CHAPTER TWO: The Forest That Did Not Know Him
1547 Words
He did not land on the ground.
He landed on pain.
The world returned in fragments—first the sound, then the smell, then the unbearable weight of gravity slamming back into his bones.
There was earth in his mouth.
Hot.
Dry.
He lay face down, arms twisted beneath him, lungs struggling to remember their duty.
For several seconds—minutes—years—there was no time. Only sensation.
Then air forced itself into him.
He coughed violently.
Dust exploded from his lips.
He rolled onto his back.
The sky above him was enormous.
Not the hazy, light-polluted stretch he knew from Buea. This sky was brutally clear. A savage blue without wires cutting across it. No aircraft trails. No distant hum of civilization.
Just sky.
He blinked hard.
“My God,” he whispered.
His voice sounded wrong. Too small.
Memory surged back.
The bunker.
The rings.
The lightning.
The fold.
He sat up too quickly and nausea gripped him. He bent forward, retching until there was nothing left inside him to surrender.
When he could breathe again, he forced himself to look around.
Forest.
But not the forest he knew.
The trees were thicker, older. Their trunks wider than any he had seen near Yaoundé. The undergrowth denser. Wild in a way modern landscapes rarely were. No faint paths of human intrusion. No plastic waste tangled in roots. No distant sound of motorcycles or shouting vendors.
Silence.
Not peaceful silence.
Ancient silence.
His heart began to race—not with excitement now, but with dawning terror.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, no, no…”
He looked down at himself.
His clothes were intact—jeans, long-sleeve shirt, boots. A small backpack still clung to his shoulders. He tore it off and checked frantically.
Notebook.
Pen.
Flashlight.
A small multitool.
Two energy bars.
His phone.
He grabbed the phone.
No signal.
Of course no signal.
He opened the compass app.
The screen flickered strangely, as if confused.
The battery read 82%.
A strange hysterical laugh bubbled up his throat.
“You did it,” he whispered.
The forest did not congratulate him.
He stood slowly.
The air was thicker here. Heavy with the scent of raw vegetation and damp soil. Insects buzzed in tones he could not place.
He turned in a slow circle.
Where was the bunker?
Where was the machine?
There was nothing but trees.
No clearing. No concrete. No twisted metal.
Just wilderness stretching in every direction.
His breath shortened.
Displacement theory had never fully accounted for spatial alignment. He had calculated temporal shift based on Earth’s rotation and orbital mechanics—but if the machine had not anchored properly—
He could be thousands of kilometers from where he had started.
He could be centuries—no—he was centuries removed.
He forced himself to think.
If this was West Africa in the early fourteenth century, the land would be mostly forest and savannah, with scattered settlements depending on region.
He needed water.
He needed shelter.
He needed to not die in the first twelve hours.
The sun hung high—late afternoon, perhaps.
He chose a direction arbitrarily and began walking.
The forest floor was uneven and treacherous. Roots snagged at his boots. Thorned vines clawed at his sleeves. Sweat soaked his shirt within minutes.
The romantic notion of time travel evaporated with the first mosquito bite.
He slapped at his neck.
“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Absolutely brilliant.”
Branches cracked somewhere ahead.
He froze.
Silence.
Then the c***k again.
Not wind.
Movement.
He slowly crouched behind a thick tree trunk.
His mind raced through possibilities.
Animal?
Human?
If human—what language? What kingdom? What political climate?
He strained to listen.
Low voices.
Male.
He caught a word.
Not English.
Not French.
Not immediately familiar.
But African.
That much he knew.
His chest tightened.
He leaned slightly to peer through the foliage.
Three figures moved through the trees.
Men.
Dark-skinned. Bare-chested. Muscular. Leather straps crossing their torsos. Each carried a bow taller than his arm and a quiver full of arrows.
One held a spear.
Their hair was braided tightly against their scalps.
They were alert.
Hunters—or scouts.
His heart pounded so violently he feared they would hear it.
He withdrew slowly behind the tree.
Think.
He had no contextual clothing. No weapon. No cultural markers.
To them he would look like—
A spy.
A sorcerer.
A threat.
The men paused.
One crouched and touched the ground.
He had seen the disturbed soil where Gideon had fallen.
Of course.
Of course he had left evidence.
The man gestured.
The others fanned out.
They were tracking him.
Gideon swallowed.
Running would only confirm guilt.
Hiding in an unfamiliar forest against experienced hunters was suicide.
