Chapter Eight: "The Crisis of Hunger and the Strangers"
Yusuf remained alone in the abandoned camp after the old man vanished as he had appeared—suddenly and without a sound.
He waited. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.
He looked at the torn tents, at the cold ash still clinging to his clothes, at the scattered bones that constantly reminded him that this place had never been a safe haven.
He kept waiting for the man to return from among the trees, for his bulging eyes to appear from behind a collapsed tent, for his mad sounds to shatter the night's silence once more.
But nothing happened.
Silence returned, heavy as the ash that covered everything. Even the wind stopped blowing through the torn tents, as if it too had decided this place was not worth its trouble.
Yusuf rose with difficulty. His knees trembled, not only from exhaustion but from the hunger that had now become his constant, unshakable companion.
He felt a slight dizziness when he stood, so he placed his hand on a nearby tree trunk until he regained his balance. He looked at the torn tents one last time, then decided not to stay.
This place was no refuge. It was an open grave waiting for someone to sit in it until they died.
He left the camp behind and resumed walking among the trees. He no longer knew whether night had truly passed or if he was still trapped in the same extended moment since his feet had first touched this forest.
The hours blurred for him, and day differed from night only by the amount of light seeping through the dense branches. He walked sometimes in dim light, sometimes in pitch darkness, without feeling any clear boundary between them.
When sleep came, it was brief naps, no more than a few minutes, shattered by nightmares whose details he could not remember upon waking. He would start awake, heart racing, his eyes searching the darkness for something he did not know, his hands trembling as if still trapped in the dream.
In those nightmares, he saw shadows chasing him, bulging eyes following him, voices whispering words he did not understand. Then he would wake remembering only the feeling of fear, without knowing its cause.
But one thing refused to be forgotten, whether awake or asleep: hunger.
It was no longer just a pang in his stomach. It had become something that crept into his veins, weighted his limbs, clouded his head, and made every step feel like punishment. He felt his mind beginning to deteriorate, thoughts no longer coming complete as they once did, but breaking off midway and disappearing into a darkness whose source he did not know.
He wanted to plan, to think, to decide which path to take, but his brain worked too slowly, as if mired in thick mud from which it could not escape.
Any wrong decision could end his life in an instant. But he was no longer sure of his ability to make any sound decision at all.
He stumbled over a protruding tree root and fell to his knees.
The impact was violent. He felt a sharp pain in his knees, but the pain was faint compared to the hunger consuming him from within. His fingers dug into the cold earth, clenching as if clinging to life itself.
The soil was damp beneath his nails, smelling of mold and decaying trees—the smell of a place that had not known the sun for a long time.
He whispered in a hoarse voice barely audible to anyone:
— "I can't… end like this… after everything I've been through."
He raised his head and his eyes looked up at the sky punctured by tree branches. Pinpricks of light pierced the darkness from above, small and faint, as if watching him from afar with cold indifference.
Even the stars seemed not to want to be near him, as if telling him: you are alone, no one is with you, no one will save you.
He remembered the abandoned camp. He remembered the cold ash that had clung to his nose, the madman whose voice still echoed in his ears. His sunken eyes in the shadows, his delirium that mixed reality with nightmares, his words that fell like stones in stagnant water.
His words stuck in his head like a thorn:
You will become a fool.
Was he truly predicting? Or just the rambling of a lost mind?
He did not know. And it no longer mattered.
---
He rose again and continued walking.
He walked with difficulty, each step heavier than the last. His body told him he had reached the edge of his capacity, but something inside him pushed him forward. His only composure: don't stop. Don't surrender. Not yet.
The trees around him seemed to grow larger as he advanced. They rose like dark pillars, their branches interlocking above his head like a ceiling of overlapping shadows.
Every sound in the forest seemed like a distant scream, and every shadow moving at the edge of his vision seemed like an approaching danger.
He heard rustling leaves with no wind to move them. He heard snapping branches that no one had stepped on. He heard whispers coming from no specific place—coming from everywhere and nowhere.
Sometimes he saw faces suddenly appear among the trees.
His mother. His uncle. Fouad.
They stood there, looking at him in silence. They did not speak, did not move. They were simply there, as if part of the forest, as if they had grown among its trunks.
He would reach out toward them, take a step or two, and they would disappear. Vanish into the air as if they had never been there. Leaving behind only emptiness, and the sound of his heart pounding violently.
He muttered, gasping:
— "Have I lost my mind? Or is hunger just playing tricks on me?"
His stomach growled in answer instead. Loud this time, long, as if his innards were groaning. It drew a dry laugh from him that emerged like thirst from his throat—a laugh not amusing at all, closer to weeping.
— "Maybe the madman was right… here you have only two choices: lose your mind… or lose your life."
