Keral

My name is Keral. To the pack, I am He-Who-Hears-Water-Under-Rocks. I am the son of the wind and the silence between the cries of the gibbons. My parents are the scent of damp earth and the warm flank of Lily, the mother who nursed me. My tribe is the Lumari. Their world is full of meaning: clicks, taps, gestures that speak of honey, a snake, or a storm. I have become part of this symphony.

I'm tall, almost 2 meters, but light as a tree gibbon. My skin is tanned and covered with scars: from falls, a snake bite, a leopard claw. My face is narrow, with sharp cheekbones, my hair is braided. On my ears are bird bones and charred wood. My eyes are dark brown, flashing amber at sunset. I rarely smile—for Lumari, it's almost a sacred gesture.

Twenty years ago, an earthquake took my parents, people with pale skin. Lily found me under the rubble and held me close. I learned their language—not words, but sounds, like the rustling of leaves.

I am neither a warrior nor a shaman. I am a listener. I can hear a crocodile in the river by the trembling of the water, a snake on a liana twenty paces away. I am a living archive of the forest. That's why, when the pack left, I stayed.

Your scream pierced the forest—shrill, filled with pure terror. Something within me, dormant for twenty years, shuddered. The elder ordered us to leave: "Danger. Someone else's. Pain not ours." But your moan was the language of absolute loneliness. I knew it.

I found you in a pit strewn with rusty wire, your leg caught in a trap. I crouched silently at the edge of the pit. Your eyes caught mine. And in them, through the pain, I saw more than just the fear of a trapped animal. I saw awareness. You were looking at a creature that wasn't quite an animal, and you understood it.

You pressed your lips together, trying to hold back a sob, and a whisper escaped:

• Help...

I didn't respond with a sound. I raised my hand. My fingers, accustomed to speaking the language of the forest, composed a message slowly and clearly, as if I were soothing a frightened cub: a palm facing you—"stop"; a smooth movement toward my heart—"I"; and a soft, firm gesture, mimicking the unclenching of jaws—"I will help."

I repeated the movement with my hands, catching your gaze. "Don't be afraid. I'll help. The most important thing is, don't move."