I was Eight years old when I first learnt the truth about the Forest…
I was young, full of energy, always off exploring… no one ever went near the Forest, I had never known why. One day I ventured too close, and a voice called out to me.
“Boy!” Said the ancient voice, like carving the words into the bark of a tree.
I turned and saw the Old Crone, clothed in a grey hooded cloak, her face ancient and wooden, with a long pointed nose with a hideous wart bulging on the end, one eye and the other nothing more than a huge scar, teeth missing from her mouth she waddled up to me and stared down upon me.
“You don’t want to get too close to that Forest,” she croaked. “Not yet anyway.”
She smiled it was the sort of smile at that age you didn’t fully understand, but it scared you anyway.
“No, no,” she said. “Do you know the story of the Forest, boy?”
I looked towards the vast Forest, the thousands of trees stretching out into forever, Birch and Yew trees as far as the eye could see, a few Oaks spotted, and I knew following the river in the entire river was lined with Willows.
I was standing under a Hawthorn near a little pond a short distance from the tree line, I knew adult ceremonies took place here but at that age I didn’t understand them.
“No.” I whispered, shy around this Old Crone.
“Thousands of years ago,” She said, power growing in her voice. “There was an ancient war. Men fought Men over the Gods, each Man fighting for the God they believed to be right. Thousands upon thousands died. Then Men who buried the dead waited, until the blood in their bodies no longer flowed like a river, but dried. A hole was cut through their stomach, and when they were buried trees were planted inside them. Years past and the war was devastating, soon Men forgot exactly what they were fighting for, only remembering how to bury their dead, the world was decimated and thousands of years have past since then. All these trees boy? They are the dead. That Forest is a vast Graveyard stretching on forever; those trees contain the souls of our ancestors.”
I looked deep into the heart of the Woods, it was still, almost like they knew their story was being told, as if they were listening.
Suddenly her hands were on my shoulders holding me, looking right into my face with her one eye.
“The Trees are alive boy!” She cried. “Some of the trees are the fallen of the wrong Men, these trees are evil, and wish you dead!”
I ran, far away from the Crone and the Forest, and hid in the stable by my families Cow, Betsy.
That night around the dinner table with my Mother and Father enjoying Duck cooked with lemon and honey, I told them what the Crone had said.
“Magda is old,” My Father told me. “Some says she is hundreds of years old, the last in the line of her family, all who lived unnaturally long lives.”
He told Me they were the keepers of the story, telling generation after generation the legends and history of the Forest.
“You need to know about that Forest, Son.” My Father told me, his voice solemn. “When a Boy comes of age, he must go into the Forest on his own, he must try to survive out on his own, as long as he can, and if he can, he must try to make it to the other side of the Forest.
“Has anyone ever done that?” I ask with intense curiosity.
“No. Within the Forest lie dangers unimaginable. There are more than Wolves in there, Son.”
Wolves sometimes ventured out of the Woods, hunting Chickens or Ducks. Sometimes, they ate small children who’d wandered off on their own. There was a group of men, who had lasted long or survived well at their trials in the Forest, they protected us from the Wolves, sometimes going into the Woods to hunt when food was scarce. They were the keepers of the Old Way. Each had spent time with the Old Crone, learning the stories intensely. When Winter came, and wood was needed for fires, they would go into the Woods searching for the evil trees. But sometimes they could not be found, or they hid well. The Old Crone had taught them the words to the prayers needed to be said to cut down a tree. The words were in an ancient tongue, that only the trees and the wind understood. They gave the tree peace so we could use its wood. So its soul could give us warmth.
My Father removed his shirt. There was a huge scar running down his back. I had seen him without his shirt before, when he was working at making instruments for protection for the Guardians, and I had always wondered about the scar. I had never asked.
“This scar,” he said “Came from a creature 6 times the size of any Wolf. It was creature that roared, big and mean, with shaggy brown fur. There are creatures in those Woods, Son. Monsters.”
I remember sitting there, the wind howling outside my windows, I remember imagining the beast my Father spoke of. I imagined evil glowing red eyes in the dark, stalking me as I stumbled through the Birch trees in a howling Winter’s night. My heart was racing, even at the table, by the warmth of the fire.
“Magda knows, all the children in her family, even the girls must go through the trial when they come of age.” My Mother cut in. “Magda lasted the longest of any known person. Four Winter’s they say she lasted, determined to make in through the Forest. On her second Winter, cold and hungry knowing only death would come if she kept going, she turned back. She stumbled out of those Woods delirious, muttering, starved and near death. She is the wisest and most learned person in this village.”
The hut fell silent, and we resumed eating our dinner, my thoughts plagued with images moving in the dark, of the Old Crone as a young girl sitting in the snow by a fire, freezing to death, fearing that when my time came I would scarcely last… or I would perish.
For years I kept an eye on the Old Woman, listened in when I heard her speaking to others. Sometimes she spoke to the trees. I wondered if they spoke back to her. If they did, I couldn’t hear them. But she talked to them like old friends, had conversations. Her face was like the crinkled bark of a tree. Sometimes I wondered that she’d spent so long among them she was becoming one.
When I could I spent us much time near the tree-line as possible, staring in. I watched the Guardians fight when the occasional wolf came to steal a chicken. I practised the movements they used with a long stick. My coming of age was close approaching. I’d need all the knowledge I could get. I had become determined… infatuated with the idea of making it through the Forest. I dreamed of what lie on the other-side. For me it was always some kind of paradise. Warmth, and a treeless clearing stretching for miles. Hills of grass as far as the eye could see.

