It was his one hundred and fifty seventh red ribbon.
Odofur had tied one every 50 paces since he’d entered the forest. It wouldn’t do to get lost on the way back.
The route from the river had been relatively easy. The woods were not overly dense or plagued with brambles and thorns. Occasional glades let light in. The terrain was gently rolling, slightly uphill moving east. It had been an altogether pleasant hike.
For company he’d had forest birds, chirping approval for the fine spring day. Twice his sharp eye caught a deer in the distance peering at him from behind a tree.
Now he paused at the edge of another glade, found a flat rock in the rough grass and opened his meal pouch. Was it second breakfast or lunch? By the looks of it both and he was ready. Sausages, fresh baked bread, dried apples, hard boiled eggs, butter and some sliced lamb were dispatched in short order.
There was something different in the air at this glade. The birds had grown largely silent, as if their cheery banter was something behind him, to the west, but absent to the east. The air seemed stiller, heavier. And ahead the forest was darker, more pressed together.
Odofur moved forward a little slower, but more alert. He could sense a growing tenseness in the wood, a feeling that he was not altogether welcome. As he progressed the trees themselves began to take on a different aspect. First just a few outliers among the larches and poplars, the occasional thick, almost squat, old oak with deeply weathered bark, a relic.
There had been rumors of an old wood. In Bree one could hear tales of the old kings of Cardolan and their haunted graves in the Barrow Downs. Few tales as regards the forest. Just an unease, a feeling that it too was haunted in a different way, that it had its own spirit, and not a friendly one by sense and feel.
A few ribbons later the old wizened oaks became dominant. Their trunks, twisted and wide, filled the forest spaces. Less light reached the forest floor, empty save for struggling coarse bushes and patchy thickets of brambles.
Odofur stopped. Though his plan was to go east, his sense of direction spoke to southeast as the forest was not granting an eastward passage. He felt somewhat tired, light headed. The air was still, heavy. Well above him he could here the leafy branches whispering in the wind. Except there was no wind, none he could feel.
There was a pull on him to continue, explore down the dark corridors, embrace the forest and forget his farm and family. Almost as if there was a voice beckoning, drawing him deeper and deeper.
Then he tripped over a root and fell, scratching his face on brambles as he thudded to the forest floor. The sharp sting of pain cut through his dreamy state. He scrambled to his feet and walked, then trotted, then ran towards the lighter glow of the forest well to the west. It was flight and Odofur yielded to the fear he felt, ignoring his plan of red ribbons. Just west, go west. Those were his thoughts as he tripped over another root and fell headlong into an ash tree, unconscious as a stone.