The air is a presence against my skin. Strangers here have called it oppressive; air that you can taste, that you can feel trickling down your throat. To me it is home, my mother’s arms. She is with us always, and how can you doubt such a thing when you feel her surround you? The warmth of the night is gentler than the warmth of the day, more invigorating. This is my favourite time in the jungle.
I make less noise than a jaguar as I prowl through the underbrush. The vines are dense and tight but they make way for me, recognizing a fellow in their midst. The others behind me curse and stumble, unwelcome strangers in our land, and it brings a subtle smile to my lips. They will never know the beauty that surrounds them. All they see are shapes in the dark; monsters created out of shadow and pulp. I know better. I see the great ferns at our feet, the moss-covered stones that can twist underfoot. I hear the skitter of the giant ants retreating at our presence; identify every night cry for each bird it is.
I tease them as I would children, for they are as lost in these climes as a litter of new-born rodents; but then, they have lived in the jungle for only a matter of hours, while I have counted every breath beneath these trees. No spear catches its first fish, so the saying goes, and no one is born with words on their tongues.
I lift a hand to hush them, then copy the gesture with my voice. They settle in a crowd at my back, barely breathing. We are here. I see the small lake glittering in the moonlight that shimmers from a break in the great and terrible canopy above. There is a whole world above our heads, but we are concerned only with the moment that will play out before us. The tiny lake is a perfect blue jewel in the twilight, and a rare white lily grows near our feet. I point it out to them, feel their awe like a shiver along the tiny hairs of my arms. This, at least, they appreciate. I hush them again, and we settle on our haunches to wait.
She will be here soon. The great spirit of the jungle, the mother of us all. She comes on the full moon, to bathe in the waters of the lake of her life and return to us in the water in the air. I feel the shiver of her presence approaching. Soon, they will see. They call it al legend, call us savages for believing, but we know. We have seen the mother of us all, and she will be here. Soon.
Picture by: Emily Lampson. Emily is a Canadian illustrator and fine artist. Check our her work at EmilyLampson.com.