A Passage, by Alex Ranieri

I had become lost, and had the uneasy sensation of being unwelcome—though whether any human was present to be welcoming or no, I could hardly say. The brush was so thick, that merely to hack my way through was a difficulty—to find out anyone hidden in its folds was impossible.

The air, too, was thick, and made me nauseous with conflicting perfumes—they seemed distilled in my very sweat. There is a peculiar effect, under canopy in a beating sun, of the air being colored green, as no light touches the ground which has not first been filtered through an orchestra of leaves. Some say this light has the power to soothe invalids and alleviate all manner of pains. For myself, it put me in a stupor, from which I had perpetually to rouse myself by a pinch, or a shake of the head.

Still the gaudy parade of scents came on every breath, and as I sank my knife into branch after branch, flower after flower, their intensity only increased—when I brought a hand to my brow, it left behind a trail of perfumed sap. My knife, after long use, was beginning to dull—it caught in a thick sapling and I, too weak to pull it out again, left it behind, and began to tear at the surrounding foliage with my hands.

My vision began to reel. Colors which had once formed distinct petals and leaves now slurried into an oil slick, in which I felt myself trapped as surely as oil ensnares the feathers of an unwary bird. Still I pressed on, more frightened of what was behind than before—I reached out to steady myself on one of the infinite number of branches—but my hand closed around nothing. I fell out of my purgatory of colors, into the yawning chasm of a white void. No scent, and no sound, invaded its purity.