XXXIX

No end yet to the eternal trees and the heat. They were in the plains now, though. Areca palms and houses might be seen in the distance any time. Land ho! A little rest wouldn’t do them any harm. Mat was a good man. That Malay was as good as the best. He was getting them on. Colet thought that, if the going were not too hard, he could last it out. Mat looked pretty bad himself. But it didn’t matter if there was little to eat. Not much fun in food if it made you sick. He must be tougher than he thought, to walk by day and have his ague fits at night.

They could do the rest by canoe to Mat’s own village, so Mat said, after this day’s march. Better than walking. But there was one thing about the fever, you did not care any more. Nothing mattered. Effort was futile; it was the men who kept him going. The fever cleared the mind in a strange way. Things lost their importance. Life lost its importance. He saw even the trees farther off. They were still high and brooding, keeping their secrets. They could keep them. Not so secret as they pretended. The men, too, were farther off. They were very quiet, and looked at him shyly. He knew what it was. They thought he was going to die.

But no fear. He knew better. There were things to be done. That old blighter Perriam⁠—but he could wait. Perriam could wait a bit longer. It was strange to see the men sweating, and yourself to feel you couldn’t get warm, or keep the teeth from chattering. No good wishing he’d found Parsell. That man wasn’t to be found. Parsell was taken in by what he wanted, and there was no more to be said about that; he was a successful old person.

Funny thing. He did not feel as though he’d failed; another symptom of the fever, maybe. His mind was cleaned to a thin clear plate of light; that was what the feeling was; no markings on it, either, except what was in the grain of it; all the scrawlings were rubbed off. Odd consequence for a fever to have. He could see things better than ever. All the fat was sweated off his brain. He wasn’t sorry for Parsell, nor sorry he’d gone with the old man. It was worth it. Worth paying for. Couldn’t count the gain, though. He was satisfied, if Parsell was. What was Norrie doing now, and Hale⁠—no, Sinclair? But they were on the other side of time. He had come across the pass, and it was all right, if you didn’t expect to get anything out of it; anything but dreams; bound to get dreams, when you fell asleep; but you could do without them, though.

They were just gliding out of it now. It was better in the canoe. The world had become extraordinarily quiet. Sinking down to the sea. The trees were still moving by, all on a level, a long dark line; but the country was very distant, and nothing to do with him. They’d get to the end of it all presently, when they had sunk down far enough. Everything went past, as you sank down, and there was nothing to do any more. You need not even watch it go by.