Dear people (and others) It is my great pleasure to introduce you to a new visual artist who has recently washed ashore on our bleak (but seldom dull) island. He was found drawing (stunning) pictures of our dear Professor Elemental, and… I pounced! (with success) He is with us now as a guest artist (probably taking up residence near the coast for the views and fresh tentacles) His name is Clifford Cumber, and he describes himself thusly,
“Cliff Cumber draws occasionally for people he likes very much, when he can fit it into a life filled with almost-teen children, and when his wife deems his mental state sufficiently stable to use sharp objects. He is formerly of Great Britain, now resident in Maryland, and while that sounds made up, it’s actually a real state in America. Honest. Follow him on the twitters, @cgcumber.”
As you can see, he is a modest (and busy) sort of chap.
An astonishing sight greeted the folk working on our bridge this Tuesday. Arriving at first light, we found work had already begun, but not on our construction. Clods of earth were flying through the air as excavation continued on the wrecked boat. Our own boys had given up when it became obvious that the ship might collapse. However, the workers on Tuesday morning knew no such fears.
We stood at a safe distance, watching in surprise as a dozen or more skeletal figures exhumed the boat. It was an eerie sight. They had clothed themselves strangely, although for what purpose I cannot imagine. Do those mobile remains feel the cold as we do? I can hardly believe it is so. They have no need for modesty either.
Work on the bridge is yet again delayed. No one, myself included, feels able to continue while that unnatural crew labours silently nearby. I wonder if the ship was theirs in distant times? What little of it remains is far from sound. Will there be more dead to release? As ever, we must be vigilant.
Today Jasper Fingle appeared at my door, pale and obviously terrified. The bones of our ancestor have returned to his garden, and appear to be digging. I went to observe this for myself, and a crowd soon gathered at the scene. These disturbingly animate remains clearly have some intelligence guiding them. I watched the uncanny figure scraping soil with bare bone. Some of our local boys attempted to discourage it, but it proved as oblivious to clumps of dirt as to heckles. I returned later in the day to find the hole much enlarged. At dusk, our first ancestor pulled a second skeletal form from the ground. It was an eerie sight. How many more of them are there? And what will become of us if they are liberated? Will we all return to walk as bones in the fullness of time?
Are the bones of our ancestor walking? A number of reliable witnesses report having seen a skeletal form wandering the shoreline at twilight. This may explain the disappearance of the recently discovered remains from the library, but we must ponder what strange enchantment has put life into the bones. Is there intelligence inside that hollow skull? And if so, what does it intend? Should we leave this be as yet another peculiar feature of our island life, or should the bones be stopped before they do something dire? Can we trust the undead remains of our ancestor? After all, no one has established who the body belonged to and we have no idea if the spirit that moves it is kindly disposed towards the rest of us. I would advise caution until we know more about this matter.