Excerpt from The Last Gods of Indochine by Samuel Ferrer, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Prologue

"Farther India", 1861 (Laos, Indochina).

It was hard to believe the human body could contain so much water, and yet, there it all was. Phrai twisted the cloth and watched it plop in dull patters on the ground, the pocked earth sponging up sound as well. Sweat had been seeping out his employer for weeks, and he had been at the dying man's side all the while, pouring fresh water back into his mouth with the devotion of a nun. Phrai imagined nearly half the man had been absorbed and squeezed from these rags, creating small pools just outside the hut. In another part of the world, that half of him would evaporate out of existence, but here it could not; the thick air held eternity at bay.

Phrai returned and closed the flimsy door after himself. The explorer looked like a rag doll tossed upon a bed. He regained consciousness and requested a mirror; even in dying, he didn't want to be denied the role of observer. Perhaps he wanted to put that in his book as well. Phrai resisted, thinking it best not to show him the thinly veiled skeleton who would have stared back. Instead, he wiped the fermenting body clean with a soapy rag. There was no dirt to wash off, just the fetid odor.

It was no wonder the white-ghost had succumbed to this condition whilst exploring here. They couldn't take the heat; they gagged on the thick air. And this white-ghost was no exception. He had worked too hard and traveled too far. He had been away from home too long. Going up one river, he had hastened his young guides to lead him even farther up the next, and after that, yet another. But the jungle was too deep here, in Farther India, and he should have turned back long ago.

The door of the shaky hut popped open and Nion, the other guide, looked in, a bag under his arm. At the grey horizon, lightning flickered quietly, like the tongue of a lizard. Anxiety pulled long-wise on Nion's face. He grimaced at the sight, approached and sat upon the edge of the bed. The explorer opened his eyes, straining to see. Nion opened the bag and pulled out a small packet.

"Monsieur, I'm back from Vientiane," he said. "I made the trip as fast as I could. We have more quinine now."

The man's torso heaved, his eyelids closed again. Nion continued with the hopeless plan, unwrapping a packet and mixing the white powder with a glass of water. The man opened his eyes and watched, tongue peeping out the side of his mouth. As Phrai put his hands under his head and lifted, Nion poured the mixture in. With effort, he swallowed.

"Phrai, Nion," he said, "my journal and drawings. That's what's most important. Get them to… Raymond Schomburgh. The British Consul in Bangkok. Also—the insects and shells."

"We will. We promise," Phrai replied, knowing firsthand all the effort put into them. The three went silent, solemn. When Phrai decided it was time to wipe down his body again, for the first time in several weeks the dying man gave a smile. His mouth twitched before he spoke.

"I have seen amazing things."

"You have, monsieur."

The words struggled off his tongue: "No one knows. I don't believe anyone else has seen. How could a civilization so grand—so magnificent—become entirely lost? It must be the greatest the world has ever seen."

"Monsieur," Phrai said with a sad smile, "the ruins have never been lost. Our people avoid them. And never underestimate the will of the jungle. She simply reclaimed what was always hers." Phrai thought, She is reclaiming you too.

The curtain of unconsciousness closed back over the explorer's face. An hour passed before he opened his eyes again, half-mast. Phrai was sitting on a stool, fanning him. Nion had gone outside. Scrunching his brow, the man asked, "Are my children still playing in the forest?"

Excerpted from The Last Gods of Indochine by Samuel Ferrer. Copyright © 2016 by Samuel Ferrer. Excerpted by permission of Signal 8 Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.