This is no time to be taking chances with unknowns in the dark. You didn't work so hard to climb your way out of the pit just to risk getting drowned in some rapids. Besides, the strength in your arms is pretty much spent, and you're not sure how much use they would be when it comes to paddling a canoe. You are better off sticking to land, so you sketch out in your mind a rough plan to get down this trail as far as you can, find a place to take cover and get some sleep, and then reassess your situation in daylight.


It looks like the trail leading down the river is not too wide, suggesting that maybe you have lucked out and stumbled across one of the less well-traveled routes this time. Before you go too far, you fumble through your backpack, hoping Meredith didn't move your headlamp. It was in one of the upper pockets the last you saw it. Your hand feels several empty Clif Bar wrappers at first, but then it settles on the elastic band of the headlamp. You have no intentions of turning it on so close to the Woban village, but you do want to have it handy.


After putting the pack back on, you set off down the trail. It keeps close to the small river at first, which you can hear gurgling on your right, even if you can't always see it in the dark. There is one spot where the trail passes a large opening on the bank; you suppose the view must be stellar in the daylight, but now it's just "stellar" in the sense that you can see a sky full of stars above the calm water. The mountains you saw earlier are now inky silhouettes.


But you are not here to go sightseeing. You rush down the trail, with the river growing louder as you continue. Within minutes of passing the canoe you begin to hear splashes in the dark, suggesting you are no longer following a calm waterway, but a rugged and wild mountain stream. It's hard to imagine how useful the canoe would be here. The terrain is getting more rugged too; after almost tripping over the fifth unseen rock, you concede to the reality of your situation and flip on the headlamp. Hopefully there are no Wobans around to see this unnatural beam of light you're about to cast about their jungle.


It's a good thing that you did, though, because the trail is now going down an increasingly steep slope, with more roots and rocks in your way than you suspected. There is also a distinct roar somewhere up ahead, suggesting that you are nearing a powerful cataract. Indeed, a few minutes later you reach the top of a precipitous drop in the terrain, where both the river and the trail descend a massive rock ledge that must span the width of the valley. For the river, this means a waterfall of at least fifty feet, ending with a plunge into a boulder-filled pool.


The trail around the falls isn't less steep by any means. Rather than the free-fall made by the water, your route is a slower and carefully-controlled descent down a series of ledges — which might even appear like a giant staircase if you were, say, sixty feet tall. This is certainly a more extreme hike then you would normally prefer to make at [checking wristwatch] 12:48 A.M., and you would be more than happy to find that hiding spot any time now. The problem is, though, that when you reach the bottom of the ledges, the trail continues steeply down a rocky slope. Even if you did find a spot to stop, you'd probably go a-tumbling down the hill if you fell asleep in a place like this.


So you continue to work your way off the mountain. Despite your downhill direction, it is still a very laborious effort due to the rocks in your way that make your footing very unreliable; one misstep and you'll go sliding on your butt to a very painful landing. There is no way you could have successfully negotiated this terrain without the aid of the headlamp — although at this point you can't even tell if you're still on the trail. For all you know, the trail made a turn you didn't see, and now you're proceeding in some random direction.


But then, as you near what might be the bottom of this long and treacherous slope, your heart stops when you see another light ahead through the trees. For a second you think it's just the light of your own headlamp reflecting off the water, but that can't be; with all of the meanderings to avoid the steepest parts of the slope, you have wandered some distance away from the river. Then as you scrutinize the phenomenon a bit more closely, you see two people sitting around a small campfire. You can forgive yourself for not making the identification sooner, as there are quite a few trees between you and the campsite, and this is the last place you'd expect to find backpackers — not that these people are likely to be your average weekend warriors.


You immediately turn off your headlamp, but it's too late: the other people turn on their headlamps and come rushing toward you.


"Who's there?"


You have to admit, you are relieved to hear English instead of Wobani, but nevertheless you remain on high alert. It's hard to imagine encountering anyone helpful on this island.


The beams of light cast by their two headlamps quickly zero in on you. "You're in an awful hurry to get somewhere," the same voice says. "And might I add, why are you coming down the mountain? Most everybody else here is trying to get up it."


What's that supposed to mean? Have these two mysterious night lurkers figured out just by circumstance that you have the Stone of Vul-Kar in your possession? Or was that some kind of an attempt at humor?


