Franta got lost in the smell of the forest before he realised he was lost at all. The air was thick with the deep, creamy scent of wood and earth, and the enchanting scent kept drawing him on. Panic set in as his breath began to echo louder than his footsteps. He didn't know which direction to turn, his footing more unsteady under the damp, uneven ground, and his stomach dropped a little with each uncertain step. The forest closed around him the way a thought closes when you chase it too hard, like a cave of dampness, and the light was lower under the canopy. Trees thickened, roots rose like old knuckles from the soil, and the light turned green and inward. He had only meant to wander, but wandering has its own intentions, and soon the path slipped away as quietly as a secret.
The scent deepened as fear rose, dark oud shadowing and hiding beneath the moss, cedar wood and sandalwood wrapping around him like a heavy cloak, something reminiscent of faint sparks of saffron and pink pepper piercing the dampness, sharp against the weight of panic, while somewhere a note of vetiver and musk like clung to the air, grounding him in the forest’s pulse. Every inhale carried both disorientation and the strange comfort of knowing the woods had memory.
That was when he heard the rustle, not threatening, not afraid. A monkey appeared, small and deliberate, its eyes holding the patience of something older than maps. It studied him as if he were the one out of place, which, of course, he was.
Without ceremony, it moved ahead, pausing now and then to be sure he followed. The forest resisted them. Branches clutched at his sleeves, the scent of wood and spice guiding each step, the air heavy with damp memory, and every direction looked like another beginning. Yet the monkey knew. It leapt where the ground softened, waited where the forest thickened, its tail flicking like punctuation in a sentence he was learning to read.
As they walked, panic loosened its grip. The creamy, smoky aroma of the forest became familiar, steadying, intimate. He felt the forest watching, not with malice, but with curiosity, as if it wanted to know whether he would listen.
Then, suddenly, the path returned. Clear. Ordinary. The monkey vanished without farewell, leaving only the echo of wood, spice, and the sense that he had been guided not out of the forest, but back into himself, to his breath.
AOC
