Time could not resist passing with more cruelty.
Gangrene moves faster.
Dionus is back to his old self, alert and hardened. His sense of humor is one of the things I missed most while he was inebriated. His dry, clever comments help to lighten the mood when it turns darkest.
Bolton, however, is back to a glowering stupor. His nose is infected. Whatever diseases live in the Nanten, they don’t take long to jump on an open opportunity, and his nose was left open enough. He blames Starlark, and rightfully so, but refuses to see how he might share that blame.
Balthandar is preparing a martingue broth for him as I write. Hopefully it will work to stave off a worsening fever and keep him on his feet. We should discover a clue to Graylag’s location any day now. I hope we are not truly lost.
While looking for dried vines to burn this morning I found a statue not far from our camp. It stood solitary, covered mostly in vines, but was comprised of a number of different faces and hands. They varied greatly in size. They looked sad. Some looked absolutely terrified.
I found it disfigured and somewhat repulsive, a reflection of this country carved in hardened wood.
It was a good reminder that we are not alone, even though this jungle feels so empty at times. Perhaps the people here feel time’s advance stagnate as much as I do. Between illness and raids by cannibals or bandits, I suppose there is little but anxiety left.
I can see the temptation to turn towards vile acts when vile acts are all that give man mastery over life out here.
Let us hope that we do not fall to the same temptations as we suffer the same anxious stretches. We are out of flatbake bread now and growing hungrier with every passing mile. Graylag cannot appear before us soon enough.