__________________________________________________

You run.

"Sorry," is all you say as you try and push past these people — but you are almost stopped by the second person, who very much appears to be a Woban, both in terms of physical size and dress. Because of the blinding glow of his headlight you can't count the number of eyes, but the grass skirt and tattooed torso make you wonder.


"What's the rush?" the other man says. You only get a very quick impression of him: short, dressed in a green-checked shirt with brown trousers, round glasses, the beginnings of a dark beard.


But you are convinced that hanging out here and interacting with these people — on this island, at this time of the night — will result in nothing but trouble, so without any further hesitation you run. The terrain seems to be taking a break from its steep descent at the moment, so you are able to dash into the darkness, away from the glow of the little campfire, without feeling the immediate threat of falling off a small cliff in the dark. You don't even know where the trail is at this point; you are just running because — after all that has happened since you've landed on this island — trusting strange people is not your first choice.


"Ligru, go and find out what was in that backpack," you hear the unshaved man say behind you. "Do what you will with the body."


All right, that settles it. You really do need to get out of here. The question is where, though? At first you run for distance, just trying to get beyond the reach of the headlamps. But you're in a forest in the dark, with your own headlamp turned off to remain invisible. Your right shoulder hits a tree hard, almost knocking you off balance. And then you start to thrash through a bush that you can't see. Keep this up, and your pursuer won't need a headlamp to find you.


So you drop to the ground and try to be as still as possible. By some miracle the big man with the grass skirt is not right behind you. In fact, both men seem befuddled.


"We weren't just imagining this, were we Ligru?" the short man says.


"I don't think so, Professor," the big man says. In the glow of each other's lights, you can see now that he only has two eyes. Not a Woban.


"We were imbibing rather heavily, and right now I'm not even sure if I can continue standing."


"Yes, you were enjoying the bottle, sir."


"So were you! I didn't drink this all by myself," the professor says. "Now help me back to my tent, before I pass out here."


"Yes, sir."


So this is interesting. The pursuit was cut short because the people pursuing you are drunk. As you lie on your stomach over a hundred feet away, partially hidden by some lacy vegetation, you watch as Ligru — the big man in the grass skirt — helps Professor So-and-So with the eastern European accent back toward a little pup tent next to the campfire. "Is there any more of that whiskey?" the professor asks. "I think you've had enough," you think you hear Ligru reply, but they are so far away and speaking so softly that you're not entirely sure.


With the professor safely stowed inside the tent, Ligru sits beside the fire in silent contemplation. He picks up a glass bottle, twists off the stopper, and takes a big swig. Apparently the whiskey bottle was not quite as empty as he had let on.


So the crisis seems to have passed. Or has it? You are lying on your belly just a short distance from the campsite, unseen only because you were smart enough to stop running and lie still. Before their impairment took over, you distinctly heard this professor give the order to take your pack and dispose of your body. So clearly you are not among friends.


But now what? Just keep lying here until Ligru passes out too? Or if everyone is drunk over there, is it safe to just scoot away right now?


__________________________________________________

You scoot away.

You need to get out of here; the idea of just lying here is absurd. But where should you go? You have no idea where the trail is, and you are certainly not going to wander around in the dark looking for it. Your descent down the steep, rocky slope diverted you away from the small river you had been following, which you can now hear about a quarter-mile away. Lacking a more definitive option, you decide to head toward the water. If nothing else, the river is in the opposite direction from the campsite.


Instead of standing, you decide to crawl backwards. This way, if Ligru reacts you will know immediately, and you will be able to lie right back down. You just wish you knew what was behind you. Taking a few cautious steps, one foot brushes a rock, so you adjust course. Ligru doesn't move. You back up some more, bumping into a small tree a moment later. Still Ligru doesn't move.


Then you notice that you are going down a hill, and if you go far enough you'll be out of sight of the campsite. This could be a good development. Taking one last look at Ligru, you begin to suspect that he may be asleep even as he sits by the fire; even though his eyes are pointed straight at you, they haven't seen a thing in some time.


