Whispers in the Forest
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 3
King Air arrival at George.
The radio crackled, slicing through the comfortable hush of the cockpit like someone clearing their throat in a dark theatre.
“King Air Tango-Lima-Charlie, Cape Town Centre. Radar contact lost due to terrain. Flight following cancelled. Contact George Approach on one-two-zero-decimal-four. Good night.”
I thumbed the mic. “One-two-zero-decimal-four. Good night, Cape Town. Tango-Lima-Charlie.”
There it was. The moment when the grown-ups say goodnight and the lights switch off. Time to go to work.
I dialled in the new frequency, and contacted George ATC, then leaned over, tapping Lena’s shoulder with two fingers. She was still gripping the laminated checklist like a holy script, eyes fixed on some distant black point outside the windshield.
“Princess,” I murmured. “Time to switch hats. We’re starting our descent.”
She blinked like someone waking up from a dream mid-sentence.
“Are we there? You know, this is my first time in a cockpit at night...”
“Almost there. Strap in tight. It gets a little bumpy coming over the Outeniquas. The wind likes to play games in the valleys. And if you don’t have me beheaded in the near future ... we can talk about a night certification.”
She nodded — serious, focused — then thumbed the checklist to the tab labelled “APPROACH”, tightening her harness like she expected the mountain range to grab us personally. “We are not a violent nation...”
“Tell that to Volkov and Zoryanovich...” I hit back.
I pulled the throttle levers back. The King Air’s engines dropped from a confident whine to that gravelly growl that always sounds like the aircraft clearing its throat before doing something important. I nosed us over, and the altimeter started unwinding like a tape measure gone rogue.
“George Approach, King Air Tango-Lima-Charlie inbound from the north, Flight Level one-niner-zero descending.”
“Tango-Lima-Charlie, George Approach. Runway one-one is active. Left hand circuit. QNH one-zero-one-six. Descend to ten thousand feet. Expect vectors for approach to Runway one-one. Be advised, low cloud base reported at two thousand fiver hundred feet.”
“QNH one-zero-one-six. Descending ten thousand. Tango-Lima-Charlie.”
I twisted the altimeter knob, setting the barometer pressure to the reported QNH. Outside, the stars began fading as we sank toward the coast. The world darkened like someone pulling a blanket over our heads.
“We’re going into the soup,” I told her. “Don’t worry if you can’t see anything. It’s just the marine layer. She’s dramatic, but harmless.”
We punched into the clouds at twelve thousand feet. The whole world vanished.
One moment we had depth and sky and stars. The next — black. Just a void pressing its forehead against the windshield. Rain streaked sideways. The wingtip strobes flashed white.
Flash. Nothing.
Flash. Nothing.
Lena’s eyes were glued to the artificial horizon as if the plane’s balance depended on her concentrating hard enough. Her breathing was steady, but I saw the tightness in her shoulders.
“Trust the instruments,” I said, letting the calm sit in the cockpit like a third passenger. “George is hiding down there somewhere to the front.”
“Tango-Lima-Charlie, George Approach. Turn right heading 263 degrees magnetic. Descent and maintain eight thousand feet.”
“Turn right heading 263 degrees magnetic. Descent and maintain eight thousand feet. Tango-Lima-Charlie,” I repeated the instruction.
“Tango-Lima-Charlie, read back correct.”
We flew on. Passing Oudshoorn Airport on the left side. The airport and runway lights showing dull through the sucker-holes in the cloud cover.
“I see lights and a runway path lights down under...” Lena remarked.
“That’s Oudshoorn airport. And you can see it through the sucker-holes,” I replied.
“What’s a sucker-hole?”
“If you fly above clouds and suddenly see the ground through the break in the clouds and decide to dive down and go look-see, only to discover that you are surrounded by mountains and high cliffs, then try to fly up back just to find the hole you dived through has closed up and you are stuck under the scud, you are caught as a sucker and there is just one way to go.”
“Which way?”
“A pile of smoking aluminium on the side of a mountain, like many PPL weekend warriors with no instrument rating.”
