A Forest Adventure

It is dark here. Not an absolute darkness, like the thick, oozing inkiness of a cavern or the thin, moon-blanched darkness of the midnight air.

This is a patchwork darkness, a ragged, multi-layered darkness, a darkness composed of myriad shadows, so many dancing, lilting shadows that the walkers have begun to forget what they themselves look like--they can see but darkly in this place of eternal twilight. The dusky gray-green of countless years is visible in some remote areas, illuminated by brilliant, silvery lights which flit like will-o-the-wisps between branches: remote but somehow very near, and entrancingly beautiful. The lights are responsible for the ever-restless shadows, for though the trees are still and silent, not stirred by a single breath of wind, their dark images leap and lunge like flames, like claws, like half-remembered nightmares, vague and senseless.

The walkers know these shadows well, for it is always twilight here, a twilight provided solely by the shining lights peppering the deep grays of the foliage; the lights of the sky are not visible from inside this dusky hall of leaves. And the walkers know the forest, how well, it is not clear—but they are beginning to fear it: the twisted gray trunks, tall as stony towers, and powerful beyond imagination, the gnarled roots, hard and unforgiving, like cold marble, the infinite branches: a sea of faded claws eternally grasping, like the age-twisted hands of an old enchanter holding a macabre vigil over his dark works.

The way itself is narrow, weaving through an undergrowth so dense it is almost solid: a high, encroaching wall of sharp thorns, brambles, old leaves crisp with death, and odd, misshapen boulders splashed with the dark red striations of iron ore, which nevertheless recall in the walkers an image of the crimson blood of a successful hunt, making them uneasy. And above, always the infinite trees hold their tongues, and the walkers tread in a silence so thick with menace that it is palpable, and weighs heavy on their hearts, so that their own tiny words come out as cracked and desperate whispers, sucked into the vast gloom and there devoured.

The meandering, thin trail has a worn look, and the hard-packed, bare earth along that thin strand is easy on the weary feet of the walkers. Many, it would seem, have trodden this path.

The walkers themselves are mostly silent; they had learned long ago that their words were small and futile in the powerful silence of the forest. Some keep their eyes on the trail, watching the slow but constant progress of their own tired feet. Some gaze at the forest looming like a great dark canyon wall over their heads. Some walk with their eyes half-closed, staring entranced at the remote but piercing brilliance of the dancing lights. And some, eyes wide and unblinking, stare directly ahead, watching the unflinching footfalls of the guide.

Yes, there is a guide, though the notion of someone volunteering to tread this eternal, alien wilderness is almost unthinkable. Yet his sure footfalls never falter, and the burning light of the torch he holds high above his head to aid the wanderers is never extinguished. On and on he leads them, never wearying, as they stumble on root and branch, though he has told them time and time again to step where he steps, and they will not fall.

Sometimes, a walker will step off the trail. The flickering beauty of the many lights in the distance draws them. Those lights sing sweetly of day, of sun and sky and the end of an endless night. And the walker hears the song, and its echoes bounce around him, amplified by the barrier of thorns, and finally he can bear the twilit path no longer and he takes a step into the brambles, grasping for his knife, that he may cut through the undergrowth and finally, finally, find comfort in the liquid glow of those far-off silvery eyes.

But every time he takes that first step, a step which is far too bold for the thorns surrounding his feet, he is lost. As if the forest has come alive and taken him, or as if he has become a part of it, he steps through the wall of thorns and is lost from view. The other walkers never know if he finds those silver lights in the distance, and if he does, what the lights show him, what secrets, hidden deep in the growing gloom, they reveal. His back turned, there is nothing the walkers or their steadfast guide can do but call his name, the voice of the guide resonating like a ceramic bell, cutting clear but quiet, through the dusky air.

And sometimes, the cries fall on unheeding ears. That path, narrow and winding, is indeed a trying one and a long, and those glimmering lights are so beautiful, so incredibly enchanting. And the walker bears on through the brambles, away from the path, knife in hand as he slashes through the ancient growth, his eyes ever fixed upon those blinking lights like earthbound stars in the distance. The cries recede at his back, though they never completely fade, and he forges on, the smug look on his face turning slowly to one of horror as he comes nearer to his destination.

And sometimes, the walker turns. He steps off that path and at once slips. The branches suddenly move, they are far more alive than he had thought—hoary fingers tear at his flesh, and the stillness is pierced by the hungry silence of brooding minds, like great dark spiders who have found prey at last. An uneasy fear grips him, but more than that there is an aching anguish, and a surprised confusion, and the source of those feelings is completely unknown— and suddenly, though very near to it, he cannot see the trail, he cannot see the walkers, he cannot see the guide, though the guide can see him.

But he remembers. He remembers the flames the guide held in his quiet hands, and he remembers the dancing, warm light as it brought the wisdom of the guide’s kind face into sharp relief. And though he does not see that torchlight, does not see that steady gaze as the guide swept his charges with a calm, appraising gaze, the lost walker knows he must call out, must call out to the guide and find that trail, where the silence is not so loud, where the muteness of the tress is not so deafening. But still something holds him back—his desire to call out is suppressed by the fascination he feels with those lights, and he delays, until finally, fear digs her ugly claws into his body, prompting a cry of pain and torment, and he turns to where he thinks the trail is, and screams like a child for help.

And immediately the guide is there, cutting through the deep pools of midnight shadow, brambles tearing at his skin until the blood runs down his legs and hands in smug little rivulets. His face is scratched from the trailing fingers of the trees, and the thickets of thorns, grown tall as a man, grasp at his hair. Through the dusky, malevolent wild, his footsteps never falter—he can hear the wanderer’s cries, he must find him and how him the path through the undergrowth and back to the trail.

After what seems like an eternity, he reaches the spot in the deadly wilderness where the walker lies, rendered motionless by fear, his voice brittle and monotonous as he continues to repeat his mewling whimper for help. And the guide takes his trembling hand and sets him gently but firmly on his feet, telling him to stay close on the journey back, for there are many things fouler than brambles in the dark places of this world.

He can but guide them. The wanderers must place their faith in that torchlight and the steady footfalls. The silver of the lights may seem at moments to shine brighter, but those that leave the path to embrace them must struggle through a dead land to find that those lights, so enticingly brilliant from far away, are in truth drops of dew, clinging to the underbelly of a great dark serpent.

And the guide will always be there. He is the great Ferrier and the great Pathfinder. Some may even call him the Great Tactician.