🌿Chapter IV — The Fishermen's Cabin 🌿

"Where the river becomes the sea and the mist rises, the birds guard the gate to the swamp."

At the entrance to the marsh, where the great river widens so much that it could be mistaken for an inland sea, stands a wooden cabin. Simple, sturdy, and unadorned, it has remained standing despite the wind, the rain, and the passing of time. It belongs to the fishermen who continue to moor their boats there, spread their nets, and share the silence. The wood carries the imprint of their calloused hands and patient footsteps, and the walls, though worn, still breathe the presence of men.

The river stretches before her like an infinite promise. At dawn, its waters are pale silver, and at dusk they are tinged with purple shadows. In the mist, it becomes an uncertain mirror where sky and earth blend, and one can no longer distinguish where one ends and the other begins. It is there that the cabin watches over, like a motionless beacon, a fragile landmark for those preparing to cross the threshold of the marsh.

Visitors often stop there. Some to ask the fishermen for a little water, others simply to breathe before advancing further. For everyone knows that after the cabin, another world begins, and that the steps we take beyond it never quite belong to us. Here, time seems to stand still. The river breathes slowly, the planks creak gently, and all around, the air vibrates with the beating of birds' wings.

For Lost Swamp is, above all, their kingdom. Motionless herons reign there like statues of patience, their feet buried in the mud, their eyes fixed on an invisible movement of water. Ibises trace long white processions across the sky, ghostly silhouettes that seem to guide the mist itself. Seagulls cry above the river, bursts of sound that echo like distant calls. Further away, cormorants soar, dive, and disappear beneath the waves, suddenly reappearing, their wings shiny and dark.

But in Lost Swamp, birds are not just inhabitants: they are signs. Some travelers say that a heron perched on the path announces safe passage. Others say that a flock of ibises crossing the mist indicates the direction to follow. And there are those who whisper that the sudden cries of seagulls warn of impending danger, while crows only appear at the thresholds where the marsh turns into a trap.

Sometimes, entire flocks rise from the marsh, blackening the sky in a collective shudder. Those who witness this spectacle say they felt more than an emotion: a presence, as if Lost Swamp itself were beckoning to them. For here, the birds don't just fly; they watch, they guide, and sometimes, they judge.

Thus, the fishermen's hut is not just a human shelter. It is the last space shared between two kingdoms: that of humans and that of the birds, guardians of the marsh. To stop there is to raise one's eyes to their silhouettes, listen to their cries, and understand, without always being able to explain it, that it is they who hold the key to what lies beyond.

This is why fishermen and travelers always linger there for a moment. Not only to rest, but to observe the sky, as if the birds were giving them an invisible answer. And when we finally cross the threshold of the river to enter Lost Swamp, we keep deep inside the certainty that it is not the maps or the steps that guide the crossing, but the wings, the songs and the shadows of the birds.