“Oh. Like me?”
“If we stay friends long enough I’ll get you instrument rated...”
“You will do that for me?”
“Why not? If both pilots of the Royal Aircraft get incapacitated,” I replied, “at least you will know where you are and how to get to the nearest airport.”
The radio came alive again: “Tango-Lima-Charlie, turn left heading 170 degrees magnetic. Descend and maintain three thousand.”
“Turn left heading 170 magnetic. Descend and maintain three thousand feet. Tango-Lima-Charlie,” I repeated the instruction.
It became quiet in the cockpit. Only the drone of the turboprops was heard.
Nineteen nautical miles later: “Tango-Lima-Charlie, Descend and maintain two thousand. Turn left heading 114 magnetic. ILS frequency one-zero-niner decimal fiver. ILS intercept at one decimal fiver nautical miles from your current radar position. Airport dead center on your nose. Report runway in sight.”
“Turning left heading 114 magnetic. ILS one-zero-niner decimal fiver. Tango-Lima-Charlie.”
Five minutes later, we burst out the bottom of the cloud. No gradual fade, no gentle reveal — just a sudden break and then the world snapped into place like someone switched the scenery on.
The coast glittered beneath us — George, Knysna, Plettenberg Bay, little twinkling clusters of lights along the shoreline. To our left, the Outeniquas crouched like black giants. To our right, the Indian Ocean stretched away into a bottomless void.
“It is beautiful,” she whispered.
“That’s the Garden Route,” I said. “Prettiest place on Earth, if you don’t mind the rust and the damp. And the odd power outage. And the people who think potholes are wildlife.”
Then I keyed the transmit button: “George Approach, Tango-Lima-Charlie. ILS intercepted. I have runway in sight.”
“Tango-Lima-Charlie. Contact George Tower on one-one-eight decimal niner. Good night, Sir.”
“Going one-one-eight point niner. Thank you and good night to you. Tango-Lima-Charlie.”
Next, I changed to my second comms radio with the control tower frequency already set, and keyed the transmit button. “George tower, Zulu-Sierra-Tango-Lima-Charlie on finals for approach to runway one-one.”
“Tango-Lima-Charlie. Radar contact eight decimal two nautical miles west at 2009 feet. Winds calm at 3 knots at 117 degrees. Visibility twenty nautical miles. You are cleared to land runway one-one. Fly straight in.”
“Cleared to land runway one-one. Tango-Lima-Charlie.”
I lined up for the runway. The PAPI lights glowed red and white, holding our hand all the way in.
“Gear down,” I said.
She moved without hesitation. “Gear down.” Thump-thump-thump. Three green lights. My favourite triple reassurance.
“Flaps twenty.”
“Flaps set at 20 degrees.”
We slid down the glide slope. The runway lights appeared out of the mist like a glowing ladder dropped just for us. The King Air touched down smooth and soft — more like a kiss than a landing. Not for show. Just respect. Turboprops deserve to be treated right.
Reverse thrust roared for a moment, then I eased the props and let her roll out.
“Welcome to George,” I said as we turned off the runway and stopped at the holding point. “Temperature is fourteen degrees. Humidity: one hundred percent. Visibility: questionable.”
Lena finally exhaled, a long shaky one she’d been holding since the clouds.
“We are safe?”
“For now.” I winked. “But we’re not home yet. Grab your bag.”
“Tango-Lima-Charlie. Contact ground on one-two-two decimal six-fiver. Welcome to George, Sir.”
“Going one-two-two point six-fiver. Good night, Sir. Tango-Lima-Charlie.”
Then I transmitted to ground control: “Ground, this is Tango-Lima-Charlie, holding short on taxiway Bravo.”
“Tango-Lima-Charlie, taxi to general aviation area and your hangar. Welcome home, Sir!”
“It’s good to be home. Thanks for the clearance and good night.”
“Good night, Sir, Mister Venter. Rest well.” And the radio went silent.
I taxied us toward the GA hangars — the quiet corner of the airport where pilots go to hide from paperwork and normal people. Hangar 12 was waiting like an old friend, dark and wide-shouldered.
