The rustling grows louder. The jungle carpet quakes.
I climb out from under the overhang, clutching my weapon at the level of my heart. Water blurs my vision, but I don’t soften my stance. “Come out if you’re going to eat me!” My voice is a wail against the rain, against the forest.
The rustling is deafening now.
My legs are shaking, the grip on the weapon trembling. I swallow back a painful lump. Maybe I can outrun the creature?
From the bushes come dozens of rabbits, howling monkeys, wild guinea pigs, and—are thoseanteaters? They rush past, veering around me and escaping from whatever approaches.
I’m not waiting around to find out. I bend to pick up my pack, my fingers clutch the strap—
The floor shifts and slides. A scream tears out of me as I’m knocked off my feet and swept into a thick mudslide. The sludge thrusts me toward a sleek hill covered in a mess of greenery and twigs. Trees whip past, a distorted painting on either side. The current propels me to a steep decline.
“Luna!” I shriek as I’m flung into the air, and I plummet down, down, down into a canopy of trees. I land on a branch with a hard thud. My pack and dagger slip from my grasp. Mud continues to pour from above, splattering onto my back in thick disgusting plops. I let out a shuddering breath. I’m curled around the tree, doubled over, facing the ground below. Most of the impact was on my stomach. I grip the tree and slowly climb down, my booted feet sliding on the slick wood.
Grime seeps into the corner of my mouth, cakes under my eyes, settles into my hair. My stomach hurts from when I landed on that branch. Which probably saved my life.
When I reach the ground, I drop to all fours and force my breath to even out. It hurts to inhale. Hurts to exhale. I catch sight of my pack and I crawl toward it, groaning as if I were a hundred years old and not eighteen. The rain rids my skin and hair of some of the mud, but my clothes will forever be stained in the color of filth.
Exhaustion blankets my vision, and fatigue overcomes my bones. From this tiny corner of the jungle, the sky is visible. I gingerly get on my knees and tilt my head backward. It’s dark and ominous, pouring rain, but comforting all the same. It’s a lifeline, an answer to my prayer. I’m not moving from this spot, rain be damned. Clutching the pack, I search for my dagger and find it perched on a rock. Then I attempt to set up camp.
But the hammock won’t stay up no matter how many knots I make.
I can’t start a fire in the rain.
And I’m not sure how one sets up a perimeter.
In the end, I prop against a tree trunk and wrap myself in the hammock, my pack tucked between my legs. I open my mouth to catch streams of water pouring down from overflowing bowl-shaped leaves. Then I reach into my bag and pull out the soggy bread rolls. I force myself to eat them all even though the texture reminds me of mushy rice. I finish my meal, reposition the bag, and clutch the dagger. The itchy, damp material of the hammock scratches the bottom of my jaw as I curl deeper into my cocoon.
This is how I fall asleep: alone, wet, hungry, and vulnerable to attack.
I try not to think about it as my eyes drift closed.
The next time I wake, it’s silent. I lean forward and peer up to the sky. Only a half circle is visible through the tangled tree canopy, but the night is as clear as if I were gazing into the unmarred surface of Lago Yaku. The hammock cocoon has dried stiff and smells like clothes that have been trapped in a trunk for a century. I shove at the fabric until I’m free, and then rummage through the bag for my telescope. If there was ever a time to seek Luna, it’s now.
I peer into the bronze scope and aim for the stars.
Luna is characteristically aloof, ever changing the shimmery lines that connect one star to another, forming constellations. The stars have their own language, and our diosa communicates through the heavens by creating symbols in the night sky. A celestial alphabet taught only to Illustrian seers. My great-aunt was a seer, and if I ever have a daughter, I’ll sit down and give her the test. Maybe she’ll inherit Luna’s blessed gift.
But for now I am the last seer of my people. The only one who survived the Llacsan revolt.
And though I’m fluent in Luna’s heavenly language, the constellations shift on me—in a moment, in a blink—leaving me unsure if I read the symbols right. This never happened to my aunt. The stars were always constant and true for her.
What am I doing wrong?
“Luna,” I whisper as the mosquitos return in full force. “Help me. Show me a way out of this place.”
I stand still and continue reading the shifting stars. They move slowly, lines connecting and disconnecting, rearranging themselves and changing shape, changing size and direction. It’s a mess up there. With a disgusted sound, I stop looking through the telescope. Why can’t I make any sense of what she’s trying to tell me?
I inhale and slowly shut my eyes. The jungle harmony surrounds me, clamoring for attention, but I ignore the constant chatter of the toads and owls and focus on feeling the heavens. Dwelling on the pressure building in my chest. Feeling the air trapped in my lungs. Thinking of the endless night, and the way the moon conquers all shadows. My hands tingle, tiny pricks that shoot awareness deep into my belly. I exhale, and once again peer through the scope. The stars have moved again. This time, they stay put. A single word is made clear, as if Luna herself whispers it in my ear.
Danger.
It comes to me breathless and urgent, impossible to ignore. I’m plunged back to earth, back to the heart of the jungle. I lower the scope and turn toward my discarded dagger, lying next to the hammock.
Something moves in the dark. Disturbs the tall leaves.
A noise climbs up my throat, shrill and panicked. The shadow I’m watching materializes, and he’s massive. Almost the size of ahorse.He looks ancient—from another time. A hint of red glows from the depths of his eyes. The jaguar crouches next to my tree, lambent gaze steady on mine. A feral growl rents the air. Luna save me. It’s going to be a slaughter.
