From Dr. Ehirllimbal's private journal—

April 12th, 1954: The Ytucalis found us at Borja, some three days after the disaster along the Pongo de Manseriche. Their dialect is odd, even for Círo, who led us to believe that he was fluent in most of the regional variations. However, we have managed to work out a rudimentary manner of communication. They tell us the rains will last another two weeks. We're going to have to camp here at the old mission until the rain stops and the river subsides. Mr. Harrigan tells me that he can't do much for the damaged boat until the wood dries, and I wonder if we should make plans now to abandon it. The rains . . . so much worse than I had anticipated. Some nights, lying awake in my tent, listening to the rain, I wonder if I have made a grave mistake in attempting this journey.

Most of the Ytucalis party has gone back to their village, but they have left two warriors behind to assist us. They have been very genial and welcoming, and have shown great curiosity toward myself and the other Europeans of our party—the sort of fascination one has toward a new pet. I had wondered if we were the first white men they had ever encountered, but Círo, while he won't say as much directly, hints that this is not the case.

Yes, I would be naive to think that my guide has been completely honest with me. I think his "brother" is a fabrication, a lie that I eagerly believed when it was first offered. I think this is the route that Versai took, and I think Círo was his guide. But Círo's reaction to the Ytucalis is interesting: he was clearly disturbed by their arrival, and I believe his difficulties in understanding their dialect to be honest. I wonder what happened when Versai and his party came through here; I wonder if Círo is afraid of some sort of reprisal.

Not that we can go anywhere. The mountains are too impassable and the river is too strong. The Pongo is too narrow. We simply have to wait.

I had a dream last night. I dreamed that I woke up to find an old Ytucalis man in my tent, crouched next to my bedroll. His eyes were yellow sparks, and his teeth were like frost-rimmed glass. On his chest was an old tattoo of an immense tree with so many branches that it seemed like a black cloud had been speared by the tall trunk.

He said that my journey had been foretold to him, and that the river rose up against us so that we would be forced to stop here. We had to wait, for he was bringing heaven to us.