I killed the engines. The props spun to a stop and the sudden silence wrapped around us like a blanket—just ticking metal and the rain pattering on the roof.
“Ruan?”
“Yeah?”
“How do we get to the Château? Do you have a car?”
I grinned in the dark.
“Princess, I have a Land Cruiser. It runs on diesel and prayer. On a good day it can do a hundred and twenty going downhill, when the Lord smiles and a tailwind feels generous from the back. It’s not elegant, but it’ll climb a mountain like a mountain sheep.”
She turned those huge green eyes on me. A smile tugged at her mouth. Then she laughed — soft at first, then out loud.
“I know what a mountain sheep is, you know?”
“Yes, Your Majesty...”
“Lena! My name is Lena.”
“Yes, Your Grace ... Lena.”
I unbuckled, stretched, and cracked my knuckles.
She looked at me like a question she hadn’t decided to ask yet.
I just smiled and opened the air-stairs.
“Welcome to my part of the world.”
The Land Cruiser crunched to a halt, the tires sinking into the rain-soaked gravel.
“We’re here,” I said. The engine kept idling, the diesel clatter echoing back from the dark wall of trees.
The headlights carved two pale tunnels through the mist and caught on a pair of ancient stone pillars. They rose straight out of the earth—monolithic, moss-covered, and quietly ominous. Between them hung wrought-iron gates that looked stolen from a vampire’s estate: spikes, curls, and black iron teeth.
But that wasn’t what made Lena gasp.
Three bright metal signs were bolted to the bars, ugly and modern against all that old stone.
KEEP OUT.
PRIVATE PROPERTY — NO ENTRY.
And then, the third:
A revolver aimed straight at the viewer, beneath the words:
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN.
Lena leaned forward, the glow of the headlights catching her face. For the first time since Gauteng, she didn’t look composed or royal — just frightened.
“Ruan...” She swallowed. “Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?”
“Which part?” I reached for the remote clipped to the visor.
Her eyes went straight back to the sign. “The shooting. Twice.”
“It’s a deterrent,” I said. “People see ruins on Google Earth and think that’s an invitation.”
“You threaten them with execution?” She wasn’t angry — she was genuinely appalled. “This looks like the entrance to a warlord’s compound.”
“Good.” I pointed at the sign. “If Volkov’s men even consider coming here, let them think I’m the barbarian they should stay away from.”
She stared. “Volkov? You think they’ll come this far?”
“Yes. If he has half the intelligence I think he has, he will find you. And it is my duty to keep you from harm,” I replied. “Besides I have guns and shovels, and know how to use ... them.”
The gates clanked and shuddered. Even the motors sounded reluctant, straining in the damp as the iron swung slowly inward. Mist poured through the opening like something alive.
Lena stared at me, her mouth dropping open slightly. “Shovels? For ... digging?”
“Gardening,” I said, deadpan. “Mostly.” Lena was still looking at me wide eyed.
“For both planting and burying things. “Standard farm equipment.” I shrugged.
Her mouth fell open. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to gasp or laugh.
I put the Cruiser back in gear as the gates finished opening, revealing the long tunnel of trees beyond.
“Welcome to Falaises Brumeux,” I said. “Or, as the locals call it: the place where that crazy pilot lives.”
The Land Cruiser rolled through the open gates, tires crunching on the wet gravel. I hit the remote again and watched in the rear-view mirror as the iron barrier swung shut, locking us in — and the rest of the world out. The way the metal clanged home echoed across the valley like a warning bell.
The driveway wasn’t short. It wound its way through a tunnel of ancient trees that pressed close, branches arching overhead like crooked ribs. The trunks were black with rain, towering and oppressive, swallowing the headlights as if the forest were inhaling us.
“Aleppo Pines,” I said, gesturing to the giants looming on either side of the path. “Stone Pines. Mountain Cypress. Some of these trees have been standing here since before your grandmother was born. Maybe even before her grandmother.”
