From the desk of Meredith Finkley Snit-Bottomly

My darlings,

I trust this finds you both well in the extreme. I am forwarding this to you care of Sir Terry at the Lo Horongo Gorongo and hope it will find you wherever it is that you have most recently wandered.

Enclosed are what I have managed to decipher from the rubbings received from Watford, though I had a deuced difficult time with the third line, smeared as it was with some viscous liquid that obscured an already obscure script!

Terribly intrigued by the implications of the stone... rather tempted to catch up with you at some point to discuss in person. Any chance of an appearance at the Chapter's Yule celebration? Much hilarity is promised with Sudsy revealing her most recent findings regarding the mating habits of Ursidae Helarctos malayanus, while Clarinda Finch-Newtley has promised to share her most recent etchings recounting her time among the algerines!

I am coincidentally in London at the time (blasted British Museum is insisting that I spend some time there 'earning my keep' – by which they mean rubbing shoulders with halitosis-prone geriatrics and flashing bosom at the large bank accounts while regaling them with anecdotes about my latest adventures among the bones). It would be smashing to see you and compare notes on recent findings and acquisitions.

Watford, I enclose a pressing of a delightful Nymphalis antiopa recently encountered during my tour across American north. You will notice that the customary blue markings along the wing tips are instead the most astonishing shade of puce! I would be most appreciative of any thoughts you may have in this area – an anomaly or an entirely new sub-species??

I trust that you will convey my fondest regards to your dashing cousin Wilbur and when next you speak do let him know that I am utterly exfluncticated on hearing of his repeated dalliance last year with that atrocious Prunella Fitz-Hump-Humphrey. Honestly, the woman looks like a Pekinese!

Trusting that our paths will cross afore too long.

In darkness and in light,
your friend Merry

A grim return

Dear cousin,

What a time this has been! Heartfelt apologies for causing any perturbation.

As I so briefly mentioned via short missive, Watford and I had taken an extremely promising rubbing from one of the island's multitudinous petroglyths, this one most fortuitously found a short stroll up the west coast from Orongo (pleasing Watty no end – he had only just begun to grumble when we stumbled upon it). As you can imagine, I was near stupefied when, true to our coz's memory, the stone indeed depicted my device, and displayed in astonishing detail each of its component parts – a veritable blueprint! We of course proceeded to spent the better part of the day meticulously capturing our find and returned to the Club in exceptionally high spirits.

Later that night we were enjoying a light repast and sipping on our daily ration of Lumi (Oh woe the Lumi!) when a fierce commotion on the veranda drew our attention. Watford had been regaling me with a rather risqué tale of his summer some years ago in Dubrovnik, and it was thus some time before the noise penetrated our merriment and caused us to wander over to see what the excitement was about.

Standing on the veranda were a group of natives clothed in traditional garb. The central one – the one causing the commotion – was clothed in bright yellow and wore a headdress representing an impressive cross section of the local bird life. He was throwing his arms about and warbling in a most bewildering fashion, to the great entertainment of we onlookers. One of his compatriots was making effort to translate these carryings on to Sir Terrance MacWitnitney, the rather conniption-prone proprietor of the Lo Horongo Gorongo. Sir Terry was shaking his head firmly in the negative when the yellow clad savage looked up from his squawking and espied Watty and I standing in the doorway clutching our glasses of Lumi. Upon which he let out an almighty yodel and signaled his fellows, who paused not for a heartbeat before striding up to me, politely removing the glass from my hand and placing it in Watford's (oh if only I could go back to that moment...) and removing me bodily from the veranda and the environs of the Club.

You can be sure that I made the most clamorous commotion I could. However with the only colonials on the island still standing aghast and apparently paralysed on the veranda, there was nobody to heed my cries. The savage who had spoken with Sir Terry made quick to assure me that naught was amiss and that all would soon be explained, which indeed it was.

