In the shadows under the pine trees the air is still and cool, heavy with the scents of resins, decay, and the rain-soaked earth.
Moisture from the damp foliage soaks into his clothes, leaving heavy, cold, sticky patches. His feet slip on wet clay and fine mud. He stumbles.
Pressing through thickets of brush, he holds up his arms to shield himself with the thick fabric of his sleeves. Branchlets, whipping past his arms, slash at his face. Scalpel-sharp leaves trace fine lines of blood across his hands. Thorns slip through the weave of his clothes to stab at him, puncturing his skin.
Sodden, tangled brakes of fallen trees and broken branches create impenetrable mossy barricades of rot and ruin.
The land slopes gently uphill. Picking his way around the worst of the undergrowth and barriers of broken trees, he works his way slowly toward the top of the ridge. If he reaches the top, he might be able to see where he is. The forest might be less dense along the ridgeline, easier to walk through.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been fighting his way up this hill. He can’t remember a time before. He knows there must have been a time before, but reaching for it in memory, his thoughts close on absence.
He drives himself through another stand of dense, sticky, sharp-wet growth.
Just keep going. Reach the crest. See where you are. Find water.
The slope is getting steeper. There are open patches of rocky ground between the trees now. Patches of blue are visible past the trunks and branches further ahead.
He reaches the crest. Wet, panting, bleeding from myriad tiny wounds. There’s open, rocky ground and the trees are smaller and futher apart. He follows the line of the ridge further uphill.
An outcrop of rock leans out from the crest into the valley beyond. Scrambling to the top, he emerges into bright midday sunlight and a gentle warm breeze. On this side of the ridge, the forest falls steeply into a narrow valley, before rising gently again on the far side. A break, an interruption, in the trees weaves along the bottom of the valley. A stream perhaps.
The horizon is bounded by a range of mountains, purpled and hazed with distance. To his right, beyond a curve in the valley and another ridge, a fine tendril of smoke curls into the sky, twisting as it blends into the air.
Beyond the nearest ridges, the forest extends as far as he can see, an ocean of dark conifer green lapping at the surrounding mountains.
Lying on the bare rock of the outcrop, he basks in the warm sunlight. He will need to move soon, but after the dim, close, sticky interior of the forest, the open sky and warm stone are a relief and all he can imagine needing.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
He’s too warm now, and thirsty. The sun has moved. Was I asleep? Standing up, he stretches and looks around at the valley, forested ridges, and encircling mountains. Turning his back, he plunges back into the forest to find a way around the outcrop and down to where there might be a stream.
Descending the steep side of the ridge is harder than the climb up the other side. There are open areas, patches of bare stone with clumps of thin, struggling grass, but the undergrowth between is thicker. The traps of fallen timber rise taller and spread wider.
The sun is low before he reaches the floor of the valley. The forest thins, and he emerges into a narrow open space along the course of a stream.
The stream flooded recently. Along the banks are fresh mounds and sheets of white sand.
Taking off his boots, he sits on the edge of the stream with his feet in the clear, icy water. Rinsing and rubbing the dirt off his hands and face, he winces as the cold water bites at his wounds.
Greedily, he scoops handfuls of water up to his mouth to drink.
The sun dips behind the distant mountains and the valley is plunged into shadow. The trees on the heights shine golden in the late sunlight. It’s beautiful here, he thinks, watching the changing light and shadows, lulled by the whispered song of the flowing water. He shudders with a sudden chill, breaking the spell.
With a deep sigh, he starts walking again. Slowly. Heavily. Upstream along the bank in the direction of the smoke.
It’s getting darker. He looks around, suddenly. What was that? Nothing.
The forest begins to fill with strange nocturnal sounds. Little skittering sounds of things moving through the brush and leaf litter. High, piping birdsong like a nightmare chorus of flutes. A canine howl and bark in the distance.
It’s darker still. It’s hard to see where to place his feet. A low, booming sound echoes through the trees like a deep baritone voice singing “Ooooooom”. There’s a pause, everything is hushed for a moment, then again “Ooooooom”.
He should find somewhere to sleep. Not in the open. Maybe scratch a den for himself under one of the fallen trees?
He looks up at the clear, darkening sky. It will be cold tonight.
A clattering, wooden sound nearby. He starts, wheeling towards the sound. A dark shape appears at the edge of his vision as his left arm is pressed down, and back, and up in a wide arc. Something presses his neck forward as his feet are swept from under him. He falls hard, flat on his chest, driving the breath out of his lungs.
An unyielding pressure against his neck and ribs. His left arm is raised up and out behind him. His shoulder is pulled tight, just on the edge of agonising pain. Something cold, flat, and hard presses against his right cheek.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my forest?”