So he moved on, skirting around the jungle entirely. From here he could see that the island split up, into two long peninsulas with the lagoon in between, a sea loch. This was known as the 'forking'. The 'Great Divide' of the isle. And between these two long legs of land, in that marshy, jungle growth lowland, all covered with steam, was the 'forbidden valley'. A no-man's land, where man is not supposed to go. Where the spirit of the Goddess herself is said to dwell. People referred to it in hushed whispers as simply 'down there'.
Thick, thick, cotton-candy clouds hung low over the entire jungle region. They extended across the whole mid-section of this isle, as if the Motherland wore a skirt. A skirt to hide her charms, her secrets, deep down in her jungles below. But occasionally a big wind blows, and lifts her skirt, for just a moment, so you can see how lush she is down inside.
And if you listened, you could hear a waterfall down in there.
Between these peninsulas he could see the lagoon, or estuary, shining blue. Further south the peninsulas spread apart, as the lagoon became a vast wetland sea marsh merging into the ocean.
Looking Down Into The Forbidden Valley
He found a perch to sit upon, and peered down into the valley below. The forbidden valley.
Here, Lady Godiva and her cat had disappeared into the pink mists.
And the scents! The musky aromas that rose up from there! Ahh! Here was what had beckoned him all across the isle. And from the distant seas.
Here was 'the source'. The vortex and nexus.
He could hear, through the misty shroud, the sound of a waterfall, gurgling and tumbling, as it fell from the jungle cliffs into the forbidden valley below. Here, surely, she lived and breathed. He raised his sceptre, and it trembled and throbbed wildly in his hands. Like a dowsing rod, it pointed straight down into the great divide, the canyon below, seeking the holy nectar, and the moist, rich earth. He knew there was gold down there somewhere, and he was going to prospect, come hell or high water. He would find her buried treasure, ... or perish.
~
This was pure jungle, the jungle bush. Only the spirits, the wild, the forbidden, go down in there.
Most everything was obscured in the thick cloud cover. But he could sense its magical essence. The place of Gods and Goddesses.
He watched as many birds circled around, and dived into the clouds. Down there in the swamps, were the giant, tangled, nesting grounds of the isle. There they laid eggs and bred. He heard their cries and watched them soar.
~
Tomek pulled a small wooden flute out of his backpack, and played a tune, echoing in the canyon, as his feet dangled over the valley. Then broke into song:
♫ Down in the valley, valley so low
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow
Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.
Roses love sunshine, violets love dew
Angels in heaven, know I love you
♫
~(Appalachian folk song)
After some time, he heard some singing, - the siren-like voice of the lake maiden....... As if answering his notes.....
~
Soon he got a whiff of a new aroma. A delectable scent of a fine, fine stew. Someone down there, down in the jungles deep, was cooking up quite the feast. And he suddenly realized how starved he was.
At last, he thought, it was time for him to do it. Time for him to go down to the valley below.
Walking The Pampas Peninsula
He wandered down the peninsula, looking for a place where he could descend. However, the inner sides of the ‘great divide’, this cliff face, wetted by constant steam, were smooth and glistening, covered in slippery moss. Their slopes were rounded, and as slippery as silk to the touch of a hand. One misstep and he'd slip to his death.
The silky slopes were also replete with maidenhead ferns, their fronds opening to the mist. But most noteworthy are special types of 'Orgasmic' trees that grew here and there in groves. Unique to the isle, they're a variety related to 'Quaking Aspens'. When the slightest breeze rustled through their leaves, they trembled and quaked. And when mighty storms blew through, they quaked and quivered and spasmed such that the whole grove appeared to be having an orgasm. (I suppose that's why their Scientific name is 'Aspena Orgasmus'.)
He walked on and on, along the crest of this, the eastern leg, searching in vain for a path of descent. It was an area the islanders called 'the Pampas'. The ground is smooth, fertile, and more gentle than any he has seen. It's covered with fields of yams, yellow squash, and butter squash.
So he continues south some days, his bare feet caressing the warm earth with his light walk, and being caressed by it.
Now and then he came across groves of the famous orgasmic quaking aspens.
~
One day, Tomek came upon a local fiesta, with a group of Irish Dancers. They all wore short, short skirts, with lithe legs that kick high, high up. Quite an eyeful. All the men ogled. And let me tell you, there was more than just legs that kicked right up in that crowd.
By the end of the show, Tomek had memorized the color of every gal's panties.
~
Another day, Tomek caught a whiff of honeysuckle drifting over from the opposing ridge, across the lagoon. And as he looked, he spotted the big black panther cat again, slowly meandering up along that opposite crest, with the moon maiden of Tulip Lake resting on it's back, as if asleep, her long black hair dangling with the puma's tail.
They were headed deep into the jungle, and Tomek thought that somewhere down in there must be her home, her abode.
~
By and by, the land becomes more coarse, the fields less fertile, and this leg of the isle begins to narrow, as the ridge tapers to an end. No more yam fields now, the land is filled with heather.
He begins to feel he has wandered too far, has missed his mark. His crystal spear no longer hums, but seems to rest calmly, and the air is no longer full of the strong scent of woman. And so, here at the foot of the island, he camps and stays but one night, enjoying the sea splashing on the pebbles at the foot of the isle.
~