Eventually I reached a particular treehouse that carried the strongest, most unmistakable trace of Benjamin Mark's scent.
It clung to the air here like incense that had soaked into every surface of the place.
I could only presume: this was where he used to live.
Inside the dwelling, the space was simple but surprisingly cozy and welcoming for savages who made their homes in the trees.
I scanned the place with my eyes: A woven hammock hung between two sturdy beams, a small three-legged stool sat beside a low table, and some brilliantly woven mats covered the floor.
A few personal trinkets, like shell necklaces, and a polished stone carved into the rough shape of a bird, had been arranged with obvious care. A female's room, I suppose.
I moved to the hammock and brushed my fingertips across the fabric.
Pfft. Seriously? A hammock? Poverty really is something.
But then my eyes caught something else.
