To whom it may concern,

The Beaglor, a dependable and nimble cargo ship, set sail from London on the 13th of July, 1831. Amongst the crew of layabouts, hopeless dreamers, and young boys sent to learn the ways of the world was an eminent scientist by the name of Jameson Parfellow, Esq. “Me,” as I know myself. I am a naturalist if I were to be pressed for a specific field, but I am a master in all areas of scientific enquiry when taken as a whole.

Despite my extensive knowledge, it is as a naturalist that I spend a great swathe of my time and for which the public knows and respects me. My fame rests on many unique discoveries; I am the only man in the world who owns a specimen of the Iberian Puma that has been kissed by the sweet needle of the taxidermist. In fact, I discovered that species and many others (The Great Thames Eel, The Grappling Owl, and the devious Ribber). You could say I have a knack for the exotic and unusual.

Luckily the Beaglor's Captain, being a man of plodding judgment and little choice, signed me on as a crewmember (my official title bared little resemblence to my actual duties, so will remain unreported). The Beaglor's voyage was to be one of spice trading and Dutch fighting with a possible sideline in mermaid fishing, if the opportunity arose. Just such an ill-defined plan is what a naturalist hopes for, as an intellectually over-matched Captain can be easily convinced to delay sailing for the purposes of sciences he cannot hope to grasp but is keen to ingratiate himself with.

We set sail in good weather, and it remained so for three weeks. Spices, the Dutch, and mermaids were in short supply so dinner conversation was easily turned to the possibilities of scientific discoveries, the nature of which we could only guess at, but the glory of which could be seeded in the Captian's mind to bear a rich fruit from which to snack on at a later date. The rest of the crew were uniformly simple minded but I convinced them to at least voyage forth with their simple minds open (for to head into adventure with with a closed mind is to view merely what you have know in the hense, denying the tense).

In the third week of our voyage we hit a strange bank of fog, and I was able to harvest the mind fruit I had sown. The fog's existence was unexpected because, according to all navigational charts available to us, we were in a stretch of unbroken ocean. But this was clearly fog, thick and tangible like a drunken haze and full of promises of either the ripper's blade or the harlot's thighs.

The Captain, being a man of good sense (he took my advice) ordered the sails cut and our speed curtailed. A man of great experience, he (by which I mean I) knew better than to ignore those soft whispering that the sea wafts earwards; for often the only warning one gets is a whisper before the beheading scream of disaster.

Because of my actions we heard the unmistakable sound of waves rather than our ship breaking upon a cliff face. The fog began to clear and upon our starboard side were revealed great blackened cliffs shooting skywards like a Big Ben made of granite. The cliffs were dotted with shadowy caves in which a strange birds species appeared to nest.

No sooner had these birds spotted our ship than a great swarm of them took to the skies and dove at us, pecking at our heads with their dog-like snouts and clawing at us with their prostitute-like claws. A crewmember dubbed these birds the Bloody Whores (beating me to the naming punch, to my chagrin), and as will be explained shortly, they were sketched by third-rate cabin boy Young Timmy. Fortunately, my astute statistics accompany his scribblings, lending an inellectual heft to an otherwise childish exercise.

BLOODY WHORE

Off 28
Def 19
Sml 0
Clw 40
Hok 13
Tck 2
Chm 1

The Captain ordered the unfurling of the sails (an exercise that cost many a crewman his carnium), and despite the fabric taking extensive damage from the claws of the winged daemons we managed to make our escape. We limped further from the cliffs than the birds seemed willing to venture, and with a thankful respite we finished off the Bloody Whores hanging about our crow's nest with buckshot (admittedly, further shredding our sail) and took stock of our situation.

The sail needed repair, along with several members of the crew. The Captain, being keen to clear the ship's deck of non-essential personnel allowed me to take a longboat and a small party of men to explore what the clearing fog revealed to be an amalgamation of strange islands. At least that's what I assume he said through the locked oak door of his cabin. And while many of my complement of men claimed to simply be hiding in the longboat, I took the protestaions as a good sign of humour returning after a disturbingly bloody episode.

Unfortunately, among our island-bound crew was the aforementioned Young Timmy. Pierre Jacquet, whose hair we could see through the telescope presently being torn from his scalp for nesting material, was the ship's sketch artist. We still were in possession of his body and hands, but those hands, trained at London's School of Accurate Art, was no use to us without the mind, which was currently being gulped down the greedy maws of the Blood Whores' young.

