Branu continued on his journey up the mountain, pondering his regrets, until late in the evening. The bare dirt road was beginning to grow narrower and steeper. At this height, the trees lining the mountainside had changed from the short, sparse ones found at lower heights to towering giants, their branches criss-crossing across the path and completely shading it from the sun. Mandarotta, the “Green Mountain”, began to earn its name at these heights.
It was as good a place as any for one last rest before the final leg of the journey. Branu gathered what dry wood he could find into a small pile. Then, picking out a twig, he held it in his hand and reached into it with heat until it started smouldering nicely. He quickly placed it in the fire heap and added some more heat for good measure until the fire was crackling along merrily.
The snapping of flames and the cool evening mountain air brought some peace to his troubled mind. The heat, the fire, the mountain... he knew them all well, and they him.
Down in the village, Mandarotta and the Oldforest on its crown were both regarded with fear and distrust. They had a bad name. Panthers prowled the high hill-tops, occasionally ambushing the unwary traveller if they strayed too long after dusk. The Oldforest was infested with snakes and poisons, and strange, evil Touch-plants whose uses the villagers neither understood nor tried to.
Stories abounded of folk who had been ensnared by a vine when they Touched it with strength, or stung by an innocuous flower when they Touched it with light, barely escaping with their lives.
But as if this were not enough, Mandarotta had an even more dismal reputation clouding its name: one forged by myth and superstition. Demons and darkness.
The Oldforest was said to be home to more than mere beast and plant. It was otherworldly, alien, and existed on the border of life and death, both bound and unbound at once to the Divine Web. And here, the legends spoke, they waited.
They who were said to be cut from the mountain itself. They who were made of dirt and rock, and had no souls of their own. They were banished, cast out, denied from the Web. To keep from turning back into stone, they sought to claw their way back into the Web, and hungered for a source of purity, an energy that would achieve this: a human’s Touch.
They would lay in wait for centuries, being closer to cold stone than creature, until some hapless traveller stepped upon their form. And they would feast, leeching life-essence, draining away the Touch, and along with it the human’s soul itself. Then, not yet sated, they would suck away the human’s mark itself from the world, eating all traces of the person’s Touches, erasing all connection they had to the universe, making it so they had never existed.
The villagers had no complex, ancient names for them. The only reference they made to them was simple, literal, as though anything more would bring the legends even closer to their reality.
The Eaters, they called them.
All of this combined, it was more than enough to deter visitors. All in the village kept from exploring too far up the mountain. Let Mandarotta keep its secrets.
All except, of course, one stubborn fool.
Branu had overcome these fears long ago, having spent much of his life travelling up and down. He was a practical man. He knew that most animals kept well away from men, as long as you returned in daylight and didn’t stray too deep into the Oldforest. He was well-versed enough with the herbs and Touch-plants there to know the nurturing ones from the harmful - and in any case, with only heat, there weren’t many Touch-plants he could awaken. In fact, the most potent medicines came from the most poisonous leaves themselves. And as to ridiculous myths of demons and devils, he had dismissed them, laughing at the silly beliefs of his friends.
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At least, he had until that one day many years ago.
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It had been in the middle of the monsoons, and the path up had been muddy and wet. He had taken longer than usual to reach the Oldforest, sloshing through the mud that had been ankle-deep at some points. The way back would be even harder, with the wicker basket full of herbs balanced on his head.
Though the day had started with promises of no rain, once he had reached the top, the air had become humid and thick. The mountain had a mind of its own, and near the thickly forested peak, it suffered only its own influence. No longer could the clouds float freely and carelessly, dowsing the places they wished with pleasing showers.
Up here, they were bound entirely to the commands of the Green Mountain, who waylaid them and taxed them heavily, causing them to unload their entire selves on the Oldforest. The clouds would blot out the sun, leaving the forest bathed in a dreary, impotent light.
In the dark, damp atmosphere, it was easy to believe in the legends about the Oldforest, and its host of demons.
Branu might have scoffed at stories of Eaters, but the thunderstorm was quite real, and so intense that he had to shelter until the weather eased. He quickly ran to the crumbling stone ruin located at the forest’s edge.
The structure was an ancient temple dedicated to some unknown god or gods long forgotten. The locals called it the Oldbone temple, referring to the mystical white material used for the intricate carvings inside. Most of the construction was of more commonplace material however. The granite used for many of the tall columns had long since eroded away, and the pillars had collapsed. The ones that remained seemed barely enough to support the heavy stone slabs of the roof, some of which slanted dangerously at some places. The stone walls and pillars had obviously borne sculptures and stonework, but most of them had been long worn out by the onslaught of rain and plant.
Only the Oldbone carvings remained entirely unscathed. The pearly white, grey streaked material seemed to be virtually indestructible. It adorned many of the walls, inset into the common granite in plaques and linings, bearing still the old carvings covering them. Unlike the eroded granite that surrounded it, the Oldbone carvings were perfect, albeit covered in dirt and grime.
Not a single scratch had grazed them, not a single chip befallen any of the intricate patterns hewn onto them: every delicate mark, every fine fall of the chisel seemed as perfect as the day their artist had cut them. Even the plaques that had fallen out of their insets showed no signs of damage. Branu had often sat and admired their beauty, as he ate his midday meal in the shelter of the temple.
But on that day, he just huddled, wet, cold and shivering waiting for the downpour to abate. Finding a place where the roof didn’t leak through the cracks, he rubbed his palms and focussed heat to slowly dry himself. It took time: he was young then, and not as adept at using his Touch. He then tried in vain to get a fire going, but any sticks and twigs within his reach were too damp to heat into flame. All he could do was to use his insufficient skill with his hands and keep patting himself, barely warming one part, before another became unbearably cold.
It was at this point that he heard the high-pitched squeal. He paused. For a moment, he thought he had only imagined it. Then it sounded again; a whimpering, piteous whine.
Branu looked around for the source. He almost missed it before spying it out of the corner of an eye - a little patch of leaves suddenly rustled and quivered and then fell still.
The patch of leaves whined again. An animal of some kind? Maybe an abandoned panther kitten or a wild-dog cub - which meant its parent would not be too far away, looking for it, even in this weather.
Curious and cautious, Branu moved towards the bundle of leaves and used a twig to gently lift one.
There was panic. Branu emitted an involuntary yell, fell backwards on the slippery stone, and scrambled away with haste, mumbling incoherently to himself as his heart pounded. All the heat he had spent on himself seemed to have drained away in an instant. He threw his arms about and chanced upon on a small rock. He picked it up and slowly hefted it over his head, finally pausing and panting to catch his breath.
Best to strike first, and strike decisively. Swallowing, he crawled back to the spot, nudged a leaf back with his foot and raised his weapon.