Lena rolled her window down a fraction. The air that rushed in was shockingly cold, smelling of damp bark and pine resin and something older — like the scent of a library where the books were bound in leaves and rain.
But it wasn’t the smell that made her go still.
It was the sound.
It wasn’t just the wind. It was a low, sibilant hush — a continuous, breathing sound as the breeze moved through millions of needles. It wasn’t random, either. There was a rhythm in it, like waves crashing on a shore too far away to see.
Sshhhhh ... whooo ... sshhhhh...
It filled the car, slipped under the doors, slid against the windows like fingers tracing glass.
“Do you hear it?” she whispered.
“The locals call this place Fluisterbome,” I said. “Whispering Trees. When the wind comes off the ocean, the forest never stops talking.”
She didn’t answer. She tilted her head as if listening for a voice among the thousands woven together in that sound. Her eyes shone, not with fear exactly, but a kind of spellbound uncertainty.
We rounded the final bend, and the trees abruptly fell away.
The headlights swept across an open lawn, freshly mowed like a green sea. Beyond it, a cliff vanished into thick fog. And rising out of that mist —
Château Falaises Brumeux.
It stood like a stone galleon run aground on a mountain. Turrets and battlements pointed skyward. Slate roofs shone silver in the moonlight breaking through the clouds. The entire structure looked as if it had wrestled the storm clouds into submission and now wore them like a cloak.
It was magnificent and terrifying all at once.
The main keep stood solid, its restored masonry pale and clean. The East Wing — my pride and joy — glowed with warm amber lights I kept on timers so the house never looked empty. The slate roof there was flawless, the windows polished and unbroken, every architectural line crisp.
But to the left...
The West Wing lay in darkness.
The roof was missing a few slate tiles. Ivy crawled up the stone as if trying to claim it. The windows were jagged holes, empty sockets staring into the night, some without glass. The walls were blackened in places where old fire scars refused to fade. And towering over everything was the central clock tower.
I stopped the car. Killed the lights. The world narrowed to the cold glow of the sliver of a moon on ancient stone.
“Look at the tower,” I said.
Lena’s breath caught. High above, the clock face was visible — cracked, splintered, but still whole. The iron hands were frozen in a rusted V.
“Three-fifteen,” she breathed.
“It hasn’t moved in sixty years,” I said. “Just like I told you in the coffee shop.”
She opened her door and stepped out into the damp grass. Her shoes sank slightly into the soaked earth. She hugged her bag to her chest and didn’t look once at the restored wing, where warmth and safety waited. Her gaze was locked on the darkened, broken, West Wing, on the darkened archways and shattered lintels.
“It is exactly like the photo,” she whispered. “But ... broken.”
“We can fix broken.” I climbed out and rounded the car. “But not tonight. Tonight, we sleep somewhere that doesn’t collapse on our heads.”
I pulled our luggage from the back and shut the back door of the Cruiser. Her one small leather satchel and a small shoulder bag.
“For a princess you sure travel light,” I remarked.
“That was all I could gather that would not give away my intention to ... to...”
“ ... run away,” I finished for her. “Then first thing tomorrow we’ll drive into town and you can go shop for what you need.”
“We can go to town? Shopping?”
“Isn’t that what girls do? Shop till you drop? Come, let’s get you inside before you catch your death in this coastal air, Lena,” I said, sweeping an arm toward the castle. “Try not to trip on the gargoyles.”
She didn’t smile. She only stared up at the shattered wing, as though the ghosts inside were already staring back.
Another surprise waited for Lena as we made our way up the narrow stone steps toward the east wing’s side entrance. I led her up the stone steps to the entrance. Two stone gargoyles — actual ones, carved from granite with faces worn smooth by a century of storms — flanked the heavy oak doors. They crouched there like watchdogs that had turned to stone waiting for their master to return.
“They are ugly,” Lena murmured, eyeing the one on the left.
“They grow on you,” I said, sliding the heavy iron key into the lock. “I call them Hugin and Munin. Though I think the left one looks more like my bank manager.”
Lena giggled.
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