The Fugitive

• Rachel Stanley, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2016

I look at my surroundings. Everything around me is a blur of orange and gold as Autumn sets in.
I’m deep in the woods, surrounded by Oak trees whom I have slowly grown to love, the ones who have sheltered and cared for me this whole time.
The sun starts to set on the horizon, turning the sky a beautiful blend of pastel pink, purple and gold. I heave a sigh, knowing in the back of my mind that this will be the last one I ever see. With effort I managed to push the thought away.
No. I tell myself. I am a survivor. I have survived this long and will continue surviving. I can do this.
But all the same I still glance around nervously, each shadow seeming more menacing than before, each creaking branch sounding like a wild animal. I scold myself for thinking like this.
Don’t stress. I tell myself. They never come at night. They are scared of the forest.
That is why I am here. The forest is my protection. It is a part of me now I have lived here for so long. In the midst my thoughts I drift slowly off to sleep.
I wake the next morning to see weak sunlight filtering in through the trees. It bounces off the red scar on my side, causing it too glow. I stare the mark; the very one that was placed on me not long ago by my pursuers. The ones who intend to destroy me.
All of a sudden I hear footsteps approaching. They’re coming for me. I stay where I am, frozen with fear as they get louder and louder. I want to scream, but I can’t.
Then I see them. All four of them standing in the darkness, wielding horrible, sharp weapons, the same ones that are to end my life. I cower as they walk over to me and admire my red cross-shaped mark on my side. I want to run but I can’t move.
They advance on me, one of them pulling a string on a long sharp metal instrument.
‘Your time is up.’ He says, as the gleaming instrument starts roaring. I search desperately around as they come in at all sides, bearing down on me like lions, but there is nothing I can do. I look up to the canopies of the trees, wanting it to be the last thing I see before I die. The forest, my home. I close my eyes as the first chainsaw cuts down on my arm. I scream, but no-one hears me over the noise. Suddenly the din fades, and I fall into a sleep; one without the shadows or nightmares, and after 200 years I am finally at peace.

A small child runs through the forest, looking around for something. When she gets to the copper-coloured clearing she searches for it; but all she finds is a jagged stump, as the Great Old Oak tree had been cut down.