This is basilisk country.
They wake at dusk, appearing with the disappearing light; uncoiling from rotted hollows in the trunks and stumps of elder trees. The rustle of leaves on an otherwise still evening; a dense buzzing in the undergrowth; the sudden, uncharacteristic disappearance of mosquitoes from the thick forest air—all these are signs of the basilisk.
They slither through the undergrowth, they dangle hungrily from branches like creeper vines or pythons. They pull their prey screaming across the ground into foetid warrens, or snatch their prey up, too quick for screams, into the branches of tall trees (in particular, they enjoy roosting in dead-standing trees that have been cracked open by lightning, often you can see a festering mass in the broken chest cavities of such trees; this is probably the sleeping body of a basilisk). Sometimes, when the canopy is thick enough to block the hated sun, the basilisk lounges on branches in shadowy daylight, careless as a lion on the savannah.
Legend and myth tell us the basilisk is a reptile, kin to the dragon (see: the king of serpents, the emperor of lizards, the lord of wyrms, so on and so forth). This, however, is a misinterpretation: the basilisk is basilieos vermis, the king of wyrms, but not in the serpentine sense. It is a worm, much closer to an annelid; a nematode or a tapeworm. And like a tapeworm, the basilisk grows as large as its host. The bigger the tree, the bigger the basilisk.
It doesn’t matter where the forest is. If the trees are thick enough to block the sun, a basilisk lives there. They prefer the biggest, oldest trees, where they can make their home in bark-caves, stretch out and grow their segmented, slithering bodies. Sequioa and redwood stumps in the Americas, firs and spruce in Europe, sycamore in Africa, and of course, strangler figs like the banyan tree, in South and Southeast Asia.
They call the basilisk the lord of the forest. All living creatures fear it. Even apex predators like panthers or tigers—the smell of the basilisk is not of this epoch. And they remind the creatures who have adapted to its environment that the forest is always a portal, a decayed hole in the trunk of an ancient tree, a doorway through which one might walk back to an earlier, hostile time. Back to basilisk country. A place where we’re not welcome.
We didn’t evolve in forests, we evolved on the plains and grasslands. And so entering the jungle is always an act of adaptation. It is a constant cognitive load on our survival systems. The brain is primed to look for threats, dangerous patterns in the trees. Shadows lurking behind stumps. The droning buzz in the air. All signs of the basilisk.
Dead trees with dozens of rotted branches, like the corpse of some enormous centipede. Hollows in their trunks, big enough to hide a human. You instinctively know to keep your distance, that there could be something large and deadly lurking within. The basilisk, though, always compels you to peer inside. You might not see anything, if it is daylight. No other creature can match the basilisk for camouflage (hence the ubiquity of nematodes). But it is already too late. It has your scent now, and you will not survive nightfall.
On the Northwestern coast of the United States, there is a forest of fallen giants. Trees one hundred feet long, crashed out on the leafy floor, slowly decomposing into must. Like the carcasses of mighty whales that fall to the ocean floor, these decaying arboreal giants become ecosystems unto themselves; colonies and hosts to parasite, predator and prey alike. The basilisk is the king of predators. It is the parasite on reality’s belly.
You may well encounter a basilisk, while hiking through the redwood and sequoia forests of the Pacific Northwest, or in the primary jungles of Malaya where they fattened for a century and a half on the despair and exploitation of the rubber trade. They like to live in banyan trees, in the damp holes at their heart. They mimic the tentacular arms of the banyan, hanging lazily down like a creeper vine to snatch and rip any fool who wanders into the banyan grove drunk and in search of a safe place to piss. Such old trees, as you should know by now, are anything but safe.
Avoid the basilisk by avoiding old trees—resist the urge to look inside. Pass by the trees quickly, do not loiter, especially at night. Urinate only on smaller trees whose trunks appear healthy and whole; the warmth and the smell may wake a basilisk, even in daylight, and you will not be in a position to quickly flee.
Basilisks hunt mammals primarily by neural activity, and by adrenal scent. Avoid the basilisk by emptying your mind of thoughts, particularly of fearful thoughts. Do not enter an old forest under the influence of any kind of psychedelic or psychotropic drugs. In Goa, the basilisk has proliferated on the southern beaches frequented by foreign hippies. Addled and stumbling, prone to wander towards trees, their minds reduced by hallucinogenic drugs to potent psychic ferment of fear and ecstatic confusion, they make perfect prey for the basilisk. A delicious meal.
Alcohol, depending on your constituency and neural makeup, may help.
If you are passing a tree that is likely a basilisk nest (for example, a tall dead tree that has been struck by lightning, or an old banyan tree with many, many fig branches that could easily disguise serpentine or vermicular movement), watch for movement out of the corner of your eye. Do not look head-on. The European legend of the basilisk’s ability to turn you to stone is a myth, but it is a myth grounded in fact. The basilisk’s form is so horrific that it paralyses the flight/fight response in most mammalian species, effectively rendering you paralysed by fear, unable to move—easy, sitting prey.
If you should encounter a basilisk (and you may not well know until it is too late), your best bet is not to run (after all, you are in a forest and it is likely dusk or later, you will probably trip and end up a fine meal for the basilisk). Move calmly (if possible) and quickly away from the tree. This author recommends a sideways motion, which will enable you to watch your footing and scout the basilisk’s movement out of the periphery of your eyes. Do not give into fear. It is better to die shouting and brave than running and fearful. If you can, pick up a rock or a branch, and try to hit the basilisk as it comes. They are not used to being fought back against, and this can stun or confuse them long enough for you to make your escape.
Unfortunately, chances are that you will not survive an encounter with the basilisk. But even then, you can take some comfort in knowing that you have been killed by a particularly impressive and resilient creature—the king of wyrms. After all, this is a creature that fed on tyrannosaurs 65 million years ago. Humans, while smarter and more sophisticated, are always going to be easy prey in basilisk country.