Beyond the Forest Floor

Chapter 1: Arboreal Serenade

An alpine harvest exhalation awakens the trees,

prompting fallen leaves to dance in the air—

whilst I track well-acquainted bearings

within these somnolent woodlands

during this tranquil October twilight.

The sun is near to depart,

and the moon soon to arrive.

My steps cease as I take a brief rest.

Closing my eyes,

I hearken to the forest choir.

Branches and twigs creak and fracture—

a soft percussion—

small arboreal inhabitants scurry

atop blankets of scarlet and amber leaves—

a melodic susurrus—

as the lingering breeze stirs the foliage.

Insects chirp and buzz,

enriching the arrangement with a sirenic undertone

reminiscent of violins

subtly singing alongside the orchestra.

Harmonic unity of the wilderness.

Unsealing my eyes,

I then gaze toward the heavens.

A majestic panorama unfolds

that steals away my breath.

Dark silhouettes of giants dwarfing me,

juxtaposed against the deep purple and fiery amber sky

that’s not quite night, yet no longer day.

Akin to masterful brushwork

eliciting muted awe.

Chapter 2: Cellar Door

A purling brook courses placidly before me.

Granting me dry passage beyond

is a rustic timber footbridge.

I deliberately sidestep perished slats

until reaching the far bank.

Scarcely had I set foot upon the far side

when promptly the vista

commenced a phantasmal shimmering,

as if I had wandered into a chimerical plane,

finding myself confounded by this façade.

Intrigued at this peculiarity,

I presumed to breach the enclave of the trail.

Forthwith I am buffeted with a visceral vertigo—

as if I were embarked upon a dory

tossing about atop tempestuous depths—

assailed by unsteadiness,

overwrought with an onset of nausea.

I can but gawk

as light bleeds and distorts,

trees metamorphose into…

weeping corporeal gum—

aberrational echoes resembling melting wax—

an unyielding clock inhibits my reverie

of this fathomless continuum.

However, I shan’t falter

on this calling to which I am bound.

I totter back to the path,

forsaking this liminal anomaly.

My infirmities assuage at once.

Steadying my breath,

whilst stealing a trice

to recompose my equilibrium,

ere I venture forth.

Striding deeper into this arboreal delirium,

I surmise this static membrane—

sheathing me before external madness—

cleaves in tandem with every footfall.

Inwardly, a tempest awakens,

not with aversion nor disquiet—

nay—

with a storm of expectation.

Mercifully, in the wake of muddled decades

devoted to quartering this wild

for what I’ve long sought,

the threshold is nigh.

The luminous beacon now watches—

with its unblinking eye unburdened—

casting shadows aside,

setting my heading aglow.

A few hundred paces furthermore and…

The preternatural sanctum

manifests from nothingness.

Embedded within a loamed rise

lies the ever-eluding threshold,

born of sodden, rotted lumber

with a rusted metal latch.

Yonder, my sights are tethered

unto the ingress—

I’ve long pursued—

affording me a conduit

to the sylvan floor thereunder.

Chapter 3: Beyond the Forest Floor

Lingering before the gateway,

I contemplate its nature,

feeling as though it was…

anticipating my arrival.

The manner in which it presents itself—

bearing eroded anchors

and a putrefied frame—

is reminiscent of a derelict vault.

I expectantly brace myself

to resort to brute force

in order to unloose it.

Presupposing the corroded sinews

and cumbersome, waterlogged grain

will bellow and moan.

Curiously enough,

it surrenders with seamless grace.

An inky, constricted throat

inauspiciously unfurls before me—

a vertiginous stairway plunging

into a void eternal—

amidst suffocating barriers

all made of condensed earth.

A bleak, sepulchral artifice

architected to dishearten

those it deems—feeble-minded.

With instinctive certainty

I edge forth, transcending the divide,

the maw dissipating thereupon.

A disembodied, subdued luminosity

casts a tapered window,

shepherding my pilgrimage downward.

Wending away from the boughed labyrinth

for the turn of an hourglass,

my pillars give rise to lassitude.

Casting a glance rearward—

voided space—

a Cimmerian nihility eats this reality

in my wake.

The same vacancy before me.

I divine this a subsequent stratagem

to beguile sojourners with the notion of

this endeavor being Sisyphean.

Howbeit, I command quite the proficiency

with regard to this ground’s mockery.

I care not,

if my pillars grow heavy and languish—

I’ll drag my frame

till my framework is dust—

I care not,

if you want to break my will—

I’ll ensure my tempered resolve

shan’t crumble with rust—

I care not,

if you persist with your patent charades—

I’ll humor your game,

my mettle is as unyielding as a diamond—

it will ne’er fragment.

