THE FOREST OF THE UNKNOWN: THE SACRED TALE

THE FOREST OF THE UNKNOWN:THE SACRED TALE

CHAPTER TWO

Her cries rang clearly in my ears. My name, again and again, laced with terror and sorrow and something far deeper—an ancient grief, the kind a mother feels when she fears she’s already lost her child. She wailed until her voice started to fade—not because she stopped, but because something between us was unraveling. As if the world was folding in on itself, shrinking her voice, peeling it away from the air.

And then, silence. Absolute, terrifying silence. So quiet… so devastatingly quiet that even a drop of cotton falling from the sky would sound like thunder. There was no echo. No murmur. Nothing. Only stillness.

And I was still there—alone beneath the torn heavens, my gaze chained to the sky, my ears filled with absence, my soul shaking.

Then—it began again. The second phase of the horror.

The grasses, which once swayed in eerie peace, now moved with violence. They whipped through the air with such force, they screamed. I heard them—yes, heard them. A chorus of horrible, unnatural sounds—like metal scraping against bone, like wind screaming through broken flutes. It was no longer the silence of dread—it was the sound of nature gone mad.

The sea changed too. It no longer rose with noble defiance, no longer sliced the sun’s rays with graceful waves. No, this time—it boiled. It boiled. I saw it with my own eyes: the sea rising in swollen fury, bubbling like a cursed cauldron under an invisible fire. The water turned wild, alive, monstrous. Steam hissed into the air, thick and dark, as if the ocean had been pierced at its heart. The waves no longer danced—they thrashed. The tide no longer spoke—it screamed.

Something was happening. Something no man, no prophet, no seer had ever foretold.

This was not the end of the world. No—this was the unraveling of reality itself. The order we lived by—the rhythm of night and day, sea and sky, wind and breath—was being torn apart. And I was trapped in the center of it, a witness to a divine catastrophe. Still, I could not move. Still, I watched. Still, I waited—for what, I did not know.

But deep within me, something whispered: This is only the beginning.

The sun remained strong. Unabated. Burning with pride, refusing to yield. For what seemed like eternity, it held its place—defiant, unwavering—locked in combat with the rising fury of the moon. The two celestial beings, each swollen with power and ancient authority, clashed not with thunder or lightning, but with silent urgency. A willful, urgent scuffle—swift, yet deeply measured. As though each move was chosen by fate long before time itself began.

I watched it all unfold, my two lips parted in stunned wonder. My mouth hung open—not from fear now, but reverence. And in that quiet gape, a thin film of slippery water gathered, unbidden, just beneath my lower lip. I didn’t notice at first. I wasn’t conscious of my body anymore. My attention—my soul—was held captive by the battle above.

The water trickled down my chin, snaked along my neck, and found its way to my toes. I felt none of it. The fear I had once felt was gone, as though stolen by the sky. What once appeared horrific had become—somehow—beautiful. This was no longer a terrifying sight, but a marvelous, sacred performance. I was no longer a witness to doom. I had become a guest in the theatre of gods.

And then I saw it.

The moon, fierce and cunning, reached out—not with hands, but with a force I cannot describe. It grabbed the sun by what I can only call its tail—a trailing aura of fire—and began to pull. Slowly, yet deliberately, it drew the sun closer to itself. Inch by inch. Light bending. Air thickening. The heat of the sun dragged into the cold mouth of the moon.

I gasped. And then, the unthinkable happened.

The moon engulfed the sun. Swallowed it. Bit by bit, the blazing god disappeared behind the dark curve of its sibling until—finally—nothing remained. Total darkness.

Not the kind of darkness that comes with nightfall. No. This was deeper. More absolute. A darkness that swallowed thought. That bent the world inward. I blinked, but it didn’t matter—my eyes were open, yet I could not see myself. I was not lost, but I could not find my own hands. I was nowhere and everywhere. Suspended.

In that moment—time vanished. And yet, in that void, I sensed… something. Movement.

Not wind. Not light. But something moving in the sky. Around us. Above us. Through us. I couldn’t tell what it was. It had no form, no sound, no definition. I could not tell whether it slithered or flew, whether it walked or hovered. But I felt it. I felt its presence like breath on the back of my neck. Like fingers brushing through unseen hair. Like memory rising from a forgotten dream. There was no sound. No whisper. No crack or whistle. Just that strange, terrifying presence filling the sky—filling me.

The world had paused. And in that pause, something ancient returned. Something not born of sun or moon, but older than both.

Suddenly, a ray pierced through the blanket of darkness—sharp and determined. A sliver of light, weak but defiant, tore into the night that had devoured the bright day. It came not in thunder, but with quiet force, like a blade of hope slipping between the ribs of despair.

I saw it. A single beam. Fighting—yes, fighting—to show its face once more to the world. It danced through the thick void like a child pushing through heavy curtains, struggling to remind us that the sun had not died, only been hidden.

Then I heard it—voices. Soft at first, like whispers carried by cautious wind. Then clearer, closer. My heart stirred with hope. They’re back, I thought. My parents. They came back for me.

I held tightly to that belief—not because I heard their names, but because I knew them. I knew they would not leave me behind. Not in a moment like this. Not when the sky was falling apart and the sea was boiling and the moon had swallowed the sun. They wouldn't leave me to face that alone. I trusted them. But as the voices drew nearer, something shifted in me. I became worried—not for myself, but for them. Why are they looking for me in such a place? In such a time? What if something happens to them because of me?

That thought pierced deeper than the darkness ever could. I pitied them for searching—wandering through that eerie, collapsed world, calling out for their child. I couldn’t see them yet, but I could hear them—many of them. Not just my parents. Five, maybe ten people. Their voices layered over one another, urgent and strained, like a chorus trying to lift a song against the silence.

And still, I stood motionless, eyes glued to the heavens. The fight continued above. The scuffle was hotter now—more aggressive, more desperate. Yet, oddly, the weather was cool. Cool like early morning mist. And still—I was drenched in sweat. Sweat rolled down my temples, soaked my back, dampened my palms. It didn’t make sense.