He laughed again, then coughed, then fell silent.
He continued walking.
---
More hours, he did not know how many.
He thought the forest would never end, that he would walk like this forever, or until he fell face down on the ground and never rose again. He had lost all sense of time.
Minutes stretched into hours, and hours shrank into minutes. He walked in a state between wakefulness and sleep, his steps moving on their own as if they knew the way better than he did.
But in a fleeting moment of awareness, he heard something.
The gurgle of water. Faint, distant, but real.
He stopped suddenly.
He listened with all his might. His heart beat fast, his spirit clinging to that sound as if it were the last rope tethering him to life.
He took a step, then another, stopping each time to listen again. The sound grew closer, faint at first then clearer, until it was near enough that he could hear it clearly above the pounding of his heart.
He advanced almost at a run until he found the stream.
It was narrow, slipping quietly between rocks, its water clear and glinting in the faint light. Its flow was slow, as if not in a hurry, as if time moved differently for it than for Yusuf.
He threw himself to his knees without feeling the pain. He scooped up the cold water with both hands—so cold he felt it in his bones. He drank greedily, rapid, interrupted gulps, as if afraid the water would disappear if he did not drink quickly.
The water flowed down his throat, quenching a fire that had been consuming him from within, restoring some life to his exhausted body.
But hunger—it only grew stronger.
He sat on a rock near the stream, breathing heavily. He looked around with exhausted eyes. No small animals to hunt here. No fruit on the trees. Nothing.
He knew some roots were edible, but he did not know which ones. The forest was full of plants he did not recognize, colors he had never seen before.
If he tried the wrong roots, he would be poisoned. Or die slowly with severe stomach pains. Or lose consciousness where no one would find him.
He had to leave this area. Find another place. Keep going.
He rose to continue on his way, but stopped suddenly.
A sound. Distant. But not the gurgle of water.
Footsteps. Faint speech. A muffled laugh.
He listened. His heart pounded violently now. It was not an illusion. Not his imagination. There were people.
His heart raced so fast he felt it in his throat. He rushed toward the sound without thinking too much. He was hungry, exhausted, on the verge of collapse, and he no longer cared about anything except finding someone to help him.
He wanted to shout, to call out, to run toward them with whatever strength he had left.
But something inside him made him slow his steps before he was exposed.
It was just a vague feeling, not a clever plan or a calculated analysis. Just a sensation at the back of his neck, as if someone whispered to him: don't rush. Don't be a fool.
He crept between the trees cautiously. He placed his feet where there were no dry branches. He stopped every two steps to listen. He breathed softly, his lips tightly closed as if afraid his breath would betray him.
Until he saw the flicker of fire.
---
He crouched behind a massive trunk, breathing slowly as he watched.
Three men sat around a small fire.
The fire was modest, no more than a handful of burning branches, but its light was enough to reveal their faces in the darkness. Their clothes were strange, made of animal hides and coarse ropes, torn in some places and patched in others. Before them was a black pot from which thick steam rose.
The smell of meat hit Yusuf's nose with brutal force.
He felt another wave of dizziness, different from hunger's dizziness. It was a smell he had not encountered in days—not since the waves had swept him to this place. The smell of real food, hot, cooking over a fire. He felt his mouth fill with saliva against his will, his stomach contracting like an unbearable fist.
He could see their faces clearly now.
The first man was broad-shouldered, his skin rough as if he had endured sun and wind for many years. His face was covered in scars, some old and white, others still pink as if recent. His eyes were blue, sharp, gleaming in the firelight like broken glass. He sat on a flat stone, a short sword beside him within reach.
The second man was a slim young man with long, disheveled hair covering half his face. His fingers were thin and long, fidgeting with a small knife he spun between his fingers as if it were part of his hand. He smiled from time to time, but his smile was not friendly. It resembled the smile of someone who found pleasure in watching something suffer.
The third man was elderly. His face was carved with deep wrinkles, his thick white beard covering his chest. He sat hunched into himself, a little away from the fire, his eyes half-closed like someone who did not want to see much of what surrounded him. He did not seem interested in what was happening, but his eyes moved slowly sometimes, tracking everything without anyone noticing.
Yusuf felt afraid. They carried weapons, and their expressions were not friendly. They did not resemble survivors like him. They resembled people accustomed to living in this place, accustomed to harshness.
But his body trembled with hunger. And the smell of food made his head spin. He could no longer think clearly.
He hesitated for a moment. Then he emerged from among the trees with his hands raised.
---
Their voices stopped abruptly.
They stopped eating mid-bite. Two of them moved toward their spears with quick motions, as if they had practiced it a thousand times. The slim young man stopped his knife mid-spin. The old man opened his eyes for a moment, then closed them again.
