computer. I refuse to let the predictability of my victory detract from its beneficial effects on my mental health.
Tonight I'm going to read Odegaard's official report on the Shamblers of Misery. And then I'm going to sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Day 106: Eisen Zwei, the old chieftain, came back today! I first saw him enter this clearing ninety days ago. Has a pattern begun to emerge? I can't interpret its periodicity. I don't even know what sort of life span the Asadi have. . . . But to come back to the issue at hand, Eisen Zwei entered the clearing with the huri on his shoulder, sat down, remained perhaps an hour, then stalked back into the Wild. The Asadi, of course, fled from him—motivated, it seemed, more by loathing than fear. . . . How long will I have to wait until ole E.Z. returns?
Day 110: The behavior of the Asadi has undergone a very subtle change, one I can't account for.
For the last two days every member of this insane species has taken great pains to avoid stepping into a rather large area in the center of the clearing. As a result, the Asadi have crowded
themselves into two arbitrary groups at opposite ends of the field. These "teams"—if I may only half facetiously call them that—do not comport themselves in exactly the same way as did the formerly continuous group. Individuals on both sides of the silently agreed-upon no-man's land exude an air of heightened nervousness. They sway. They clutch their arms across their chests. They suffer near epileptic paroxysms as they weave in and out, in and out, among their fellows. I sometimes believe they writhe to the music of an eerie flute played deep in the recesses of the jungle.
Sometimes staring matches take place between individuals on opposite sides of the imaginary chasm. But neither participant puts a foot inside the crucial ring of separation, which is about thirty meters long and almost the entire width of the clearing. Not quite, mind you—because there's a very narrow strip of ground on each sideline through which the two "teams" may exchange members, one member at a time. These exchanges occur infrequently, with a lone Asadi darting nervously out of his own group, down one of these unmarked causeways, and into the "enemy" camp. Do they avoid the center of the clearing because that is where Eisen Zwei once made his bloody offering of flesh? I really don't know.
The Bachelor has reacted to all this by climbing into the branches of a thick-boled tree not ten meters from my lean-to. From dawn to sunset he sits high above his inscrutable people, watching, sleeping, maybe even attempting to assess the general mood. Occasionally he looks in my direction to see what 1 make of these new developments. But I'm only good for a shrug. . . .
Day 112: It continues, this strange bipartite waltz. The dancers have grown even more frantic in their movements. Anxiety pulses in the air like electricity. The Bachelor climbs higher into his tree, wedging himself in place. The nonexistent flute that plays in my head has grown shrill, stingingly shrill, and I cannot guess what the end of this madness must be.
Day 114: Events culminated today in a series of bizarre developments that pose me a conundrum of the first order. It began early. Eisen Zwei came into the clearing an hour after the arrival of the Asadi. He bore on his back the carcass of a dressed-out animal. His huri, though upright on his shoulder, looked like the work of an inept taxidermist, awkwardly posed and inanimate. The people in the clearing deserted their two identically restive groups, fleeing to the jungle around the assembly ground.
The Bachelor, half hidden by great lacquered leaves, unsteady in the fragile upper branches, leaned out over the clearing's edge and gazed down with his clay-white eyes. Surrounded now by the curious, loathing-filled Asadi who had crowded into the jungle, I clutched the bole of the tree in which The Bachelor resided, and all of us watched.
Eisen Zwei lowered
Tonight I'm going to read Odegaard's official report on the Shamblers of Misery. And then I'm going to sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Day 106: Eisen Zwei, the old chieftain, came back today! I first saw him enter this clearing ninety days ago. Has a pattern begun to emerge? I can't interpret its periodicity. I don't even know what sort of life span the Asadi have. . . . But to come back to the issue at hand, Eisen Zwei entered the clearing with the huri on his shoulder, sat down, remained perhaps an hour, then stalked back into the Wild. The Asadi, of course, fled from him—motivated, it seemed, more by loathing than fear. . . . How long will I have to wait until ole E.Z. returns?
Day 110: The behavior of the Asadi has undergone a very subtle change, one I can't account for.
For the last two days every member of this insane species has taken great pains to avoid stepping into a rather large area in the center of the clearing. As a result, the Asadi have crowded
themselves into two arbitrary groups at opposite ends of the field. These "teams"—if I may only half facetiously call them that—do not comport themselves in exactly the same way as did the formerly continuous group. Individuals on both sides of the silently agreed-upon no-man's land exude an air of heightened nervousness. They sway. They clutch their arms across their chests. They suffer near epileptic paroxysms as they weave in and out, in and out, among their fellows. I sometimes believe they writhe to the music of an eerie flute played deep in the recesses of the jungle.
Sometimes staring matches take place between individuals on opposite sides of the imaginary chasm. But neither participant puts a foot inside the crucial ring of separation, which is about thirty meters long and almost the entire width of the clearing. Not quite, mind you—because there's a very narrow strip of ground on each sideline through which the two "teams" may exchange members, one member at a time. These exchanges occur infrequently, with a lone Asadi darting nervously out of his own group, down one of these unmarked causeways, and into the "enemy" camp. Do they avoid the center of the clearing because that is where Eisen Zwei once made his bloody offering of flesh? I really don't know.
The Bachelor has reacted to all this by climbing into the branches of a thick-boled tree not ten meters from my lean-to. From dawn to sunset he sits high above his inscrutable people, watching, sleeping, maybe even attempting to assess the general mood. Occasionally he looks in my direction to see what 1 make of these new developments. But I'm only good for a shrug. . . .
Day 112: It continues, this strange bipartite waltz. The dancers have grown even more frantic in their movements. Anxiety pulses in the air like electricity. The Bachelor climbs higher into his tree, wedging himself in place. The nonexistent flute that plays in my head has grown shrill, stingingly shrill, and I cannot guess what the end of this madness must be.
Day 114: Events culminated today in a series of bizarre developments that pose me a conundrum of the first order. It began early. Eisen Zwei came into the clearing an hour after the arrival of the Asadi. He bore on his back the carcass of a dressed-out animal. His huri, though upright on his shoulder, looked like the work of an inept taxidermist, awkwardly posed and inanimate. The people in the clearing deserted their two identically restive groups, fleeing to the jungle around the assembly ground.
The Bachelor, half hidden by great lacquered leaves, unsteady in the fragile upper branches, leaned out over the clearing's edge and gazed down with his clay-white eyes. Surrounded now by the curious, loathing-filled Asadi who had crowded into the jungle, I clutched the bole of the tree in which The Bachelor resided, and all of us watched.
Eisen Zwei lowered
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