Chapter Two

Settling in, fire blazing and having tidied and cleaned the place, wet herbal compresses are applied to the youth’s forehead, yet the fever burns throughout the night. Raving about “them coming…” and complaining of “this searing heat!” the sickness progresses unabated until just before dawn, when restless sleeping respite is found. All that day, and the next, turns are taken to watch over, food prepared and minute portions, all that he can manage, are given.

On the third night, more of the same until in the early hours, a torrent of rantings about a “beast, so large… from behind… no more - must get home… heeeeeelllp!” followed by a deep slumber. He sleeps well past midday, while more supplies are found and water carried from the nearby stream. The fever has broken, and with the worst over there is nothing more to do but to rest another night and to return through the jungle, making sure the illness has passed and the young man can recover by himself.

And so it happened. The youth, just days before on the verge of passing on, is now able through the fog of diminishing delirium, to bid us farewell. About to head into the trees and back up the mountain, turning to see him leaning against the doorway, a moment of hesitation and then calling, “Take care of yourself - there‘s everything you need all around you - see you again, soon!”

That evening, across the crackling blaze, recounting the events of the last few days, a tired dreamy atmosphere of accomplishment prevails and soon after eating, a blissful unconsciousness overcomes these two forest-dwelling souls. Later, waking to urinate, while walking back to the cave a startling rustle in nearby bushes prompts quicker footsteps. But after stoking the fire, again a sure drift into sound slumber, where all waking life blends into otherworldly dreamscape.

Days passing, further refinements made to the wooden structures geared for comfort in the cave: walkways over uneven ground, shelving, vine-lashed ladder to a small alcove high in the inner wall. Deciding to take a break, venturing with torch down a well trodden tunnel and through the bamboo-hinged door, along some more the wind picks up, extinguishing the flame. Further on, daylight streams in, showing the way forward to the cliff-face opening. Below, a precipitous steep drop; all around a vista extending down to the shore and across a vast bay, mountain ranges trailing inland as far as the distant horizon.

Minute huts gathered together, campfire smoke meandering cloudwards, tiny waves bending around the headland breaking on the rock shelf, a pair of eagles gently spiralling seeking prey. Just as it always has been, yet from this vantage, the concerns of the village so small, so insignificant. Somehow the perspective makes the first years of communal life appear unreal, playing with other children a fantasy, the first hunt an imaginary journey, futility of daily survival together alien mythology. Only the leaving remains true - packing, the farewells, heading into the wilderness outside the safety and stagnation of the bay to make way alone…

For some, the group dynamic provides motivation to advance, initiating change or seeking support for self-led beginnings, feeding off conquests. Others remain content with peripheral roles, biding time waiting for the end watching endings. But the process creeps forward incrementally either way, building or destroying always within the confines of rule and taboo. Each morning so like the ones before, how is the differentiation of new qualities possible. Every sunset gathering the same as the preceding - where is the interface between the mundane workday toil and days-end meal, and the fantastic possibilities offered by the discontinuous magical world of night vision. Fireside stories go some way, were always involving but still, they’re only talk - others’ words do not live life. Perhaps it is inspiration from this source which prompted the break with…

so-called freedom of information… talking about it quite feely… take one for the team… paranoia and fear… some precedent… anti-terrorism legislation… what’s your specific understanding… do it anonymously… aren’t allowed to… doesn’t kind of protect us… George Orwell… staunch monarchist… a little bit frightening on a few levels… there is a security threat… calls to the executive producers… electronic media… about what actually occurred… lined up… bigger fish to fry… death and Texas…

Again! What’s with these voices, so clearly from another realm, intruding time and again. Better head off - never know when they’ll begin, going as soon as arriving!

Shaken by the strangeness of it all, hurrying through the door closing it firmly and continuing. Seeking out the company of real relatedness to offset half-heard disembodied conversation, even less comprehended, bumbling down the darkened path stumbling for the light, hands out feeling the way…

Droufadni, bent over a cooking-pot, straightens and looks toward the terrified figure approaching from inside the mountain, herself in fright asking, “What’s wrong - what happened?”
Managing to mutter in response, “The voices. Hearing these people inside, talking, talking, on and on.” and slumping into a fur-lined seat. “It’s like a gap, a space, has opened and from that space comes a whirlwind of… people. It started after moving here.”
“Don’t worry. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your general health maybe you can just ride it through. Everything passes, and in the meantime we can keep searching for the old guy - he’s meant to be skilled at all kinds of healing.”
Filling and lighting the pipe, “Always the optimist! Well, there is nothing that can be done - no-one in the settlement can help, so it will have to be as you say.”

Soon, the event is forgotten. Pungent smoke inhaled enhances the afternoon view from the ledge over the nearby harvest plot and further forest expanse. Thoughts meander by, unhurried plans made for the coming days, sitting contented whiling away the last of the sunlight plaiting coarse rope and tender words.

Over the following days, the moon waxing towards fullness, foraging close by for edible fruits, clearing land to sow new crops, and gathering herbs and seeds to plant in the compound garden occupies the time. No more phantom audition, just long days of labour, preparing for the hot season ahead. Joyfully engaging in the process of collecting and sowing, this pair of independent junglefolk strive to create a sustainable microcosmic system of give and take, digging and carrying so that later less will be needed. However, every now and then, an ominous pall clouds the work, premonition of danger encroaching, casting doubts on the ultimate wisdom of remaining alone and isolated. Discussion is inconclusive - nothing untoward has been actually heard or seen, so much as felt, amidst the natural flow of jungle life, but something is amiss. Intuitions of a watching, stalking presence which, like the voices, must be borne and overcome, for now…

Before long, the night of the full moon is realised. With a, “Good luck!” from Droufadni, torch in hand the distance between clarity and mystery decreases, each footfall moving closer to the long-awaited subterranean rendezvous. Rehearsal of the route in the intervening period ensures a steady progress - already the sound of water, amplified by heightened tension, resounds clearly from ahead.