Finally a new year dawned. All the children who were to come of age travelled a mile in the opposite direction of the thick labyrinthine Forest, here trees grew sparsely. I saw ponds of Geese. Cats and Dogs running about, and a larger village built on the side of a wide river. I could not see the other side, but men on small wooden boats sat in the still river holding sticks with lines entering the water. I knew what they were doing. My Father had often spoken of fishing as a child. This was the village he had came from, he had moved closer to the Forest when he returned injured from his trail the huge cut on his back. My Mother had nursed him back to health. That was what she did, she knew medicines, she knew what herbs and plants were used to help the sick. Even Old Crone came to my Mother when she was younger, they had learned together for a bit, learning the way of the herbs, when Old Crone has learned what she needed she walked off into the Woods. She came back weeks later with vast supplies of Mushrooms and other plants that my mother could use. Even teaching my Mother knew things. She truly was the wisest of the village.
When my Father was nursed back to health, a feat that had seemed impossible, he began courting my Mother, marrying her under the Hawthorn. He hadn’t left since.
“Do you see it!?” A boy called out next to me, he was a boy from a village nearer ours than this, still along the tree line.
I looked where he was pointing. Towards the middle of the village was a huge Oaken Citadel, built hundreds of years ago. Craved into the wood of the halls where pictures of the Forest, and some of the strange creatures inside it. I saw Wolves, and the large monstrous creature my Father spoke of. I saw pictures of Butterflies and other creatures I was familiar with. The Forest truly was a wild place.
When I and the other boys had all sat down inside the huge citadel a voice called out.
“Men. That’s what you will become this year. Each one of you will pit yourself against the wild of the Forest. Those of you that survive will come back men, and be assigned a post based of how well you did.”
I see the Old Crone walk up behind him, hunched and hooded in the same grey cloak.
“Magda will provide you with a week of training with her before you venture into the woods.”
He pulled out a piece of parchment, something Old Crones family line had passed down how to make through the generations.
“On this list is the order your days of birth. The order of which, you will enter the Forest. I will call the names out, but first enjoy your coming of age feast!”
Women come out dressed in beautiful green gowns. They are our age, and I imagine they set this up as a way for us to find pairs. The place beautiful clay plates with swirling carves cut into them in front of us, with a beautiful dark meat, dripping with flavour, a side of cooked river fruit, and a goblet filled with red liquid. I’ve seen the liquid before. My Father had drunk it on oft occasions. But we were to be Men, now we could drink it.
I bite in to the meat, it’s succulent and juicy I can taste that is has been flavoured with garlic, and something else I can’t put my finger on.
I finish a mouth full and wash it down with the Wine my Father had forbidden me from drinking. It was rare he had said, and difficult to make, until Summer.
It was beautiful. Sweet and made Me feel dizzy, but happy, like I could do anything. I knew the flavour on the meat now. It was wine.
The feast felt like hours, as we drank ourselves into a stupor. Some boys ending kissing the serving girls. The man came through, eyeing people off with his stern face and big grey beard, telling them it was time to be quiet and to sit down, I finished off my tenth goblet of wine by the time the halls were silent.
“When I call your name I want you to walk up those stairs to the right, and young Saiben will lead you to your sleeping chamber for the night.”
He unrolled the parchment and cleared his throat.
“Rose of Hazelton”
Whispers filled the hall, all of us looking around. A young red head with short boyish hair walked past me, dressed in boys clothes. Looking at her face I saw she was a girl, and seeing her body shape, it was obvious. But girls don’t do the trial. Only Magda’s family line. And she was the last. As the girl vanished up the stairs silence filled the hall, eagerly awaiting an explanation. None was given. The man called out the next name.
“Euan of Hawthorn”

