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1
EDEN
The rainforest is dying.
A scent not born from fire—instead, it’s a distinct stench of death like decaying meat.
Wet and musty.
Rotten wood.
Mold.
A smell I can’t escape since it’s rained nonstop every day for the past two weeks.
When I arrived in mid-September, we had sunshine and occasional drizzly rain.
“You brought the sunshine with you,” Samuel had told me. “At least you missed the worst of the rainy season.”
What the hell is this?
Never have I seen so much rain.
A blanket of water falls from the sky every minute, and I can barely see ten feet in front of me. I’m a prisoner in the hut, only venturing out to visit the jungle toilet, and I hold off as long as possible. My soaked, muddy shoes remain near the hut entrance. I shifted my belongings away from the open windows, even though there’s barely a puff of wind to blow the rain anywhere except directly downward. The grass-thatched roof overhangs the structure, directing rain runoff to form a waterfall imprisoning us in a fluid fence. The overspill creates small rivers throughout the village. A moat-like trench surrounds Samuel’s hut, and the past few days has seen the water lap at the entrance, concealing the two wooden steps below the doorway.
Everythingsmells damp. There’s no escaping the mildewy aroma. Only the raucous insects distract your thoughts, and I wish they would shut up.
During the day, I’m left to go stir-crazy while Samuel attempts to save some of the precious herbs. He pots the plants and lugs the clay pots into the long house. Many of the plants thrive, being acclimatized to this weather. Only the shaman is afraid of losing the rare ones, and considering we’ve had around twenty inches of rain in a short period, the water isn’t draining away fast enough, and the plants sink in a deluge of muddy water.
Fungus is a threat, and after Samuel’s story of how fungus can grow inside an ant until it bursts out of its thorax, I know the jungle has the power to control every living species that lives in her womb. No single species will dominate, and the balance can be horrific.
It’s why I need to protect the one that grows in my womb from the unseen dangers lurking in the green cavern on the edge of the village.
Opening my sack, I retrieve the plastic bag from the bottom and unwind the tightly wrapped package. It’s the one thing I have avoided for months. Only today, I’m unsettled and need to divert my thoughts from the miserable weather and the fact I may as well be in a prison cell.
I push on the tiny brass button before yanking at the flap binding the diary to the lock.
Shit.
Scurrying through some instruments on Samuel’s workbench, I find a small steel-pointy object he has used on wounds and poke it at the lock. It doesn’t fit. I rustle through his bag, and at the bottom, I find a random paperclip. Pulling the sharp end away, I jab the lock and twist several times, using more force than necessary.
“Give me a break,” I yell and toss the book against the wall. Reflecting my patience, the flap snaps on impact and lands open on the ground. I let out a gasp and scoop it up, brushing dust from the pages and cover. I slide into the hammock, curl into a lazy C-shape, and open Gran’s diary at the beginning.
To My Darling Ivy on your 18thbirthday.
All my love,
Albert xx
I suck in a breath and turn to the first page.
18th January 1956
My first entry in my new diary from Albert.
He surprised me, and I think he understands me better than I understand myself.
I didn’t expect us to last since I plan to move away from him for at least three years while I live at the hospital. Albert claims to understand, but three years is a long time apart.
