Chapter 1 First Act: The Whisper of Damp Oak
The Scent of Home
The air in the village had a scent that one could never truly forget – a blend of burning beechwood, ripe peppers roasting on the stove, and that heavy, fertile earth that seemed to breathe beneath one's feet. Marijana stood on the threshold of her grandfather’s house, adjusting the straps of her old rucksack. The sun hung low, piercing through the canopies of ancient walnut trees, casting long, elongated shadows that intertwined across the yard like mythical creatures from the tales her grandfather whispered at night by the crackling fire.
“Don’t go too far, Mari!” her grandmother called out from the kitchen, the aroma of fresh fried dough briefly overpowering the scent of the mountain. “And watch out for the dew, the grass is still heavy!”
Marijana did not answer with words; she simply waved, feeling the rough binding of her notebook hidden in her bag beneath her fingers. That notebook, stained with ink and pressed flower petals, was her most precious possession. Within its pages, the world was not just a village and workdays; within it, everything held a deeper meaning.
A Path into the Deep Green Shade
Her friends were waiting by the old wooden bridge. The neighbourhood children, noisy and carefree, carried woven baskets, hoping for a rich harvest of porcini and chanterelles. As they ventured deeper into the forest, the clamour slowly faded, muffled by thick moss and a silence broken only by the occasional cry of a bird or the snap of dry twigs underfoot.
The forest here was different. The oak and hornbeam trees were so ancient that their bark resembled the wrinkled skin of primeval giants. Moisture was felt in every breath – that sharp, cold scent of decaying leaves and the budding of new life. Marijana intentionally stayed apart. While the others feverishly turned over leaves in search of the yellow caps of mushrooms, she watched the light falling in shafts, illuminating tiny dust motes in the air.
Her foot sank into deep moss near a spring that gurgled softly. There, where the air was coldest and the silence deepest, she felt she was not alone.
An Encounter That Changes Everything
It was not the sound of footsteps. Rather, it was like a change in air pressure, as if the forest itself had recoiled. In a clearing, partially screened by an old, fallen beech, he stood. Hrelja.
He did not look like a man, yet not quite like a phantom either. His presence was heavy, imbued with a sadness that could be felt. His eyes were the colour of a clouded stream, and his movements were slow, almost ritualistic. Marijana felt her heart beat against her ribs, not from fear, but from some inexplicable recognition. He watched her for a long time without a single word, while around him flickered an aura of something long passed that nonetheless refused to vanish.
He raised a hand, pointing toward the ground where an unusual flower, paler than all the rest, grew from the damp humus. Its petals were almost translucent, thin as parchment. Marijana knelt and began to sketch. As she drew the lines, she felt that this flower was not just a plant, but a symbol of hope in a place where sorrow reigned. Beside the drawing, with a trembling hand, she wrote the sentence: 'Only the light that fears not the darkness can unlock the gates of oblivion.'
In that moment, Marijana felt a sharp pain in her neck, where the horseshoe mark would later manifest. It pulsed in time with the earth. Without a word, Hrelja withdrew into the shadows. He simply merged with the dark trunks, becoming part of the forest from which he had emerged.
A Secret Between the Covers
“Marijana! Where are you? We found a whole cluster of chanterelles!” someone shouted from the distance.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm the shaking of her hands. She quickly pulled out her notebook and pencil. Her fingers moved feverishly. She recorded that feeling of weight in her chest, the scent of ozone and moisture, the silence that sounded like a curse.
“He is waiting,” she wrote in a large, childish hand. “The forest guards him, and he guards a sorrow that has no name.”
That evening, as she sat beside her grandfather and listened to stories of Old Slavic names and warriors who never found peace, Marijana remained silent. Beneath the table, her fingers traced the mark on her neck that burned. She knew that on that afternoon, she had made a silent pact with the past.
