• Jordan Page

The Sentinelese Traveller

May 26th:

It was strange, all I remember was the storm, that mighty storm, engulfing the ship we once called ‘Home’. All I remember was the journey, from the beautiful lands of Sri Lanka all the way up to Bangladesh. We were only travelling in that direction because Fredrick had a tip off for a new dig site. If it wasn’t for that bloody tip we’d be sipping tea in the Bahamas right now enjoying our holiday, but we’re not, instead, we are stranded.

On first glance this island appears docile and peaceful. The sand glistens from the sun and delicately escapes through my palms, the surrounding sea is beautifully clear and untouched by man. It feels like a paradise! The rest of my team are wondering around, examining samples from nature. It is incredibly unfortunate that we lost our equipment in the wreckage.

Further along the beach I have noticed something rather peculiar in the sand. I am documenting what appears to be the tip of an arrow or spear. Well crafted and designed, the object was created from wood and not metal and on first observation I can confirm that this object was made recently and it is not an artefact or relic.

May 27th:

John and Fredrick are dead. There are unevolved savages whom inhabit this hell, trying to kill the rest of us. The team and I are held up in a small cave, roughly in the centre of the island but far away from their camps so they shouldn’t find us. We have minimal supplies and only a day’s worth of food, we need help.

May 28th:

I continue to document my time in this horrific place. The team has been split up. Yesterday we were discovered by a small child who wanted to explore our cave. He cried out to his people, in an unrecognizable language; we certainty didn’t know where it originated from, we were baffled but we ran…in opposite directions.

This paradise from hell has swallowed my team, my colleagues, my friends.

I don’t know why I am still writing in this dreaded journal, maybe it’s my way of staying sane, maybe I’ve already gone insane.

I hope to the Gods that someone will find this journal and tell my story because I am not going to survive this. I hope to the Gods that someone will find me so I can actually survive this.


Carter slowly sealed the mangled journal and delicately placed it beside a tree stump. He covered it with leaves, collected his bag and advanced forward. The forest of the island was tight nit, trees had grown close together, uncut shrubbery surrounded the land. Carter nervously clutched the strap of his bag as he continued through the forest. Echoes ringed through the branches. Carter, startled, hurried down the rickety pathway to the beach. He stumbled over his own feet and collapsed into the sand, knocking himself out in the process.

The sound of birds brought Carter back to consciousness. He opened his eyes slowly, in disbelief. Ropes enveloped his entire body, his muffled cries were cancelled out by the gag that had been shoved in his mouth, made up out of the clothes of his deceased friends. Remains of animal flesh lay burnt beside a small collection of sticks. Carter’s breath grew quicker as a small group of tribal men cautiously approached him. The men wore little, few robes covered up certain parts of the body however all of the men had similar tattoos on their chest, painted from mud.

Some of the men prodded at Carter’s naked skin while the rest tore up his clothes. Carter cried out through the gag to get the attention of the men. The prodders moved away from him hastily, startled by his noises. The men by the scorched flesh screeched into the sky, some sort of signalling call as there was a pattern to it. Drums banged in the distance as the prodders gathered leaves and hurried them around Carter’s feet.

Two men appeared from a collection of bushes, followed by another man who carried a flame. This man wore ceremonial dress, with a crown made of branches perched on the top of his bald head. His passes the flame, which stayed alight via it’s wooden chamber, to one of his assistants and he approached Carter. He drew a knife carved from stone and cut Carter’s chest with three equal lines. Carter screamed to the heavens and the group of primitives danced in excitement.

Several hours of torture had passed and Carter was bloodied and beaten. The men had taken turns cutting into Carter’s bare skin.

“Please,” Carter stuttered, “Stop.” The men looked at each other, perplexed by the words that exited Carter’s fragile mind. The man who wore ceremonial dress, their leader, slowly raised his hand into the air, the men surrounding him danced crazily. The man’s assistant passed the flame back to him carefully. The leader slowly approached Carter and dropped the flame onto the collection of leaves at Carter’s feet, setting them alight. The leader carefully leant against Carter’s shoulder and whispered into his ear.

“You should have stayed away.”

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