chased by the sun (southern reach trilogy | original characters)

[fiachairecht]

chased by the sun. the southern reach trilogy - jeff vandermeer, original characters. the story of the fifth expedition, as told through the chemist's logbook. 1.7k words, rated t. for acequeenking in unconventionalfanworkex 2019.

21 June.

We crossed the border at the sixth stroke of the midnight leading into the linguist's birthday. At least, that's what we had planned to do, and what the psychologist told us we did. They wanted to see what crossing at the barrier between days would do, what crossing at the solstice would do, and when they found out the linguist's birthday they moved our date up and decided to see what all three at once would do.

It's what they said, at least. I didn't like the number of variables they were working with at once, and I didn't like knowing the linguist's birthday. But no one wants to listen to a chemist until they need to know if the water's safe to drink, so the six of us are here.

The water's fine, by the way. I tested it, even though there were four expeditions' worth of data saying it was fine. Five expeditions' worth of data is better than four.

22 June.

According to our instruments, the winds last night peaked at 73 kilometres per hour, the speed at which (according to the meteorologist) the winds are hurricane force and devastation should be expected. It would be concerning - if, of course, any of us had noticed. I slept the night through without even a remembered dream, as black and silent as the hypnosis under which we had crossed into Area X. The rest of the expedition reported the same, and I have no reason to believe they would lie to me.

The campsite did not show signs of such winds, either. The tents stood unmoved and unmoving in their ring around the firepit, electrons frozen in orbit. Some of the gear had perhaps shifted, but not in such a way that couldn't be explained by an animal running through the site, or by much weaker winds.

Perhaps the instruments malfunctioned - the bulky casings, the simple wires and magnets are supposed to be less vulnerable to the inside workings of Area X, but nothing is assured. Perhaps the instruments were measuring something outside the clearing we'd set up in.

Today we begin our walk into Area X. We are looking for the centre, because the last group looked for the sea. I do not think they want us to find the fourth expedition, if they are still here.

.enuJ 22

.noitidepxe htruof eht dnif ot stnaw tsiugnil ehT

23 June.

It is silly to say that the wind is following us, because we can see no evidence of it around us. We can all hear it, though. The psychologist asked us when we stopped for lunch if any of us heard voices in the wind. When we said we didn't, she nodded and took a sip of her water and - that was that. We all looked at each other to see who would ask the psychologist if she heard anything, but no one did.

Later, when the botanist and I were examining a patch of oddly bare ground, we asked each other again about the voices. We both said we didn't hear anything. I wonder if she lied to me, like I lied to her. I wonder if I have passed a test or failed one, or if the psychologist will even tell us that was a test.

Wasn't it a test?

The dirt, too, is safe to eat. I tested that patch.

.enuJ 32

.thgin yreve ecaf emas eht sward ehs tub ,etirw ton seod tsiugnil ehT

24 June.

The linguist was gone for three hours and twenty six minutes and fifteen seconds, according to my watch. According to the psychologist's watch, the linguist was gone for three hours and six minutes and fifty three seconds. Other expeditions had reported feeling that time moved differently inside Area X than outside - dealing with such adjustment had been a large part of our training - but this was the first instance that we knew of where time passed differently for members of the same expedition.

The meteorologist made a bad joke about time flying on the winds we keep hearing. No one laughed, except the linguist, who otherwise spent the first hour and twelve minutes and twenty two seconds of her return singing nonsense to herself.

After that was when the psychologist asked to hypnotise all of us again. She didn't want the linguist to feel singled out.

We didn't go any further today. I fixed my watch and made tea from some of the blooming violet flowers crawling up the tree-trunks.

I tested them. They were safe to drink.

25 June.

The meteorologist climbed another tree today. She climbs a lot, I think she feels more comfortable there than on the ground even though she always has a valid scientific reason why her data collection requires being up there.

This is why she's my favourite of my fellow expedition members. There is a certain amount of courage required to walk into the Southern Reach, much less Area X. And yet the devilry required for chemistry and tree-climbing alike is something different.

I've never told her that, though, and I never will. We're not supposed to have attachments to our colleagues: expeditions rarely come back, and the ones that do aren't in any sort of recognisable state.

