He was a powerful man’s son. It was written within his birthright that he would one-day rule over the entirety of his father’s land, from the dry and grassy plains to the wetlands and marshes just before they gave way to the lushness of the jungle. It was commonly understood between all the rulers in the region that the jungle had its own natural kingdom; that no man was powerful enough to sustain or control the wild, and that it was by no means necessary to concern themselves with things better left untouched by the hand of man.

When he was born his skin glistened with the fluid nectar of his mother’s womb. She rested his face on hers, two entities formed together from that of the same flesh, like saplings made from the same tree. He was a beautiful boy, chocolate and russet in his casing, strong in his grip, exacting in his observance, stimulated by his surroundings. He was known to be a prodigal son immediately for this child did not cry or scream but instead remained silent and observant with eyes that pierced the soles of every clan member who came to pay their respects. His briny and minuscule fingers seized his mother’s breasts, and then he suckled every drop of milky loving breath.

Some said, and with good reason, that his eyes were as black as the jungle itself, although this kind of talk was only spoken in the privacy of huts and houses far away from the realm of authority in hushed and whispered tenors.

It was folk knowledge amongst the community to avoid the subject of the jungle. Parents told their children never to enter, never to dare to get too close to the jungle’s parameters edge. The people of the land were forbidden to go there, and if they did, they were told that they were sure to never come back. The jungle was known as a place where natural law did not apply to the likes of man, and at night it was typical for exhausted children to be lulled off to sleep by precautionary tales of the jungles fury. These tales were fable, no doubt, but every child knew from their parents and their parent’s parents that the mind of man had its own designated realm, and that the jungle itself had a mind of its own. Certainly there was nothing warm or inviting about the jungle, and yet it was the mystery itself that kept the people curious of the forbidden. Regardless of whether it was the glistening new-born bracken or the sweetened midnight mist that groped at the wayside of the jungles mossy banks, it was undeniable: the jungle maintained the allure of the unknown, and attempted to lure those who knew it best.

After the day of his birth, the people of the land prepared for a celebration that would last ten days and ten nights to rejoice in the arrival of the precious infant who had no idea of his fate, the path others had preordained even before his eyes had even beheld their first glimpses of the world. The women of the land cooked feasts for their families and neighbors during the first five days. In this time, cooking was a religion all its own that required a pious effort. Corn was crushed in stone bowls and the flour for bread was kneaded hours at a time to produce a powder so fine that the sand from the dry lands would have been envious. Yellow yams were seasoned and baked, squash was cured to perfection, meat was slashed and dried in the hot sun, cherries were picked then pruned and pickled. The children hung little paper cut-outs of animals in the front of their houses, and at night when various scents of spiced ciders and honeyed animal flesh wafted outwardly from within the kitchens, the cool breeze of the evening would make the paper animals swish and sway in the wind, like star-lit minuets, dancing in the heavens.

The men were required elsewhere. They rose before daylight in the mornings and joined together to pray until the mid-afternoon. Silent and hopeful, they gave thanks for the blessings in their lives: their kind ruler, their wives and children, their strong backs and good minds. Then, from late afternoon and long into the night, they prepared the pits. It was in these pits that all the people in the clan would come together to celebrate and unite for four days until the final day which required silence, sleep, rest, and prayer in the privacy of their own homes. The pits were large enough to hold two hundred people each, and were set deep into the ground so that the people might become one with their earth and rejoice with her. The men secured seating by building up layers of mud brick. They installed rafters for the purposes of ventilation. They dug fire holes and gathered wood. After the benches had dried, they lay out huge palm leaves from the outskirts of the jungle, each one the size of a full-grown man, and polished the leaf with poisonwood oil. At the end of each day the men would go home to the calm and quiet of their sleeping families. They would look in on their children and say a prayer for blessed sleep. They would join their wives, the bed already warm from their bodies, heavy with sleep and hot from the sunset, still smelling of oat and almond, and would make love to them, some fearfully and some ferociously, and then fell into sleep until it was time to get up and begin the next day anew.

The celebration required extensive preparation because it was few and far between when a ruler’s son was born. The next time the people of the land would undergo such a festivity would be twenty years after the tenth day of celebration, and it was on that day that the son would be named the official king of the land. Until then, however, the boy was allowed to enjoy the playfulness of youth, to learn the ways of his people through his father and mother, and to prepare himself for his destiny.