It was me, stumbling to my feet due to the wine, I steadied myself and walked as straight as I could to, and up the stairs as a young man lead me to my chamber. Beyond the burnt black door was a small fire, a small wooden table with two chairs, and two beds on opposite sides of the room. On the bed, on the right hand side of the room, sat the red haired Rose, her beautiful white face sullen looking.
“I didn’t think they’d make me share a room.” She said, spite in her voice.
“Sorry.” I responded and dumped my clothes at the end of my bed.
I was too tired to talk. I wanted to sleep.
My dreams where strange that night. Normally your dreams are forgotten, but I remember those dreams.
I was by a pond, reeds surrounded it, I moved them aside, looking down in the pond, the water moved like a flowing river, slowing down and stopping, changing and become a complete reflection, I saw myself and heard the sound of Ravens I looked around me and saw only trees, looking back to the pond there was nothing there, just snow, snow and trees all around me, and the crying of Ravens. I looked around the birch trees and snow fell and melted on my naked flesh. And still the Ravens cried. Darkness was falling. I ran, naked and cold through the forest, falling face first into the snow as darkness fell, I huddled against a tree for warmth. Still the ravens cried. “Help!” I screamed. “Somebody please help!” I heard a blood curdling laughter from behind and jumped up to see the face of the Old Crone reaching out from the tree.
“No help will come.” She mocked. “Only death comes in Winter!” She burst into a fit of laughter and I ran.
Running as fast and far as my legs would take me, my body freezing from the cold. Seeing a small rocky cave I hid myself inside.
“The trees are alive!” I hear the Old Crone call out. “Alive and hungry for souls!” She calls.
I cried and the tears froze on my face. Dying of the cold, my naked body huddled against a wall.
“Here.” I hear a voice say, and look up. It’s Rose, she’s coming towards Me, dressed in the fine green dresses of the serving girls. “Let me warm you.” She says removing her dress and pressing her naked body against mine. My body heats up in a way it’s never done before. And the laughing of the crone changes into the cracking of a fire in the cave, and the Ravens crying silences to the gentle buzz of Summer bees. The warmth of Rose against me is heavenly and she moves her hands through my brown hair. My green eyes gazing into hers, I look at her soft milky skin and fiery red hair.
I get a feeling of intense warmth and dizziness, before I wake up.

The Oncoming Storm

January 11, 2012

The Gods, they whisper to me.
Sweet serenades, seducing my soul into sempiternal slumber.
Silently the world fades to the efflorescence beat of the Gods’ hearts.
I awaken to the burning of my abode. The Gods lullaby, ephemeral.
I hear the screams of the Wood-Folk as the barbarians attack.
The glamour of the God-Song ended. Ineffable beauty never to be heard as the men with steel-arms burn our homes.
We conflate together as we are surrounded. The children cry as the men of steel spit and sneer.
Denouement received as I awaken from my nightmare.
Harbinger of the God vision, I inform my brothers and sisters of the Oncoming Storm.
We flee through the thick labyrinthine forest.
Hearts in our throats, we say goodbye to the Gods, to our homes, and to our lives.