They're wrong on two counts. One, attraction is a natural state of all matter, it is being broken apart that causes destruction. Two, this kind of attraction means nothing for what we will feel if things go wrong. The psychologists have trained us better than that.

We all survived burying the gunner, after all.

I haven't asked the meteorologist what she finds up closer to the sky. If she sees another barrier. That's not why I'm here.

.enuJ 52

.srewolf ydoolb ekil trapa deppir shtuom rieht taht pu reh tuhs ot drah os reh dessik tsigolohcysp ehT .gnorw si htap ruo skniht ehS .thginot niaga tsigolohcysp eht htiw deugra tsiugnil ehT

26 June.

I smelled smoke today, and it wasn't from our fires. The instruments are continuing to record winds that should make walking impossible, much less nights of restful sleep, but our progress is unhindered and our sleep undisturbed except for the faint sounds of wildlife.

The animals were crying last night when we woke up in the pre-dawn grey. Was it because of the smoke on the faint breeze? I asked the meteorologist if she thought there might be lightning, in the storm that we cannot find, and she told me to keep an eye out for glass along the paths.

I haven't seen any, nor any other signs of habitation or civilisation. The road we're following is clearly a road, probably one that was here before the barrier came down. But there's no sign that human hands shaped any part of it.

The botanist is starting to wonder about inhuman hands. I've seen it, the way she looks at us with eyes sharp enough to cut.

Sharp like the bones of the animal that had made a home in the hollow tangle of willow-roots that we built the night's shelter around. I added the marrow to the soup the psychologist cooked for us. After I tested them and found them safe to eat.

27 June.

It's the wind from the desert. I don't know why it followed me all the way from New Mexico, I don't know how, but I know that only that wind brings me these sorts of dreams.

I dreamt for the first time last night. The gunner came back. I don't know why I knew he was the gunner - he had a different face and a different set of clothes, but he had the gunner's voice and we sat around the fire, the six of us, like the first night.

It didn't seem odd that the gunner more resembled a tree than a human. It made sense, as those sorts of things do in dreams. I don't know if the others noticed; if they did, they didn't say anything.

An extra ration bar fell out of the psychologist's tent when we were packing up this morning. I picked it up before anyone else noticed and found a message scrawled across it, glowing faintly under the invisible sunlight.

I couldn't read it. The words weren't words. I thought the gunner might have left it after he wandered away from my dream, but I don't think he knew any languages other than English. Not even the language of his bullets.

I need to ask the botanist about the type of tree the gunner was. Casually, though.

I didn't eat the ration bar. After I tested it, I knew it was only for the linguist.

.enuJ 72

.noitidepxe htruof eht morf si rab noitar ehT .od ot esle gnihton saw ereht esuaceb tsigoloroetem eht dekcuf I .deraeppasid ehs yad eht erofeb ward ot desu tsiugnil eht ecaf eht saw maerd eht morf ecaf s'rennug ehT

28 June.

The botanist reached up to pull a leaf out of the linguist's hair and came away with a handful of twigs instead of a leaf or hair. It was unexpected, even though I know on an intellectual level that the atoms that make up our bodies are not different from the atoms that make up Area X.

We split up after that. The psychologist and the botanist took the linguist to investigate some standing stones that might be the entrance to an old village. Truthfully I'm glad to see her gone, she's been murmuring nonsense since the day the watches broke. Makes it hard to hear the rain.

The meteorologist has climbed another tree. I think today I will see what she finds so interesting up there.

22 June.

It has been a very uneventful few days since we crossed the barrier - and a very beautiful set of days. Perhaps I will not need to write much, after all.

23 June.

The grass is normal. Perhaps more salt than usual, as we are so close to the sea.

24 June.

I worry about the botanist. She spends all her time looking into the microscope, even when her slides aren't underneath the lenses. What does she think she'll find.

25 June.

Uneventful.

26 June.

Who will read these? Any of these?

27 June.

Uneventful.

28 June.

I came back. I'm so happy I came back again.

29 June.

We are returning home. All will be explained: that nothing was odd, and everything was beautiful, and we will all be at peace soon.

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