Jonah

This is the diary of Jonah “Jay” Bartley, as it was found. The editor has attempted to leave it unchanged, however some misspellings and lack of punctuation has been amended for the sake of readability. Although the diary entries’ topics and meanings are largely ephemeral, due to the lack of time Jonah spent collecting his thoughts, they might prove interesting for the curious reader.
For context, Jonah Bartley was a fisherman and sailor who had been around the Port Adelaide and Port Augusta regions sometime in the 1860s (likely the first half of that decade). He was said to have been swallowed by a whale, but he denies this and there have been no reliable accounts of it. Find below the diary entry:
Hark ye! That insurmountable, impregnable wall o’ mist fell upon mine person as a wave that swalloweth an isola. I speak no lies now. There wast nothing to’ve seen wi’ me eyes, nothin’ to’ve bent me ear to, nothing to’ve senseth. Th’ only sensation I derived thro’ the faculties o’ my mind wast th’ ol’ dampness on mine pores. Aye, yon thickness o’ th’ suspended water within my lungs wast within me, too. Every single breath wast a slight struggle, I tell ye.
There wast only th’expanse o’ whiteness, pale, pale, pale. ‘Twas a sheet that rendered mine vision but a blank canvas, infinite in its scope, I daresay. Everywhere th’eye fell upon, there wast the lack o’ colour, I swear to ye, a sheet paler than a corpse’s pallor!
No cries then, no sounds didst bellow, no songs risin’, no crickets’ chorus. There wast only that deafenin’ silence; ‘twas maddenin’ ‘n’ made yours truly question hisself. ‘Tis true that I felt as a man plucked out o’ th’ sensory world ‘n’ thrown into th’ vortex o’ Charybdis. Alas, th’ infernal quiet wouldst keep me up at night just thinkin’ of it.
E’en if I might’ve hummed, I’d hear it not. If I swisheth th’ saliva within mine mouth, there’d be no emanations for mine ears to perceiveth! Absence was all there wast. Had I rubbeth mine hands on mine shirt or trousers, rendered damp from th’ mist, I’d heareth no rustle o’ fabric.
When I sniffed wi’ mine proboscis, that’s when interest wast piqued. For I senseth th’ tiniest grain o’ salt. I hath come nigh unto the sea! Howe’er, most o’ what I smelleth wast merely mornin’ mist, that kind o’ fresh albeit tasteless smell that only th’ purest water giveth. There were nay flowery aromas, nor those scent o’ fallen leaves, nor wafts o’ sweaty animals. Whate’er was pungent ‘n’ rotten in this world wast purified entire. The mist hath cleansed th’ earthy Earth.
Yet within that wall o’ mist, mine eyes saw some imp or dragonling stir. Doth mine eyes deceive me? There, in th’ web o’ thick air, a thing doth move. ‘Twas no shadow. ‘Twas no man. I spake thus, Expose yeself, evil spirit if ye hath ears! Thou damned shade, what art thou? Wherefore doth thou tormenteth me in mine unhappy hour?
It slowly turneth towards where I wast; it didst showeth a terrible face, most rotten from th’ dew ‘n’ tides o’ time. That misty demon wast skinless. Its hardened bone wast all cover’d in algae ‘n’ shells ‘n’ greenish rot. Its eye sockets wert empty, tho’ some villainous aura sparkled within those perfidious pits. Then, cackling as the mad kookaburra, th’ phantasm projected a loud guffaw; it cherisheth in mine fear ‘n’ pangs.
This mist wight approacheth me from that lingering pale. As he lurcheth, so too didst I retreateth. But, maleficent as he wast, he gaineth on me ‘n’ th’ spectre wast behind me as I turneth. I screameth, but no screams cameth. Terror struck me! Th’ ominous mist greweth e’en thicker ‘n’ th’ bony face neareth. Then that draugr asketh, with a shamblin’ echo to its deathly voice: Wherefore art ye, piscator? Ye come in th’ hour o’ th’ mist demon, hath ye not?
At this, I screameth louder when, finally, I stirreth from sleep. Mine bunkmates awakened ‘n’ they gaveth their rebukes ‘n’ criticisms. Madman, thou art a madman, at least that wast what they told me. But anything wast better than th’ evil mist demon I met in th’ labyrinths o’ mine dreams.