Chapter Twelve: "Traces in the Forest"
Yusuf woke to the sound of water.
It was not a sudden awakening, but a slow emergence, like rising from the depths of a deep sea toward a surface not yet visible. The river's sound echoed among the dense trees, its continuous murmur as if deliberately waking him from his stupor, or as if it had always been there waiting for him to return to consciousness.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The first thing he felt was the headache. Not an ordinary headache, but a weight pressing on his head from within, as if a small stone still rattled inside his skull. He reached his hand to his forehead and felt cold sweat mixed with damp earth clinging to his face. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly, but they moved.
He sat up, leaning on his elbow, trying to steady his breath. The ground beneath him was soft and muddy, emanating the smell of clay and algae, and something else—something like ancient mold mixed with the scent of rotting wood. With each movement, he felt pain coursing through his muscles—a faint but pervasive pain, reminding him of the extent of the exhaustion that had overtaken his body.
He looked at his hands. They were filthy, his nails filled with dirt, and there were small scratches whose source he could not remember. He moved his fingers one by one, making sure they worked. They moved. He was alive.
He sat still for a moment, looking around without turning his head. He was in a place he did not recognize. Dense trees surrounded him from every side, some leaning, some covered with gray moss hanging like worn curtains.
The light was faint, seeping through the intertwined branches in pale yellow patches on the ground. He did not know how long he had slept. He did not know where he was. But he was alive.
He tried to recall what had happened.
Events crowded into his mind, tangled and disordered, like the strands of a cut rope he did not know how to gather. He remembered the moment he fell from the boat he had emigrated on.
He remembered the cold water swallowing him, the darkness enveloping him, then waking on that strange shore where the trees resembled none he had ever known. He remembered the dark forest, the creature he had faced, the hunger that had worn his body down until the shadow was more solid than he was.
He remembered the abandoned camp. The madman. The three strangers around the fire. The torn body, the head on the tree stump, the removed eyes. The chase.
He remembered all of this. It was present in his mind like photographs taken from a distance.
But when he tried to recall what came after… he was met with emptiness.
Nothing. No image, no sound, no clear sensation. As if those moments had been erased from within him, as if they had never been. He knew something had happened. He knew he had faced something immense, something terrifying.
But he could not grasp it. All that remained was a vague sensation in his chest—a weight he could not name. He did not know whether it was fear or pain or something else. He did not know.
He sat there, his hands on his knees, breathing slowly. The headache was still there, but it had begun to ease. His body groaned from within, but it endured.
He raised his gaze to the sky, hidden behind dense branches. The patches of light moved slowly with the sun's inclination. He did not know how long he had slept, but he knew he had slept a long while.
He stood.
His knees trembled slightly, his legs unsteady under his body's weight. He grabbed a nearby tree trunk, feeling the rough bark beneath his palm, the smell of damp wood filling his nose. He stood there for a moment, listening to his heartbeat gradually slowing.
He looked around. The forest was as it had been—dense, dark, silent. But something was different. He could not pinpoint it. There was a stillness within him that had not been there before. Not the stillness of despair, nor the stillness of exhaustion. Another stillness, deeper, as if something inside him had settled after a long storm.
He did not dwell on it. He had no time for thinking.
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The river's sound still flowed through the air, faint but clear. He moved toward it. His steps were slow but steady. He placed his feet carefully, avoiding protruding roots and dry branches that might break beneath him. His eyes moved slowly, watching the ground ahead, watching the shadows among the trees, watching everything without focusing on any one thing.
He reached the bank.
The river was wider than he remembered. Water flowed swiftly, striking large rocks in its center and sending up a fine mist that glinted in the fading light. The current was strong, carrying dry leaves and small twigs, pushing them downstream without pause.
He raised his eyes to the other side. On the opposite bank, a low tree hung its branches over the water. It bore small red fruits, swaying in the light breeze like silent bells.
He felt his stomach contract. Hunger was always there, waiting in the background, but now it suddenly became present, strong, gnawing at his stomach from within. He turned his eyes away from the fruits for a moment and tried to think.
The water was swift, the rocks beneath the surface unseen. Any mistake meant falling into the current, which could crush him against the rocks or sweep him away. There was no bridge. No boat. Nothing.
He sat on a nearby stone and looked at the water.
Minutes passed. He watched the current, watching how it struck the rocks, how it bent around them, how small eddies formed at their edges. He watched without thinking much. He simply looked.
Then he began searching around him.
There were long twisted roots at the base of a massive tree behind him. Some were dry, brittle, easily broken. But some were still damp, flexible. He chose some damp roots and pulled them with his hands. He separated them with effort, until he formed a sturdy rope. He tested it, pulling with both hands. It was strong enough.
He picked up a stone the size of his palm from among the rocks. It was smooth, heavy. He tied it to the rope's end with a knot he pulled tight. Then he swung the rope several times in the air, gauging the distance, the weight, the angle.
He threw it.
The stone struck the water and fell into the current before reaching the other side. It was too far. He pursed his lips and pulled the rope back slowly. He wound it again. Tried again.
This time, the stone flew higher in the air, traveled farther, then wrapped around a low branch on the opposite bank. He heard the stone strike the branch, then heard the rope tighten.
He waited. He looked at the branch. It was thick, seemed sturdy. He pulled the rope gently from his end, testing its strength. The branch moved slightly but did not break. He pulled harder. It held.