On the fifth day of celebration the clan awoke when the first vines of sunlight began to creep through open widows. The women carried massive plates of prepared food under their arms. The men carried their children on their backs. The children delicately removed their animal cut-outs and carried them in their hands to the pits, where later that evening the cut-outs would be burned in the fire holes and the ashes would rise into the sky and all the years worries would go quietly up in smoke. It was there that the people met with their ruler and his wife to pay allegiance to the child. They awed at his perfect skin, his hollowed eyes, at his unforgiving stare. The people warmed food in the bawn, drank cool water from large jugs made of clay that kept the liquid cool. They bathed in the rivers near by. They baked in the rage of the fiery sun. At the first signs of sundown, the youngest men in the clan played loud and vibrant music from pan-flutes and buckskin drums; thumping, piping, crying rejoicefully and announcing the cause of celebration. The women plaited each other’s hair and rubbed henna into their hands, their feet, their faces. The children scattered scented oils into the dirt and up from it came the musty smell of rainwater and mold, a natural scent that signified new life, new birth, new love. Little girls painted rouge verbena into fragile designs of clusters and squiggles onto their stomachs and underdeveloped breasts that were only detectable due to the small mounds of fleshy pink skin that went from soft to hard, again and again, as the day grew cooler and the sun glowed in a certain burnt orange and intensified as it faded behind the mountainous hills. It was at this time that the jungle awoke.

The celebration continued, and on the ninth day, the final evening before the designated time of rest, the ruler and his wife sat at the far corner of the largest pit in special seats made of wicker wood, adorned with a variety of flora, lovely colors both sapphire and crimson, grown on the outermost periphery of the jungle. In the middle of the two seats there was a high clay mass built from the ground up and secured with solid stones at the base for support. The structure, set in between the ruler and his wife, was laden with orchids that represented the seasons, sweet potato and red chili, pewter and ivory, and there in the midst of it all— the music, the fire, the smoke, the musk, the screams of the jungle cats and wild birds— there, alone and steadfast, lay the boy in a thick woven basket. His head turned from side to side, perhaps in approval of the celebration, or, perhaps still, contemplating what all the noise was about. Except he did not bear the look of a curious new born, but instead, he bore a gaze similar to that of an archeologist deciphering the markings on the wall of a cave. At that late hour it was not the noise of merriment that was distracting, but instead, the demanding and obligatory, blaring racket coming from the wild forest that lay somewhere off in the distance, calling to those who would listen, to those who wanted to listen.

His mother’s hair was slicked back with nightingale droppings and magnolia pollen; it produced a smell that represented sovereignty and authority. Her eyes were dark but her skin was frothy, her robes were secured with dyed ribbons that wavered in the evening wind. She maintained the smile of a good wife, a strong woman, a prideful mother. She held her husband’s hand.

The ruler, a tall man, said little but smiled plenty. He too was full of pride; pride for his son, his people, his land, and his makings. His body possessed the spirit of a powerful man. His neck was ornamented with animal bones discarded and spit out from the jungle itself, a sign of courage and strength. The people of the land were poor but peaceful, and at the end of the ninth day they settled in to listen to the stories of old, told by the elderly women of the clan who could still remember with distinguished accuracy a land long since gone, the development of history. During this time the ruler and his wife joined the people in the circle to listen to the storytelling. Their son, however, had already begun to wander into the throws of slumber and realizing this, his mother left him in his basket on the mound. All of the people in the pits gathered and lay strewn about like particles of sand scattered on fresh bedding, relaxing and resigning to the hour of tale. Meanwhile, the moon rose higher and the jungle grew louder.

