❝Shae Burrower, failed author and city girl, from Lavender Lane, at your service.❞
⎯⎯⎯
The story contained within these pages is not about me.
You all know of whom I write. If not by word of mouth or by the speculation of the Chileez Times, then by...
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I had chosen the barest tree I could find.
Everything in my pack, including the writing utensils and knife, had been strategically hung on the branches. I'd also taken off my boots, my socks, my belts and my jacket. The poor tree looked like an overgrown, bark-covered clothes horse.
Shirka hadn't moved.
Mitch, Gino, Ella, Lyong, and Nattaniel were nowhere in sight. Even though I'd paced the side of the riverbank, peering across the bank and listening intently, I could find no sign of the crew. I was alone.
The day was dying by the time Lennon T. James returned.
He was carrying his pack slung over one shoulder, the sheathed battle axe held on his back, and wood in his hands. His eyes were only for Shirka. Dropping the wood, he knelt next to the tiger.
He spoke to her, voice low and gentle.
From where I stood, I could see her ears twitch. His hands stroked down her spine, skimming over her wound and rubbing her head. There was a faint pur but it sounded dull. It was not the powerful and sweet sound that I loved; it was an exhausted, broken note.
Lennon T. James stood. He discarded his pack and axe, pulling something from his pant pocket as he walked to the wood.
I hurried forward. "Lennon T. James? Where are the others? Where are we? Do you think Shirka is going to be able to walk tomorrow?"
The questions fell from my lips. I had asked too little before, staying quiet because he was never forthcoming with information. Now, there was no more internal space to store questions. They needed answers, and they needed them now.
It was a shame the person holding the answers weren't giving them up.
"These are vurstokte, Shae. Fire sticks." Lennon T. James didn't look up from his hands. Deft fingers adjusted and readjusted the pieces of wood until they were perfectly placed, though I could detect no pattern. "They are the result of a parasitic moss grows on trees, sucking the life out of them."
I plunked down on the soft earth. It was damp but so were my clothes. The warm water in the air clung to my skin and coated the inside of my lungs.
Drawing my legs up, I rested my chin on my knees, hoping that by listening he'd keep speaking until answers came forth.
"It dries out the wood." He lit a match, the flare of light playing over his calloused fingers. "Wood dried by this moss are both highly flammable—" There was a whoosh as a stick ignited, the fire running into the pile and igniting the rest within seconds. " —and durable."
With the light from the campfire, I realised how dark it had really become.
The sight of a flame was welcome. We hadn't had one in weeks, not since coming to the jungle, and I was surprised how something so trivial brought so much comfort.
