An Autumn Stroll Through The Teutoburg Forest

 

 

A mist rose from the forest floor and lingered, thickening into a cloud among the treetops. The leaves still retained some green but were relenting to mother nature’s paintbrush. Her palette a colorful hue of bright red and yellow death. It all seemed bleak due to the cloudy mist and the gray sky. We followed a wagon path into the unwelcoming embrace of the trees.

The forest becomes darker. I hear a word whispered in the breeze as it blows gently through the trees and the sun peeks briefly through a break in the clouds. The voice is disembodied, ethereal, like a thousand whispered warnings. It is a feminine voice and familiar in a way the face of a long lost friend or kinsman is upon an unexpected reunion. The word or words it speaks are a warning. I want to run back to the safety of our legion’s camp by the river, but my devotion to my comrades steels my will to continue the march. A march I believe will be the last for many of us.

The second day of march. The path has long disappeared. The forest watches and laughs. It is mocking us. Our Legion has broken into several sections due to the heavy undergrowth and lack of good roads. The wagon road we started on seemed to dwindle away. First, down to a muddy and deeply rutted barely discernible abandoned road. Then, a single file walking path choked with angry roots and stubborn rocks. Finally it became what appeared to be an animal trail ending in a bog. The forest was drawing us in. The word is spoken again. Some of the men stare uneasily into the treetops and forest depths.