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Seventeenth Waking.

Shanda is sick. She's hot with fever, and a gash on her left leg has become infected something foul.

Idiot girl! Why didn't she say something! But she said she didn't want anyone to worry. What, not even Dhalan? Her own brother? But she said she was doing the best she could to tend to it. Keeping it clean and covered, wrapped up. Would this have happened anyway? But no, Greys said he could have helped.

But why? Why is she sick, why are we here, and why do I still have the accursed impulse to write? Is this how castaways die? Or can she still get better? Can we still get out? Moons, I don't know! I just don't know. I don't know. I don't know. We can't be here.

She said she didn't want to tell anybody because... if she were doomed to infection from the start... with no way to fight it... if she were going to die, she didn't want people to think about it. But that's a stupid notion. She shouldn't think that. I shouldn't think that.

And Greys said he didn't tell anybody about the loqua because he didn't want anybody to drink it.

And secrets, and curses, and self-reprimandings, all made senseless by each other.

Am I going crazy? But it makes me crazy. It makes me all confused in the pit of my stomach. How much longer do we have to live? How much? How long? Can we survive? Shanda is sick. Is she dying? Will it consume her? Questions and questions. I wish this hadn't happened.

And I stop, and breathe. I read this entry again, and the words are confusing. Who is reading this? Is there a real Someone Else reading this? Has my book been found? No, not mine. Haley's. Has someone found Haley's Book? Or am I speaking only to the Darkness?

But I am confusing. And I am confused. Moons, I am confused and frightened.

And I breathe. I can still breathe. I am alive.

Did I not once think this air was strange?

Wherever did we sink to...?

Yes, I hear you, log-lust. To make it plain. And I curse it. It wearies my hand.

The monster did not knock Shanda off the prow; she jumped off. In fear, surprise. The back-flip I saw her do. I don't know if she scraped her leg on the prow or on the platform. Neither does she; she couldn't remember. But she hurt herself anyway. And then with running downslope and helping Dhalan out of the mud. That could not have helped.

She said she didn't notice she was hurt until we got Dhalan back. But the gash was wide and already muddied. She tried to clean it. She had a few headscarves tucked away that she hadn't touched since before the crash. She used these to wipe it as clean as she could, and to bandage it. That was all she could do.

Maybe if we'd had water she could have washed it. Or could she have dared try the fish-blood? No that probably would have infected it sooner. Why is there no water? How are we living without water? But are we living at all? Or are we dying? Will we all get sick one day, and become feverish, and burn until we fall asleep and never wake up again?

And I want to say "Greys said think positive".

And I breathe. Will Shanda be all right?

And I keep breathing.

And I sit, and the log-lust torments me.

Dhalan discovered her fever and her wound at the beginning of this waking. It was already weeping clear fluids and pus. And when Greys found out he cursed himself. For, after we crashed, he had found and saved an unbroken bottle of Captain Peralta's loqua. He had been saving it in case it was needed to clean a wound like Shanda's. And he cursed himself for not making it known beforehand.

I've never seen Greys look so... grief-stricken. No, frustrated? Helpless? Angry? I cannot name the emotion I see on his face. But I have never seen it there before. Is it that painful to bear? Does it torment him so badly? But how could he have known that Shanda would not say she was hurt? I probably would have assumed the same thing.

Would I be as broken as he is now? Undone?

And I would hope that I would be as broken, for so grave a mistake as may yet cost a life. And yet I would also hope that I would not make the mistake of remaining silent in the first place. I've written myself into a trap. What does that mean? I don't know. My pen runs away with me.

And now Shanda is in bed. I say in bed, but we have no beds. The place where she sleeps. And Dhalan is with her. She's in a lot of pain. Her wound was doused in loqua a short while ago. I imagine her headscarf-bandages are still wet with it. Alcohol on an open wound is never pleasant, but she knows it helps--she did most of the dousing herself. I think she must be mad. Then when she couldn't stand it anymore, she just laid back and had Dhalan finish it up and bandage it.

I did speak to Dhalan yesterday--last waking. I found out some interesting things about him. Little things, like he used to actually be left-handed. But he broke that hand very badly six years ago, and while it was mending, he learned to do everything with his right hand. Even use a cutlass. His left hand is still weaker than his right.

But he told me something that made me sad. When he broke his hand, he couldn't play the harp anymore. I was very surprised. He doesn't seem like the kind of person to play the harp. Apparently it runs in their family to be musical. But I just can't see him doing something like that. That kind of thing is for melodramatic bards, or stuffy Valuan nobles who fancy it a pretty hobby. But it made me sad anyway, for something lost.

Something that you do all your life, and then losing it. Me, my journal, he, his harp. But I can still write. But what does Dhalan have? Is that why he is doing fishers' work? There's nothing wrong with fishing. It must be the oldest trade in the world. But does he wish he were more?

I've heard bards and musicians before, and they really are amazing. The skill it must take... harps and flutes, hornpipes, guitars... I can't do that. Maybe I could handle a drumbeat, but besides that... No, I know nothing about music. Dhalan told me he and Shanda had a pet bird once. They named it Koda, because it followed them everywhere. He said that was a musical joke, but I didn't get it.

He also told me--but I am hesitant to put it down. Is it too personal to him? It is most definitely none of my business. I will ask. There is no harm in asking.

I asked, and Dhalan said, "How else will people know what I was like, if you don't record it in your book?"

I will take it as a yes. I think he knows how sorely the log-lust vexes me. He knows I have to write everything I see, everything I hear, everything I do. And it makes me wonder, is that the reason why he told me? So I would record it? I admit, sometimes I feel as if the only way for me to survive is to write myself into this book. Maybe he's just looking to survive too. Then we'll be written down, and we can live forever.

I frighten myself.

But Dhalan. He also told me he once killed a man. That surprised me more than learning he was a musician.

Our crew came together on Isla de Faro, with Dhalan and Shanda having come from Nasrad. But before they lived in Nasrad, they lived in a smaller coastal town called Naja. The name sounds vaguely familiar to me, I don't know why. Naja was sacked by pirates, and Dhalan killed a man who tried to rape his sister.

He cares for her very much, and she for him. Shanda is the one with the infection, but Dhalan seems just as sick, if only with worry. But I can understand the bond between siblings. Sometimes I think of Elena.

And I miss her.

I cry.

Moons, I cry.

But no tears. Only a stinging.

And this is a thing unheard of. Porter has just come out of his quarters, and not to relieve himself. He's gone... to see Shanda? I can hear him speaking. He just asked how she's feeling? What? This does not make sense.

Dare I wonder it? Is Porter... coming around again? Now he's talking with Dhalan. I hear their voices. Is he going to be okay? I'm worried about him. Everyone is worried about him. He doesn't eat or drink very much. Or should I be worried that he'll start eating and drinking more? It's getting harder to find the mud-worms. We have to look farther and farther away. But is that the thing I should be concerned about? What about Porter himself?

Porter, are you coming back to us?

I will go and talk with them.