The Tribe of Whistling Oaks

  Cave stumbled forward, panting, his hands scraping against the damp ground as he pushed his way through the thick, mist-laden undergrowth. The webs clung to him like unseen fingers, stretching and tearing as he forced his way deeper into the labyrinth of silk and bone.

  He had been running for what felt like hours, lost in the twisting maze of the forest, but now—now he saw something ahead.

  A clearing.

  The air felt different here—warmer. The whispering had stopped, and for the first time since entering the cursed woods, Cave felt like he could breathe again. He staggered into the open space, expecting another trap, another horror lurking beneath the roots of this ancient, dying land.

  Instead, he found them.

  At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. The figures blended into the trees, their bodies wrapped in dark, earth-toned cloths, their faces painted in streaks of green and black. They watched him in eerie silence, their eyes gleaming like amber under the dim light that filtered through the canopy.

  Then, as if emerging from the trees themselves, they surrounded him.

  A gust of wind carried a low, haunting melody through the air—a whistling sound, deep and rhythmic, flowing in harmony with the rustling leaves.

  The Tribe of Whistling Oaks.

  Cave barely had time to react before a hand reached out to him, firm yet careful.

  “Come,” a voice said.

  He turned to see an older man, his hair woven into long braids, his eyes sharp like a hawk’s. The man’s presence was calm, his movements effortless, as though he were part of the forest itself.

  Cave hesitated. His pulse still hammered in his ears, the memory of the webs and the skulls burned into his mind. But something about these people—something about the way they moved, about the way they existed within this place—made him realize they weren’t here to harm him.

  They knew these woods.

  They knew her.

  And if anyone had the answers, it was them.

  The Shaman’s Warning

  The fire crackled in the center of the village, its glow casting long shadows that danced against the towering oaks above.

  Cave sat cross-legged, his body sore, his clothes still tainted with the remnants of the webbing. Around him, the tribe moved in quiet purpose—some preparing food, others sharpening tools, while children ran barefoot through the brush, their laughter strangely comforting despite the horrors that lurked beyond their borders.

  A woman sat across from him, her skin weathered like old parchment, her white hair bound in delicate braids adorned with bones and beads. The Shaman.

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  She studied him, her deep-set eyes peering into him as if reading the history of his soul.

  Then, she spoke.

  “Shelob is an ancient creature, my child.”

  Her voice was like the wind through the trees, soft yet full of power.

  “She has trapped us all here, and because of her, we are unable to return home—to our ancestor land of fire and dust.”

  She raised a trembling hand to the sky, where the stars shimmered like distant ghosts.

  Cave swallowed, his throat dry. “But... what is she?”

  The Shaman’s gaze darkened.

  He pressed on.

  “Why is her lair filled with webs and skulls? Why does it stretch so far, covering the forest like a sickness?” His voice wavered, the memories of the grotesque remains flashing in his mind. “It’s like—it’s like she’s consuming everything, like she’s feeding off the land itself.”

  Silence.

  The Shaman stood up.

  Adjusting her tethered hair, as she stood up from her crouching position. The beads around her neck shifted in accordance with her bellowing movements of an ancient soul.

  She moved to a small altar beside the fire, where a clay bowl sat, filled with something dark and thick. She dipped her fingers into it, swirling the substance before turning back to Cave.

  Then, without warning, she smeared the red mixture across his forehead.

  A chill rushed through him.

  “My child,” she whispered. “You must be purified.”

  Cave blinked. “Purified? Why?”

  The Shaman’s hands trembled as she drew ancient symbols over his skin, her voice now hushed, urgent.

  “We do not speak of her here.”

  She shook her head, her lips forming silent prayers.

  “I am sorry,” she muttered, her voice cracking. “It is forbidden.”

  The fire flickered wildly as the night wind howled through the trees. The tribe around them stopped. Their eyes turned toward the darkness beyond the clearing.

  Somewhere, in the farthest reaches of the woods, the whispering had begun again.

  Only this time—

  It wasn’t calling him.

  It was warning him.

  The Song From Afar

  Cave felt the weight of disappointment settle in his chest. He had come seeking answers, but all the Shaman had given him were riddles—half-truths that only deepened the fog of his uncertainty. He was trapped in a world where darkness clung to the air like smoke, where the very ground beneath him pulsed with an ancient, unseen force.

  This was not the journey he had envisioned.

  A memory flickered through his mind—his mother’s voice.

  “Stay safe, and don’t wander into the woods.”

  A lump formed in his throat. He had wandered too far. He had crossed the threshold of the world he knew, and now, there was no going back.

  A hand grasped his wrist.

  “C’mon, let’s go!”

  Cave turned sharply, his body tensing.

  Before him stood a girl—tall, unlike the rest of the women in the tribe, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. She wore a mini-skirt, the fabric swaying as she twirled backward, tugging him along with her.

  “C’mon, Stranger!” she teased, her voice light as the wind.

  “Come!”

  She waved her hand as she called him forward.

  The mysterious girl laughed, the sound of her voice melodic, almost hypnotic as it blended with the tones of The Tribe's chanting. As she danced effortlessly in the flickering glow of the fire, Cave was mesmerized by her motions.

  Her hips swayed with diligence, almost symphonic to the tune of the song.

  Her skin vibrant, as it glimmered in cascading flickers of flames.

  Cave embraced this experience, although distant, she made him feel warm. At least for now.

  The air thrummed with life.

  The tribesmen moved in a great serpent-like formation, weaving around the fire, their bodies swaying to the steady pulse of drums. The sound filled the night—low, rhythmic, ancient. A summoning.

  Flutes joined the melody, their high-pitched wails drifting through the trees like spirits singing in the dark. The tribe raised their arms, their voices lifting into the sky in a language that Cave could not understand.

  But he felt it.

  The sound stirred something deep inside him.

  A call. A presence.

  He swallowed hard. “What is this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The girl only smiled, stepping closer. “Just dance, Stranger.”

  Her fingers grazed his neck, lingering against his cheek for a moment before she twirled away, vanishing into the rhythm of the dance.

  Cave hesitated.

  The drums grew louder. The voices swelled.

  He could feel it now—something moving beneath the music, something watching.

  Something answering the call.

  [TO BE CONTINUED...]