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There’s a spirit in the forest, or so legend has it.
The spirit is of the forest, or is the forest; that part remains as it ever was, shrouded in mystery.
They say, that as long as the sun treads the sky, the spirit wanders the woods, changing into the shapes of predators and prey alike, adopting their forms and habits, following harmlessly the rhythms of life, breathing in the wind and exhaling the rustling of leaves.
It is the wolves that hunt and lingers in the body of the deer that’s being hunted. The spirit inhabits each pebble and grain, each nook and cranny; it grows beneath the soil, absorbing hungrily every drop of humidity. It pierces the earth, becoming stronger with each of sun’s rays. Spreads its leaves towards the skies greedily, welcoming the nourishment.
When the time comes, it too dies, its leaves rotting on the muddy ground as mushrooms poke from beneath the colourful carpet of death like tiny hats, feeding from its soulless corpse, its frail bark decaying as moss grows upon it. Those fungi and lichens are the spirit still, a beast that consumes and is consumed, trapped -willingly perhaps- in an endless cycle of birth, growth and death, a thing that runs freely as the water in the stream, only to fall from the cliff, live a few moments suspended in the air before shattering itself upon the stones awaiting at the bottom.
All things come to an end and as the sun sinks between the vast, distant mountains, the moon arises from the lake, red and bloody, inheriting its crown.
It is then that the spirit wakens in truth; and the forest hungers.
There are times, when a terrible, formless mist descends from the heavens – some would say from the waning moon itself – blanketing the forest like a shroud. Visible from the small town nearby, the parents gather the children inside the houses, and caution them against braving the darkness, for they all know the spirit stalks the woods, hunting.
Woe to the mother or father whose child disobeys that rule; of the few that had done so this past winter, none ever returned. It’s as though the spirit feeds on the folly of youth, the crones agree as they converse by the hearth, voices hushed and disapproving.
Foreigners visiting the town may jeer and laugh at these stories, may name them superstitions and myths, but the townsfolk won’t budge on that rule. On moonlit, foggy nights, when the wolves howl, the gates of the town are always closed shut with iron. For they know that the spirit lurks behind the town’s walls, hungry eyes that pierce the darkness, seeking something that they would hesitate to name.
No one knows the name of the spirit, if such an ancient creature even has one; it may even predate the concept of words, the very idea that beings and objects were to be given names, to be separated into distinct categories for the human mind to grasp. That doesn’t make the townsfolk cease their relentless attempts to understand what it is; a demon, many assert, no, others insist, an ancient god that dwells in the forest still, a relic of times bygone, a being of chaos and rage.
Many have attempted to appease the spirit, to assuage its ceaseless hunger, be it with harmless offerings of fruits and sweetmeats and cheeses or – in fearful, desperate times, full of moonlight and mist – with sacrifices. They may not desire to be relieved of food or gold; but the most precious sacrifice consists of neither. The nature of this sacrilege remains unknown to most, for the townsfolk hold their secrets fast and close to their chests, so there’s little talk of gatherings held where the treeline begins and civilisation ends.
It was in midst of one such icy winter – a dark, difficult time as all the townsfolk would attest, especially so after the arid summer led to poor crop yields – that hunger gnawed holes in their stomachs, and fear permeated the air inside the claustrophobic, stone walls of their town. Something ought to be done, for the worst has yet to come, and the nights are only growing longer and colder.
Soon, the spirit will stalk its prey inside the town’s walls, and the Grim Ripper will begin his harvest anew. That is a price the townsfolk are unwilling to pay. The parents lock the children in day and night, and they themselves don’t dare leave the warmth of their homes for very long. The women end their forays into the forest to forage mushrooms and berries and herbs, and men don’t axe down trees, not even inside the village. Hunters refuse to leave the town’s walls, no one brave enough to spill even a drop of blood, preferring instead to subsist on stale rye bread and dried salted meats.
The crones, lit in the soft orange hues of flames, agree that these half-measures won’t prove enough, for the spirit’s hunger is too great. No one wishes to part with their loved ones, the lame and infirm relatives already given over.
It is then, in the midst of true despair, as the round moon began to wane and the weather shifted from snow to frigid, pouring rains, clouds falling lower until they touch the ground, making the townsfolk cower beside the stone walls and murmur who was least of use, that the answer they sought for came.
A lonely traveller, who has never stepped foot close to the town, much less over the edge of the forest, arrived in the most opportune moment. The townsfolk smile in a most friendly manner, sharing their food and drink with the stranger, even as they whisper behind their hands. An unwitting offering, they all agreed sorrowfully, is still a sacrifice of life and worthy of the spirit.
The shortest path to your destination passes through the forest, they say. It is a well-travelled path, they lie. Well. A lie by omission isn’t precisely a lie, as most people would maintain. The rain falls, forming muddy puddles on the ground, and the mist becomes so dense that seeing through it is impossible the day the hapless wanderer leaves and does not return.
All is quiet and forlorn, like a breath held behind sealed lips.
The moon waxes and wanes. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Then, the breath is released, exhaled in mist.
The lake turns to blood. The river is dark as ash. The well’s water goes fetid, and those who drink it fall ill and die. Wolves stalk the sheep, and wild boars eat the crops. The townsfolk know to be afraid, for their offering has been denied.
No one braves the dark, wretched woods, for there’s a spirit in the forest, or so legend has it.
The spirit is of the forest, or is the forest; that part remains as it ever was, shrouded in mystery.