Clemens, Ella and Horace stumbled thirsty and skin-cracked over a dry riverbed. Somehow, in the moonless night Horace saw a glint off water. Thirst drove the three to follow the wet thread up a scree covered embankment.

As they climbed, the rivulet led them into a wet cave, the cavern’s roof dripping with sweet moisture. It didn’t take them long to fill their canteens and drink their fill before satiation allowed them to sleep.

When all three awoke, aches alleviated and rehydrated, they took stock of their surroundings. The mouth of the cave faced east, the early sunlight shined bright, setting the cavern’s stalagmites ablaze. They were able to light a fire and eat a hot meal out of unmarked tins.

The stone room was the size of a small hunting lodge. It had been lived in for some time. There appeared to be sleeping pallets enough for four. On a curved wall, a message:

Go west, over a mount of fury, green arms cradle it’s belly, shake the right hand that holds the rock. If I’ve made it, I will be found