The Book of Explorers

The "singing vine," so named by Ian Norcross following his first expedition to this region, does not, of course, sing. Typical whimsy on his part, that designation, and now we're stuck with it. The sound it produces when touched does not strike any of us as resembling a human singing voice. A reedy whistle, at best; an occasional atonal whine or cry.

We plod on. Kirby in the lead with his rusted machete, hacking away. Annoyingly, he seems to be invigorated by the humid stew we breathe instead of air. Great swinging arcs of the blade; lusty grunted exhalations. Tiny toneless shrieks from the scattered singing vines.

At a rough clearing of sorts—an area of moss, mushrooms, and rotted stumps—we set up camp for the night. Pamela stakes the tent. Kirby clears the perimeter, hoisting branches and rocks into the growing dark, expanding our territory. Wakefield attempts a fire. I remove provisions. Luntz, notepad out, sketches a plant sprouting from the cleft in a red stump. After dusk, from the Kirby-carved tunnel of forest, Esterling appears like a just-risen nocturnal creature, taking us all by surprise. We hadn't realized he had lagged so far behind.

Night in the tent: Luntz and Wakefield fetal, silent. Kirby heaving and grunting and making truncated machete-arm swings in his sleep, still at work, hacking his way through dreams. Pamela, I sense, is awake like me. Outside, the fire's still going. I can hear it pop, hear Esterling pacing. His shadow wavers across the tent wall, growing and shrinking and growing again. Pamela has chosen to place her sleeping bag beside mine, unnecessarily close, it seems to me. A testing closeness, as if to prove (to me? to herself?) that, as she has always maintained, we can work together professionally in spite of the divorce . . .

The next day Kirby is pierced by something. Thorn, insect tail, fang—we don't know. He hacks even faster than usual, as if fueled by it. We produce the kit. We propose antibiotic ointment, antivenom, water, bandages, rest. Kirby will have none of it. He hacks furiously away.

We set up camp at a rough clearing of sorts, an area of moss, mushrooms, rotted stumps. I collect soil samples. Pamela takes photographs. Kirby, cross-legged in the dirt, glares fiercely through smudged spectacles at the infection in his leg, at its purplish flowering core and the pus-green tendrils radiating outward across his calf. Luntz is sitting on a rock, speaking softly to a nearby singing vine. Only Esterling stands apart, at camp's edge, gazing into the forest. He seems never to have recovered from his year of solitary research at Lake Tanganyika. Try to talk to him and he looks back at you, face closed; vast, watery distances in his eyes . . .

The next morning, Kirby refuses to come out of his sleeping bag. His voice sounds lucid enough, but he refuses to come out of his sleeping bag. He's sealed himself inside. He talks about the "risk of contagion," although it's unclear whether the contagion risk is to us or to himself. We stand above him. Our eyes meet: delirium. Whispered counsel at a jagged stump. Kirby hops from the tent, still sleeping-bagged, insisting in a hearty, if muffled, voice that he can go on . . .

Now I'm on hacking duty. Pamela's idea, basically. I'm the strongest, she says. None of the others—not even Wakefield, three inches taller and ten years younger—see the need to question that assertion. I'm assuming there will be a rotation. Atonal squeals shred and scatter around me.

I think of thorns, insect tails, fangs.

I think of Norcross. An entourage of locals to do his hacking. I picture him on a palanquin, body assuming a listless, reclining pose but face feverish under his pith helmet, glistening with exploratory greed . . . A notorious opium eater, apparently, old Norcross. Until he discovered the jijasa root in this jungle. (Or, more likely, it was introduced to him by the locals and he appropriated the credit.) A revision to...