The Gods, they whisper to me. Too silently now…
I yearn to hear them.

The Woods

February 18, 2011

I am standing in the woods.

It is dark. But I can see clearly as the moon breaks through the tree tops.

I… don’t know where I am. It is possible I am dreaming.

I hear the sound of running water and look to my right to see a running stream. The water is crystal clear.
Almost begging you to drink it.

There is no noise. No wind. No chirping of birds or croaking of frogs. No rustling of leaves.

I look around. I am not alone. I see the silhouette of rabbits and owls sleeping in the branches.
The rabbits see me watching and hop away… they make no noise… there is only the running water.

I open my mouth to speak… but I don’t. This isn’t a place of human words.

The light of the moon cloaks me, and I move towards the stream.
My feet make no sound until I hit the water.
It is as cold as ice.

I am in the middle of the light. Seeing where it encircles.
I see figures, watching me from the thick of the wood. Figures that move as swiftly as shadows.

The circle of light surrounding me grows smaller… collapsing in on me as the creatures move out of the trees and closer, hidden still, within the dark.
It grows smaller, and smaller until there is almost no light left, just the moons spotlight on me. And the dust floating through the light.

I cannot hear the creatures. But I can feel them, I can feel their presence, their breaths.
Soon the light will be gone. I fall back and sink into the depths of the cold stream. They will not follow me.

I stay down, in the darkness. In the freezing cold. I feel the flow of the water as the stream carries me.
I hold my breath for what feels like eternity.
And lift myself from the water. I do not breath. It is much too cold to breath. The water has slowed here. And I lay in a shallow puddle.
I look around. I am in a clearing of grass. Black grass that waves gently as if there was a breeze.
I feel no breeze here.
I get up and walk around. There are no animals here. A few tree stumps. And now I cannot even hear the river.
I see a dark path forming between the trees. A path.
I follow it.
I walk on. Hours pass. Years maybe. Time is irrelevant here.
I see a red light up ahead. A reddish glow, unworldly.
As I get closer I see what it is.
A rose. A beautiful red rose. Black outlines around the edges of the petals.
The sight of this rose makes my eyes water. Such an indescribable beauty.
A beauty neither human words nor melodies could describe.
It was something truly mystical that had the presence of a force not bound to be kind to man.
I began to hear. Sound, like pebbles dropping.
I looked and saw my tears freeze as they fell hitting the ground as stone.

I feel my stomach churn. Claustrophobia sets in. I feel the woods crushing in on me.
I run.
Wildly through the forest.
The trees sink towards me. The forest will consume me.
I break through a thicket, smashing myself through a barrier of thorns.
I am on an open plane. The moon is hidden behind the clouds, but stars light the sky. The field stretches out for miles. In the distance I see the shadows of horses running free.
Small droplets of rain fall onto my face.
Around me they fall as tears.
I wipe the water from my face.
It smells of milk and honey.
The majesty of this world…

“My soul is a dark forest. My known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. Gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. I must have the courage to let them come and go….”

I hear the sound of a piano. Beautiful sad tunes… The world around me reacts. I feel it cry with me at the sad tunes. And I see it… the sun rising in the distance… the dew on the grass and a soft breeze blows my neck.

And I know. And I understand.

‘What If?’

