If you leave before the rooster crows it’s bad luck. There’s a dark journey that’s guided by the reflection of the moon. The plodding steps of the mules provide the closest sounds of the shifting night into morning. A patch of bad air brings spirits near the path.

The shadow of a little person runs through the underbrush. They jump from tree to tree— until they can hang from a branch over the path. They possess disfigured faces with red eyes. The type that make your bowels turn to water. Their skin seems aged and grey— but pulled tight so it has a waxy shine. You can’t run. Because you’ll lose the fragile web of protection that keeps them from harming you.

You can’t stop in the jungle. You’ll hear small thuds from beneath your feet. As if there’s frenzied fists banging on the earth. From below the surface. The laughs follow you from above and the screams from below. The rhythm plays at your mind— something that’s long been lost to regular concerns such as food or water. Days slip by without conscious notice.

A rooster brays in the distance— a rooster brays in the distance. You forget what that means. Your bloodied feet leave a confused story behind you. A rooster brays in the distance— you start crying for the sun. The dense cover overhead keeps the rays out. You stay alone with the bloodied shadows and the faint shriek of waiting poultry. A giggle feels the air behind you. You know you’re never leaving home again.