Chapter Thirteen: "The Wall of Shadows"
Yusuf advanced with steps so soft they were nearly inaudible, his body bent slightly forward, like someone trying to occupy less space in the world.
His feet touched the ground gently, searching for spots with no creak, no shifting gravel, no dry branches to snap. He used the dense shadows of the trees, moving from shadow to shadow, as if he were part of the night itself.
The air was damp, heavy, carrying the smell of earth mixed with moisture and rotting moss, and something else—something like cold iron.
Each breath he took seemed heavier than the last, as if the forest itself was testing his resolve, wanting to see if he would continue or collapse.
The trees around him thickened as he advanced. Their trunks were thick, close together, as if trying to prevent further entry. Their branches were intertwined above his head like a ceiling of dense shadows, light barely reaching the ground. He walked in near-total darkness, relying on eyes that had begun to grow accustomed to the complete absence of light.
Then he heard them.
Sounds unlike any he had heard before in this forest. Not animal sounds, nor rustling leaves, nor the gurgle of water. They were human sounds, but they did not resemble the voices he had heard in the abandoned camp. They were different. Louder. More organized. And harsher.
The rattle of chains. Horses' hooves striking the damp earth heavily. A steady metallic clanking, like an unceasing rhythm. And shouts. The shouts of men who sounded exhausted, fragmented, mixed with fear and sorrow and perhaps despair.
Yusuf stopped suddenly. He crouched behind a massive tree trunk, pressing his back against the rough bark, turning his ear toward the sounds. His heart beat fast, but it was calm. There was a strange stillness within him, a stillness he had not known before, allowing him to focus, to listen, to analyze what he heard without suffocating in fear.
The sounds drew closer. Became clearer. He could now distinguish the words.
A prisoner—from his voice, he was tired, gasping, as if about to fall—said in a fragmented voice barely escaping his throat:
— "Please… a little water… a drop… just a drop…"
A soldier with a thick voice answered—his voice was loud, carrying cold mockery, like someone laughing at something no one else could see:
— "Water? You'll drink when we arrive. If we arrive at all."
Another soldier laughed, a short, dry laugh, as if not really laughter but a signal understood only by those among them.
Another prisoner—different, containing more anger than despair, a rebellion that refused to die—spoke in a desperate but sharp tone:
— "We are not criminals… I swear we were taken unjustly! We did nothing wrong! I swear by everything sacred!"
A third soldier replied in a cold voice:
— "Everyone who comes here says that."
Yusuf was frozen in place. His entire body was rigid, not moving, barely breathing. His eyes were fixed on the small clearing between the trees from which the sounds came. His hands gripped the bark behind him, his nails digging into the damp wood.
Then he saw them.
They emerged from among the trees like a long, endless procession. The torches in their hands cast moving shadows on the trunks, making everything appear larger than it was, and more terrifying.
The soldiers numbered eight. Eight men on horseback, in metal armor that glinted in the torchlight. Not full armor, but enough to make them seem larger than any human Yusuf had ever seen.
Their helmets covered their heads, leaving narrow slits for the eyes, making their faces look like rigid, expressionless masks. Their swords swung at their hips, emitting a faint metallic sound with each movement of the horses.
Behind them, the prisoners walked. Eight men as well, but they were not on horseback. They walked on the ground, their hands bound by a long chain linking one to the other, as if they were a single unbreakable ring.
Black leather sacks covered their faces, revealing nothing. Their steps were sluggish, heavy, as if each drag of the chains drained the life from them little by little. Some limped, others nearly fell with each step.
The procession advanced slowly. The torches flickered, lighting the soldiers' faces from below, making their features demonic. The sound of hooves striking the damp earth threw up patches of mud. And the chains emitted a continuous metallic creak, as if singing a sorrowful song that never ended.
One of the prisoners raised his head with difficulty. His movement was slow, as if his neck would not obey. He spoke in a fragmented voice, barely audible:
— "Hasn't what you've done to us been enough?… A whole week without sleep… without water… without food… What more do you want from us after this?"
One of the soldiers laughed. His laugh was loud, rough, filling the small clearing. He answered, his voice like someone explaining something obvious to a stupid child:
— "You will find long rest when you reach the cave. Don't worry. No one will bother you after that."
Silence fell for a moment. A heavy silence, as if the words had fallen like stones in still water. Then one of the prisoners whispered—his voice faint, trembling, as if speaking more to himself than to others:
— "The cave…"
Another prisoner—at the end of the chain, his body thinner than the rest, as if illness had consumed him—spoke in a voice full of slaughtered pleading:
— "We are not criminals… I swear we were taken unjustly… our names are in the records… search the records…"
No one answered. Only the sound of hooves and chains.
