by Tee Morris
*****
Flowerdew awoke to the smell of hot rum and mud. He could tell he was in Riches’ cabin, but something was different. He was not able to see as much of the room as when he first arrived. He reached up and found his face covered in bandages. After frantically unwrapping the bandages covering his left eye, he breathed a sigh of relief on being able to see out of both. After that little scare, Flowerdew searched the rest of his body. His arm and chest were properly wrapped with clean dressings. Resting on his chest, hanging from a cord around his neck, he also found a little charm of a white goat-dog looking thing. Curious about it, he filed away his question about it for later.
“You are awake,” Cricket chirped. He dashed out of the cabin, returning shortly after with a bowl of stew.
Zeke had probably been too drunk to remember anything clearly, but Cricket knew the truth.
“I am glad you are awake we thought wez gunna looze ya,” Cricket said.
“How long was I out?”
“Several dayz. We all tought you were a gonnerz.”
“How did I get back here? Did you carry me?”
With a loud laugh, Cricket replied, “Oh no, sir! When your clever machines blew up, it woke up the camp. Camp found you passed out next to Zeke, all cut up. They thought he had gotten a little too rough again. They woke up Doc. Got you in bed.”
“Cricket, what is this thing around my neck?”
“It is a cadejo. I made it for you to keep the rest of the evil spirits away. I figure it couldn’t hurt to help a little.”
“Do I need it?” asked Flowerdew.
Cricket looked very uncomfortable. “I think you might, sir. Take a look in mirror.”
Flowerdew pulled himself to the edge of his bed, looking at the odd reflection in the mirror. Everywhere La Llorona had cut him, the wounds were surrounded by black skin. Not like frost bite or jungle rot. Something different, as if he had been tattooed with the claw marks.
After giving Cricket a letter to deliver to a trade ship bound for Brazil, Flowerdew spent the next couple of weeks recovering, reading, and recording interviews. When Riches’ full time replacement showed up several weeks later, Flowerdew was more than ready to go home. He jumped aboard the first ship toward Jamaica, ready to sail away into the night. He was done with this jungle. Once in his cabin, a private cabin, he removed his jacket, vest and shirt, staring at the scars from La Llorona.
Perhaps he was done with the jungle. The jungle, however, would never be done with him.
