Devoured by D. E. Meredith Read Free Book Online Page B

along the marshy banks of the Sarawak River. And I have been warned, if one does not take the right precautions, the impact on my body can be grave indeed. I have therefore followed the advice of my friend and companion Mr Emmerich Mann (who, by the way, is a very erudite German) and taken to swallowing quantities of powdered quinine, washed down with generous amounts of rice wine.
Perhaps I should describe this place to you? My house is quite basic. Built on stilts to keep the rains out, its sides are made of ironwood. The floor creaks deliciously under my bare feet as I pad about, and as this hut was once a rice store, it is embellished with some wondrous carvings. The Dayaks believe that rice has a soul and that they must worship it to keep evil spirits away, and so you see, I am protected not just by my little talisman but also by the twisted serpents which curl around the roof.
The hut sits on the edge of a forest by a river which curls towards a pearl-white beach. And what better place to immerse the intellect and soul? The river gives me endless pleasure, and I often sit here and watch bright-green butterflies settle on the ground fluttering their petrol wings in unison, like some orchestra of colour. There are ancient turtles in the river and dolphins which rise and click, as if they’re laughing at my open-mouthed amazement.
But perhaps the most bizarre of my neighbours, Mr Mann aside (I jest here, madam), are the mudskippers (Periophthalmodon schlosseri). Are they fish? Or are they lizards? They have gills but live above the water, and astonishingly walk along the land. They are fish that walk. This is the truth, and it is a truth which begs a question. When God created the mudskipper, could he not make up his mind?
And I wonder if these little fellows would travel well, for I’d love to take them back to England so that we could all admire their qualities. They are four inches long, or thereabouts, and have the face of a fish. Their bodies are slimy and wet, and they have fins and tails, but spend much of their time hopping from place to place or wiggling through primordial splendour.
Nature isn’t tamed here, as it is in Ashbourne. It bursts out and clamours. It creeps, weaves, and glistens.
From time to time, I wander the mile into Sarawak, a great sprawling stretch of bustling buildings and people, so different from my forest. And it’s here that I get my provisions and have been able to build up quite a comprehensive collection of equipment which I will be taking on to Simunjan. I have now in my possession a sturdy camp bed, a compass, a selection of fish hooks, a barometer, ammunition, a gun, and, of course, spirits for preserving the specimens I hope to capture upriver.
Armed with your letters of introduction, I was invited to a party held at the gardens of the British Consul. The gathering was most enjoyable – delicious pastries, English tea, dainty sandwiches, ladies dressed in flounces beguiling one with idle chit-chat. Pleasant enough but more interesting, a small, rather ramshackle collection of Dutchmen caught my eye, for they were scribbling in their notebooks and chattering animatedly about something in the foliage.
I went up to them and made an introduction. Firstly, a Mr Banta most politely tipped his hat. Whilst another introduced himself as Mr Demarest and explained that his colleagues had noticed a very unusual and quite new beetle (Cyphogastra calepyga) in the undergrowth. Well, as you can imagine this was my opportunity to explain to them my purpose and, at once, much discussion then took flight on the various components of our trade.
And the very next day, they invited me to town for a game of chess, and it was while playing that I discovered that their best player, a Mr Christiaan Ackerman, is more of a businessman than the others and has strong views on the trade of collecting. He had a ledger with him but was not inclined to share its details, which I can fully understand. What he did