With eternity to spare, I carry on.

Death, decay, rot—a redolence wafts upwards,

a stink akin to a tomb with a fresh cadaver

that conjures up vestiges of yesteryear.

Whilst most men would feel revulsion

towards the pungent stink,

most men have not endured it for lifetimes.

Undeterred, I persevere—the room…

the cellar…

is within my grasp.

My foot falls upon the next step

at once transforming the infinite stairs

into the room…

into the cellar!

Chapter 4: Colloquy with an Ifrit

Roots from the forest somewhere above,

weave in and out of the cellar’s hard soil shell.

Lanterns with blue flames

hover just below the palate

three abreast,

illuminating the belly of…

I believe it to be tightly packed coffins.

Smooth, sanded birch lids

acting as wooden tiles.

At the heart of the cavity is a table

assembled with sturdy oak underpinning

supporting a membranous, orbicular

tablet of coruscant obsidian.

A pair of monolithic chairs

frame the table,

appearing to be composed of oak

that has blackened with age.

Seats made for the damned.

A vacant seat in rear profile

awaits my presence.

It is facing what I’ve long

been ferreting these woods for.

My quest is finally near its conclusion.

A reflexive amusement

pulls the corners of my mouth

as my gaze meets the specter

who impassively studies my arrival.

Extending a lanky limb—

the forearm exposed from its draping sleeve

showing the apparition’s unnaturally gray flesh—

it unfurls a long bony finger

beckoning me to come and sit.

I go at my own pace,

my actions measured

as I proceed to take a seat.

I am not subject to its urgencies—

no—

it is—

obliviously—

here on my terms.

I position myself and rivet my gaze—

Orbs with white sclerae

lit up by irises of fire

are the only features visible underneath

a tattered and dirty black hood—

I see no face if it has one

for shadows fill the void

amidst the fire,

dark repelling the light.

The lower hem

of the onyx garment marred by muck

massed atop the sea of sepulchers—

the crust of the cellar

a binding earthen graveyard

abounding with souls of all ill-fated wishers—

its vestment strikes me as looking…

…cumbersome?

As if it’s laden with lead.

Even whilst sitting,

the wraithlike manifestation

eclipses my stature.

Judging from my perspective

it commands a clearing

no less than eight feet in height.

I simply look up at its shadowed abyss,

into its ignited motes—

My look will not falter,

the cloaked shade

is cognizant of the truth—

We are not equals.

“What folly has possessed this wayward drifter

to breach the threshold of an ancient gifter?”

Its words arrive,

on a hollow, frigid whisper.

I drink in the musty air,

ere I give voice to my thoughts.

“It would seem that your perception

is fallacious,

as it happens to be—by every metric—

I am infallibly at my intended mark…

Makkār.”

The veiled phantom’s blazing spheres

fleetly flicker,

its shrouded crown shifting

in acknowledgement.

Its title has been unspoken

for millennia.

“’Tis a quaint and novel scenario,

an ephemeral mortal possesses my moniker.

Not a mere stray, but a destined curio.

Do you seek money? Power? To be a conqueror?

Banal scholar, your gnosis is scarcely a marvel.

Let loose your tongue, unburden your wish

You mirror all other men, avaricious and larval.

Tell me your greed and what you seek to embellish.

Let loose your tongue, unburden your wish.”

Its husky cadence resonates

with a curt, dismissive breath.

A hollow blanket covers my mind,

my unvarnished designs

sequestered within my marrow

beyond the perception

of this unholy plague.

It is blind to my undercurrent,

ignorant of its guest’s ambitions—

something I know it hasn’t felt

since the ancient Egyptians

erected the Great Pyramids—

“Layers of dust

from lifetimes elapsed

have smothered my generational pursuit

to unearth your arcane ground—

so much time to a… mortal,

as you called me,

yet, even centuries are a mere blink to you.  

Alas, I must admit

to an element of truth

within your words.

Indeed, I do come here

aiming for a long-desired outcome

that is in point of fact—

a wish—

Nonetheless, I am

acutely schooled

regarding your clever tactics.

Notwithstanding, ere I profess…

my yearning—

for greed and power—

I ask of you

to heed a brief narrative.”

My face is as blank as my mind.

The foul skulker is still save for

its elongated, skeletal digits intertwining…

“You have piqued my curiosity, mortal,

or perhaps not as mortal as I originally perceived?

Once-a-man who trespassed my portal,

I will indeed pay mind to your tale. Proceed.”

Chapter 5: A Sorrowful Willow

Centuries ago—

too far in the past

to recollect the year—

a woman drowning in despair

embarked upon

a nigh improbable quest.

She once lived a life

of wealth and comfort,

married to an esteemed professor.

