Chương 2: B1 Chapter 1

I woke early as always, and although my mat needed improvement, it was serviceable for the moment. I would fix it later, once I returned. The hut around me was still half-asleep, its woven palm walls breathing in the cool night air, its roof of layered fronds whispering whenever the wind slipped through. Smoke from last night's fire clung to the rafters, staining them dark and sweet with ash.

A carved charm of bone and seed hung above the doorway, turning slowly whenever the air shifted, meant to keep small spirits from slipping inside while we slept. I made my way toward the fire, placing each foot carefully before the next. My father sat beside the flames, feeding them another piece of wood as I slowly stumbled into the light. Outside, the village was only beginning to stir, low silhouettes of huts clustered around shared hearths, thin trails of smoke rising like pale vines into the canopy.

Somewhere a pot was being stirred, metal tapping against clay. A rooster called too early, answered by laughter from a distant shelter. The ground beneath us was packed earth softened by years of footsteps, scattered with fallen husks and broken leaves. He looked up at me.

"You should take a torch with you. There have been strange noises in the jungle tonight." He pulled a branch from the fire and held it out to me; its end wrapped in burning fibres.

"Here, son. Be safe out there. The hunters will be leaving soon, and you shouldn't miss them. They'll mock you during the day, but they'll feel your absence once you're gone." I accepted the torch, and he kept his hand around it for a moment before releasing it.

"We're proud of you, E'ru, even if we'd all hoped you would become something more." Disappointment lived beside the pride in his voice. They were strange companions, yet I'd heard both whenever my father spoke of me for most of my life. Once, I'd been expected to become the kind of hunter he had been. That future had ended when I threw myself from a tree to save Eyowon from a viper. I'd landed badly, and the fall had ruined my body along with every hope the tribe had placed upon me. I regretted none of it.

If the moment came again, I would make the same choice without hesitation. Still, somewhere beneath that certainty lived a quiet grief for the man I might have become. My father spoke as I prepared to leave.

"May the gods guide your steps, son, and lead you safely back to me. I couldn't lose you as I lost her. I tell you every day that you're the most precious thing in the world to me. I love you, my boy. Be safe." I stumbled over to him with the burning branch held in one hand and wrapped my other arm around him. He held me tightly before allowing me to pull away, and then I stumbled off into the darkness of a night still too young to be called morning. The sounds of the village followed me for a short while.

Behind me, the fire cracked as my father added another branch. Someone coughed inside one of the shelters, and a child whimpered before being soothed back to sleep. The dogs shifted as I passed, lifting their heads to sniff at me before settling again. They knew my scent and the uneven rhythm of my steps. With every stumbling pace, those familiar sounds faded beneath the greater voice of the jungle. The insects claimed me first.

Cicadas shrilled from the trees in long, piercing waves, while crickets and katydids filled the spaces between them with their own uneven music. Tree frogs called from pockets of water hidden among the roots. Some chirped in quick bursts, while others released deep, throaty notes that seemed too large to have come from such tiny bodies. I knew them all. A sharp chirp from somewhere to my left belonged to a frog perched among the broad leaves above a shallow pool.

The repeated clicking farther ahead came from a katydid, although it changed its rhythm as I approached, sensing the light and vibration of my steps. A cicada fell silent when the torch passed beneath its tree, then resumed its song after I moved beyond it. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. The jungle never became quiet. Silence only meant that something nearby had chosen to listen. I paused whenever the chorus changed.

Small wings fluttered around the torch. Moths came first, pale and frantic, drawn toward the flame with no understanding of what awaited them there. One struck the burning fibres and vanished with a faint hiss. Others circled beyond the heat, their shadows swelling across the leaves whenever they passed between the fire and the trees. A large owl butterfly slept beneath a leaf near my shoulder, its wings folded together so that the dark eye upon them stared back at me.

Farther along, a blue morpho rested under another broad leaf, its brilliant colour hidden within closed wings of brown. The butterflies knew better than to display their beauty at night. Bright colours attracted hungry eyes, and the jungle had more eyes than stars. A moth fluttered close enough for me to see the powder clinging to its wings. It was broader than my palm, with markings that resembled dead bark. I lowered the torch so the heat wouldn't catch it and continued onward.

Above me came the faint, rapid beating of wings. Bats swept through the gaps between the trees, too quick for the torchlight to hold for more than an instant. The smaller ones hunted insects, twisting sharply through the air whenever a moth or beetle betrayed itself. Another passed overhead with slower, heavier wingbeats. It would be searching for fruit, following the sweetness of something ripe enough to smell through the wet earth and rotting leaves.

One of the bats dropped suddenly, snatching an insect from the air before rising into the darkness again. I heard the brief snap of its wings and smiled. The boys feared bats. They told stories of them tangling themselves in hair, drinking blood, or carrying the spirits of the dead beneath their wings. I'd watched them long enough to understand that most wanted only fruit, insects, or flowers. Even the blood-drinkers preferred sleeping animals that couldn't swat them from the air.

Something moaned from high in the canopy. I stopped, listening until the sound came again. A potoo. The bird's call rolled through the trees like the voice of something grieving. Someone unfamiliar with the jungle might have mistaken it for a lost child or a restless spirit, but I knew better. Somewhere above me, the bird sat so still that even daylight would struggle to separate its feathers from the broken branch beneath it. I continued walking.

Roots twisted across the path, slick with moisture and eager to catch my feet. I tested each patch of earth with the end of a short stick before trusting my weight to it. Where the ground softened, I moved around it. Where leaves had gathered too thickly, I swept them aside to make certain no snake rested beneath them. The other boys could cross this distance in a fraction of the time.

They could leap over fallen trunks, duck beneath vines without slowing, and climb steep ground using nothing more than the strength of their legs. I'd once dreamed of moving as they did. The jungle had given me something else. Every step I took had to be purposeful. I'd learned where to place my feet, how to shift my weight without snapping the branches beneath me, and how to move through hanging leaves without making them tremble. Pain punished every careless movement, so care had become part of me.

Patience followed, then silence. The other boys could stalk when they forced themselves to slow down. I lived slowly. The jungle had shaped me for it. Somewhere ahead, leaves rustled. I stopped and listened. The movement came again, followed by a soft scratching against bark. Too light for a jaguar. Too high for a snake moving through the litter. A small fruit bat climbed along a branch, searching for the flesh it had smelled from above. Farther away, something heavier disturbed the undergrowth.

A low grunt followed, then the scrape of a hoof against damp earth. Peccary. I remained still until the animal moved away. A lone peccary could be dangerous when frightened, and I had no spear sturdy enough to stop one. My traps were intended for smaller prey. The hunters could chase the heavy game once the sun rose. They possessed the explosive strength to bring down animals larger than themselves. The long, quiet hours of the night belonged to me, and I had never feared the darkness as they did.

The torch cracked softly in my hand while the jungle shifted around me. Wings passed overhead. Frogs called from hidden pools. Insects screamed from every tree, and unseen creatures moved beneath leaves wet with dew. Each sound told me something. Together, they told me I was still safe. So long as the jungle continued speaking, I knew where its creatures were. I knew which animals hunted, which ones hid, and which ones had noticed my passing. It was when the jungle stopped speaking that I needed to be afraid.