There’s a different kind of scary – a fearsome that comes not in the frightful facts of a moment, but through turning our gaze into the vastest of any unknowns, the future. There is a complementary terror, also rooted in the certitude of decay rather than the chaos of violence. The past lines our faces and marks our bodies, opens our eyes and reveals the fragility of our flesh.
There are faces in Bois-des-Esprits. They inlay the dead wood of the forest. There’s a story there, and a more literal tale on a sign beside the largest of the carvings in the wood: “As each eye was opened by the sculptors, the forest became completely silent, until the outline of the eye was complete.”
I’ll let you frequent the forest of faces yourself; let you find the mournful eyes, the unmoving owl, and the growing collection of faerie doorways. Go read the story of the place, and do some rooting around. But keep your wits about you; there may or may not be more than meets the eye.
