Diary Excerpt from Captain Canute Glasikis, June 5, 1855 | loci.theduereturn.com
  








  









  
    

Diary Excerpt from Captain Canute Glasikis, June 5, 1855

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June 5, 1855

The Due Return has, it seems, gone to war. I don’t want to blame poor St. James for all this, especially given his conspicuous absence but, well, shit. We’re in the middle of a damn war, and the evidence is tending to point in a single direction.

Item: Yesterday St. James received a package (unsure how this happened, since the mail has been iffy of late).
Item: Whatever was in said package caused no end of distress. There was yelling and crying and various things were banged against other things.
Item: After three years of abstaining, St. James got into the Rot. This did not go well.
Item: St. James drunkenly returned to his berth, bellowing something about quote bringing him back unquote and quote showing them all unquote. This was followed by more sounds of things banging against other things.
Item: There was a period of silence, followed by lights flashing from underneath St. James’ door, followed by the worst goddamn smell I’ve ever personally encountered.
Item: The Due Return immediately commenced to shake.
Item: St. James emerged from his berth, bearing a furtive appearence and a rucksack, and made for the dinghy (successfully eluding both myself and Anteas in the process).
Item: As St. James, for reasons unknown, rowed the dinghy to the island, the Due Return was drawn into the inevitable vortex.
Item: We are now sitting on a small hill, somewhere in the interior of the Crimean Peninsula, and what seems to be a war is going on all about.
Item: Anteas has, since the transition, been more or less catatonic. He’s been wandering about the deck, clutching a small glass jar (contents one (1) feather) to his chest and muttering.

St. James did something, intentional or not, he did something. But, he’s gone and marooned himself on an island somewhere, and I doubt we’ll see him again. And then there’s the matter of the bones. Those fucking blue bones. I wonder if things would have been different had I not treated him with that odd reverence. And I know from whence that reverence derives - ‘I am Francis St. James’ - damn me. He has a role to play yet, I wager. On the advice of the chaplain, I’ve sealed his berth until we can give it a good going over. Which won’t be happening for a good long time, what with a) being landlocked atop a hill and b) the whole war thing.