The Skull (3)

There. At last. Just beyond the jungle canopy. Two eyeless sockets float derogatorily. Above the yawning maw, the cavern of lost fantasy. His shuffling gait abhorred by ragged shoe. Those dingy things were not meant to carry you, said the cockle, anywhere near the Golgotha. It looks so haunted, said the boy in fear. Not many one has ventured here. The soul of skull austere. Men often find their footsteps veer away. Their courage lacking, their wills postponed to fight another day. But you my friend, said the cockle, will be an unexpected rivalry. The boy's presence felt by the ancient spirits' abode, impending doom fell from the ceiling of the cave. And into his stomach, like ice the sun refused to save. A cough. Then not-so-subtle throaty roar. An echo of the beast collapsed the jaw in preparation of the feast. The rocks dropped hardest when his mind succumbed.