The Firebird Forest

• Cecile Zagel-Jones, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2021

I stand at the fork in the road, contemplating whether I should follow the right path or the left. The path on my right leads back to the kingdom, towards an inescapable death by public execution. But at least that death would be quick. The path on my left leads away from the kingdom, through the autumnal forest and towards a slight hope of freeing my family. However, going that way would most likely lead to torture miles underground, with the weight of the world pressing down on me as I died a slow and painful death.

Quiet drumming reaches my ear, meaning I don’t have long. Panic washes over me like a cold wave in a storm. The choice is simple; me or my family? I desperately want to forgive my family after the monstrosities they’ve committed against me, but I couldn’t pull any love for them out of the deepest, darkest parts of my heart if it was a matter of life and death. Which it is. Even if I do save them, I can never truly love them the way I once did. A quick, painless death would be so much easier. My body slowly rotates towards the right. The drumming gets louder. I have to go now.

But something catches my eye and I falter. The leaves in the forest on my left display every shade of scarlet and orange and gold, flickering and trembling in the breeze like the wings of firebirds. As a child, I had always been told that firebirds symbolise hope; the light in the darkness. Turning left supports a hope, something turning right could never even try to suggest. Looking back, I can now see the sun glinting off the silver uniforms of the guards. So I turn left, and run.

Soon, the dark arms of the forest reach out and envelop me in their grasp. The light flickers gently on the autumn leaves on the forest floor. Deer cross my path, completely ignorant of the small figure disturbing the tranquillity of their peaceful home. I slow to a walk. Icy fingers of tears run silently down my cheek as I imagine my future tortured either by machines or memories of love. My family love each other, but not me. Why did I do this? Hope, I remind myself, but it’s pointless. Hope of what? A life, lacking love and warmth, creeping over me inch by inch until it suffocates me?

I am just considering lying down and surrendering to the numb black depths of death when the hands shoot out from behind the tree and drag me to something much, much worse.