54

In there. The finger is quite adamant. There can be no doubt. Of course, he has been assuming that the finger is leading him toward the meeting place. But, he reflects, even if it hasn't been, it would have been rather... awkward... not to follow where it lead. Not that he had tried. So, into the cave. Down, down, and down some more. A world of mud and roots. His feet suck in and out of the mud at each step. Roots almost trip him from below; from the earthen roof they tangle about his head and shoulders as he makes his way. At one point, bothered by the roots, he drops the hand. It is lost in the mud. A shot of panic. He bends down to the floor, kneeling into the mud, digging into it, hand and stump. Sweat itches as it trickles hotly down his grimy forehead. He has to pick his nose, as always happens when he has both... hands... engaged. He wipes at his nose with his forearm, and the grainy grime of the mud smears across his face without really soothing the itch. His clothes cling to his back with sweat. The heat. The sweat. The grime. He begins to dig more urgently... not digging, exactly, but scooping, because the mud is not solid so much as a kind of gooey sandy substance. He is thankful, somewhere in the back of his brain, that he is not sinking into it. But, by and large, he is not thinking. He is fully engaged in digging. Scooping. Shoving the muck with his stump into his hand and then flinging it away. Just away.