So why all this crawling, then? You stand up and run down the hill, turning on your headlamp to see your way. A galaxy of whitish green leaves and silvery tree trunks surround you, whizzing by as you run for your life, hoping for at least one time tonight to find a spot on this whole big island not occupied by somebody else. How far must you go? Will a mile be enough? Two? Maybe you should keep right on going until you reach the Pacific Ocean, and hope Captain Mark has another runabout he can use to pick you up.


You stop to look behind you, relieved to see no beams of light as Ligru and his professor friend chase after you. There are such things as small mercies after all. But you've covered all of maybe a hundred yards; you want to be where neither they nor anyone else will ever find you come daylight.


The hill becomes steeper again, and it becomes clear that you are heading into a V-shaped section of the river valley. The stream no longer sounds distant, but like a living force gushing through the heart of the night. It occurs to you that its banks might not be a horrible place to hide; the rapids are so noisy that you won't hear anyone coming, but then no one will hear you moving about, either. On the other hand, from what you can see the terrain directly ahead of you looks like it might be forbiddingly steep. Maybe it would be better to keep to higher ground, contouring at this same elevation above the river where the terrain is less rugged.


__________________________________________________

You keep to higher ground.

If descending that steep slope toward the river really was a viable option, then it's just proof that you're not thinking straight anymore. What a night it's been! Except for when you were knocked unconscious by the Wobans and tossed in the pit — which you're pretty sure doesn't count — you haven't slept since you left the Big Papi, and that was nearly twenty hours ago. Since then you've sentenced a man to death by cannibalism, escaped the confines of the pit by sheer strength, and dodged an inglorious murder at the hands of a drunk professor and his guide. In between all of those episodes you climbed partway up the mountain, and lately you've been running down it in the dark. You haven't eaten anything since… well, have you eaten at all? You can't remember anymore.


The point is, you're getting to the point where you can't trust yourself to make the right decisions. You better find a safe place to stop soon, or in your deliriousness you might just plummet off some unseen cliff.


You decide to follow the side of the hill, keeping the river well below you and to your right. It churns wildly in the darkness, like a wild beast that would be eager to chew you up if you got too close, so the act of keeping to the hillside seems like walking through a zoo as a hungry tiger stalks you on the other side of the bars.


The end begins when you stumble over small roots, getting angry that they placed themselves in your way. Then you walk into a branch that scuffs the side of your forehead pretty roughly. There is no blood, but it burns like hell. Next you slip on a wet stick on the ground that you never even saw, landing hard on your tailbone.


But you can't stop here, because the hillside is too slanted. Instead of descending a steep hillside like you considered a short time ago, you are now walking across the face of one. There was probably a point where you should have veered left and gone around some knoll or something, but it's too dark to see these things, and your brain is too tired to process the information even if you had seen it. So here you are, side-sloping across some steep hillside, with no idea what you're walking toward.


Therefore when you come to a spot where the hillside before you simply disappears, you're impressed with yourself for seeing it. You didn't just walk out into empty space and tumble into oblivion. Good job! But now what are you supposed to do?


Shining the headlamp about, you see that the path of an old mudslide lies directly ahead of you, where a slice of the hill slipped into the valley after a heavy downpour. Can you walk out straight across it? That would be the shortest route, but in your state do you dare? You have no way of knowing how stable the slope is.


The next best option is to go up and around this thing. So yes, after everything else you've done today, it looks like you can add bushwhacking up a steep slope in the dark to avoid a mudslide to your list of accomplishments. That guy back on the boat, Whats-his-face, isn't paying you enough. This whole mission is nuts.


Nothing but thin brush grows along the edge of the mudslide, and the soil is still unstable along the point where the face of the hill was torn apart. And this, of course, is where you are climbing in hopes of finding a way around the obstacle. When your right foot misses its mark and slides into space, your left foot is unable to find anything solid to grip. The sapling in your hands is bending under your weight, and at any rate you lack the arm strength to hold onto it — that was all used up after the piton episode.


And so you slip away into the mudslide, finding it to still be a gooey mess. You are like a fly trapped in a bowl of Betty Crocker cake mix. Efforts to slow your descent have no effect, and before you know it part of the hillside is falling with you. When everything comes to rest at the bottom, where all of the mud and trees in the path of the slide were piled up in a debris pile forty feet deep, you finally get the rest you have been seeking — buried under a ton of newly dislodged mud.


THE END