Alas, only Young Timmy among the crew was both willing to venture ashore and able to draw sketches. His above attached picture is a typically desulotory example of his deficiences in skill (one I believe partly due to moral looseness, but you will need to ask Second Mate Hawkley about that).

Parfellow Island

I leapt ashore at the first enigmatic isle in this shadowy archipelagic aggregarii and named it as it should be named, after a man of learning. The beach was rocky, giving me a handy weapon with which to assail Burkins, who cynicaly atempted to name the island for the King!

After Burkins was patched up we examined our surroundings. The rocky beach was bounded by sheer cliff faces on either side that were thankfully free of caves and Bloody Whores. The cliffs narrowed as they proceeded up the island, leaving only a thin corridor that lead to what looked like more rocks. Far above us we could make out palm trees and the screeching and growling of unknown animals. But, alas, there was no way for us to reach those heights.

I immediately began examining the rocky beach we were on and discovered a previously unknown form of crustacean. After much deliberation and quelling of a near violent mutiny at my disdain for the names Scuttlex, Snipps, and Pinching-Me-Ass, I named the creature “Crab 2”. Timmy haphazardly sketched a specimen while avoiding having his feet pinched (the whelp had traded his shoes for amensty from a entirely reasonable beating earlier in our voyage). Fortunately Bruno, an entirely able and rather dashing crewman of faintly neanderthal stock, skewered several of these exceedingly rare creatures, and they made a pleasing nibble amidst the exotic buffet we had for dinner later that evening (Timmy suggested we call the meal “Tapas Exotico”, which earned the blighter a taste of my fine leather gloves).

CRAB 2

Off 14
Def 13
Man 67
Fla 76
Yob 3
Lip 18
Tie 0
Can 41
Fob 11
Joe 910
Red 670
Clw 2
Leg 6

The first batch of creatures were harmless and tasty. The Chalmaw was a burrowing rock snake, similar to the Amazonian Granite Python (a creautre I discovered an am to date the only witness of).

CHALMAW

Slt 89
Tng 90
Big 12
Ole 7
Ola 8
UVA 192

The Crappolol was a pest with multiple mouths but no tact; imagine three bulls in a china shop spliced together by a mad surgeon and infused with the wit and tact of a drunk soccer hooligan who moonlights as an public seminar troll. Irritating but harmless.

CRAPPOLOL

Yel 189
Flm 210
Man 1
Hot 0
Bug 67
Oof 23
Lol 10
Wtf 78
Lme 5678

But it was the mischevious creature known as the Cubic Panther that most amused us. Its bones were a strange and flexible amalgamtion of right angles. It moved in a disconcerting but rib-tickling manner. And the merest touch of its whiskers caused rainbows in your mind. They were also unexpectedly tasty.

CUBIC PANTHER

Hat 45
Hug 78
Fig 56
Pie 982
Def 1

As we played with and ate the succulent creatures we soon realised that we had gamboled into grave danger. The realm of the Poleacabra.

We found ourselves surrounded by a group of hairless, deadly imps. They had the bodies of pallid cabin boys, but with a strange grouping of trunks in place of their mouth. A sucking sound emitted from the trunks, like the wheeze of a dying dowager. But what were the appendages designed to suck? Well, only poor Bruno, and Maxwell, and Samuelson, and Suffolk, and Traylor, and Burkins, and Ghent, Jones, Lopez, and Gormsby know, and they took that secret to their graves.

As the Poleacabras attacked, I had a momentarily and inexplicable nostalgia for boarding school. But I kept my wits about myself enough to beat a hasty retreat while losing men left and right. A small group of us reached the corridor and once myself and Young Timmy (damnably) had squeezed through I deemed it necessary to block access with wounded bodies so that the knowledge I had learned was preserved.

The bloody deed done, I made notes so that the crewmen would not die in vain. As I did this Young Timmy snuck back impudently through the corridor. He returned, having collected our succulent Cubic Panther meat (which I did not eat out of protest), and claimed to have seen the feasting ritual of the Poleacabra, but what he described was not scientific (it was not verified by a gentleman) and is certainly not a fit topic for my delicate readers. I forbade him from sketching the goings on or even the suggestive beast itself. And we will leave it at that.

We made our way to the beach and recovered our boat. Filling it with the tasty morsels I found that it was now getting rather crowded. But with a spirit of adventure I decided we should make for another of the islands before returning to the boat to sup.