It appears that the savage in yellow was some kind of prophet – my guide called the fellow Ivi-Attuas, though whether that is his name or title is still something of a mystery. It appears that I had popped into this fellow's head in a one of his dreams, in the unlikely role as a participant in their annual Tangata manu ritual. I was of course sincerely honoured, and happily allowed myself to be ensconced with my fellow contestants in the most charming of temporary habitations. My translator, Tongorongo (capital fellow, splendid card sharp to boot!), explained that on the following morning I would proceed with my fellow contestants to the line up of the strongest young village lads, and there I would select my Hopu, who would then proceed to swim to the nearby islet of Motu Nui to collect the first manu tara egg of the season (sooty tern to us, old man). With egg secured, he is then to swim back and climb up that vertiginous cliff all the way up to Orongo! Should I receive my egg first and intact, I would be crowned Tangata manu – the year's Bird Man, and have glories heaped upon me, and my clan would win sole rights to collect the season's eggs and fledglings from Motu Nui. (they had decided that since the Club fell within Ohaurongo territory, they would claim me for the duration of this tourney).

The day began bright and early with me selecting a vigorous-looking chap named Strongo, over six feet of fine muscle with strong arms for swimming and long toes for climbing. I sent him off with some heartfelt words of encouragement, and took a moment to share reminiscences of swimming the triathlon at Oxford during our student days before sending him on his way. We watched as our Hopu's swam into the distance before retiring to our tent for breakfast, where we were entertained by a group of the most delightfully nubile young ladies I have yet to clap eyes on. Where had they been hiding, eh?! Thusly fortified and feeling particularly exhilarated, we retired outwith to the sun to await word of how our lads were faring.

Sad tidings saw portly Hungaronga out of the race almost immediately with his Hopu not expeditious enough to outswim the sharks teeming between the islands. All was not lost however, as I saw old Hunga being led into a tent by one of the young beauties, and realised that even the losers in this race do in fact receive some small reward. My joviality did not last long as grim stories began to reach our ears, and I realised exactly how trepidatious this contest was. Of the 12 who swam out, only 4 returned, and of the 4, only 2 were fully limbed. It was a grim tale of a desperate battle against sea and shark and precipitous cliff, of violent eddies and treacherous tides, of teeth and blood and bone and stone. In the end, Strongo was the first to reach Orongo, his brother Folongo coming a close second only because he was tied to Strongo's back, a leg shorter but alive.

Strongo strode up to where I stood among my remaining companions and presented the egg to me and as you can imagine great rejoicing then ensued. I was clothed all in feathers and spent the evening drinking and dining with the island's chiefs and notables. I was highly titillated to discover not one but all the nubiles in my tent upon my return, and it was some days before I could bring myself to leave. And leave the tent I did, but I confess I did not go far. Ah cousin, too many years had I spent with the sensible girls of our acquaintance, who while certainly partial to the odd dalliance, do not exude for me the raw vitality, the unadulterated earthy ebullience displayed by these 12 young sirens. It is true that several times I thought of leaving, and even went so far as to don my breeches on a number of occasions, but always there was more delightful food, drink and spirited companionship.

This I confess to my deep regret and shame, for while I enjoyed myself exploring the pleasures of sweet young flesh, one who is dear to us both was suffering, and it is upon hearing word of this that I was finally able to sever my intoxicating attachment to my nymphs.

Oh cousin – the Lumi! The shame I feel on remembering the native placing the glass of Lumi in Watford's hand. I see him even now, his small puzzled eyes watching me being carried away, and then shifting, refocussing on the two glasses of Lumi in his hands. I see him smiling, bemused as he lifted my glass to his lips. But I remembered too late! Oh cousin, the most egregious addiction has befallen our dear Watford, and by the time I returned the Lumi was gone – quite gone! Now I know not what to do. He is quite wasted away – you would not know him. He barely acknowledges anyone – only lies in his bed and murmurs Lumi Lumi all his waking hours. I can only but pray that your experience with the substance will assist us with combating its dastardly effects! In the meantime I have sent to our nearest Chapter House for a metaphysician and psychobabulist, but know not if they will be able to help. Cousin, you may be our only hope!

Yours in grim melancholy,
Cedric

Anxious Askance

Dear Boy,

I have become increasingly concerned for your welfare - those megalithic sites abound with esurient, sibylline entities and your silence is most unlike your usual dicacity and more akin to Sotty Wilkins, poor aglossal chap. Continuing, as you are, to be incommunicado for a surely morological duration, I have been considering alerting Les Soeurs Dépaysées, for only those canny ladies might contact you where others cannot go.

I am investing more then the usual fare to the Thrombatist so this message may travel by ultra-retrometer in all good haste.

I remain in a kedogenous attitude, until your response,
Wilbur