form carved from what seemed like Obsidian and even the ground a carpet of tektites. Black and almost impenetrable with our torches we carefully entered. Oscar Reynolds, my geologist and recordist was first to reach the forboding shape of the coffin. He no more than drew his hand along its black glassy surface when a roar filled the space, the likes i think unheard since mighty Zeus subdued the last of the Titans. So powerful the all consuming rent of the air even our vision was as useless as our ears. And then in a moment of deathly silence the tenebrous casket exploded showering the barrow with its grim shards. The screams of the workers and that of my own barely recognisable sound tore the air as the deadly needles ripped at our flesh. Then all that remained was dust. All that remained of poor Oscar Reynolds was dust. Each man although injured was accounted for and living but Reynolds was simply gone. No of his once presence some shreds of clothing lingered, torn and bloody but of his body, his skin and bones there was nothing. The sarcophagus and whatever it may of contained sent to the same fate as Oscar, into nothingness.
That was some time ago. Think me not mercenary but in light of there being little to do concerning funerary matters for Reynolds, we occupied our shattered minds in retreiving the grave goods still intact. There will be a sizable catalogue. I am finding it difficult to keep my focus. The night is drawing in and the camp feels as i do, that we may not have had our last moment of terror in this godless pit. Something seems changed, i would even attest to the very air tasting rank and fetid. My imagination sent wild from the cruel and hellish happening in that accursed deathhole no doubt. I must seek rest and the safety of my tent. I will meet in you in Kigomba in 1 weeks time if you still desire to join our party. Although i will relish your company and your expertise i cannot say it will gladden me to place you in our cursed company. You may think me melodramatic but you did not hear nor feel the abominable and vicious presence in that souless anteroom to some Cimmerian Hades. I can only hope this is some shellshock as that of the trenches and not some diabolical essence that has fouled my being. Forgive me. I will await you in Kigoma.
Your constant friend Simon.
I was so taken aback by the sincerity in my friends depth of emotion i packed immediately and had my servant book the next train. I consider myself a practical man, never taken to flight of fancy or foolish notion of the supernatural and the professor is as pragmatic and meticulous man as ive known but this had shaken me to my foundations. As if hearing fear from a the mouth of Hercules it was unthinkably out of sort to hear talk of hellishness from my mentor. I would do my duty as a friend and Englishman and rescue him from whatever doom his fevered mind had created for itself. I set out for Kigoma and what destiny i encountered there..
To be continued....
By:
Olafsen
Age:
46-50
,
Male
