What are we doing here? This is not our world; we were led to believe in quiet paths marked by deer tracks, in clearings like priest's gardens full of goldenrod and willowherb, in moss that rhymes with softness, in the great peace of the woods, but it is enough to look at the images: what is told here is just a story to keep fear at bay. The forest has been foreign to us for a very long time, since long before stone, patience and fire invented the forest edge, extending the day's possessions amid the hoarse cries of falling trees dragging shadow down with them, shadow and deep nests; the forest has always been foreign to us, fairy tales are all translated from shadow, and their moral is that one must leave it, reach the deforested land with its packs of men whose gaze sometimes carries gentleness.