The Journal of the Walk, Saturday, August 9th
I waded in murky water and waged a twofold battle against the rumbling of my stomach and the sogginess of my socks. Both had grown equally concerning the deeper I ventured into the swamp, and I knew that I would have to rest and find something to eat very soon before the sun went down: although the amulet around my neck warded off the raging clouds of mosquitoes and other bloodsuckers, the more dangerous inhabitants of the wetland would undoubtedly be on the prowl come the night, and I’d rather not become the main course of their feast.
As I pushed my way past a grove of particularly gnarly trees with drooping branches and mud-soaked roots, the aroma of cooked food cut through the musty odors that suffused my nostrils and trickled down into my belly, which loudly protested that I find its source. With the dark closing in and the promise of some semblance of civilization up ahead, there was little I could do but obey my gut.
By the time night had fallen, I reached a large clearing dominated by dark water, its depth evidently much greater than the shallows I had just trudged through. A single strip of muddy ground, lit by several torches, accommodated an enormous table upon which was piled a veritable pyramid of food: bulbous fruits and stringy vegetables grown somewhere in the fertile heart of the wetlands, salted and dried meats meant to withstand the rotting heat, and all manner of hard-shelled crustaceans and odd-looking fish—some of them served still squirming. An entire village could have gorged itself on this banquet and still have food to spare.
The exoticity of food has never been a dissuading factor for me; in fact, I pride myself in having a remarkably resilient stomach and a taste for the unusual that have allowed me to eat without regretful incidents. However, basic courtesy demanded that I not take any food for myself without permission despite my hunger, so I looked around and called out for anyone who could assist me.
Almost immediately, a multitude emerged from the long shadows of the trees and surrounded me, murmuring what vaguely sounded like threats and curses, and brandishing sharpened sticks which they pointed at my neck. They were a scaly folk, their webbed digits and flat feet adapted for a life spent squatting in muddy shallows, their eyes almost vestigial and their noses enlarged to track prey through the mire. I could see no ears on any of them, but I attempted to communicate regardless. I raised my hands slowly and said:
“I apologize. I did not mean to trespass in your domain. I am merely a weary and hungry traveler, and I thought perhaps I could beg for your hospitality.”
The chattering grew louder as the creatures seemed to discuss amongst themselves. One of them, adorned with shiny beads and pierced with polished bones, stepped forth and signaled the others to lower their weapons.
“Food. You want food?” They said with a gangly voice. “Cannot take food. Food is for Ganthula, spawn of Kukran!”
The others agreed, reverentially muttering Ganthula’s name and beating their chests with open palms.
“Ganthula hungers,” the lead creature—I was sure they were some sort of priest—continued. “We feed him food, or else he eats us. No less food than this! No less must be given! More! Always more!”
“I understand,” I said. “I will be on my way, then. Once again, I apologize for the intrusion.”
I moved to leave, but the priest grabbed my arm as the rest of its kin hooted and sneered.
“You want food, but you will be food! Food for Ganthula, food to sate him! You come here and try to eat our offering, try to take and not give. Now give your all!”
Panicking, I struggled to free myself, but their grip was iron and my boots slipped on the mud. Just as the multitude closed in, a low rumble rattled my bones and the dark waters foamed white. An enormous head rose from the depths, followed by a sinuous neck and a set of six stubby limbs attached to a rotund torso. Immediately, the scaly folk forgot about me, the priest releasing me almost absent-mindedly to lead their congregation in worshipping their god. They all fell to their knees and raised their arms towards the creature, throatily chanting the name Ganthula over and over again.
Ganthula, apparently still dozy after a long slumber, seemed confused, emptily gazing at the congregation with yellow eyes set atop its flat head. It blinked once with each eye, looked at the pile of offerings set before it, then at its kneeling faithful, and opened its maw. An immense pink tongue sprung from the cavernous opening and entangled the entire multitude, dragging them in so quickly that they had no time to even gasp. A gruesome crunch was followed by a loud gulp as the creature’s throat swelled with its meal and thinned again, and then it retreated beneath the surface, leaving behind a few bubbles that popped into nothingness.
Left in the mud with nothing but my own breath, it was a while before I mustered the strength to get back up and process what I had just witnessed. I walked to the abandoned feast and nibbled on some dried meat; despite being very salty, I found it sufficient to silence my stomach. Then I set camp by torchlight and let the chirping of crickets and the song of nightbirds lull me to sleep. I did not fear for any further surprises. After all, Ganthula’s hunger was sated, and he certainly had no room left for dessert.