From the diaries of James Q. Jackson

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I was recently asked to write a selection of stories to accompany a friend's submission of jewellery to a Halloween-themed exhibition at the Elevator Gallery in Hackney Wick. I didn't have long to do it, but I'm pretty pleased with the results, especially considering they ran longer than I had originally intended!

Each piece is intended as a kind of origin story. This first one relates to the piece of jewellery on the right, which we suspect is from a bird...

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From the diaries of James Q. Jackson, gold prospector.

October 22nd

The jewel of the broach is glowing an eerie green now. The old man said to pay it no heed; that the jungle light plays tricks on your mind. But I can’t help but start to believe the stories about this place. ‘More bounteous than the Californian fools’ gold,’ I had been told ‘but the gold here is dangerous.’ Since the loss of Barnabus and Roderick in the ravine two days ago, and with Ferdinand’s fever worsening, my initial enthusiasm for this expedition is all but spent.

October 25th

Phillipe said he heard ungodly noises during the night. I did not want to alarm the men by admitting it, but I heard them too. Fingers of blame were pointed at Ferdinand, who now just stares at the canopy from his stretcher, muttering in tongues. I clasped the talisman tightly to my chest as I rallied the men as best I could.

October 28th

No-one wants to carry Ferdinand any more. His breath rasps out into phlegmy coughs. The men think him contagious. When the boy, Samuel, ventured that we should leave him to his fate, a volley of sharp calls broke the silence between the trees. It was only the jungle birds, but it sent a shiver down my spine – an ominous omen indeed.

October 29th

I have been thinking about the birds. Their calls have haunted us for days now, a constant reminder of our strange surroundings. As I stare at the talisman’s jewel, I notice the glassy sheen resembles the staring, unblinking eye of a bird. Come to think of it, the bone of the broach is light and hollow, like those of birds…

October 31st

In the early dawn light, the noise rose to a crescendo. Somehow, camp remained in slumber - all save I. It was by the virtue of my wakefulness that I am still alive, although I know not for how long.

The birds attacked not long after they began their screaming. They swarmed in their dozens, the flurry of their beating wings filling the air. Butcher birds. I had seen them briefly during my stop off in Australia. By God do they deserve their name. I saw Garrett, still wrapped in his blanket, being skewered by their sharp beaks again and again until he was still. My legs were moving before I knew what I was doing. I am not proud, but I ran. Ran past the giggling form of Ferdinand lying bound to his stretcher. Ran past the boy Samuel as his eyes were plucked from his head by avenging beaks. Ran from the cries for help, for what could I do against so many?

I sit now in the rotting hollow of a dead tree. The butcher birds are closing, I can hear them screaming again. The broach feels warm against my chest – I can see it glowing through my shirt. They are coming for me. They are coming for it…