Starving Time:
The Journals of Jonathon Lyle
by Don Rush

‘It is said that human flesh is by far sweether than any other flesh, so when a wolf has once tasted human flesh, he disires to taste it again.?
— a French priest from the 1400s

Prologue

Jamestown,
May 8, 1610
The ruthless winter, the time of starving has come and gone. Gone too are the lives of my seven closest companions, my countrymen. I feel I must write, purge my mind, cleanse my soul or forever conceal the truth of horrid infestation this new land has experienced.
Of the 38 of us left, all but myself have set sail back to England, fleeing this settlement. Hundreds of our group — men, women and children — have gone insane or died. Before the sweet blessings of death, some dug up the dead for food. Desperate though I was for nourishment, I dared not partake in such ghastly feasting. We tried to stop the barbarity, we punished with banishment the first man who killed and butchered his family to fill his belly. Into the cold, hard wilds of America he was sent. Of his fate I do not know.
But the insanity, the time of starving didn’t stop William Spalding. It happened again, and again. Insane with hunger, taken with despair did not some of the women kill their own young for the same damnable purpose? Yes, yes! By God in Heaven, it is true.
I stay here, alone, of my own will as a free man of means to write and fulfill a promise to a dear friend.
The 38 have gone up river, back to the ocean. To the comforts of home. Dear, sweet England. We cannot make it here. They have been gone now a good many days. I hope whatever God there is looks down upon them with pity. I pray they survive. The nights have been lonely and I hear things, unnatural things. There is still a chill in the air, though the winter has departed. At least the blood thirsty mosquitoes have been kept at bay. The coldness, the loneliness, the past grief and my fears are mounting and I fear conquering my sanity, too. Will the unimaginable evil break me? Will I make that same pact with the Devil? Will I take a walk to the grounds and pay visit to the buried? I must write. I must not fail. It is certain others from England will come here seeking their pot of gold. Whilst I still have my wits, and strength, I must continue writing. May the words which follow live longer than I, Sir Jonathon Edward Lyle.
It is my hope that if fate will smile upon me one last time, I will finish this manuscript and that it will be found. With good fortune it will come before the eyes of King James Himself and believe the words herein he will. I swear by all that is good, they be true. Leave this new world be! The monstrosity lurking within its womb, which stalks its forests is almost inconceivable. Were it not for the loss of my own friends, the battles we fought and the things I saw with my own eyes, I would call it impossible.
How I wish it were. But, where do I start, as start I must.
It wasn’t unitl the night after Christ’s birthday past that our ture horrors began . . .
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