Together they shared…

were blessed with

a beautiful daughter.

A family unit residing

in a sprawling homestead.

Happy.

Healthy.

Honored.

‘Til the instant tolled

when the levees burst.

A precipitous epidemic

plagued the full expanse

of the cityscape.

The wife and daughter were sequestered

within the confines of their hearth.

Lulled into a false assurance

of immunity.

Whilst the esteemed professor…

husband—

the boorish dolt—

so besotted with his intellect,

persisted in funneling

the deep currents of lore

into the minds of his pupils.

The silent plague

covertly flooded the university,

its tides washing over the campus populace,

inconspicuously blighting them.

A fortnight…

the sonnet’s measure ere the fatigue struck—

a half-month ere debilitating body aches struck—

fourteen suns ere perilously high fevers struck—

twice-seven eves ere delirium stole their minds—

a fortnight ere the sickness showed itself…

Upon reality’s grim unmasking,

in the wake of fourteen days

the dark water raining down upon them

was poised to douse their flames.

Death was soon to greet them.

The beloved woman…

wife…

the cherished angel

retained her health.

Staying afloat

atop the raging rapids,

despairingly observing her beloved ones’

fluidly ebbing health.

Sixteen nightfalls,

she could scarcely even recognize

the faces of her own family

who were now bedridden and frozen.

Their faces a stagnant lake of fluid.

Voices stuck in their throats,

their eyes paralyzed from being

so grossly engorged,

unable to open, leaving them blind.

At sunrise, she arose

to the surface of consciousness

boiling from a raging fever,

her body stiff and screaming.

The surging waves of demise

were soon to sweep and swallow them

into their final submersion—

she would not yield,

she would not submit—

Poised to rouse her watery eye—

she was to awaken—

as a formidable tempest,

ready to flood the Earth itself,

to save her family—

Though pain filled her soul,

she knew what had to be done—

The time-worn ancestral tome

stowed away within the walnut chest

‘neath the cobwebbed rafters—

she had long let it wash over her,

dismissing it as superstitious folklore.

Amidst the low tides

of the early voyages of her youth

she had drunk in the heirloom

front-to-back,

near obsessively.

Her nana oft spoke of the myths within,

sparking a fire

in the depths of her curious mind.

Every muscle mewled and burned

as she ascended the tiers of the home

‘til she reached the attic.

She knelt down

upon the silt-coated sea

in front of the antique trunk.

Her finger trembled

as she unlatched the clasp,

opening it deliberately as

the lid complained

from decades of idleness.

A mildewy aroma drifted outward

as she seized the text.

An ingrained instinct settled in her mind.

Acting upon a somatic recall

she parted the thick cover—

a centuries-old papyrus manuscript,

the pages an ochre tinge

so fragile a strong wind

would render them dust—

carefully leafing through

to the exact passage

with the datum she hoped…

needed to be a salvation.

—If only the professor

was not so stifled

by his own pompousness.

If only the professor

knew of what ancient power

lay neglected in limbo.

If only he knew,

then he would have held onto…

Everything.—

An entity with sprawling wings

born of fire bereft of smoke and air

adorned the left page of the relic.

On the right page

anchored at the header

with ink faded and a lake of

bleeding sepia italic script beneath,

was the subject’s title—

the subject

who would be her preserver.—

“Makkār, Tales of the Ifrit.”

The tale that ensued

issued strong caution

with regard to encountering

the fabled eater of souls.

A being originating

from the ancient Arabian Peninsula.

It was said to be a shape-shifting trickster,

who would grant the wish

for whomever crossed into its realm

hidden deep beneath the arid sea

of the Arabian desert.

However, every wish

would not only result

in losing one’s soul,

but have adverse consequences,

robbing those who pined

for the opportunity to revel

in their gluttony.

—As societies grew,

as cities were erected,

as the desert became

a desolate ocean

devoid of wanderers—

The Ifrit became starved,

depleted of humanity’s essence.

Destitute and defeated,

a bargain was made

with Lucifer itself.

The Ifrit was sanctioned

to resettle to a more populous setting.

In return, Lucifer claimed

an equal split of man’s anima.

The Ifrit settled neath a forest

situated near to a bustling

urban agglomeration.

—Unknown to the Ifrit,

Lucifer had an underlying stipulation.

Passage into the Ifrit’s domain

is contingent upon the unique condition of

a Blood Moon.

The Ifrit was in such an abject state,

it failed to comprehend

the full terms of the agreement;

an established truth

absent from the tome

that ceased existing

subsequent to the wife embarking

upon her forlorn foray;

datum the professor

ascertained across centuries

of evaluating thousands of texts.—

The wife gathered the knowledge

and set sail to secure

preservation of her ailing family.