The three years in which I’d been at Willow’s Creek were some of the best I’d ever lived. The smell of a crackling in the fire as I hurtled over logs, racing with time. And for the first time in three years, I felt free.

It was almost like it had been on the old tree farm. But I knew that this would never be taken away from here. Perhaps it was great destiny, or whatever, but this was where I belonged ths was my home.

Finally, stopping in my tracks, I could hear the rush of the waterfall. Taking in fresh air on the full moon night, I sat. People would say it’s dangerous, which it is, but sometimes, it’s nice to take a change. Even if I fell from the top of that cliff, the water would catch me. And it would pull me back to shore, like it had done in the past.

I let my hair down, which had been tied in a tight bun all day. The forest sang to me, and sang back. I sang the hymn of the earth, all the way from the low drown of the cicadas, to the high cry of the falcon.

As I knew it was getting late, the sun was no longer setting, for it had found its way to the other side of the earth, I got up. “Good night, Mom. It’s getting late.” I whispered, in hopes that she could hear me, in her home in heaven.

When I got back to camp, only few remained at the fire. The fire was no larger than a pile of leaves, bit it was still burning strong, for the voices of the few were still singing the soft song of the wild, the same one I’d learned here. The same one I’d sang to my mother, only what seemed like seconds passed.

I joined the small group of campers, sitting down next to Anja. I repeated the song, hoping that my mother could hear me. Placed around the small pit, were stones carved with runes. Although I’d never learned to translate them, I knew what the ones around the pit said.

Life beyond the the earth lies in heaven.

It had been carved there after the Fight of Freedom. So many had fallen that they had sealed the carving onto the pit of fire, the same pit that the ashes of the fallen were laid in. It was where her mother was laid in.

As the fire died, Anja ordered us back to our cabins. Even though I was tired, I didn’t want to go to bed. Instead, I pulled out the journal that I’d been using, and flipped to the very back page, so no one would be able to see what I was going to write. But there was writing on the back.

It was smudged on the back, but something was indistinguishable.

Celia Jones: Wanted Dead or Alive

Over top of the drawing of the woman with bright green, piercing eyes, was a smudgy red ‘x’. And I gulped to see the writing underneath. I could tell, from the mismatched letters, that this handwriting was not unfamiliar.

And the antials scrawled underneath didn’t help the writer’s case. Written was:

Mark my words, you’re never going to catch her. Mark my words. 

Signed with the blood of a snake, A.N.J