I am seated on a soft earthtone couch that was purchased some years ago by my girlfriend, who thought it would go quite nicely with the hunter's green walls. Opposite me is the bookshelf, but since it's so warm I feel too lethargic to stand up and pick one out. Thus, I can only remain slouched on the couch, glass of beer in hand, my bare feet on the blue wall-to-wall carpet that's in need of cleaning. Nailed to wall are decorative objects, mementoes of place I've been, ranging from Tahitian masks to Peruvian tapestries. Damn it's warm. I have another sip of beer and think, I'm not getting up just yet.
Between the wide trunks of oaks are stunted saplings growing out of a thick miniature forest of ferns. Shafts of light penetrate the thick canopy of leaves overhead.
There is no path as such. There are signs that someone -- or something -- has gone this way recently, but if I decide not to follow the trail of trampled ferns and moss, I have no path to follow.
I follow the trail of trampled vegetation, and after struggling through a thick growth of armpit-high grass and sisal plants with thick, serrated leaves, I find myself on the bank of a wide river the color of mud. The far bank must be a hundred yards away. A black and white shape floats downstream in the sedate current. It takes me a moment to identify it. It's a dead cow.
It's a wooden cup, crudely carved in the shape of a monkey's skull.
The key is tiny, the size of my thumbnail. It looks exactly like the key my sister used to lock her diary. It's a toy key, too small and delicate to have any practical use.