“The great forests of the West Indies are not merely masses of trees, but obscure republics, grafted upon themselves, where every plant, every branch, every liana lives by virtue of an ancient pact with the others. Man does not enter them; he is swallowed by them, as air is drawn into the nostrils of a sleeping beast.”
After Sir Hans Sloane, physician and naturalist, A Voyage to the Islands Madera, Barbados, Nieves, St. Christophers and Jamaica (1696–1701), freely interpreted from his observations.
Where the learned Don Carrot, not yet truly knowing, lingers at great length over that which is about to disappear... perhaps soon... and for a very long time...
– Warmblood, my friend, you who seem at times to be my short-legged double... and at others my wandering interpreter of forests. You must know—and I beg you not to interrupt me too soon—that this adventure, which you imagine began in the woods, or upon an island, or within a dream denser than the bark of this venerable tree, was not invented merely to pass the time. Nor for glory... still less for science—which I respect... whenever it is courteous enough to respect my illusions. It was, though I speak only for myself—and that alone is enough to exasperate a great many people—like so many great things, sown by chance and brought forth by weariness... if not by mortal inactivity.
For you see, I had grown weary. I longed for something new. Something alive... Something unreasonable... and above all, for that silence which rustles with life.
It was then that, by some miracle I cannot explain, I heard tell of this island. No, Warmblood, say nothing... I know perfectly well that you told me nothing... precisely that is what planted the seed in my ear. You merely guided me, with perfect nonchalance, toward this forest growing outside every geographical logic, upon a volcanic stone where even the ground itself seems uncertain.
Now then, listen to my account...
From Don Carrot's Journal
The forest stretched as far as the eye could see, dense and sovereign, like a continent woven of living foliage. Nothing there seemed abandoned to chance: colossal trees formed silent ranks, lianas descended like the threads of an invisible loom, weaving the air between the trunks, and even the forest floor was entirely occupied, conquered by living matter.
The light was scarce there, softened beneath immense layers of leaves, as though filtered through an organic stained-glass window. It fell in green veils, awakening the mosses, the lichens, the tiny grasses and the blazing ferns in a slow choreography... deceptive in its very gentleness. Everything in that world possessed its own scent, its own rustling, instantly distinguishable from every other. One might almost have believed that the forest spoke—not a human language, but the language of vegetal time.
I noted the rough bark of the ceiba, the oily sheen of the wild rubber leaves, the lacquered shells of the insects, the erratic flight of butterflies too brilliantly colored to seem real. I believed I could classify everything. I wished to name only after understanding. I still imagined, with touching naivety, that I stood outside that thing... within which I was discovering all those things.
Yet already, while I entertained that thought, something was changing.
Subtly. A sensation... almost nothing at all...
A diffuse uneasiness, a stiffness at the back of my neck, the heart beating just a little faster, while my thoughts themselves began slowly to drift...
The ground became spongy.
The paths vanished behind me, swallowed up.
And the trees...
The trees seemed to draw nearer—not physically, of course... but in their intention.
For a single instant, it seemed to me that one of them had moved...
Or perhaps it was I.
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