Chapter 6
1060 Words
Jacob moved quietly through the forest, his steps light and deliberate. Years of training under Mr. Robert had taught him how to walk without announcing himself, how to read broken grass, bent leaves, and disturbed soil as clearly as written words. The morning air was heavy, thick with moisture, and the forest felt unusually still.
He approached the trap carefully.
At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him.
Three birds lay tangled in the snare, their wings lifeless, their feathers dull. That alone was not unusual. But behind them—partly hidden by crushed branches and torn earth—lay something far larger.
A buffalo.
Jacob’s breath caught in his throat.
A simple trap. One meant for small animals. Never—*never*—for something so powerful.
His heart began to race. The forest felt wrong. Too quiet. No insects. No birdsong.
He quickly removed the birds, slung them over his shoulder, and ran—no longer caring about silence. He rushed back to the hut, his thoughts pounding louder than his feet.
“Mr. Robert!” he called out as he arrived. “The trap—it caught birds. And a buffalo.”
Mr. Robert froze.
The color drained from his face.
“A buffalo?” he repeated quietly.
Without another word, Robert grabbed his staff and hurried out, moving faster than Jacob had ever seen him move. Instead of going toward the trap, he changed direction—toward the scattered huts of the retired soldiers.
He reached **Mr. Henry**, an old comrade and close friend, and pulled him aside.
“The forest has cursed us,” Robert said urgently. “That buffalo was never meant to be caught. A trap like that—never.”
Henry frowned. “Then how—”
“There is no how,” Robert interrupted. “Only consequence.”
Within minutes, the men gathered, armed but uneasy. They moved toward the trap’s location together, alert, fearful.
But when they arrived—
There was nothing.
No buffalo.
No birds.
No trap.
The earth was smooth, untouched, as though nothing had ever been there.
Panic crept into their eyes.
“I saw it,” Robert said firmly. “I swear it.”
As if summoned by his words, a deep groan echoed through the forest.
Suddenly, a massive tree beside them shuddered. Its branches twisted unnaturally, stretching like living limbs. Before anyone could react, one branch shot forward and wrapped itself around Mr. Henry.
“Henry!” someone screamed.
The tree tightened its grip.
Henry’s scream pierced the forest—then stopped.
The branch dragged him upward, engulfing him into the trunk itself. Bark closed around his body like flesh sealing a wound.
He was gone.
The forest fell silent.
Terror seized the men.
They ran.
They did not stop until they reached Robert’s hut, gasping, shaking, refusing to look back. Faces pale, eyes wide with disbelief, they gathered around Robert, desperate.
“What do we do?” one asked. “How do we calm it?”
Robert closed his eyes slowly.
“The forest has already taken its sacrifice,” he said. “We must not speak of this again. Not to anyone. Silence is the only mercy it allows.”
The men nodded, fear sealing their mouths tighter than any oath. One by one, they left, disappearing into the trees—each carrying the weight of what they had witnessed.
That night, Robert called Jacob to him.
“There is a book on the shelf,” Robert said quietly. “The Forest Ritual Book.”
Jacob hesitated. “You said some knowledge—”
“—must wait,” Robert finished. “But not anymore. Learn it. Memorize every herb. Practice every ritual. Your training will no longer be measured by me—but by the forest itself.”
Jacob swallowed.
“If the forest accepts you,” Robert continued, “it will reveal its wisdom. If not—it will destroy you.”
Jacob began immediately.
Days turned into months. Months into years.
He learned the rituals of balance—how to give thanks before taking, how to heal wounded trees, how to speak words not meant for human ears. He memorized every herb: which restored breath, which slowed blood, which called wind, which demanded payment.
The forest tested him relentlessly.
One day, Jacob found a dead bird beneath a fallen branch. Guided by instinct and f*******n knowledge, he crushed herbs, whispered the ancient words, and cut his palm.
The wind rose violently.
Leaves swirled.
The bird’s chest lifted.
It breathed again.
But its eyes glowed green.
“The forest gave it life,” Robert said grimly when Jacob told him. “Not you.”
Jacob learned another law:
When a tree was damaged, life around it weakened. Animals sickened. Plants withered. Until the tree was healed—life itself deteriorated.
Ten years passed.
It was now **1995**.
Neither Jacob nor Robert had returned to Shanta Town. Every attempt was met with storms, blocked paths, or sickness. The forest did not want them to leave.
Jacob tried rituals to ask permission. Again and again.
One night, the **Master Tree**—older than memory—shed **two leaves**.
Robert understood immediately.
“Two days,” he said. “No more.”
They prepared at once.
“This is not Independence Day,” Jacob said quietly. “No celebrations. Just an ordinary day.”
“Ordinary days are more dangerous,” Robert replied.
They left.
Shanta Town had changed.
So had Jasmine.
She was now **twenty-four**—beautiful, elegant, carrying both strength and longing in her eyes. She had completed her education, earned a university degree, and now worked as an assistant secretary in **Albert Enterprises**.
Mr. Albert’s dream had come alive.
A helicopter stood proudly on the field—the first of its kind—its blades gleaming under the sun.
When Jacob and Robert arrived, Mr. Albert embraced them with tears in his eyes. Jasmine ran to Jacob without hesitation.
That evening, Jacob and Jasmine talked for hours.
He told her about the forest.
About the rituals.
The wisdom.
The power.
He did not know—
Back in the forest, the **Master Tree was bleeding**.
Sap ran like blood down its bark.
The forest does not forgive secrets spoken to the outside world.
And it had begun to collect its debt.
- Writer