What the people thought to be the eldest of the women spoke first. Her story was long and good, it told of things magical for the children, sentimental for the men and women. The next woman’s story was more fine-tuned, more rehearsed. The last woman had never been seen before. She lived alone and had been forgotten about years ago. When she rose to come to the center of the circle it became clear that she, unannounced, was the oldest woman in this people’s history. She said she resided on the waterfront, that her backyard was the jungle itself. She said she had not slept during the night (when the jungle came alive) in over ninety years, and had taken to resting during the daytime instead while it was hot and unforgiving. Her hair was matted, her clothing rags, her face filthy. But behind the wrinkles of time there existed a sharp and fierce understanding of the ways of the old world, and this is what she said:

‘The people of this land do not remember me. I am older than both the mothers and the fathers of our dear rulers today. Once, I too was young. And when I was still firm and fertile, blooming from the fruition of youthful womanhood, I met someone. One night, I was banished from my home after I had a mammoth disagreement with my parents. I left their house, unsure of where I might go next, but equally aware that I could not return home. I began to walk and before I realized how far I had gone, there I stood at the foot of the jungles front door. Terrified and frightened, I tried to turn around and run the other direction, but something, quietly calling my name, ushered me inward instead. From the moment I made my first step forward the trees branches came down to my shoulders and pushed me further inside. Softly, the palm leaves and moamrathes enveloped my body and urged me to move forward. In only a moment’s time I had been pressed so far in that I no longer had any idea how deep or thick the foliage ran. I could no longer see the night sky above me, nor the land behind me. Shaking and fragile, suddenly, something grabbed my hand…’

All the children jumped in horror. The men and women of the clan were in awe. Whoever this old woman was, this was the first instance the people had ever heard of regarding someone who had ventured into the jungle and lived to tell the tale. Even the ruler and his wife couldn’t resist this wise woman. Fable or no fable, this night was forever going to be the stuff of good folk tales for decades to come.

‘I closed my eyes and prepared for the worst. The person, the thing, whatever it was, I was sure I had met my end. I had never experienced a blackness like the dark of that jungle. All the light in the world was shut out. But when I opened my eyes all I could see was another pair of radiant, yellow eyes, staring right back. I heard a voice that told me to come closer, but I couldn’t move. Then, as lightly and soft as a whisper in the ear, I felt the smoothness of skin on my face, my arms, in between my legs. I lay down with it, and experienced a kind of sensation like none I had ever felt before. Suddenly stuck by the serenity of my surroundings, the cries of the jungle beasts drowned out, the abrasive rattle of wind was calmed. Then everything, everything, faded into black.’

‘The next morning I awoke at the edge of the jungle by the bank of the river. I was alone and the heat of the sun was so intense by mid-morning that I had already begun to smolder in my sleep. Until now, I have never returned to this land. My experience in that place forever isolated me from this world. But now I have come to tell you that here, amongst us, exists a person who will also be drawn to the jungle. This person, however, will not share my fate. This person will go in once and never return. And now, my good people, never will I.’

In a sudden burst a fire in the middle of the circle rose up into the sky and roared with the ferocity of a jungle cat. When the smoke had finally cleared the people sat silent in the night with their mouths open and eyes wide at the idea of the truly sublime. The old woman was gone and all that remained of her were bits of ash that fell back to earth quietly, slowly, and gently. The fire had died now to a slow-burning crackle and somewhere, far off in the distance, the jungle gave a roar.

The people were unsure about the best thing to do next, and so, for a moment, they simply sat. It had gone unnoticed, however, that while the old woman was telling her story the boy had been taken away.

At this time, children and especially infants were known for disappearing. It was thought that at night, when the beasts came out, wild animals came in from the jungle hungry and searching for provisions. But what they didn’t know was this: while the clan was immersed in the prophet’s tale, a tiger had come, quietly and silently, and removed the boy from his mound and into its mouth. The boy, again confident and aware, remained silent. These two creatures, man and animal, shared a common bond. They were both destined to be kings, and in that they each took solace.

The wild thing took off running away from the pits, and later, at the edge of the water just before the cusp of jungle land, the tiger released the boy from its jaws and then continued running deep into the darkness that lay beyond. The boy watched and listened at the foot of the jungle. He made no noise, but listened to its call. Eyes wide and mind steady, he waited for it to come.

Suddenly there before him appeared a set of beautiful, soft, yellow eyes. The ruler’s son made no sound and did not move. Neither, however, did the eyes. Moments past and the wind hollowed in the palms. The waters edge was cold, and to avoid getting wet, the boy inched closer towards to the trees. Slowly he extended one tiny hand, the layers of skin bloated like that of a breadcrumb left in water, still pruned from infancy. The yellow eyes stayed steady, and beckoned with their glare. But as the boy moved closer, voices could be heard in the nearby distance.