Then one of them rebelled. He was in the middle of the chain, his body stronger than the rest, his voice charged with unbearable anger. He shouted suddenly, his voice louder than expected:
— "We are treated like beasts! We are no less than you! We have rights! We have dignity!"
The leader stopped suddenly. He was at the front of the procession, on a massive black horse, its bridle of iron, his black cloak billowing in the wind. He did not turn, but raised his hand. Everything stopped.
The soldiers stopped moving. The horses stopped walking. The prisoners stopped walking.
Complete silence fell.
Then a massive soldier moved from the rear of the procession. His face was marked by a wide scar stretching from his forehead to his chin, splitting his face in two. He said nothing. He approached the prisoner who had spoken and struck him with the butt of his spear.
The blow was strong, aimed at his chest. The prisoner fell to the ground, the chains dragging with him, pulling the others who staggered.
The soldier said in a cold voice, like someone explaining an indisputable rule:
— "Silence, filth. If the chains were not around your wrists, I would teach you how men speak."
The prisoner lay on the ground, gasping, trying to rise.
Blood dripped from his split lip. He did not speak. He did not speak again.
Then, the leader pulled the reins of his black horse. He turned for the first time. His face beneath the helmet was half hidden, but his eyes glinted in the torchlight like broken glass. He spoke in a voice that cut through the night like a sword, quiet but final:
— "Enough wasting time. The march will not stop. Your weak will fall on their own. We do not waste time on those unworthy of the crossing."
He turned his face and moved his horse. The procession resumed its march.
---
Yusuf remained there, behind the trunk, not moving. His heart beat, but it was calm. His eyes followed the procession as it slowly moved away, the torches shrinking, the sounds fading. He was thinking.
The word "cave" stuck in his mind like a small thorn that would not come out. The cave. They mentioned it twice. They said the prisoners would find long rest when they reached the cave. They said the weak would fall on their own. What did that mean?
Which cave did they mean? And why did they speak of falling and crossing as if they were final, irreversible judgments?
He looked at the prisoners one last time before the trees swallowed them. One of them walked with his head bowed, another dragged his feet, and some still held their heads high despite the sacks on their faces. They did not seem entirely innocent. But they did not seem like dangerous criminals either. They seemed like humans. Afraid and exhausted. Being driven to a place they did not know.
He exhaled a long breath after the procession had completely disappeared. His chest was releasing a pressure he had not felt until after they had gone. He sat on the ground for a moment, his back against the trunk, his eyes still fixed on the spot where they had vanished.
"If I had shown myself to them…" he thought. He did not finish the sentence. He knew the ending. If he had shown himself, he would now be in those chains. Or dead somewhere among the trees. He had nothing to prove he was not like them. Nothing. Only his exhausted body, his weary mind, and this strange stillness he had found within himself.
He rose. He looked at the muddy trail the procession had left behind. Footprints mixed with hoofprints, and the lines of chains carved into the damp earth like scars. The procession had been heavy and left a mark that would not quickly fade.
He hesitated. He knew following them might be dangerous. And he knew if they found him, he would have no defense. But wandering this forest alone might be even more dangerous. He had no food left. No water left. No idea of the right direction.
And these men—no matter how cruel—were human. They knew where they were walking. They knew where they were going. They knew where to find water and food.
He decided to follow the path from which they had come. Not close. But from a distance. From behind the shadows. Where the torches did not reach. Where the footsteps could not be heard.
---
He walked through the heavy darkness of night. The trees around him seemed larger in the darkness, as if they grew each time he looked at them. Their branches hung like exhausted arms, the gray moss dangling from them like worn curtains. Each step he took increased his sense of awe, but he did not stop.
The mud beneath his feet was sticky, clinging to his shoes, increasing his weight with each step. The air was cold, damp, entering his lungs like a thick liquid. He placed his feet where the procession had placed theirs, avoiding dry branches, avoiding smooth stones.
He kept thinking as he walked. His mind worked slowly, but it worked. Trying to understand. The soldiers. The prisoners. The chains. The cave. Who were these people? Where had they come from? And where were they going?
"Will the cave truly take them?" he asked himself. "What if they are not alone? What if there are others? What if there is a city? A community?"
Thoughts crowded in his head. He knew he could not trust anyone. And he knew those he had seen were cruel. But he was certain he could not remain alone forever.
"How will I know who can be trusted?"