Island Hopping

As Young Timmy paddled us towards a lush jungle island a bag of Cubic Panther meat was suddenly grasped by tentacles and dragged into the slaty brine. As blood bubbled to the surface a large set of antlers (not unlike those of the Amazonian Striped Zebu, another of my discoveries) rose dramatically from the water.

“Paddle, Little Timmy,” I bellowed as I tried to think of a suitable name for the creature and settled on Tentamoose. It was more show than tell as its foolishly constructed body did not allow it to show off its magnificent antlers and give chase.

TENTAMOOSE

Tin 34
Off 20
Qat 9
Rip 67
Yar 3
Zap 7890
Wag 23
Bag 43
Log 56

No sooner had we escaped the moose's tentacles than a gaggle of even more fearsome monstrosities rounded the curve of the cliff face and glided towards us. This new threat was in fact two animals joined in a symbitoic relationship; a monkey rode on the back of a flying stingray that skimmed the ocean's surface. The stingray's brain had no covering, and this allowed the monkey to control it by repeatedly hitting the explosed brain with a large knotted stick.

We named it the Moy as to give orders the Monkey hit the brain with a stick and grunted a sound that was unmistakably “Moy”. For a hard left turn the Monkey would dliver three thwacks to the tender brain area and exclaim “Moy! Moy! Moy!” The creature was most foul, and I assure you that Young Timmy's picture merely makes the beast seem humorous when it was rather intimidating.

MOY

Moy 1000000
Lap 890
Fly 7778
Lat 56
Keg 50
Leg 2
Arm 2
Key 0

Luckily I was able to fool the ceatures by yelling “Moy” in the correct timbre and speed so as to send them careening into the cliff face. That will teach the silly blighters for using speech, a skill in which Englishmen are the dominant species.

Safe from aquatic threats, we pulled onto the lush island and proceeded into the interior. I named this islet Jameson Island after myself, who survived the trip to it. As we ventured into the jungle we came across statues as seen in the infantile sketch below. But I am a naturalist and not interested in the tomfoolery of fellow humans, yet Young Timmy however insisted on sketching it.

STATUE

This is of no interest and its statistics were not calculated

Of course, Young Timmy's actions caused us trouble. It was this cessation that his sketching necessitated that allowed our capture. A quick blur of brown fur flashed before us, and before we knew it we were tied by vines in a treetop village.

Our captors, who I named the Harangueatang were large apes given to pompous speechifying. While I grant they were more verbally astute than the foolish Moy, they nonetheless lacked the wit and sparkle of the fine speech-making evident in the House of Lords (something I hope to participate in firsthand one day). Nonetheless, for two days we were tied to trees (vibrating trees, thankfully for my fatigued buttocks) and given endless lectures on the dominance of ape mathematics.

HARANGUETANG

Yap 670
Ins 90
Wit 2
Ave 45
Ape 120,000
Gnu 0
Gyp 3
Fop 456
Mea 88
Eye 91
Nut 2
Cod 1

Now, being a man of science I am not one to listen to this drivel. Despite the protestations of Young Timmy (“Just ignore him, Sir” and “You're just encouraging him” and “Shut yer bleedin' trap or I'll run ya through with me fist” being some of the comments most regrettably heard from sweet British lips) I continued on, not willing to surrender a mind inch.

Eventually, having proved the superiorty of Euclid to a primate named Banooh, the exhausted Harangueatangs released us and let us go on our way. Fortunately the ship still lay just off the coast (I later learnt that twenty crew had died searching for us, but it was worth the loss to win the debate I think you'll agree).

Arriving on shore, after gathering up more food I discovered there was no room in the boat for all the food and two people.  “We have your sketches, Young Timmy. You will live through them,” I told the now rather spiteful child.
“But I don't wish to live through these scribbles,” he said with villainish impudence. “I am due at Eton next term, and no picture in the world can take my classes, and play Rugby, and josh about with the other lads like I could do for myself.”
“Enough,” I said as I gave him a swift but educational slash across the chest with my trusty dagger. He sat on a rock starring at his blood as I loaded up the remainder of the boat and cast off.