Soon thereafter the entire clan came running, fearful of the worst. The boy and the thing did not allow their shared gaze to waver. Suddenly the entirety of the clan’s people were upon the infant, and just at the moment before his father reached out to reclaim his son, the eyes vanished in space, and all that remained was the pitch-black night in the early morning hours of the tenth day. The people were so grateful for his safety that the phenomenon regarding the old woman had already been forgotten. It is the story that follows which certainly never will be.

Twenty years passed and again it was time to celebrate. The pits were rebuilt; the festival food was prepared for the feast. The boy was a man now, and while he was well aware of the story of his youth, he had been forbidden to ever leave the boundaries of the land, and dutifully, he had not. While he could not remember the yellow, calming eyes, occasionally he awoke in the middle of the night, when the clan was fast asleep, and listened, although to what he was not sure. Often it seemed that the jungle called his name, though silently, and it offered him some peace; and this was not odd, however, because he, of all people, wanted the kingdom of man the least.

The same rituals played out, the same activates were reenacted. By that time, all the children of the land believed that the story about the ruler’s son and the jungle was simply that: yet another fable meant to scare them from entering the forbidden forest. But on the ninth day, the last day before the ruler’s son was to be named the ruler himself, the final hour had come once more. The people of the clan gathered in the pits and settled in to listen to the tales of old that now included the story about the ruler’s son himself.

Waving off his parents, settling in his place, the ruler’s son positioned himself in an opportunistic space. As the stories began, the old women took their positions. The children settled into their fathers’ laps and babies nursed on their mothers’ breasts. But quietly and slowly, outside the circle of tale, the ruler’s son rose from the group and slipped away without notice.

It was the encounter with the yellow eyes and the jungle’s edge that had led him to this moment in his life. Although he may not have remembered any of it, every move he had made and every decision he had come to, everything that was seemingly based on free will or undoubtedly driven by personal motivation was in fact the direction that jungle had pushed him towards in his dreams. In that jungle something had been discovered, something that shifted between reality and mythology, and whatever it was, he had seen it. He was predestined to be a king, this much he knew to be true. But increasingly and more frequently, he had begun to awake after a long nights slumber concerned with the idea of what it was that he was meant to be the king of, exactly. In fact, he could remember that although as a child he had often pretended to participate with the other children during childhood games, or later, in important decision-making that his father had coached him in, it seemed to him that the realm of reality was a space where his inner most thoughts and feelings could never be truly satisfied. The insatiability of what he might never know was what had tormented his thoughts for as long as he could remember. He knew he could never fully inhabit the world in which he was granted total authority, despite the privilege of being the inheritor to the thrown. It was instead within the invisible forces of nature, somewhere in the far off distance, where he found solace in his soul searching. Something beautiful and terrifying haunted him more deeply there than the ghosts and monsters of every other child’s mind. The window in the kitchen where his mother cooked had been opened just wide enough for him to see something that no one else could begin to understand. It was not by accident that he spent so much time alone, daydreaming away as the lonely afternoons wore on. He found release in the unknown; found that it was not so horrifying to him, and, he knew that it was that place where he understood himself best.

While other people in the clan were most afraid of the real world where the tangibility of the known was most prominent and yet equally most terrifying, he, in contrast, was most afraid of never reaching that place where his dreams took him. Somebody had to accustom himself with the single thing that everyone else feared most. In this case it was the jungle, and it was the ruler’s son who felt that perhaps it was he who could do it.

He walked on, gradually and steadily, through the grasslands and past the wet marshes. He waited at the rivers edge and listened to the gentle roar of rushing water against the bank. A gentle voice came to him then, the one that had been calling him since the day of his birth. He gaited forward close enough to see the blackness at the edge; the jungles boundary lay just before him, extending out a heavy hand. He looked up to the sky and prayed. He had learned from his father to always give thanks, and that he did. And then, there in front him, was a set of magnificent yellow eyes. He did not know where he knew them from, but he did know he knew them now. Without hesitation he drew in his breath and walked forward, exhaling as he went. The noise from within the jungle quieted, and the river began to hush. The arms of the jungle welcomed him, and the eyes faded at his touch.