Explorer’s Log, Quintilis 1502
Some days we find nothing -nothing to warrant the persistent sun, the steaming jungle, nor the rude accommodations. Each day drags longer as it pulls us further from a return home. The beating hours are enough to drive a man mad.
There’s a capuchin examining me. He knows what I think.
The men bear these stresses better than I, used to hard labour as they are. They say to have hope. Or, they may have said there was no hope; my grasp of the local dialect is still tenuous.
Aha! Dhorman comes as I write, bearing that broad, white grin of his. He holds something as he comes, shouting. What is he shouting?
©2022 Chel Owens
Written in response to Crispina Kemp’s Crimson Creative Challenge.