They faced him with sharp, unwelcoming looks.
Yusuf tried to appear calm, but his voice emerged hoarse, fragmented, barely resembling his real voice:
— "I'm lost… looking for help."
A long silence fell.
He heard only the crackle of the fire and the pounding of his heart, which he thought they must hear too. He stood there, his hands raised, his trembling body hiding nothing of his weakness.
The scarred man stared at him for a long time. He looked at his torn clothes, at his pale face, at his trembling hands. He looked at him as if reading something written on his body.
Then he said in a hoarse voice:
— "Where did you come from?"
Yusuf swallowed. He said quickly, afraid they would refuse him:
— "My ship sank… the waves washed me here."
The scarred man did not take his eyes off Yusuf. He asked again, slowly:
— "Ship?"
— "Yes… a ship. We were traveling… then the storm…" Yusuf stopped; he could not finish the sentence.
The three men exchanged brief glances. The young man stopped his knife for a moment and looked at Yusuf from beneath his hanging hair. The old man opened his eyes for a moment, cast a fleeting glance, then closed them again like someone who had heard enough.
Then the scarred man gestured with his hand:
— "Come closer… sit."
---
Yusuf sat near the fire.
He was so close that he felt the heat searing his face, but he did not move away. The heat was melting the cold that had taken hold of his bones. It returned blood to his frozen fingers, made him feel that he was still alive.
He saw the pot up close now. It was made of black stone, hand-carved, emitting a thick aroma. Small pieces of meat boiled with dark-colored roots, the liquid around them thick and dark. He did not know what the meat was, and he did not want to know.
His stomach growled. A loud, long growl that could not be suppressed. He felt ashamed for a moment, but the shame did not last.
The slim young man laughed. A light, dry laugh, as if he had found something amusing.
He handed Yusuf a piece of meat on the blade of his knife. He held it by the tip with the skill of someone who did not want to cut his hand, and extended it toward him. He said in a voice laced with cold mockery:
— "Hungry, stranger?"
Yusuf took the piece with a trembling hand. He did not care about the taste. Did not care that the meat was slightly raw inside, or that the taste was strange and bitter, or that its smell was different from any meat he had ever tasted. He swallowed it quickly and nearly choked. He whispered:
— "Thank you…"
No one replied.
He took another piece without asking. He knew he might appear greedy, but he no longer cared. Hunger was consuming him from within, and each bite extinguished part of a flame that had nearly devoured him.
The men watched him. They did not eat; they only watched. The slim young man spun his knife between his fingers slowly. The scarred man lit a dry twig from the fire and smoked it. The old man was still as stone, but his half-open eyes tracked every movement.
He heard one of them comment on his torn clothes. He said in a faint voice: "What are these clothes? They look like from another place." Another commented on his shoes: "Those are no good for walking here."
They spoke his language. He recognized the words, the sentences. But their accent was strange. The words came from the throat rather than the mouth, the endings swallowed in the chest, and some letters pronounced in a way he had never heard. He could not place their origin. They were not from any country he knew.
As he ate, something unexpected happened.
The slim young man moved. Yusuf did not see him move; he only felt it. He moved quickly, as if his whole body had been waiting for this moment. His long hand reached into Yusuf's outer pocket and pulled something out before Yusuf realized the phone was between his thin fingers.
Yusuf froze.
The phone did not work. It had been damaged by seawater from the first days. The screen was black, cracked at one corner. The side button was stuck, non-functional. It was just a dead piece of glass and metal, useless.
But it was all he had left of his world.
Without the phone, even those photos would be lost. And he would have no proof that his mother had ever existed. That Fouad had been his friend. That he had had a life before this forest.
He said sharply:
— "Give it back!"
He extended his hand, but did not step closer. He was afraid. He knew these men were not the kind he could resist. But he was also angry. Angry at the hunger, at the forest, at his helplessness, and that the only thing he had left could be taken from him so easily.
The scarred man looked at him coldly. Then he turned to the young man. He said nothing, only gestured slightly with his hand. The young man tossed him the phone.
He turned the phone over in his thick fingers. Looked at the strange object: black reflective glass, small size, unfamiliar weight. He pressed the side button. Nothing happened. He pressed again. Nothing.
He raised his eyes to Yusuf:
— "What is this?"
Yusuf faltered. How could he explain to a man who did not know phones what a phone was? How could he tell him that this dead device had once been a window to an entire world? He said in a tense tone:
— "Nothing. It doesn't work. Just… something from my country."
The scarred man looked at the phone again. Turned it over in his hands, as if appraising its weight. He looked at Yusuf, then at his obvious attachment to the object. Yusuf looked at him with eyes that hid nothing of his anxiety.
