By Sam Splinter
A stick breaks, a sharp exhale, the sounds of the forest. My dog, a kooky pooch no larger than Peter Dinklage, snarls at something distant in the foliage of the thick forest. The forest. Its deep aroma of earth mingles with sweet scents of fall producing a euphoric excitement only found here. The path. An unmaintained narrow passage that slices like a dagger through the seemingly impenetrable woods. This place, it's unsettlingly exciting. My harebrained hound leads me deeper into the forest, and I follow. It's darker now, the outstretched arms of early darkness grasp at my ankles. The red, orange, and yellow leaves mix, and mingle making a masterful mosaic that blocks the sun’s stray kisses. Ahead is the bend. This bend is familiar in an unfamiliar way, for the last time I was here this bend curved the other way. Past this point, the euphoric excitement turns to persisting paranoia. I stop, unsure if I should continue. Just as I turn my back and whistle for my dingo doggy she bolts ahead and around the bend.
She's hellbent, tearing after a squirrel. Like a lion leaping after a lamb, her strides are as long as the final rays of the sun, and strong, like tangled tree roots. The crazed K9 comes to rest, the rodent under her paws, her choppy breaths creating tinny clouds in the cool fall air. The smell of iron dances with the moody scent of fall. It’s the smell of a kill. It's in the air. The loud silence of death penetrates the forest deeper than any animal’s cry. Just as the squirrel carcass slips down the grizzly gullet of my triumphant tail-wager the chaotic beauty of the forest returns. The hum of nature. Birds calling out through the forest in songs of joy, rodents rustling through the foliage, scouring the forest floor. Death comes swiftly like a bullet through a barrel. I look at the killer, her paws blood soaked and her beard red with the fresh blood of her meal.
We hike down the path, that has become little more than a cramped leave-infested corridor. I can feel the light seeping away, the sun crashing down to the earth, being stolen by the darkness. The darkness. It's stealing my hope, draining me like a ship sinking into the ocean's depths. There is no choice but to go on to the camp. The camp. A safe haven in these forests of danger. Green A-frame tents dot the land at random, their canvases, worn a century, fires crack with the sound of peace and comfort. Above them, the kills of the day cook. Bass run through with sticks, their skin turning golden brown and delicious. Squirrels skewered and rotating, like the one in my tiny tykes tummy. And around the main fire, a whole hog roasts, with an apple in its mouth, limbs strewn out like an eagle. The camp is alive with the chatter of the warriors' triumphs of the day. A feast for the brave. I suppose that's me and my kooky pooch now, the brave. I don't feel brave.
The sun is gone, scared of the forest and replaced by the bold moon, who is casting rays of hope through the trees. Nighttime is no time to be in this forest. A stick breaks, a sharp exhale I glance from side to side, up down, left right, what? It's impossible to see now. I can feel my heart beating rapidly. Run. I sprint, the sharp exhales and sticks breaking surely belonging to me now. My malicious mutt is bounding beside me, trekking through the forest like a bull in a china shop stopping for no one, nothing. Trees are zipping by, my legs are carrying me, moving without command begging me to get away from the danger. A light peeks out from behind the trees “the camp poochy, it's the camp!” the hope returns to me, the soft light of the camp is like a new dawn. It's coming closer with every step. We will be embraced as warriors, the ones who arrived at night. The thought makes me smile a wide grin, my rowdy rover barking out in cries of joy as we exit the forest into the camp. Safe, at last. No more persisting paranoia, no more sticks breaking just out of my vision. Safe. I fall to my knees winded, sucking back air like a vacuum, “hhhhheeeeee hhhuuuuuuuu.” Looking down through my hands I can see the dirt, packed from
the steps of the camp warriors, the aroma of moldy tents hangs in the air. I can imagine the delicious taste of the pork and bass already.
A stick breaks, a sharp exhale. I look up, what!? These aren't warriors! They look at me and my hound with large black eyes, it's like looking into the abyss, their gaze like daggers darting into me examining every molecule of my being. Their elbows, turned out and gnarled like knobs of a tree, their knees, knocked and bruised an unnerving browny green, their limbs, long and lanky like sticks, their skin, ashen grey and porous like an unwashed pre-teen, their necks crooked and bent at odd angles. Are these the forest
“warriors”? They stare intently at me and my canine. One moves closer to me. It's like the bones in its body are snapping making cracking noises like sticks breaking. I'm filled with dread, deep dread it's like they’re sucking the emotions out of me leaving me a shell, soulless. I look around above the fires. There's no food, no feast for the brave. Snap! The world turns upside down, and then black.
A stick breaks, a sharp exhale, something is skewered, a chant starts, a deep guttural chant like the song of toads, “oOOoo rata E ta oo oo rata to, oOOoo rata E ta, oo oo rata to.” The fires blaze. The feast of the brave has begun.