THE FOREST OF THE UNKNOWN: THE SACRED TALE

CHAPTER ONE: "Some truths must never find a mouth to speak them." I will tell you my name—if only you can promise to keep it buried within you forever. I mean it. Take it with you to your grave, whether that grave welcomes you soon or delays its hunger. Swear to l that you will never whisper it to your shadow, the silent student who dwells in your most secret room. Swear that not even your reflection will learn it, nor the story you are so eager to know. But tell me—what good is it to you, this knowledge? Isn’t it useless, even dangerous? Don’t you see how perilous it is to carry the kind of truth that scorches the soul? Wouldn’t it be holier for you to remain ignorant of evil? Sometimes, ignorance is not just bliss—it is safety, it is sanctity. What will you do with the knowledge you demand? Wrap it in silence and never use it? Lock it away and pretend it never burned in your mind? Of what use is a forbidden name to a seekerwho cannot speak it? This is knowledge no living soul should carry. Even now, I hesitate. Still—if you insist, truly insist—I will give it to you. But understand this: once the truth is given, it cannot be returned. And once you hear the name, it becomes your burden, not mine. It was in the year 1897. December 23, to be exact. A strange sun ruled the sky that day—blazing, merciless, and ancient. It shone not like a friend of the earth, but like a curse sent from the heavens. Its rays fell not softly, but like spears—sharp, unrelenting, divine. It lit up the oceans and scorched the backs of the mountains. It painted the world in a light too bright to be holy, too fierce to be human. The sky was clear. Too clear. As though all the clouds had been swallowed by silence. Not a bird sang. Not a cricket chirped. Not a cough, not a crack. The world was still—eerily still. The kind of stillness that belongs in tombs. Even the grasses, tall and once vibrant, swayed in a motion that defied nature. They moved, yes, but without a sound. No rustle. No whisper. Just a slow, ghostly wave, bending beneath the weight of something unseen. They made way for the sun, as though surrendering, bowing before its brutal glow. The sea, mighty and restless, did not surrender so easily. It sent forth its waves like warriors, rising in defiance, clashing with the sun’s fierce rays as if to slice them apart. The water sparkled not with beauty but with warning—like blades sharpened beneath moonlight. Wave after wave danced a silent war against the sky, rising and falling in furious silence. That breeze—oh, that breeze. It blew with a quiet so deafening, so heavy, it pressed against the skin like a warning. It carried no sound, no scent, no warmth. Only weight. Like the breath of an invisible beast watching from beyond the horizon. And then something strange happened—stranger than the silence, stranger than the sun. The hairs on the bodies of men and women, young and old, began to grow. Not slowly, not naturally. They lengthened rapidly—two inches, maybe more—in the space of a heartbeat. As if responding to some ancient rhythm, as if the body sensed a presence the eyes could not see. People stood frozen, perplexed, rubbing their arms, staring at one another. Even the animals noticed—dogs whimpered, goats bleated, birds hid in unnatural stillness. It was magnificent. Terrifying. Beautiful in the way that only doom can be. No one spoke. Because something was coming. Something ancient. Something sacred. Something forbidden. The moon came out—but not as it should. It did not rise in elegance, wrapped in silver, dancing across the sky with grace. No. The moon came out wearily, like a being disturbed from sacred sleep. As though someone had called it out against its will, dragging it from the belly of night. It staggered. Yes—it staggered. I saw it with my own eyes. Its presence was heavy, clumsy, almost broken. Every five minutes, it shifted from one position to another, as if trying to find balance, as if drunk on prophecy. And with each movement, it grew—larger, bolder, angrier. Its pale surface began to burn with a strange light, not gentle or romantic, but sharp and swollen with rage. And then, it happened—the moon turned to face the sun. A war had begun. It was a battle of light versus light, fire against fire. The sky was split into two realms. One half still blazed under the cruel brightness of the sun; the other began to darken under the slow, creeping hunger of the moon. People watched at first, but quickly turned away. Some fell to the ground, covering their eyes with trembling hands. Others ran, scattering like leaves in a storm. No one understood what was happening. No one could guess what would happen next. The weather changed. The air grew thick and metallic, tasting like blood and dust. Winds began to blow—not loudly, but with a sinister intent. Trees bowed. Birds dropped mid-flight. The earth itself seemed to tremble under the weight of what was unfolding above. And yet—I did not move. I stood there, rooted to the earth like a forgotten statue. My legs stiff, my heart pounding, but my eyes—my eyes remained wide open, fixed on the sky. I was too afraid to be afraid. My fear had passed fear itself. I was in the realm of knowing. I needed to understand. I needed to know why this was happening—what curse or blessing had awakened the sky to war against itself. I watched, unblinking, as two mighty beings prepared for collision. Not stars. Not planets. But gods. Yes—gods. The ones we worship on earth. The ones heaven rejoices over. The ones who measure our lives—one marking the birth of day, the other, the sleep of night. They were not simply celestial bodies that day. They were alive. Angry. Majestic. And ready to fight. Then—I heard it. A voice. Calling from behind, far away, but piercing through all the madness like a blade through silk. My name. She called my name. It was my mother. Her voice trembled with fear, cracked with grief. I heard the scattered pain in her cry. I could feel it in my bones—how alone she was. She stood on a patch of trembling ground, arms stretched out toward me. Alone. No one else remained. The others had fled—vanished into the safety of shadows, into prayer, into hiding. No one wanted to see what I was seeing. No one wanted to witness the terrible sight of gods preparing for war. But I—I was there. And I could not look away. I wished I could go to her. I wished I could run to her at once—wrap my arms around her trembling frame, whisper that everything would be okay, even if I didn’t believe it myself. I longed to break free from whatever held me and rush to her side like a child waking from a nightmare. But I could not. My legs betrayed me. They were stiff, locked, heavy as stone. I had become something less than human—rigid, immobile, like a tree rooted in a land where nothing was safe. My body refused me. My mind screamed, but my limbs would not obey. I stood there—still—watching. And all I could do was listen.