7 Kupek, 143CZ

I did my best trying to find any other stories here in this sanctuary, but it seems nobody else has anything but seemingly unrelated folktales for me. While I find these tales very interesting, it's not really what I'm looking for. I wish I could write them all down, but I'd run out of room too quickly and I'm not sure when I'll be able to pick up another notebook.

The good news is Malitzin finally got in touch with her Coil friends and we're on our way out of Coztlac tomorrow. The bad news is that wasn't a lot of time to prepare, and I'd just gotten comfortable in our new accommodations. Alas, I'll just have to hurry and make sure nothing important gets left behind. I've picked up a few new articles of clothing, handmade stuff from the lovely people I've met here. I'll cherish those for the rest of my days.

Hopefully next time I write in this book, I'll be far away from this swamp. Either way, I can't wait for my first ride on a real airship!

It's only been a few hours since I wrote that last bit, but I had to come back to write my thoughts down before they vanish on me again.

So I was going through my things and found a whistle in my pack. It's nothing fancy, just a little wooden whistle that looks like it was painted gold once upon a time but all the paint has worn off. It occurred to me while I was looking at it that I'd completely forgotten until that moment why I even had it with me. I mean, I know papa didn't give it to me, and mama hated loud noises - not to mention I don't remember buying it.

But as I held it, a memory came back to me from so long ago I'm surprised it hasn't been claimed by the void, and I can't help but wonder if it's the reason I'm so interested in Amatoquitlana, or whatever you want to call the entity from these stories. Let me start at the beginning.

It was on a hunting trip with my father. I remember him telling me I was too young to go, but I begged him to let me go just this once. He was always terrible at saying no to me, especially when I got so persistent, but he'd always put his foot down on things like his hunting trips. I can't blame him, but I guess I must have been extra cute that time around because he finally agreed. I was somewhere around nine or ten, so maybe he thought I could handle it. You'll see in a little bit why he refused to let me go hunting with him again for another few years.

Anyway, there I was - tiny, excited, and armed with a small bow papa made for me himself. I'm pretty sure the arrows he gave me were blunted enough that I couldn't have poked my eye out if I tried, but I didn't notice or care at the time. I felt so grown up, and I did my best to stay quiet as I followed him out into the trees at the edge of the jungle. At least, I did my best to stay quiet until my curiosity got the better of me, but I have a feeling papa had resigned himself to not catching a damned thing on that particular trip.

He must have looked away for only an instant, but we all know that's long enough.

I don't remember how I got so far off the path we were taking, but I didn't even hear him calling for me. He insists he was yelling at the top of his lungs, and to this day I'm not sure if I willfully ignored him or just didn't hear him. All I remember was the chirping of birds and the sunlight filtering through the leaves dappling my skin. I don't even know how long it was until I realized I couldn't see him, but it was like the day turned to night when I did.

Suddenly, the jungle around me went cold - colder than should be possible in the tropical climate - and the sun stopped coming through the canopy above me. I tried to call out for my papa, but it felt like something was muffling my voice in the air, weighing it down before it could make it very far. My wonder turned to terror in moments, and I was wandering without a clue in the world of how to find my way back home again. We weren't even supposed to go far enough for the sun to be blocked out, so how had I in so little time?

I remember running through the trees, miraculously not tripping over any roots or running into anything big enough to eat a tiny, helpless child - gods know there's enough of them in that jungle - then the world fell out from under me. In my carelessness, I'd come too close to the cliffs overlooking the rest of the jungle and was now plummeting toward the second canopy below as gray rocks whipped by impossibly fast. I tried to reach for them as they flew by, but my hands only got scraped up for the trouble. I must have been screaming - my throat was certainly raw later - but I don't remember any sound over the wind whipping my hair around my head.

I'm pretty sure I'd accepted my fate as the greenery below me got closer and closer. I was young, but I knew how deadly a fall was. I knew I wasn't making it out of that unless I suddenly grew wings. I'm sure I tried to do just that, but I've never had the gift.

So don't ask me how I ended up back at the top of the cliff.

No, really. I think I'd shut my eyes, expecting to feel the pain of splintering wood and snapping bones in mere moments...but when I opened them I was standing on solid ground with not even a scratch on my skin. My shock was so complete that it took me a whole five minutes to realize that not only was I not alone, my new companion wasn't my papa. A dumber kid would have taken off running in a new direction at that revelation, but I was too busy trying to figure out if I'd daydreamed nearly falling to my death to bother.

I'm pretty sure he asked me if I was okay at least five times before I finally looked up at him and answered. I nodded before breaking down into tears, and I remember being scooped up into a hug by this complete stranger and not thinking that was odd in the slightest. Maybe it was how warm he was after that cold, cold fall that had felt entirely too long. Or maybe it was the way he hummed to me. It made me feel safe, and I knew in that moment that there was no way this person was going to harm a hair on my head. I was certain. I still am. I'm actually fairly certain that man somehow saved me from plunging to my death that day, even if he never said so.

I swear I asked him who he was and what he was doing there after I calmed down. I swear I did, and he answered me too - but I'll be damned if I could tell you what he told me. I can't even say what he looked like. When I try to remember his face, all I see is his smile bathed in sunlight - but it couldn't have been, right? We were too deep in the jungle to see the sun, so why was he bathed in sunlight? I guess my mind keeps trying to say he was beautiful, but I can't tell you a single feature he had. Maybe he had fair skin, or maybe a tan...

It's useless. I don't remember any of our conversation after I stopped crying, but I do remember somehow making it back to the trail papa was on. I want to make it clear: we did not walk back to the trail. I'm pretty sure I sat with that man for awhile, and when I looked up the trail was right next to us as if it had been all along, and the cliff was nowhere in sight.

At that point, the strange man held out his hand and I took it, letting him guide me along until my father came into sight. I almost yelled for him straight away upon seeing him looking so panicked, but the man stopped me gently for just a moment.

He handed me that whistle.

I'm sure it was gold back then, but that's neither here nor there. He handed it to me and said, "If you ever feel scared or lost and you need my help again, you blow this whistle. It doesn't matter where you are, I'll be there."

I didn't get to respond, because my papa's voice rang out right beside me and he grabbed me up in his arms to kiss my hair and hold me like he was never letting go. My eyes left the man for a moment, but I told my father to let me down for a minute so I could thank the nice man for the whistle. Papa stopped kissing me and looked around in confusion, then asked me who I was talking about. I looked around too.

The man was gone.

Now, you'll be happy to know that we went home and never told my mother about the incident at all. Papa didn't even let me tell him what had happened, but he did forbid me from any hunting trips until I turned fifteen. I cried about it at the time, but I understand. He didn't take the whistle, but he didn't like to look at it either, so I took to carrying it around in my pack with me all the time. I wanted to remember the kind man that way, but I guess I failed at that until now.

I did try to blow it, but it doesn't work. I'm not sure why. I can't see anything blocking airflow through it. I never had to use it all those years, and eventually forgot about it. It's magical, really, the things that chaos takes from our young minds as we get older. But I must have remembered enough to be drawn to this research. The more I think about the story, the more things don't add up - and I'm fairly certain it's not because I was a child with faulty memory. I think it happened just like I remember, and if the kind man was Amatoquitlana...well, maybe I can find a way to thank him in person.

That's all for now. I need to sleep on this one. Hopefully I don't forget it again.