Entering the river chamber, once more across the water a figure sits motionless. Putting out the flame, eyes adjust to the dim light and time slows. Minutes go by sitting on the bank opposite the robed man.

Breaking the silence, Bukem speaks, in slow, measured tones, “First, know that as this river is to the mountain, so is this life to the infinite spirit - flowing on, it comes from inside the vastness, only to disappear a moment later… the nature of this mountain is that of all the earth - we are within, or we are without.”
Hesitantly, “…without what?”
“Connection, identification. Purpose.”
Mustering courage to speak, shaking, “It seems this way, but what good could this possibly be for living in the world. How does it help?”
He counters, “Or more accurately, ‘To what end would be changing the conditions of existence, were there no-one to calculate gains and losses?’ This is the question of eternal play, for ultimately all is mirage. There is no dreamer but as the dream, just as the river before us is the mountain. Change occurs whether or not intention pertains. Why make the attempt when we are the result..? Let it happen and you may be surprised.”
“Sure, why not. Um, look, it’s probably not my business, but do you live in this mountain, or do you just come here once a month to freak out the locals? I mean, because there’s a house above, at the opening of the cave, and someone used to live there. Is that you? Have you found another place now, or will you be coming back?”
A pause, and then quietly he announces, “There is no going back. It is your home now. Remember what has been said, and come again at the next moon.”
Rising to leave, something drops on the rocky ground, thrown from beyond the river by Bukem. Leaning over to pick it up, what is found appears to be an amulet of some description.
A shout from across the stream elaborates, “Eye of the beast - it will protect you from what lurks in the jungle at night.” Placing it in the flint-bag and waving to the old man, freshly lit torchblaze shows the way out. Rock paintings abound on the sides of the passage to the surface; animals and people mostly, drawn long ago in browns, ochre, orange and black, but also other less recognisable figures and shapes, obscure to the passing glance in the half-light, intimations of prior habitation.

Returning, an ordinary night of sitting, smoking and talking ensues. Along the way the question is posed, “Did you find any traces of the old man while you were down there?”
“Ah, funny you should mention that… there’s something to tell about that after all.”
Her inquisitive, “Ye-e-e-s…?” indicating awareness of a hidden element.
“You see, on the first expedition, something happened which wasn’t relayed in full - that is, on both occasions a strange thing occurred…”
“We-e-e-ll…?”
“Um, the old man is down there, at least he comes each full moon - though it’s anyone’s guess how he knew there’d be company. And he left this…” Drawing the talismanic pendant from the pouch, at first the thought occurs that it has been switched - it does not seem to be the same one seen in the dim cavern. Firelight illumination producing a fierce yellow/orange glow, handing it across to Droufadni the luminous carved animal-head pulses vibrantly as the flames grow and dissolve into the air.
“It’s beautiful! Did he say anything, like why he gave you this?”
“Apparently to resist the presence that’s been felt these last weeks coming from the jungle. He calls it ‘eye of the beast,’ and he too believes there’s something out there - this will keep it away. Apart from that, while the conversations were short, something in the way he spoke makes them very difficult to recall. A sense of knowledge, or wisdom, surrounds him. Perhaps it will become clearer next moon.”
“Now tell me, why didn’t I hear of this the first time?”
“It just felt safer to wait, until there was no question of his intentions. When he offered this amulet, it became obvious - he’s just trying to help. And his assurance he wasn’t coming back here to live means a permanent home. Besides, in the rest of what he said, it seems as if he’s trying to teach, or something. Anyway he appears harmless enough.”
“I suppose you’re forgiven. Just next time something happens that concerns me, ‘fess up. Alright?”
“Sure.”
All this time, she’d been admiring the pendant, turning it over and over, gazing into it’s shimmering depths. At length comes the suggestion, “Let’s string it for wearing - it’s so pretty!”

Some searching around in the shelves, behind pots of preserve in a box of assorted bits and pieces, two ceramic green beads are found to hang either side of the central piece, a length of hemp cord cut, threading and tying - one protective necklace.

Later, sleeping soundly at first then entering a hazy confused dream state, familiar faces from the village surround a procession. Then, running along a path by the shore, looking everywhere for Droufadni, “Where are you?” yelling this into a billowing mist. A figure looms large from the undergrowth. Is it a man - or a creature. Now being chased, further and further into the jungle, the path begins to wind, becoming smaller and indistinct as something chases, heavy panting approaching, gaining. Running faster, crashing through dense bushes, sword-grass cutting, a small clearing with a table in the centre. On the table is a child’s toy, a spinning top, whirring as it revolves. A cacophonous roar comes from outside the clearing. The spinning top. Must. Be. Stopped. Reaching out, looking up at the grasses parting, a giant black shape lumbers forward. The sky is lime green, the smell of fragrant spices wafts along the air. Suddenly, the knowledge comes that the top is to be protected at all cost - turning towards the creature, grasping the amulet, seeing fangs bared, it has pounced, is above, bearing down through the air - the table is toppled as the beast’s smothering bulk lands. Green turns to red. The scents of sweat and blood mingle…

Waking, startled and scared, breathing fast, the fire has all but burned out. Faint treeline silhouetted against the predawn sky, more wood and the blaze rekindles. Slowly warming, thinking this life must all be a dream, for how can such extraordinary events become manifest but in the world of vision alone? The river is of the mountain - sure. The mountain is of the earth - fine. But the river also erodes the mountain, changing the earth… must ask the old coot what he thinks of that!