The Swallowing Forest

‘Stick to the path’.

That’s what they always said.

‘Stick to the path’.

Whenever anyone mentioned they would be crossing the Swallowing Forest it was only a matter of time until this mantra would be uttered. It was inevitable.

‘Stick to the path… if you want to make it to the other side.’

Sitting firm in the saddle, the sound of his horse’s hooves raining down upon the dry ground, the wind rushing through his hair, he thought of the superstitions of the commonfolk and tried not to laugh. The foolish and ill-educated would believe anything. Confronted with something they didn’t understand, it staggered him to see how quickly they filled in the blanks with all manner of clap-trap and mystic mumbo-jumbo.

A favoured pot had vanished from the kitchens; it was the work of house elves.

The hound had refused his supper; an ill-omen was in the air.

Two horses had thrown shoes in the same day; a demon was targeting the stables.

Utter nonsense.

Announcing his plans at dinner, he’d seen the looks on the servants’ faces, known the thoughts crossing their simple minds. By the time he’d donned his travelling cloak the following morning he’d heard whispers of superstitious drivel from no less than half the staff, including the stable master whom he’d thought had more sense in his head.

Told of his household’s penchant for whimsy, Father had laughed and shrugged it aside. As far as he was concerned their beliefs caused no harm, and he’d gone on to jokingly suggest that perhaps their advice should be followed in this instance, if just to improve morale.

With an internal roll of his eyes he’d followed this behest, announcing as he departed the estate, his intention to keep to the path, and expressing his gratitude and appreciation to the staff for their concern. Their looks of relief as he had set off through the gate had almost made the façade feel worthwhile, however this sentiment had quickly faded as he’d galloped into the trees and his initial sense of derision had begun to return.

It was laughable that otherwise sensible folk would attribute such otherworldly power to a simple woodland. The Swallowing Forest was little different from any of the other forests surrounding their domain; its colouration was somewhat out of sync with its compatriots, the typical greens and yellows replaced by a richer, more reddish brown, but beyond that it was largely the same.

Despite this, reviewing the path slipping by beneath him it was plain to see it was less frequently travelled than its neighbours, the ground looser, less tightly packed and flattened by the beat of passing hooves. It seemed the tall-tales and myths of the place kept the more gullible travellers away, however the route was thankfully still clear and passable among the trees.

He wondered idly if phenomena such as this occurred the world over; did all peoples develop such ridiculous notions? Was every nation home to areas left desolate and underutilised simply on account of overactive imaginations conjuring demons from shadows? Would such shameful displays ever be relegated to the past, abandoned and forgotten as relics of a simpler time?

The light of the setting sun, striking through a break in the canopy overhead, shook him from his reverie. He blinked in the glare, staring around him at the orange glow of the evening sun as it begun its slow retirement from the day.

He gawped, incredulous. How had such a vast length of time come to pass? Was he that absorbed in his thoughts?

He turned his head and scrutinised the surrounding forest, realising with a start that he was still well within the depths of the wood. Feeling his skin prickle, he kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks, urging it on, willing it to increase its pace. He’d aimed to be out of the wood long before night fell, and to find himself still with so great a distance to travel was deeply troubling.

Around him, the deep reds of the forest seemed to grow more crimson, the glow of the setting sun almost seeping into the leaves. The fading light gathered and stretched the shadows between the trees, and a primeval part of him sensed the approaching darkness, felt its coming shroud, and lamented at his distance from safe harbour.

A whisper of wind as he galloped through the trees caused the surrounding foliage to ripple and flow. His eyes on the path ahead, he saw the crimson forms around him distort and shift, the leaves vanishing behind a veil of crimson gore; a river of blood.

Shaking his head, he cast the thought from his mind, the pure and innocent leaves of the forest appearing once more. He swallowed heavily, aware of his heart hammering within his chest, his hands tightening on the reins, his eyes grasping at the simple foliage in the dying light.

All too soon however the crimson spectacle returned, the flowing ripple of gore surrounding and enveloping him, the terrible imagery taking root in his mind’s eye, sinking ever deeper into his thoughts.

Another blink, and the sun seemed to have vanished from the sky, the moon replacing it and casting a ghostly white glow across the forest. The river continued to flow, the blood oozing and surging all around him, thick and dark. Erupting from its midst, jutting haphazardly in its path, reared shards of bone, the brittle white skeletal shapes lancing out of the ground on all sides. He shook his head, the forest returning for a moment, the pale bark of the trees reflecting the cool light of the moon, before the blood rushed in once more, the fingers of bone clawing out of the murk and shadow.

His jaw tightened, and he tried to recall his thoughts of the morning, his knowledge that the forest held nothing to fear, his certainty that superstition and flawed belief were the only things that held sway in this place.

A whisper tickled at his ear, a hint of conversation just outside his range of comprehension.

He shifted in the saddle, turning his head, searching in the darkness. Had he truly heard something, or was it all just in his mind?

A pulling sensation wrapped around his face and chest, tugging at him, grasping at his cloak, and a series of creaks and moans erupted on all sides. Shuddering, he kicked his steed faster still, plunging it onward into the dark, willing himself to believe that it was just the wind, teasing at his clothes and shifting through the trees.

The moon edged its way behind a cloud, and the gloom of the night became all engrossing. Straining his eyes into the darkness he sought any kind of landmark, praying that his mount’s night vision was better than his own. Was there any chance it could make out the path in the darkness, when he could not?

The tongue of a lash struck across his face, the touch of its flails licking across his cheek and brow, stinging his skin, stabbing at his sensitive flesh. Whimpering, he raised a hand to comfort his eye, felt a dampness there that he hoped was simply tears, his eye watering to recover from what he tried to realise was likely just the touch of a low hanging branch.

A second whip fell, and then a third, a fourth, the blows assaulting him from all sides. He cringed and shielded himself from the ever-increasing strikes, though dared not slow his horse. The forest lashed out at him over and over, and he knew in his heart that all was not right within the wood.

His horse, spurred ever faster, raced on through the night…

When morning broke, the sun lifting away the darkness, a solitary mount emerged from amid the trees of the Swallowing Forest. Strapped across its back was a saddle, ornate and fine, empty and cold.

‘Stick to the path,’ they said. ‘If you want to make it to the other side.’