November 3, 2010

The cold concrete steps beneath me as I sit, watching the passers by.
My train has not arrived yet.
She walks down the stairs across the platform with her friend.
Her blonde hairs falls from her head, lush and graceful.
She tries to walk across the platform and I smile. She cannot walk in heels.
She looks at me and we smile at each other.
I continue to sit as a cool breeze blows against my neck.
I remove my hat and shuffle my hands through my hair. The breeze is nice.
I pull my phone out and inspect the time.
There is still time.
Still time until my train arrives.
I glance over at the girls, I see them glance back and giggle.
I smile to myself and change the song on my iPod.
Children finishing school rush past me, yelling at each other.
I cannot hear them but watch as they race in time to my music.
A freight train passes as I tip my head back against the white poles along the stairs.
I close my eyes and let go.
I feel the wind and the sound of a fading freight as I slip away from reality.
The train passes and the song changes. I check the time.
I still have time.
The girl gets up and begins to walk over, I could swear she looked at me.
But my cynicism tells me she will pass.
She is next to me now. I see her smooth white legs in front of me.
My heart beats.
Could she stop?
She stops. She turns and kneels down next to me and begins to talk.
I remove my headphones and talk back.
She is beautiful.
And we chat friendly. I wonder how this could happen, and why, and my heart races.
I mumble and say everything wrong.
I panic under pressure.
I try to take in all the information, but my brain is lapsing.
What did she say her name was?
It was like a dream and when you wake, try as you might to remember, it slips falling through a void.
A void where you can never reach it, in the empty crevices of your mind.
I try to remember. But I can’t. It’s like trying to catch wind with your hands.
Soon the time comes and the train arrives.
I wish I had more time.
I have forgotten, and no matter how far and wide I search I still cannot find what I am looking for.
If only the time on my phone moved in reverse.
If it gave me more time.
If I could have said what I thought, what I meant… what I truly felt.
Would that have been so wrong?
But time goes on. Forward. Seconds lead into minutes. Minutes lead into hours. Hours lead into days.
And the next time you wake you lose a little bit more.
Sometimes I wonder… when we die… do we perhaps live again?
Do we simply relive life, over and over again, without the knowledge that this has all happened before?
With that dying thought being ‘What If?’
With no memory we repeat our lives. Repeat our mistakes.
But with that nagging feeling in the back of our minds.
Has this happened before?
Or was it, perhaps, a dream?

Thoughts and Souls

April 30, 2010

It was like somewhere along the way I had lost track of my own destination, fell out of touch with the person I wanted to be, forgot who I was and became the beast.

Trapped in a desert of sand, drowned in a salty sea, lost in a ravenous jungle, forgotten in the place of our dreams, we lose ourselves in the world of Fairytale.

That world. That world we wished existed when faced with the harsh cruelties of reality, where you try your hardest to live via a moral compass, to be overcome and seduced into the sinister.
Things become grey. Black and White fuse and you find yourself adrift in despair.

Laying upon green pastures as the thick scent of lavender fills the cool breeze. The souls whisper gently and the blowing grass tickles along my cheek. The clouds swiftly chase each other across the mid morning sky. The view is serene.

Self hatred and loathing start. Ruminating over the thought… could there be redemption? Can you escape through the barrier of thorns and dance upon the meadows?

Am I even alive? Am I a shadow? Or even a reflection? A Ghost in the fog…

The rain falls like tears from the sky, washing away my sorrows, the harsh wind blows through my hair and whispers to me that I am free.

Deception never tasted so evil. Thin crisps of trickery and the flavourless betrayal. Entombed in this torture for life without forgiveness.

Sorrowful songs are sung at dawn. Laments to those who wish to escape the fiery depths of hell and stand under Earth’s great sky and count the stars. I smell lavender and rosemary. Sweet and sour smells.

Now we’re all son’s of bitches.


March 30, 2010

I had been 15 for 4 months now. My life had taken a turn for the worse. I spent everyday in daydream, lusting for adventure, thrills, exploration anything to take my mind off Local Research Tasks for Geography. I would still think back to my trip when I was thirteen. Finland, my first time out of Australia, and what an adventure it was! Sure there was museums and restaurants, but my finally few days I can never forget. Exploring the unknown, adventuring into the wild, overcoming my fears, the sense of self achievement. The plate… if ever I was depressed thinking back over it’s words gave me hope. I would complain to my parents constantly. They said we could go elsewhere when I finished year 10. Great, I only have to wait 2 years.
I spent my days reading adventure novels and watching classics such as: Indiana Jones, The Goonies, The African Queen and Stand by Me.
None of these even resembled my adventure, but they were what I longed for.
“I was talking to Mr. Humboldt yesterday,” My mother states while washing the dishes. “He says he needs some help moving some things, I told him you’d help him.”
I groan. Mr. Humboldt lives down the street from me. He’s one of those eccentric neighbours you try to avoid ever talking to, the kind who constantly tells grand tales which make your eyes roll and stomach rumble.
“Great.” I say to my mum, pulling a cheesy fake smile, before locking myself in my room to continue reading my Tintin comics.

