That was when we remembered Chief's connections, and all our eyes turned to her, making her flustered.
"Oh no, McCloud," she warned, voice taking that tone of seriousness it always does when I ask these things of her. "I am able to obtain many things for this group, but a jeep? Do I look like I am made of money?"
"No," I said, smiling. "But your father..."
"We are not begging my father for money, McCloud!" she protested. "You know I have not spoken with him or any of my family for years since I ran away, he will be furious at me when he sees me, I... I..."
But the deal was settled. We had no other way of getting transportation, and that meant that Chief was going to have a little family reunion no matter how much she tried to convince us otherwise.
I'll admit, I knew her dad was rich, but I had no idea he owned such a nice place! He had his own fruit plantation and farm house, much nicer than anyone of his social class could ever afford. I guess that's what happens when you're a diamond miner with clout, and a tribal leader to boot. We approached, knocked, and were greeted at the door by a dark-skinned young woman, presumably a maid, who invited us inside to wait. The man had maids, he was so rich! Maids!
The outside of the place may have screamed "white plantation owner", but the inside told another story. Tribal carvings on shelves, carved wooden masks and traditional weapons on walls in earthy tones of red and yellow paint, the hides of lions and zebras covering the doorways in place of doors... it was like walking into a modernized African tribal hut, and almost homey and comforting in a way. We barely even noticed when a large shadow darkened the door to the sitting room until a thunderous voice boomed from the figure's chest like a drum.
"Do you like the decor? I have many such items..."
We turned, and were met with a jolly giant of a man, the man of the house. Jesus, he had to be something like six foot or so, and he was built like a football player - stocky, muscled, and tough. He wore a nicely made suit, but it didn't seem out of place or ill-fitting on him despite his massive frame. His otherwise harsh African features were tempered by a big, easy-going grin as he welcomed us to his home, and we instantly felt at ease with the man. That is, until his eyes fell on Chief, and the smile faltered. Whether he saw something he recognized in her eyes, or simply couldn't mistake his own daughter for anyone else, his demeanor changed and something like outrage and relief came over him.
"Muuzaji mtoto wa thamani ya vyombo!" he thundered, and Chief instantly flinched at her full name being called. "Where on the earth have you been, child? Your mother has been worried sick! You come here right now young lady..."
She followed him into the sitting room as we waited for her verbal lashing to be over, and what a lashing it was, if I could understand Swahili. I guess parents are the same world-wide with their ability to bring their own kids in line... Several tense moments passed, and then we heard soft, relieved crying. Peering into the comfortable sitting room, I saw the two embracing, Chief crying harder than she ever had into her father's chest and the big man wiping tears from his own eyes.
I let them have their moment, realizing now was not the time to interrupt. Who was I to come between a father and his daughter meeting after he thought she was likely dead or worse? Hell, if it weren't for us... she might have been. And if it weren't for her, we sure as hell would be.
After the emotional reunion was over, he returned to us and brought us into the sitting room. Did I say sitting room? There weren't really any chairs, it was all large pillows and cushions on the floor, and a low wooden table had small tins of snacks arranged for guests to have. Comfortable, yes, but a bit foreign. We settled in, explained our situation, and surprisingly, the guy was very cool-headed and kindly, offering us whatever help we needed - jeep included. He was just grateful enough we'd brought his daughter back safely to him, and wanted to help us however he could. He even insisted we rest in his guest rooms for the night before we left on our trip and fed us a lovely dinner!
It was tense, though, I could sense that he was terribly worried for his daughter and reluctant to let her go. He knew the horrors the Bloody Tongue Cult were capable of, and he feared she would be next. He actually thought they got her, and that was where she had been this whole time. He even made us promise we'd bring her home safely.
I'm glad we allayed his fears and even more glad we met him because we have a jeep now, but now I'm nervous - if someone like him is scared of the cult and what it can do, then how crazy are we for tackling it head on by waltzing right into their turf? Maybe we all had lost it somewhere along the line. Maybe we really all were a bunch of loons in that mental hospital back in Shanghai, hallucinating all this. But hell, I've never been so sure we need to do something now. Never in my life.
We disembark tomorrow morning for the Mountain. I'm deep into this now, like it or not, and I'm not backing down for anything. The Bloody Tongue better watch their backs, or they're going to really live up to their name.
