Winter 1872 – The Last King of Pua Hur-Don


Once I began to make note, I could see the shape of the city that had once thrived here. The jungled islands were great buildings now so overgrown with millennia of foliage that no stone could be seen. The wide lake channels had once been the broad avenues through which the city’s citizens had traveled, congregated, bartered and celebrated. Chuma and Djoser paddled no more than was necessary to keep the canoe moving forward. The water, despite its stillness, was surprisingly clear. I could large reddish black fish moving lazily over the muddy bottom. 

“This place is so old that even the ghosts have abandoned it,” said Chuma. He seemed almost disappointed.