The darkness is enclosing

A Story by Alice Boswell

The darkness is enclosing, thin columns of light break though the dripping canopy, making patches of the green-black foliage glisten. The air is heavy, presses down and muffles the jungle sounds, rhythmic croaks from a tree frog, birds and insects in unison; they are disorientating, seeming to fill the air from all directions. Then the drumming starts. A dull thudding, in a distant, or maybe not so distant clearing. The sound is unnatural and natural at the same time, a pounding base, the jungles own heart beat.

Away from this, surrounded by a high stake fence and protected by the glowing circle of warmth from an open fire, a delusion of tranquillity settles over the faction of weary travellers. They have taken time from their fleeting, futile lives to imagine themselves as weathered explorers, and to bicker with someone new.

Huddling closer, to each other and to the flickering flames, all disputes are forgotten as their fears begin to show through the carefully crafted masks which true darkness eradicates.

The story telling begins, and the accounts are familiar. New voices, new names, they are whispered, afraid of being found out, the experiences are hearsay, passed down generations and details forgotten, less believable with each retelling.

They finish, and then turn to me, expectant; something about my face tells them there is something new to hear, and so, I must begin.

“I first came to this place when I was still a boy. I had a job with a large logging company, notorious in their mistreatment of the locals.

They would buy out villages for nothing, just a few coins but no one seemed to care.

With these jobs you started low down, worked the machines, till there was an opening to over see a small group of native or white men, and so on until, hopefully, you were the director of a whole area, earning enough to leave for the more civilized world, and so in turn creating a new job opening. The boys who came to the jungle with dreams didn’t realize how difficult it would be to leave again, and promotion was the only way out.

In a few years I had a place in charge of a large group of men, but I couldn’t wait to leave.

Your body can adjust to the heat and humidity, and you can soon sleep though the haunting noises of the night, but you never get used to the feeling of isolation.

Men have gone mad in places like these, searching for their fortunes.

Over my years with the company I had been required to walk into the jungle, hunting for good trees and the new trails to take in our desecration of them. This meant that I was familiar with about a square mile of wild from the edge of our camp. It was not unusual for me to wander this area alone.

One particularly restless evening, I was prowling, spectre-like among the branches when I came across a glade I had never noticed before. Thinking I had wandered farther than usual, and it being dangerous alone and unarmed, I turned to leave. Movement caught my attention.

At the far side of the clearing the darkness seemed to be marching, then, as it advanced, shapes began to separate themselves, and forms clad in animal and bird became distinguished. With them, a low hum of chanting, almost took on a physical shape itself. The creatures slunk out from the trees, making their way towards the stone circle of a fire pit. Branches were already laid and two of the men fell upon them and soon had started a roaring bonfire. The rest of the group stood around the pit and were beginning to circle it, their chant growing louder.

I had become so engrossed in the strange dance, that I hadn’t noticed the second group making their way across the clearing.

These seemed as though a different species, in the place of fur and feathers were bright silks and gold. Two of the five carried large drums, one a sheathed dagger and a fourth leading a small deer. The last, behind them was a hooded figure so hung in ivory and jewels it should be impossible for him to have moved so gracefully. As they reached the others, all fell still, a deafening silence.

I stood transfixed, appalled, intrigued and terrified. Not wanting to watch but unable to pull away. The deer gave a frightened cry breaking the spell, and I turned and ran.

Morning has a way of diluting fears forged in the night, and waking I began to wonder if I could claim some of those riches. I would be able to leave for home immediately, and there would be plenty of men willing to help for a small share. I soon found my self, with ten other men, marching back along the trail I had fled from.

Time wore on, and the glade was nowhere to be found. We resolved to begin again the next day, starting earlier to cover more ground. The next day brought nothing, and the next, the men began to doubt me, and each day fewer came, till I continued my frantic searching alone. The camp believed me mad. They wanted to send me back to England, but the search had become frenzied, I had forgotten its true purpose, and they could not budge me.

I have never left. Sometimes I hear the drums, the chanting. As I watch the trees I sometimes glimpse a shadowy figure dressed in fur and feathers, and it is these moments that keep me searching.”

The tourists watch me closely as I end. They have hung to every word and wait to laugh at each other and themselves for being so taken in by it. But, my face reveals nothing. Wrinkled by the sun and time, it can all be seen. The ivory in my teeth, the darkness in my eyes, every overgrown trail I have walked etched into my cheeks.

Slowly they go. Still in silence. They will sleep. Tomorrow they will leave. They will go back to their own lives and my story will fade. There will be more of them. The words will be repeated “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.”, for as long as it takes me to find that place where they first came from.