Travel down the decline was as expected, at least at first. I had not accounted for the mud being so slippery, for the absence of visual cues, and the changing consistency of the mud. I accordingly fell to my current position after losing my footing some ten or so meters into my journey. The ferns offered some handhold, but as I slipped in the slicker mud, I was thrown into a tumble. I don’t know how far I fell, or how many stones struck my head, my back, my limbs. I only know that I lay here now, facing the open sky, in mud that threatens to swallow me. My leg is bent badly. My back and head both ache. I have some strength in my right arm. With it, I dig my elbow down into the mud and pull.
The pain in my leg is excruciating. It has to be broken in several places. Every tug backward with my arms I drag it through the viscous mud. I want to scream. Something in me prevents it. Primal instinct warns: never cry out in the open wood. Who knows what will hear?
With some effort and extreme pain, I pull myself up onto a stone beside the mud. With it, I can at least lay my head back without sinking below the filth.
My leg is badly broken. I see bone through the skin. I have no means to mend it, nor to splint it, nor even to wash it in clean water. I have no clear idea what to do. I am a wounded animal alone in a strange place. I will perish unable to remember my own name.
Even when admitting this, I hear the mocking laugh of fate. Pain torments me, yet my prayer to lose consciousness goes unanswered. If I am to be done, let it be done. Let it be quick. Let the pain silence me and the blood loss take me away.
In time, my prayer is answered. I close my eyes, feeling the weakness and the darkness creep in from all directions. Is that the day drawing to a close, or my own life? My little stone line on the Compass Rock, do you point westward or not? I guess I’ll never know.
Where the hell am I?