The Still Forest

The stale, humid air was suffocating. The discomfort in his chest was a constant. Every breath came unsatisfying, half-empty, leaving him craving more. He was moving slowly, and yet his legs felt heavier than when sprinting in the open plains. Rubbery vines snaked across the forest floor, tangling his path. Every couple of breaths, hunger pulsed through his empty stomach, draining what little energy remained.

The smell should have been overwhelming on its own. The stench of wet, disintegrating leaves and bugs was unlike anything he had sensed before. The densely packed plants were in a constant cycle of birth and decay. Even in his famished state, he fought not retching.

As soon as his body would reach the edge of surrender, his mind would drift away to his children. Their sunken eyes and frail, bony bodies were engraved into his skull.

The drought had destroyed the land. Every animal had fled north seeking water and grazing. Winter froze the fruit trees and berry bushes; when spring came, no rain revived them. Within a few moons, his tribe had exhausted their meagre stores.

The Elder made his decision: they would hunt in the Still Forest, where no tribe had dared to venture before. They had no choice. Even in the drought, the forest had kept its deep green, almost luminous shine. After a fortnight without food, he no longer cared for the elders’ tales from his boyhood. No being, dead or living, would stop him from reaching his prey.

He was yanked out of his thoughts by a high-pitched whistle. He almost took it for a bird, but then recognised his leader's call.

Through the lightheadedness and spots in his vision, he saw Maron to his right, mouth gaping, gulping air to satisfy the ever-burning want for air. Maron held his bamboo spear parallel to the ground, concealing it among the dense shrubs. To his left, Arno and Orro crouched with bows drawn taut, ready to loose at a heartbeat's notice. He watched Arno's fingers trembling, saw him adjust his grip as moisture made the string slip.

In the wet, impassable rainforest, they were out of their element. The only thing on their side was the perpetual chorus surrounding them—shrieking birds, chittering insects, the constant drip and crack of the canopy above. Despite its name, the Still Forest pulsed with sound and motion, masking their clumsy, inexperienced movements from their prey.

The landragon they tracked moved even slower than they did. Before entering the forest, he'd seen only a few of these creatures venturing onto the plains to chase deer that strayed too close to the tree line. This one was small, but could feed the tribe for a few days.

The thought triggered his hunger again. He remembered his last meal—charred venison tail—but not when he'd eaten it. His stomach clenched in recognition.

Maron raised his hand. He froze. Up ahead, their target balanced against a tree trunk, reaching for a large nut in the branches above. He nocked an arrow and pulled the slack out of the string, gripping it tight to stop wetness from getting between his fingers. He wanted to be closer, but he had no choice. Speaking might spook the beast—or worse, provoke a charge. As everyone raised their weapons toward the black mass, a loud crack echoed from deep in the forest. The landragon grunted, dropped to all fours, and trotted away.

The crack sharpened the feeling that had plagued him since entering the forest. From his first step inside, he'd fought the urge to shield the back of his neck, as if anticipating an attack. With every step, something inside him braced for jaws to pierce his neck, for claws to tear his spine apart. He was hunting an animal, but it felt like another animal was hunting him.

As he tracked the landragon across the forest floor, an unnatural movement in the canopy caught his eye. He instinctively drew his bow, but a sharp tsk tsk from his right stopped him. Maron, nearly invisible against the moss, signalled—the beast had turned back toward them.

It stopped barely ten feet away from them, grazing on vines and thick watery leaves. Through the handful of sun rays coming through the dense canopy, the beast could never see its hunters. Driven by primal hunger, he drew and raised his bow in one fluid motion. The canopy shook again, and made him hesitate.

In that second of doubt, Maron struck. The landragon turned toward the rustling leaves, curious rather than alarmed. It was too late. The sharp stone tip of Maron's spear barely felt any resistance as it slid through the animal's ribcage, piercing his lungs and splitting his heart.

The animal collapsed to the ground with a deep growl.

"Ahoo!", Maron's victory cry rang through the forest as he yanked his spear from the felled beast.

The forest went completely still. The birds stopped their chirping, the insects their chittering. Only the canopy creaked above them.

He released his bow, letting it swing at his side. Through the blood and sweat blurring his vision, he glimpsed a face—shiny green eyes lying low in the foliage behind where the landragon had fallen. He blinked, shook his head to focus. The hunger was making him see things that weren't there.

"Over here!", Maron yelled.

The starving hunters gathered and wasted no time. They surrounded the carcass with daggers already out, cutting into the bloodied flesh. Someone pressed raw liver into his hands. He chewed while working, strength flowing back into his limbs with each swallow. For a moment he imagined a charred landragon haunch, then pushed the thought away—his wife and children waited, shrivelled in their tent, fighting the hunger away.

As they prepared to move with the raw meat on their backs, his hand found his neck again. Every hair stood on end, as if to warn him that the hunt was not yet over.

Despite the weight of raw landragon meat, he felt invigorated. The thought of nourishing his family filled him with boundless strength. He leapt over vines and shoved dead branches aside, moving in a blur between the tree trunks. His breath fell into rhythm with his steps, his heart thumping in sync.

The sun was almost down when he saw the wilted yellow plains in the distance. Away from the forest’s shade, they were scorched from the day's heat. From here, his legs knew the way. He'd be home before sunset.

A rumble from behind startled him. The trees erupted into life, branches weaving and thrashing as if the Northern Gale itself were tearing through the forest. He caught sight of Orro tightening his belt before sprinting toward the plains. His heart quickened, pounding out extra beats with every stride. He sprinted forward.

The rumble was getting louder and louder. The earth seemed to crumble behind him, the forest reaching to swallow him back into its depths.

In his mind, all he could think of were his children reaching out to hug him with their frail arms. A sharp crack—his foot caught a dead vine and he went sprawling. He tried to yell but no sound came. As he scrambled up, the haunch he'd been saving slipped from his harness. He grabbed it with both hands and kept running.

The rumbling was overwhelming now. He realised the source of the noise: it was the trees. They danced wildly in the air. Touching and twisting, bending and warping, blown by invisible gusts.

But then he heard another noise. A deep grunt, a growl almost. He recognised it instantly—the landragon's dying grunt. But the beast was dead, miles behind them. The sound came again from the canopy above, repeating, as if the forest had learned the creature's voice.

The familiar smell of the dry plains batted away the stench of the rainforest. The almost-set sun cast its last rays on the withered wheat blades in the distance. They were almost at his grasp. He pushed the last forest branches out of his way.

Just as he thought he would be pulled into the forest to never be found again, he felt the dried savannah grass breaking under his feet. The familiar crackle was liberating. A few more steps and he burst free of the forest's pull.

He ran several more strides before collapsing, his chest heaving to draw in the fresh evening air. Arno and Orro ran toward him. He tried to rise but fell back.

"I thought—" he gasped between breaths, "—thought it had me."

Never again would he enter that damp, steamy hell.

"It almost had me."

The sky was scribbled with white wisps over darkening blue. He could see his wife's face, his children's arms reaching for him.

He sat up. Arno's face was drained of colour. The forest had gone completely silent.

"Where's my brother?"

The question hung in the air before panic crashed down.

"Where is Maron? WHERE IS HE?"

The scream echoed across the plains.

He struggled upright, scanning the clearing. Only the three of them stood in the dying light.

Then, from deep in the silent forest, a single voice rang out—clear and familiar, but with an echo that didn’t quite belong to it.

"Over here."