He took a deep breath.
He gripped the rope's end firmly with both hands. He stepped into the water.
The cold was shocking. He felt it in his feet first, then in his legs, then in his chest. The water struck his body with force, trying to tear him from his place. He pulled on the rope with all his strength and dragged himself forward step by step.
Water slapped his face, entered his mouth, his nose. He nearly choked; he raised his head higher and breathed quickly before another wave hit. His arm muscles burned, his hands slipped on the wet rope. But he continued. He crawled through the water, dragging himself with difficulty, his feet searching for footing among the slippery rocks.
The current tried to tear him away with each step. He felt his left foot slip; he pulled the rope harder and swung his body forward. He continued.
Until he reached the other side.
He fell on the opposite bank exhausted, his face in the dirt, his chest heaving violently. His arms trembled, his hands still clenched around the rope as if they could not open. He lay there for minutes, listening to the water that had nearly killed him moments before, feeling the solid earth beneath his body, feeling that he was alive.
Then he rose slowly.
He approached the tree. The red fruits hung before his eyes, close enough to touch. He reached out, picked one. It was warm from the sun, soft to the touch, with a light dusting of dirt. He put it in his mouth without thinking.
The taste was strange. A faint sweetness at first, then a bitterness that followed, lingering on the tongue for moments before fading. He did not care. He picked another, then another. He ate slowly, chewing well, feeling the food pass down his throat and drop into his empty stomach. It was not a meal, but it was enough to give him some strength.
He sat leaning against the tree trunk, looking at the river he had crossed. The current still ran strong, the rocks still submerged beneath the water. He looked at his hands: they were red from the cold, small scratches visible on his fingers. He looked at the rope he had made: it was still tied to the branch, swaying in the wind.
"If I had rushed more…" he thought. But he did not finish the sentence.
He knew that if he had thought too much, if he had hesitated, he would never have crossed. He knew that hunger made him faster, but also more prone to error. He knew that what he had done was not courage, but necessity.
He stood. His legs still trembled slightly, but he stood. He looked at the forest ahead. It resembled the one behind the river, but it was denser, the trees taller, the shadows deeper. He did not know where to go. He did not know whether he was advancing or moving in circles. But he knew he could not stay here.
He began walking along the river, keeping it to his right. The water was his only guide. He walked slowly, but he did not stop. He placed his feet carefully, avoiding roots and rocks, but he no longer stumbled as he had in the past days. His steps were more steady, his eyes moving calmly between the ground, the trees, and the hidden sky.
Hours passed. The light began to change with the sun's tilt, becoming more yellow, then orange, then a faint red seeping through the branches as if slowly burning.
Then he stopped.
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There, on the damp mud near the river, was a trace.
He knelt to see it up close. A footprint, clear, not yet erased. The lines were still sharp, the ground around it not yet dry. He looked at the ground around the trace and saw another. Then another. There were several tracks, some deeper, some lighter, as if their maker had been running or walking quickly.
He raised his eyes ahead. The tracks led toward the forest, disappearing between the trunks.
He sat there for a moment, his eyes not leaving the trace. He knew there were others besides him in this forest. He had encountered some. But seeing this trace here, so close, was different. A real person had passed here, not long ago. They might still be near.
He did not know whether this was good or bad. He knew that some of those he had met were dangerous. And he knew that some had been killed before he met them. He knew that solitude was dangerous, but companionship might be more so.
He stood. He looked at the trace one last time, then raised his eyes to the forest. He had not yet decided whether to follow it. But he wanted to know.
He began walking slowly along the trail of the trace, leaving the river behind. The trace was clear at first, then began to fade, sometimes disappearing among the rocks, then reappearing on damp earth. Its maker walked steadily, not in a hurry, but did not stop often.
He walked like this for minutes, the forest around him growing denser, the trees drawing closer, the shadows overlapping. Then he stopped suddenly.
There was something in the air. Not a sound, not a smell. Something else. A feeling. A feeling that something was changing. That the forest around him was no longer silent as it had been. There was silence, but a different silence. The silence of one who waits.
He stood in place, not moving. He breathed slowly, his eyes scanning what was around him without turning. He heard his heart, but his heart was calm. He heard the wind in the branches, but the wind was light. He heard…
Footsteps.
Distant at first, then closer. Not only human footsteps. There was another sound with them. The sound of hooves. Heavy, steady, striking the ground with force.
His body stiffened. His breath stopped in his chest. Everything in the forest suddenly fell silent, as if the trees themselves held their breath. There was no more wind sound. No more branch sound. Only the footsteps. And the hooves. Approaching.
He stood there, not moving. He knew he should hide. He knew he had to decide quickly. But he did not feel panic. There was a stillness within him—strange, deep, as if he knew that time had not yet run out.
He looked around. There was a dense bush a few steps away. He could crouch behind it. He could wait for the footsteps to pass. He could decide later whether to follow them or not.
He moved quietly. He did not run. He did not rush. He walked slowly toward the bush, crouched behind it, making his body small in its shadow. He heard the footsteps approaching. They were very close now.
His heart beat, but it was calm. His eyes looked through the branches, watching the place from which the footsteps would appear.
And the forest around him was waiting.
In silence.
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End of Chapter Twelve