Behind them, the white tendrils of decomposing forest fungi continued with their work, entering the bodies of the dead.
Two days later the travelers were far more tired. Since they had left the place where they had encountered the mokusinga it had rained especially hard. In addition to obstructing their vision, the severe downpour rendered the already sodden surfaces underfoot even more treacherous than usual. The slippery footing did not inconvenience Jemunu-jah, who progressed as much by the use of his long arms and six-digited hands as by his feet, but it slowed human and Deyzara considerably.
The slower they advanced, the more discouraged they became. Furthermore, despite repeated checks of the global positioning gear that was included with the survival packs they carried, neither Hasa nor Jemunu-jah was even sure they were still traveling in the right direction.
“We should have reached the village by now.” Hasa sat beneath the shade of an enormous spray of striped gray shelf fungi. Every time he shifted his backside, a small puff of spores rose prematurely into the air, only to be washed away as they were knocked down by the rain. A distant burst of uncommon thunder rolled through the varzea, and Jemunu-jah flinched involuntarily.
“I understand.” Masurathoo had folded himself into the darkest, driest corner of their temporary mycorrhizal refuge. “Forest spirits. There is most assuredly no need to be afraid.”
“I not afraid.” Jemunu-jah glared at the Deyzara. “Childhood stories are always with one.” He looked over at the human. “What about you, Hasa? You have no cubling fears of darkness and sky shouting?”