She turned around and looked at the unconscious youths. At this point she looked extremely weak. Pearls of sweat crawled down her face but evaporated as soon as they appeared. She began writing ancient symbols on the young cultists’ feet, limbs, and foreheads. By now they were already awake, but they could not move as they wished. They could not yell or cry for help. All they could do was stare in horror at the woman who had attacked them during their pilgrimage in the trenches with an unknown individual. The horror quickly turned into hatred as they watched the old witch scribble on their dark skin with her blood.

  Soon Old Meza stopped, placed her cane horizontally, and sat on it without touching the ground. She began to chant soundlessly, and her eyes suddenly lit up bright purple. Soon the inscriptions on the young cultists lit up too, and they began to move like broken puppets. Some began to cry as the unnatural movements hurt their muscles, almost dislocating their bones and tearing their ligaments. Soon they were standing ten centimeters above the ground, facing the obsidian tree.

  They heard a vicious voice inside their minds:

  “The mark will only force you to move if you resist. Do what I say and you won’t get hurt. And who knows… maybe you will find something interesting here.”

  The voice sounded mocking, draining the color from their faces.

  Just in front of them lay a trail in the white sand shaped like a dead tree. The trail began at their feet, splitting into many directions before stopping abruptly.

  Just a little more and I will be able to touch it… just a little more time, thought Old Meza.

  She arranged the cultists from youngest to oldest. Then they heard in their ears:

  “Wear the mask.”

  And so they did. Those who tried to resist felt the same command repeat in their minds as their bodies moved against their will, hurting them tremendously.

  After they all wore their masks, they heard:

  “The youngest — step on the trail.”

  One stepped forward. The nervous youngster did not look older than ten. Tight cornrows framed her head, modest yet neat as their religion demanded. She had already been crying since she woke, so she did not resist.

  After stepping onto the trail she heard:

  “Go. Follow a branch and advance toward the obsidian tree.”

  Unable to object, she walked. Near where the trail split, she heard:

  “Choose a path and advance.”

  She hesitated.

  “HURRY.”

  Frightened, she chose the left path. She walked slowly, tears drying behind her mask and leaving a ghastly face. The farther she went, the more emotionless she became, as if hypnotized. Her shaky steps turned uneven. Near the end of the path, two hundred meters from her companions, she heard Old Meza’s voice again:

  “STOP.”

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  In front of her was a small circle, slightly red, forming a beautiful pink pattern at the end of the path, like fruit hanging from a branch.

  “Now go left. Pass the circle and continue toward the center.”

  She obeyed.

  Less than ten steps later, she stopped.

  As if suddenly released from the hypnosis, she turned her head toward her companions, silently begging.

  Her small voice finally escaped:

  “HYAAAAAAAAAA! No… no… please… don—”

  Three obsidian branches burst from the ground and pierced her frail body.

  All the others saw from afar was her desperate face growing pale, life fading. The branches darkened with red and slowly dragged her into the ground, leaving behind a pink circle at the end of her path.

  The remaining cultists could only cry silently, watching helplessly as their youngest companion died, leaving nothing but a mark among the many already scattered across the sand.

  They did not even have time to mourn before they heard, in a chilling but tired voice:

  “Next.”

  Sadness turned into dread as they realized their fate.

  After some time only the eldest remained. He stopped crying. With the only thing he could move being his eyeballs, he couldn’t even look away. He watched his juniors die, their blood drawing patterns on the ground. Some looked in his direction, their corpses impaled in strange ways. Some didn’t even have time to. But they all screamed in horror, choking on their own blood until the light disappeared from their eyes. Contrary to the speed the branches burst out of the ground, they buried the bodies in an unsettlingly slow way, as if taunting the companions of the victims, waiting for them to recklessly step into the horrifying scene.

  The absolute silence and unchanging brightness made him see every detail, every single time. No matter how far his “siblings” were killed, he could see them panic, then the branches burst out of the ground — sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes three merging into one large branch. Then he would hear them cry, beg, scream before being impaled. Some impacts were so violent that the cultists’ bodies were lifted from the ground. They were lucky if a branch pierced their heart or brain directly, interrupting their pain. He then heard drops of blood trickling from the branches, watched by the earth itself, as the bodies were slowly devoured by the ground.

  All the emotions he felt were replaced by numbness. He felt so much that he couldn’t feel anything anymore.

  Old Meza’s voice then came into his mind:

  “You are the last. You already know what you have to do. Look for the longest path and go. At the end choose between left or right and make your own path. If you touch the obsidian tree you will live. But the closer you get, the more your mind will be attacked. One reckless step and…”

  She didn’t need to finish. They had both seen the consequences.

  The eldest teenager said nothing. Not like he could. Step by step he began to advance. Soon his face beneath the mask became ghastly. Dizziness struck him. He started to wobble. After blinking to stay awake, the world around him changed drastically.

  As if colors inverted, the ground became absolutely dark, like staring into an abyss. The obsidian tree turned pure white with beautiful red fruits hanging from it. Their intoxicating perfume almost made one forget what was happening nearby. The pink circles became giant hibiscus flowers. Some were pink with a humanoid figure inside, motionless in a fetal position. Some were completely white and empty.

  But the circles left by his siblings were red. Blood red. And inside them were humanoid shapes screaming and begging.

  “PLEASE!”

  “AHHHH!”

  “STOP IT HURTS!”

  “NOOO!”

  “PLEASE HELP ME!”

  “MAA HELP ME!”

  He heard their tormented voices and saw them cry, unable to escape the flowers.

  A chill ran down his spine and cold sweat broke out across his body. Soon he reached the end of the path. Just ahead he saw one of his brothers trapped inside a red flower, begging for help. But all he could do was walk past him, focusing on survival.

  Mami Wata, please… help me. If I get out alive I will follow all your prescriptions. I will give you my life, but please don—

  He couldn’t finish his thought when a flower appeared beneath his feet.

  The symbols on his limbs disappeared and his mind cleared. Rage, grief, and despair erupted inside him. He turned, looked at Old Meza one last time, and screamed:

  “I CURSE YOU! I CURSE YOU, OLD BITCH! THE CULT WILL FIND YOU! I’M THE—”

  Five branches burst from the ground and pierced his body. Two struck his eyes, one his heart, the rest his arms.

  At the entrance of the tree-like path, Old Meza watched coldly, as if already used to it. She sighed and thought:

  Another failure.

  Then she disappeared into the woods.

  ~~~~~~

  The forest did not mourn the dead. It only waited for the next trial.