He dared not think of the answer. He knew the answer might be painful. He focused on silent movement. On making sure each step did not betray him. On listening to every sound in the forest, to know if there was anyone else.
The air was saturated with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves and something else, something like distant smoke. A light wind brushed the branches, causing intermittent rustling that increased his tension, making every shadow seem like an approaching danger.
He walked like this for hours. He did not know how many. Darkness surrounded him on every side, the trees did not change, the ground did not differ. He was walking in an endless circle, or so he sometimes felt. But he saw the procession's trail ahead, the lines of chains on the ground, the patches of mud stirred up by the hooves. He knew he was still on the right path.
---
Then he stopped.
There was something ahead. Something different. Something he had not seen before in this forest.
He raised his gaze slowly, his eyes widening.
Among the trees, there was a wall. Not an ordinary wall. It was colossal. Massive. Nearly touching the dark sky. He could not see its end. It stretched left and right with no visible end, as if a line had been erected to separate two worlds.
He took a step. Then another. His neck was raised, his eyes disbelieving what they saw.
The giant trees that had always astonished him became dwarfs beside it. Their trunks clung to the wall from below, as if trying to climb it but could not. The wall was dozens of times higher than them. It seemed made for titans, not for humans.
He drew closer. His feet moved on their own, as if wanting to see up close.
The wall was made of massive stones, each block larger than a human, pressed together tightly as if one piece. There was no gap, no crack, no breach. The wall was a single solid mass, as if the earth itself had raised a wall to protect what lay beyond.
But it was not stone alone that prevented entry.
Along the wall, there were massive roots coiled like giant serpents. They emerged from the ground, climbed the stones, intertwined at its base as if embracing it. The roots were thick, stronger than any root Yusuf had ever seen, as if they had grown here for centuries.
And on those roots, there were thorns. Not ordinary thorns. They were long, sharp, glinting in the faint moonlight as if made of black glass. They grew from the roots in every direction, forming an impenetrable barrier. Some were as long as an arm, others longer. They pointed outward, toward the forest, as if saying: do not approach.
Yusuf stood there, not moving. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes still fixed on the wall. He was trying to understand. How could something like this be built? Why? What lay hidden behind it?
He whispered in a voice barely audible:
— "How could humans build something like this…?"
No one answered. The wall was silent. The roots were silent. And the thorns glinted in the darkness like sleepless eyes.
He took another step. The wall was now directly before him. He could touch it if he reached out. But he did not. There was something in the air, something that made him not want to come closer. The air was heavier here. Pressing on his chest. Each breath harder than the last.
The wall was not just stone. It was a fortress. A living fortress, breathing, watching, forbidding.
He looked up again. The wall disappeared into the darkness. He could not see its end. It seemed to continue forever.
Then he saw the gate.
A few steps away, standing like a stone mouth swallowing all who approached. It was not an ordinary gate. It was massive, made of thick black wood, fixed with large iron nails. The wood was old, weathered, as if it had witnessed countless ages. Yet it still stood.
On either side of the gate, there were statues.
He did not know whether they were made of wood or stone. They were tall, taller than any human. Carved in human form, but their features were not human. Distorted, exaggerated. Their faces were long, their eyes wide and empty, staring into the void like those who see what others cannot. Their mouths were tightly closed, as if preventing anything from entering or exiting.
Yusuf stood at a distance, looking at the two statues. He felt they were looking at him. Their empty eyes did not move, but he felt they were looking at him. As if they knew he was there. As if they were waiting for him to do something.
He looked at the gate again. It was closed. He could not see what lay beyond. But he knew something else lay behind it. A city? A village? A camp? Anything other than this forest. Anything.
He stood there for long moments. The air was cold, the wall silent, the statues staring with their empty eyes. He knew haste would be foolish. He had no identity. No proof. Nothing to show he was not like those prisoners. All he had was this exhausted body, his broken phone, and his rusty knife.
He remained standing there, caught between a desire to advance and fear that this decision might be his last. The smell of earth, the coldness of the air, the sound of the surrounding trees—all made him feel the place was alive. Breathing. Watching. And waiting.
Watching his movements, just as he had watched the procession moments before. Measuring him, weighing him, deciding whether he was worthy of entry or not.
But the gate did not open. The statues did not move. The wall remained standing.
Yusuf remained there, in the shadow, waiting. He did not know whether he would decide to advance or retreat. Did not know whether this was the entrance he was searching for or a trap from which there was no return.
And now he knew only one thing: he could not stay here forever.
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End of Chapter Thirteen