Gefährte durch den dunklen Wald

It was a night colder than most, the kind that settled deep into your bones, when a stranger came to our fire. His hair, long and grey like frost-tipped branches, swayed in the biting wind. His skin, pale as snow, seemed to blend into the surrounding landscape. He asked to sit by our fire, his voice rough with the chill. I could not refuse him, for the snow stretched for miles in every direction, and no shelter lay nearby.
He settled across from me, his gaunt face lit by the flickering flames. “It was a night like this,” he said softly, staring into the fire as if the flames told him secrets. “A bitter winter, when I was no older than you.”
I offered him some bread, but he shook his head. “I have no coin to pay you for your kindness,” he muttered, though before I could speak, he turned his face towards me for the first time. His eyes were clouded, grey with blindness, yet they seemed to pierce right through me. Despite his appearance, there was something mesmerizing about him, something that made me lean closer.
“I cannot pay you with coin,” he said. “But perhaps a story will suffice. A tale of a brave little girl, a princess from a land far away, who chased after something that was never meant to be hers.”
He paused, as if gathering strength, before continuing.
“Her name was Aurora, a girl of sunlight and joy, always rising with the dawn to greet the morning. From her high tower, she would watch the city streets stretch out beyond the castle walls, and further still, to the river that wound its way through the dense, shadowy forest. Every morning, the question gnawed at her—where did that river begin? Its source, hidden deep within the forest’s dark heart, became an obsession for her.”
The stranger’s voice seemed to draw me in, as though the fire itself flickered to the rhythm of his words.
“One morning, as she stood by her window, Aurora heard a bird chirping atop her tower. It was a red bird, vibrant and alive, singing to the dawn as she whistled along. When the bird fluttered down to her windowsill, Aurora, in her excitement, reached out to grab it—but her joy turned to utter shock as she snapped its delicate neck by mistake. Overcome with grief, she hid the bird beneath her bed in a small box, hoping no one would discover her dark secret.
Winter came soon after—a harsh, biting cold like the one we endure now. One night, she awoke to the sound of chirping, though it was different this time—lighter, almost ethereal. Aurora opened her eyes to find a bird perched at the foot of her bed, but not just any bird. It was golden, glowing faintly in the dim light of her chamber.”
“The golden bird flew to her chamber door, as though inviting her to follow. Without hesitation, Aurora pulled on her father’s boots—far too large for her—and wrapped herself in a thick coat, then slipped out of her room through a hidden passage known only to her family.”
The old man leaned closer to the fire.
“She ran through the castle grounds and out into the forest, chasing the faint glimmer of the golden bird as it led her deeper into the trees. The forest was dark, the moon hidden by thick clouds, and yet Aurora laughed as she ran. She was free, for the first time, free from her tower, free from her royal duties. She followed the light until it led her to a place where the river seemed to emerge from beneath a tangle of roots, and there, perched on a stump, was the bird—lifeless, a cruel mirror of the murdered bird under her bed.”
“She cradled the golden bird in her hands, tears streaming down her face, for in her heart, she knew it would be gone soon, just like the red bird. Suddenly, a stag appeared from behind a tree, drinking from the river. Its antlers were like branches, and its eyes, though cold, were filled with an ancient wisdom. ‘Do you know the way home?’ Aurora asked, her voice trembling. The stag raised its head and looked at her. ‘Yes,’ it said, its voice soft. ‘Follow me.’”
The old man paused, staring into the flames as though seeing something only he could. I waited, breath held, for him to continue.
“Aurora followed the stag deeper into the forest, though something was wrong. The trees seemed to close in around her, their shadows growing longer, darker. She asked the stag, ‘Why are you here?’ And the stag replied in a voice that echoed in the cold, ‘I could ask the same of you. What does a human child seek in the deep forest?’”
“Aurora’s heart pounded in her chest. ‘I followed the golden bird,’ she said. ‘It is my friend.’ The stag’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. ‘Ah, the golden bird. It is a friend to many, but it belongs to none.’”
Then she noticed it—a dark arrow lodged in the stag's chest, its fur stained with blood. She stopped, a cold dread settling in her heart.
"Who… who are you?" Aurora whispered, her voice trembling.
The stag slowed, its form shifting slightly, something unnatural creeping beneath its regal facade. It turned to face her, eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge and sorrow.
The stag’s voice came soft but heavy, like the rustle of wind through dead leaves: “Who I am is not for you to know, child, but I am not what I once was.”
Aurora’s eyes locked on the wound, and her heart raced. The creature’s voice deepened, echoing through the trees, as though it carried with it the weight of a thousand winters:
"The arrow flies, the wolf will tear,
Yet Death, my friend, is always there.
From bloody birth to bloody end,
I am the forest’s ancient friend."
As the words lingered in the air, the stag's body warped. Its regal figure twisted into something bony, skeletal, more beast than deer. Aurora stepped back, her chest tightening with fear.
“The forest is not yours to wander, not yet, dear child” the creature said, its voice was full of love.
The stranger’s story hung in the air, heavy and cold. He spoke no more, rising from his place by the fire and disappearing into the night without another word. The next morning, I followed his tracks, curious to see where he had gone, but as I reached the edge of the forest, I saw something impossible. His footprints had changed—no longer the steps of a man, but the hoofprints of a great stag, leading deep into the woods.
- Erzählung eines Abenteurers