I cross the tree line as if it had asked me to. As if last night, in a fog of darkness, my tent had shaken and the vault buried in my subconscious had been trespassed by a thought not mine. As if this very notion came from the woods themselves, an unspoken warrant, a susurrant demand not heard but felt, in the bones of my waking mind, to be that which I never intended.
An interloper.
I was going to stay here. Camp for the night and make the long trek back. The woods before me seemed uninviting, in a fashion I cannot describe but could feel like a claw grating beneath my skin, a herald of worse things should I continue. But after last night, I cannot resist. If I return unscathed, call it bravery. If I return but a shell of a man for any reason I cannot fathom, call it idiocy. Naïveté, if nothing else.
My advancement is at first met with silence. Only the creak and groan of towering trees, only the faint shudder of a metropolis of leaves above me. It is the sort of near-silence that a man from the city could get used to; could get lost in; could be entombed by.
Though this tranquility rears its duplicity sooner than not. A rush of wind and a howl of beasts unseen shatter my composure. I show my fear like a child in a man-suit, and want to flee this place without hesitation. When the fleeting terrors dissipate and I am met by a sylvan sigh, an exhalation as if oozing from every inner ring of every tree encompassing me, I realize my error. A weakness in the spine and an impulsive distrust despite being called upon, despite being welcome and accepted.
Perhaps I have much to learn here. Or perhaps I do not deserve to learn. I trek on, uncertain when to turn back, supposing I can even find my way out of here. Supposing I even want to.