As I rowed back to the ship I could see him sitting forlornly. It was then that I yelled to him, feeling a swell of foolish (and in retrospect, embarrassing) guilt, “Timmy! Ho! We shall name the feast 'Tapas Exoticos' in your honour.” He did not reply, which I found insulting, and it was something I raised with his parents when I visited them to report his death and surliness. Eton was spared; at least believe that much from this remarkable tale.

Still, I named the meal in his honour as I was a man of my word. (We had no time for a return journey to save him and a feast; the captain wanted to disembark promptly but likes to do so only when the dishes have been cleaned. Good man). We ate well, and cleaned thoroughly. And we toasted Young Timmy on the rocky outcropping where we could see he had finally curled up to sleep, perchance to die.

Later that night some drunken crewman claimed to have seen Young Timmy attempt to mount a Tentamoose and ride it out to the Beaglor, only to be flung from his aquatic steed by the swift actions of a ruthless Moy. Flapping about hopelessly in the water, they claim a vast horror, a crater of teeth and malice crunched the boy up. They further claimed that this mouth was so vast, and its placement so situated, that it hinted that these island groups may in fact not be an islands but rather constituent parts of one gigantic creature.

I cannot vouch for these observations as, having taken the decision to leave Young Timmy on the island and still feeling a tinge of embarrasement at having deigned to name the meal in his honour, I thought it appropriate to look only forward and not back towards a person who sat in my past and soon was not to be of this world. Why waste one's time on such things?

Still, the drunk crewmen were very insistent, hence my mentioning their visions. One of them even drew a sketch, which I dropped overboard at the first opportunity.

As our ship pulled away I admit we did witness a great confluence as the islands disappeared beneath the waves. This did allow me a glimpse of what lay high on those unreachable cliff faces. But alas, it appeared to merely be some lush wasteland, host to a battle between giant dogs and cats. The cats in particular did not take kindly to being thrown into the sea.

The crewmen of course claimed it was the “great beast” swimming beneath the waves. I say it is more likely that whatever volcanic activity thrust this strange island grouping above the waves changed course of its own volition and pulled the islands below the waves in a likewise manner.

In retrospect it would have added greatly to the tension of our adventure if the submergence of the islands had coincided with our presence upon them, or if a pride of drowning giant cats had attempted to board our boat. But such things are not always to be in real life, and I am not one to embelish a tale.

Our Return To London

It all comes back to that damnable Young Timmy. When I returned to London (and my own children: ruddy-cheeked, precocious, nice and plump like a baker's dozen of jelly rolls) I was called a fool and a liar. Because of the sketches of that pint-sized vagabond (so luckily left behind to fend for himself and learn a much-needed lesson in personal responsibility) I was mocked and ridiculed. I was called a “fool”, an “outlandish visigoths”, and a “dengue fever-infested madman” (for we had returned from Sumatra and contracted many and varied diseases), along with other more cutting cruleties not fit for the printed page.

Demanding my new discoveries inclusion in the catalogues of the animal world, but with only the “evidence” drawn by Young Timmy would you call me a fool for making these claims? A liar? A scam artist of epic and devious proportions? Maybe you would. But I would call you someone who has just rejected the truth of the mysterious wonders of our natural world. Rejected the truth of the weird dimensions that seem to spring up, only to disappear moments later, leaving the man of science with a glimpse but no laboratory-worthy proof. You slant your head at 62 degrees to the floor and glimpse a horned nightmare, but at 63 degrees your beloved dog pants at you stupidly. This is the world we live in...this is the world of the man of science...and yet...

The Captain and crew did not back me up, not willing to admit to anything that, while being true, would send them straight to the asylum. I am no such coward, though I hold out no hope for the present day. I hope in the future, perhaps when some form of informational dissemination exists that can send this information directly to people without the need for “peer review” and other forms of intellectual fascism, that the truth of these strange islands and their unusual creatures will be believed.

That is why I send a copy of this evidence to you, the good editoral panel of Woman's Wear Illustrated. Mayhaps the fairer sex, with less knowledge of science and the legal issues in my past (luckily reported in the Court Pages rather than Social Scene), will be more receptive to having new ground-broken (for what is scientific discovery if not a painful but joyous experience like one's wedding night). And then, over dinner (perhaps wait until a course of thick and rich custard, for I always feel receptive to new ideas when partaking in that heavenly creation) slide the magazine over to him and smile as you would had you procurred proof of an extramarial affair – for in a way this is what he is having, an extramarital affair where he is cheating on science with unproof...

(Editor's note – it goes on like this for ten more pages)