From Dr. Ehirllimbal's private journal—

June 29th, 1954: Mr. Harrington believes we are now in Brazil, and according to his map, we should reach São Paulo de Oliverça within a few days. The general mood is one of hesitant elation: the possibility of being able to sleep indoors is a powerful intoxicant to the men. Too many days of sleeping on the wet ground. None of us expected this journey to be easy, all of the team has extensive experience living off the land, but no one was really prepared for the persistent heat and humidity of the river, or the rain.

A handful have come down with dysentery. Not unexpected, and Dr. Arnash has the situation under control, but the loss of able bodies has slowed our progress while we wait for them to recover. This delay has caused me some concern. Mr. Harrington and Mr. Gaultier have no reason to doubt the timetable which was established before we even got off the boat at Trujillo, and our progress has certainly kept within the margin of error built into that schedule.

However, I am under a different influence now. I am pulled by the garden. The flowers are almost ready to bloom, and if I have not arrived when they do, then I will have to wait another year. A year! They will leave me in the jungle if I propose such a thing. None of the men signed on for such an extended journey up river. Mr. Gaultier, at the very least, would refuse to extend monies to pay for their services beyond the current six month contract. No, I have to reach the garden before the night blossoms bloom, or the expedition will fail.

I may have to leave some of the men in São Paulo de Oliverça, as well as a majority of the equipment. Most of it is irrelevant anyway, though, if I do reach the garden in time, there will be opportunities later to use the equipment to survey other regions. But, it may be best to split the expedition soon for the simple expediency that a smaller group, traveling light, can cover much more ground.

When I dream, the stars twist in the sky like Chinese fireworks, and I can see the glow of the garden. But it is still so far away.

What should I do with Mr. Gaultier? Naturally, I would prefer to leave him with the others in São Paulo de Oliverça—to protect our investment, of course—but I think he would see that as the weak excuse that it is. Am I ready to confront him, or is it safer to bring him with me, allowing him to think he still has control of the expedition? And, when we reach the garden? What am I going to do with him then?

Part of me has the answer. It is both somewhat disconcerting and fascinating to watch my psyche split itself. Already, I have built walls to contain that part of me which was able to wield the shovel that night, that part which turned a deaf ear to Círo as he begged for mercy. Given time, I will rewrite history enough that I will no longer be responsible. It will be someone else who killed him, who performed that midnight ritual.

Part of me understands the sacrifices the garden demands. We cannot have our eyes opened without pain. We cannot see the infinite without being changed. I am like the flowers growing in the moonlight. I am ripening.