The man smiled a cold smile.
— "Doesn't work?" He repeated the words slowly, as if not believing them. "You hold it as if it were your soul… so it has value."
He put the phone in his inner pocket. A pocket made of thick leather, tied with a cord across his chest. He placed the phone inside with a calm motion, like someone placing something precious in a safe place.
Then he said:
— "Your clothes are not suitable here… we will find you something suitable. And this… we will keep it."
Yusuf's heart raced. He felt anger squeezing his chest. He wanted to scream, to snatch the phone back, to do anything. But he looked at their hands on their weapons.
He looked at the slim young man who was spinning his knife between his fingers again, and at the old man who opened his eyes for a moment and closed them as if to say: don't do anything stupid.
He swallowed his anger. He could not do anything now. He could not fight them. He could not run. Hunger had weakened him, and he was in the middle of the forest with three men he did not know whether they were good or bad, but they were certainly stronger than him.
He sat silent. He returned to eating slowly. He was not thinking of a clever plan, not analyzing. He just felt helpless, and wanted the phone back, and did not know how to retrieve it.
The scarred man approached him and stood. He placed his heavy hand on Yusuf's shoulder—his hand was both cold and heavy. He said in a low voice:
— "Don't worry… we like guests."
Yusuf did not answer. He felt the weight of his hand, and a danger he did not fully understand, and that he had entered into something from which he did not know how he would emerge.
---
They did not sit around the fire for long. After Yusuf finished his meal—or what they had given him—the scarred man stood and extinguished the fire with his foot in one motion. He did not leave a single ember burning.
— "We walk. The night is not safe here."
He gestured for Yusuf to follow, so he rose hesitantly. The phone was in the man's pocket. He felt its weight there, even though it did not work. He felt it like a wound that would not heal.
They set off among the trees. The scarred man at the front, the other two behind. Yusuf walked in the middle, placing his feet carefully.
He tried to remember the way: the river behind them, sunset ahead, a bent tree here, a large rock there. That was all he could retain.
He did not know whether he was moving toward safety or greater danger. But he had no other choice.
The darkness was thick among the trees. There was no moon, or the branches blocked it completely. They walked in near-total darkness, relying on whatever remained of a distant light whose source he did not know.
The scarred man walked confidently, as if he knew every tree and every root in this place. The other two followed him silently, their footsteps so light they were barely audible.
Yusuf stumbled from time to time. He would step on a root he could not see, or put his hand on tree bark to balance. He tried not to make a sound, but his ragged breath betrayed him.
They walked like this for a time he could not measure. Minutes stretched into hours, or hours shrank into minutes. He no longer knew. He just walked, placing one foot before the other, trying not to fall.
The trees thickened as they advanced. The shadows grew blacker. No one spoke. Only the sound of footsteps on damp earth, the creaking of distant branches, and the pounding of his heart that he thought they must hear.
Then the scarred man stopped suddenly.
He raised his hand, and everyone halted. He listened for a moment, as if hearing something no one else could. Then he said in a faint voice:
— "We are here."
Before them, between massive intertwined trunks, was something like a small camp. Not tents, but a shelter made of animal hides supported by thick wooden poles.
The hides were stretched tightly, some patched with pieces of different fur. A small fire was nearly extinguished in the center, blinking with a faint light like a sleeping eye.
The man gestured to Yusuf:
— "There. You will sleep there tonight."
Yusuf looked at the shelter. It was small, low, barely enough for one person. Then he looked at the two men behind him. The slim young man was spinning his knife between his fingers again, the old man standing like a statue.
He knew he had no choice now.
He entered the shelter, feeling their eyes on his back. He bent to go through the narrow opening and sat on the cold ground. The floor was bare earth, with some dry straw scattered here and there. The smell of the hides was heavy—the smell of animals, of mold, of age.
He heard them whispering outside. Their voices were faint, fragmented, the words unintelligible. But he understood the tone. It was not the tone of people talking about a cherished guest. It was the tone of people planning something they did not want the guest to know.
He closed his eyes. He was not going to sleep. He was waiting. Listening. His heart beat slowly now, not only from fear but from exhaustion that had reached his bones.
The phone—all that remained of his former life—was in the pocket of a man whose name he did not know. A man he knew nothing about. A man who had assumed that Yusuf's clinging to the dead object meant it was precious, and had taken it.
But Yusuf was still alive. And he knew that if he wanted to get out of this, he would have to be cautious. Not a hero, not a genius. Just an ordinary man trying not to make the wrong next move.
The whispers outside the shelter did not stop. The fire blinked with its last light. And the forest around him was silent, waiting.
Waiting to see what he would do next.
---
End of Chapter Eight