His mind calculated options with cold precision.
If approached, show empty hands.
Lower posture.
Speak calmly.
Avoid sudden movements.
He stepped out from behind the tree before they could circle him.
“Wait!” he called instinctively—in English.
The men snapped toward him.
Bows raised instantly.
Arrows drawn.
Three arrowheads pointed directly at his chest.
The world narrowed to those sharpened tips.
He lifted his hands slowly.
“Easy,” he said softly, though they did not understand the word.
One of them barked something sharply.
Another circled to his side.
Gideon’s mouth went dry.
They spoke again—rapid, clipped syllables.
He caught fragments that sounded faintly like old Bantu roots—but altered.
Time distorts language too.
One of them stepped closer, spear angled at Gideon’s throat.
Gideon forced himself to kneel.
Submission.
The spear tip pressed lightly against his skin.
The man’s eyes were hard, assessing.
Gideon pointed to himself.
“Gideon,” he said slowly.
Blank stare.
He pointed again.
“Gi-de-on.”
The men exchanged glances.
One spoke cautiously, pointing to Gideon’s clothes.
Another reached out and touched his shirt, rubbing the fabric between rough fingers.
Confusion flickered across their faces.
Gideon realized then just how alien he must appear.
Denim.
Synthetic stitching.
Rubber soles.
He might as well have descended from the sky.
Which, in a sense, he had.
The tallest of the men said something decisive.
The spear lifted slightly—but the bows remained drawn.
The message was clear.
Move.
Slowly.
Gideon stood, hands still raised.
They formed around him—one ahead, one behind, one at his side.
Escort.
Or capture.
They walked.
The forest seemed to shift as they moved through it, parting for those who belonged.
Gideon stumbled often.
The men did not.
After what felt like an hour, the trees thinned.
Smoke rose in the distance.
A settlement.
His breath caught.
Mud structures.
Thatched roofs.
Children running barefoot.
Women pounding grain.
Men repairing tools.
The sight hit him harder than the fall had.
This was no documentary.
No reenactment.
No museum.
This was life.
Real.
Immediate.
Unaware of the centuries ahead.
The villagers noticed them quickly.
Movement slowed.
Eyes fixed on Gideon.
Whispers spread.
The hunters spoke loudly, gesturing toward him.
Faces hardened.
Some crossed themselves in gestures of warding.
Others spat lightly on the ground.
Fear.
Suspicion.
An older man emerged from one of the larger huts.
His presence shifted the atmosphere instantly.
Authority.
Age had carved deep lines into his face, but his back remained straight. Around his neck hung beads carved from bone and stone.
He studied Gideon without speaking.
The hunters spoke to him rapidly.
The old man’s gaze did not waver.
Gideon felt as though he were being weighed—not just physically, but spiritually.
The elder stepped forward.
He circled Gideon once.
Then stopped directly in front of him.
Their eyes met.
Gideon saw intelligence there.
Not superstition.
Not ignorance.
Assessment.
The elder spoke.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Gideon understood nothing.
He swallowed and answered in the same slow tone.
“My name is Gideon.”
The elder’s eyes flickered at the strange sounds.
He repeated something.
Pointed to the sky.
Then to Gideon.
A question.
Did you fall?
Did you come from above?
Gideon’s heartbeat thundered.
He hesitated.
A single wrong gesture could mean death.
He lowered his head slightly.
He touched the ground.
Then spread his hands as if lost.
The universal sign.
I am displaced.
The elder watched him for a long moment.
Then he raised his hand.
The tension eased slightly.
The bows lowered.
Not trust.
But delay.
The elder spoke again, this time gesturing toward the largest hut.
Gideon was led forward.
Inside, the air was cooler.
Smoky.
The interior was dim, lit by a small opening in the roof.
He was instructed to sit.
He obeyed.
The elder sat opposite him.
Two other men remained by the entrance.
Guarding.
The elder studied him again.
Then he reached forward and touched Gideon’s wrist.
Feeling his pulse.
Gideon’s breath slowed deliberately.
The elder’s eyes narrowed.
He spoke a single word.
Softly.
The guards stiffened.
Gideon did not know the word.
But he felt its weight.
Spirit.
The elder leaned back.
And for the first time since landing, Gideon understood something with absolute clarity:
He had not just traveled through time.
He had fallen into belief.
And in a world where knowledge wore the face of mystery—
He would either become miracle—
Or monster.
- Writer