I knock on the front door of a old wooden house. I don’t knock too hard for fear it may crumple into a thousand pieces. While waiting for a answer I inspect the door. The wood making it is thick and ancient. Thick moss grows over it. Curiosity takes over and I peel pieces off, strange symbols cover the wood. There is a creak, and the door opens.
“Is that you?” Says the deep frail voice.
“Yes Mr. Humboldt. My mother told you I was coming?”
“Yes, yes, of course, come on in.”
He moves away, not opening the door any wider I slide on in. The house looks no different on the inside, ancient wood fills the house, the floor covered in exotic and foreign carpets. Grand paintings cover the walls, gold frames and mystical drawings.
“You like these paintings, yes?” He asks.
“Very much so,” I whisper not wanting the house to collapse from my breath. “Where are they from?”
“All over the place. That one there,” He points to a photo of a boy on a hill. “Is Soria Moria by Theodor Kittelsen. One of my most modern paintings. I have many traditional cave paintings from cultures all over the globe.” He insists.
“Cool.” I say, not sure what quite to say to the frail old man standing before me.
“You’re mother tells me you’re quite the adventure seeker. Is this true?”
“Yeah, it’s what I love.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “So what adventuring have you done?” He probes.
Hesitant I answer. “Well 2 years ago we went to Finland, I got to see lots of historical stuff and try all these new things.”
“So you’re a tourist?” He insists, somehow finding humour in it.
“Well kinda, but no.” I don’t like the way he says it, like putting me down. “There was this cave in this village, and-”
He cuts me off. “Ah yes. I have been there. So you read the plate I assume?”
“Yes I have.” I try to sound brave.
“How old were you?”
Is he interrogating me?
“I was 13.”
He nods his head and continues walking down the long windy hall of his house. His house looked smaller on the outsider, but I get the feeling we’re going down ever slightly and that his house expands under the ground. We come to a room filled with books, like a library of an ancient castle. My eyes leaps to certain book titles: The Pit and the Pendulum, The Winterheart, Aesop’s Fables-
“A reader are you?”
He breaks my concentration.
“There are so many books here.” I say in awe.
“Yes there are, ones from all over the centuries. I like to think of myself as a bit of a collector.” He chuckles. “Tell me, have you ever went Sky Diving?”
I shake my head.
“Bungee Jumping? Paint ball?-”
His list goes on as I shake my head feeling very out of place.
“These are little adventures you should experience,” He insists. “Things to do while you wait for your next journey. Fulfil you life.” He grins.
“Ok?” I reply, wishing I had stayed at home and played Zelda.
“Now your mother said you could help me with some moving?”
“Yes,” I say, thankful to have the conversation progress. “What would you like me to move.”
“This.” He says, handing me a box.
“What’s in it?” I ask again curiosity grinding against my soul.
“Some relics I need you to deliver for me.”
“Deliver to where?” I prompt, not wanting to have to go far.
“To the museum.” He says.
My posture shrinks. That’s an hours train ride.
“Can I see what’s inside?” I plead.
“Go ahead.” He shrugs, not caring in the slightest.
I open the box. Inside is a large piece of stone with foreign writing on it. I can tell it is ancient.
“What is it?”
“A language. You may have heard of it, it’s called Rongorongo.”
“From Easter Island?”
“Well it’s supposed to be.” He says eerily.
I stand in silence. Alright, he has my interest. I wait for him to continue.
“I found this script in a half buried Temple in the Congo. So far as we could tell the Temple was simply made of stone, it was half sunk on the side of a muddy river, we excavated the site over 20 years ago, this was the only thing we found before it collapsed. The locals dared not speak about it, and avoided the Temple if at all possible.”
“And it can’t be translated?” I question.
“No.” He whispers. “But the bigger question is how did it get there, why it was there, and who put it there.”
“And you hope to find this out at the museum?”
I stood puzzled, already today I have 5 thousand questions running through my head.
“This might not be your most thrilling adventure, but it’ll be the most important of them.” He says glancing up at me. “This artefact is part of history. You will deliver history. The adventure is not great, but look upon it as a lesson, and by entrusting you with it, you have become part of it’s mythology. Enjoy your travels young man.”
He walks off up the long windy hall, as I stand, book in hand, with a puzzled look on my face.
I grin, and begin my ‘adventure’ to the museum and back home to start my real adventure. Life.