-- Francis McCloud, Ready for War (September 9th, 1928)
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It's times like these, when things become calm and there are no dangers to worry about, that I realize the world is still beautiful. Yet, none of that matters if we can't make it to the Mountain on time. How contradicting our lives are now, when just a year ago... everything was so much simpler, and we were blissfully ignorant as to what forces darkened reality. Now, somehow, even nature's full glory seems to be something so fleeting and fragile, a thing to defend before it is forever lost along with humanity.
We disembarked for the Mountain early, and took our time on a sort of Safari through the Aberdare Savannah as planned, prepared for the rain and flooding of the wet season. The variety of wildlife was incredible! Herds of wildebeest, flocks of flamingos feeding on shrimp from salt pools, a pride of lions, even elephants and rhinoceros. In the far distance, a herd of giraffes grazed from the tall tree tops of scrubby acacia and baobab trees, and great birds wheeled lazily about like kites. It was serene, and part of me envied Muuzaji for calling this beautiful land her home.
That is, until the rain started. There's something about rains in Africa in that once they begin, they do not let up, especially during the wet season. We knew this and had planned accordingly, but even so, we were not ready for the river's banks to be quite as swollen as they were. Smaller streams had given us no trouble, but this river was directly in our path, and had become so deep that crossing with the jeep would have been impossible. Even worse, there was a massive herd of hippopotamus in the way bathing, and if what Muuzaji and Clayton say are true, then these slow-looking beasts are more dangerous even than the crocodiles also dotting the banks. I'm a bit skeptical of that, but they know more than me on these things... All the same, we'd have to take the longer route through the Aberdare Forest with its thick jungles, something none of use were enthused about. But at least we had Clayton to help us, right?
The rain came down in buckets, and there seemed no real end to it in sight or any sign of respite from it, so we had no choice but to bed down with our pitifully waterproof tents in the pouring rain. It was around this point when we had barely settled in, soaking wet beneath green foliage in our tents, that we heard a small group of men speaking Swahili outside. Peering outside, we found a band of Maasai men out foraging, and when Muuzaji spoke with them she determined they wanted to know if we needed any aid. If so, she said, they were willing to let us stay in their village, which was relatively drier than the tents. Of course we agreed, and that is how we ended up staying in a Maasai village overnight on our way to the Mountain of the Black Wind.
The next morning, we awoke and soon were offered a simple breakfast of that sticky dough we have come to know so well, along with something reddish yet milky. I was somewhat skeptical when handed the small wooden bowl of warm liquid, as it smelled like copper, and wasn't sure I should drink it. Yet Clayton, Enala, and Muuzaji seemed fine with it, and Ludwig merely gave a quizzical look before sipping it satisfactorily. Francis, however, did not partake, and seemed confused.
"What's this?" He asked Muuzaji nervously. "It looks like... blood. Do these people drink blood, Chief?! I knew it, they're part of the cult, too!"
"McCloud, you are being paranoid; they are not cultists," Muuzaji replied. "It is a reddish berry they mix with milk and drink for energy."
"Muuzaji, it is not a good idea to lie to a paranoid man," the doctor muttered. "Besides, it is much like blutwurst, I believe it is known as the blood sausage in English?"
"They're cattle-herding people," Clayton said. "They use every part of their animals, because the cow is what keeps them alive."
"Wait, so it's cow blood?!"
"Just drink it and shut up, McCloud. You're being rude to them, and embarrassing me."
I found it strange to drink, and rather unpleasant, but I could see the logic in using protein and milk together. After all, it's not much different from black pudding, really! Afterwards there seemed to be much dancing and singing, which Clayton helpfully pointed out was a sort of celebratory dance welcoming visitors into the village and wishing them well, and which he encouraged us to somewhat take part in. We did, of course; the beat from drums and call-and-response singing were infectious! The tribesmen seemed happy that we even partook in their cultural traditions, and were so kind and open that we were reluctant to leave them. But we had other places to be, and other trials to deal with, so with a final goodbye and thanks for the tribe's help, we were off and into the jungles.
I wish I could say the trip went well, but it didn't. I wish I could say we all go out unscathed, but the jungle is harsh, and sleeping in it is difficult. There's all sorts of noises out there, you can hear things creep and slither under your hammock as you sleep... and that's not counting health concerns! I can't think of a single one of us that didn't end up shuddering and spewing in the woods behind trees, or with some terrible wound that became ulcerated and infected... and of course, it was me first. We were deep into the jungle and on foot dealing with the foliage when it hit, a scratch I somehow got earlier in the day quickly got infected and became an open sore. By the time Dr. Hildebrand noticed, it was a wet, stinking, and sickening thing to behold, and very painful...
"Ugh, jeez. That looks almost like trench foot," Francis pointed out, and the doctor agreed. "Except it's on your arm..."
"It's jungle rot," Clayton added, sizing it up as the doctor tended to it. "Kills people quick, can go gangrenous if you're not careful... Lucky we caught it in time, you might have lost that arm..."
Gee, thanks, Clayton. You sure know how to make a lady feel better, don't you?
One bandaging and an uneasy night's sleep later, and Clayton finally got his - three days out, and he ended up ill and shuddering. He spent the next day violently spewing behind a tree, and once more, Dr. Hildebrand had to ply his trade to determine the cause. It was an hour before he returned from the tortured man in the jungle, shaking his head sadly.
"Dysentery," he murmured, looking to us and wincing in sympathy. "I knew as soon as I saw the blood. Someone did not properly boil the water before he drank it, or else did not use the cleaning tablets. I will need clean drinking water, some salt, and some sugar if we have it with us... and he will need at least a day of good rest. We will have to remain here for now..."
So, we have. We've been here dealing with Clayton's intestinal distress for some time now, but at least he seems better with some constant fluids being given to him by the doctor. I think he will be better by tomorrow, but for now, we're stuck and I've been writing. We can see bits of the Mountain even from here, looming in the distance like a great shadow... or, I realize with a sick twinge in my heart, like He does, over my shoulder, murmuring dark words and false promises into my ears, calling me... I despise Him, and I despise that mountain already. What sick plans has He for me there? What horrors could He and his followers possibly be planning?
-- Sarah McCain, Worried to Death (September 13th, 1928)
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Sick. Don't even fucking talk to me about being sick. Don't ever talk to me about being sick again. You don't have the right until you've spent the entirety of a day unable to talk because you're literally exploding from both ends of your body. You have no idea.
I'm still not feeling well, so I'll make this quick. There's a hell of a lot of danger in the jungle, and me being totally out of it with fever, cramps, and copious water loss hasn't helped. You can't think when you're sick, and that means death out here... it nearly was the end of me. Everyone else saw the quicksand ahead except for me, and I fell right in, nearly sunk to the bottom. Fortunately, I knew not to move, and within moments the others pulled me to safety.
I'm still embarrassed, but alive. We're camped out now and the doc's been taking good care of me. He's been feeding me something that's a mix of bland oats in a sugary-salty water mix, says it's good for my intestinal issues and for replenishing salts. And yes, this time I made damn sure the water was boiled and there were anti-bacterial tablets in it.
"You sure this'll help, doc?" I asked, weakly, as I watched him prepare the solution.
"Oh, ja - it should," he replied, smiling gently behind his white Santa Claus beard. "There is no formal research on using it as an oral treatment, admittedly... but the science is sound, and I have done it before with good results! Then again, I do only have a sample size of precisely three, including you..."
"Wonderful, I'm a lab rat," I moaned, lying back in the hammock and wishing I were dead. I'll admit I was skeptical at first... I mean, how could water with salt and sugar do anything to help this? But, well, he was right. It worked. I've been feeling a lot better since, and now that the bacteria have run their course I'm feeling a lot perkier and can actually keep things down. Still not able to eat anything too heavy or complicated, but I'm recovering, at least. Now let's hope it doesn't happen again, or worse yet, I don't spread it to the others...
I think disease may be the least of our worries, though, compared to whatever's at that Mountain. Just a hunch... Just last night, Sarah had some sort of bizarre dream, she swears up and down that in it she gave birth to Nyarlathotep's child. I don't deign to know whatever the hell weird things she gets up to in her bedroom, but she's been almost... driven by a connection to him lately. She's confided she felt called to come back and help the others, even after we'd heard about Francis and Muuzaji's mishap with the Hunting Horror. She insists it's Him that brought her back, that whispered to her, that told her she needed to return to the mission one more time. Me, I heard the call to action too, but not the same way she did, not so strongly she felt she had to abandon her adopted son. Not like this... I wasn't enticed or tempted like she was, I wasn't whispered to in the dark of my nightmares like she was...
Not only am I sick with dysentery, now I'm sick with worry. Something's up with her, something that I don't like. Is Nyarlathotep's influence actually getting to her, drawing her in to her doom? Or is she finally just going off the deep end?
-- Clayton Byrd, Never Sicker (September 14th, 1928)