March 29, 2010

Two weeks left now, than it’s goodbye Finland, hello Australia! But there is still so much left to do. So today I’m going to do it. I pack my bag with food, (if you call potato chips and liquorice food) three cans of Creaming Soda, some matches, a torch and of course, my mobile phone (even though none of my friends can get in contact with me from home). I change into the proper gear: snow boots, giant wolf skin jumper and a heat hat I bought in town. I tell Mum and Dad I’m going out, kiss them goodbye, and I’m off! It’s about four kilometres to where I’m heading so I ride the snow cart at least halfway. Now two kilometres left, I hop off the cart. I must journey the rest through the woods. I’m not allowed in the woods… Mum and Dad are afraid of them because of the local legends, though I’m not afraid.
As I walk through I can’t help thinking of the local legends. Though the Finnish have many legends. Like, when lost in the woods you change into a creature the locals call ‘Kalma’. A forest Imp apparently. Though I wont get lost. I know where I’m going… but it’s not that legend that worries me… It’s the legend of the ‘Goâk Bar’, the Wolf of Hate. They say his parents got lost in these woods when he was a baby and they transformed into the Monsters, but because he was not lost he did not transform and his parents tried to eat him. He was then saved by the Wolf King and raised as a Wolf, and over time transformed into one. It’s said he attacks and kills anyone in these woods, making sure none transform into Kalma.

I stop. I’m here. I pass the clearing of trees and stand, insignificant, infront of the giant mouth of a cave. I can’t even see a few centimetres into it. It is pitch black. I’m beginning to get nervous, yet I’ve come all this way through the woods to get here. I switch on my torch. I’m going to go in. I take a few steps forward, shivering in the cold. It’s so dark. I decide to turn around and go back to the hotel. An ear piercing howl fills the air. I scream and run into the cave. I fall.

Everything is black. Something is digging into my neck. I pull away. I feel my skin rip and warm blood ooze over my frozen skin. I flick my torch back on. It was a broken bone that dug into my neck, thank god… Wait… BONE?! I jump up shinning the torch around, there are bones everywhere! Not human bones, small animal bones. I look around to see where I came through. There are no gaps. I look up, there is a small hole overhead, I must have fell through. I’m going to have to climb out. This may take a while…
I get a grip on a slimy, muddy rock and lift myself off the ground. I manage to get my feet up. Now there’s no other climbing place to go. I have to dive through the hole in the wall… on second thoughts, I might ring Dad for help! Or not… I’ll probably get in trouble for this. I’ll just have to try. I take off my backpack and throw it through. Now it’s my turn: I get the right footing and try to work out mathematically which angle to dive at, when I make my decision I breath deeply and dive.
OUCH! I made it. All but my ankle, whice slammed against the stone. But I made it. I get up, and limp over to the entrance. Now that my eyes have slightly adjusted to the dark I look around the cave. It is small, around the size of a large room in a house. It seems I fell down the only hole, a rather small one at that. I notice a plate at the end of the cave. I limp over to read it:

“Dear Traveller.

You have done well to come this far. It takes great courage to not show fear when all others around you do. You should be proud.”

I smile, pick up my backpack, and limp out of the cave, through the woods, and home.