HAYTHAM

Some said the forest was alive.

They said the trees swaying simultaneously was a dance. The branches waltzed to the wind: the instrument of nature. Along with this sound came a choir of chanting birds. The dew dripped from the fingers of leaves in rhythm. They were the people who would tell you that – when a squirrel leapt from tree to tree – the rustling branches were the woods whispering. Spreading rumours.

Of course, it was a load of nonsense. This absurd level of doctrine could only come from the people inhabiting the forest. Though I admired their imagination. Being rational as I was, imagination was out of my grasp.

It was reassuring that the trees couldn't spread rumours. Because these ones would have scandalous information about me.

Even so, do they still hold memories?

I often thought of this as I rode past the valley.

Below the sloping hills, inconspicuously tucked away, lay Ziio's village. A place of underdevelopment – but peace. Though I never dared to go near it. It made my stomach churn when I thought of her last words to me:

"Leave! Leave this place and never return! For, if you do, I shall tear your heart out with my own hands!"

Malicious as these words were, passing the valley was the only time I could listen to her. Of course it was not Ziio. But I could use the forest as an excuse. An excuse to satisfy the nostalgia in my heart.

I could say that the trees held memories of our days together. I could say that Ziio's voice drifted through the treetops; bounced around the clearing; echoed into the valley. Sometimes I was tempted to follow it to her village, but took hold of my senses at once.

Today the nostalgia burned brighter than ever. Yet it was not her voice that led me into the valley – but the scent.

I halted my mare. Before me lay a beautiful outstretch of undisturbed woodland. The trees stood tall in their pride; the grass was a rolling carpet of lush green.

But something was wrong: the air was murkier than the Thames. It tasted industrial and natural at the same time.

I nudged my horse on, tasting the air as she walked. The blackened scent became more and more distinct as I skirted the plane landscape. Eventually, I saw it: a colossal grey cloud, rising over the slope.

Smoke in the forest? But why?

I bit my lip. Where there was smoke, there was fire. But how hazardous?

I did not refrain from being curious. I trotted along the path, into the sickening stench. The air became thicker and thicker; eventually I could not see anything. But between the curtains of smoke...Ah. It was a hungry orange flame, swallowing a mound of debris. It was distant, mind. It peaked over the top of the trees; its hiss was barely audible.

I shook my head. Why is the smoke out of control?

Like me, my horse began gasping for air. I did not want to be cruel to her. I would have to continue this investigation on foot. So I dismounted and carefully sidled down the hills. The foul fog was such that I could barely see where I was walking; I nearly tripped. The smoke filled my lungs as I edged downhill, making me cough.

But over the sound of my spluttering was something else. I could hear distant voices. But not normal voices. Blood-curdling screams like banshees on the brink of death.

I need to get closer.

I squinted through my watering eyes. The flame grew taller and taller as I approached. But what was burning? I looked around me. The tree trunks were barely visible, now. But on the hills above I saw something most peculiar.

It was the small silhouette of a person. A young child, perhaps. About five. His hair was sleek and black; his clothing beige and bulky for his small frame. Clearly he was a Mohawk. But he was so far away, and the smoke was so blinding...

If I follow him, I may find the fire.
Why the curiosity, Haytham?

But I could not answer that question. Why was I so fascinated with all this? Purely because Ziio lived near here?

No. She is in my past. Not my life.

The boy began to sprint down the hill at breakneck speed. A raw howl erupted from him as he dashed straight into the smokiest part of the valley's pit. Stupid, stupid child. If one thing's more deadly than fire, it is the fumes. He just plunged straight for them.

Where did he go? Why did he shout?
There's only one way to find out.

Crouched low, I edged towards his trail. Continually I told myself that this was ridiculous. Why was this mysterious fire my concern?

I know the answer, deep down.
Do not...think of it...

It turned out that the boy's yell was not singular. Nearby the distant hiss came more cries: men, women and multiple children. A bad sign, clearly. I knew I should give up. Besides, all the risk...and for what? I knew that I may have been crawling straight into danger. I was very aware of the risks. But I had circled death for so long, now. I was used to danger.

I was not, however, used to the smoke. It swirled in huge plumes like a enraged rainclouds. I gagged and blinked furiously, trying to breathe. But suddenly the air became slightly thinner. I looked up, searching for the boy. Yet I found something completely different.

The boy was not there. Behind a few overgrown bushes were buildings. Buildings made of wood and forest debris. I recognised them at once as the buildings of the Mohawk village. Those were the exact bushes and buildings Ziio and I sat between once. They had not changed at all...

Except that they were on fire. I gasped.

It was no light blaze, but furious flames devouring them like the mouth of hell. It exhaled its dark clouds with a hiss. I could feel the heat, even from where I crouched. I'd never seen anything like it.

A spine-chilling scream tore through the foul air. I knew what that meant: someone had set the village alight.

Which meant...which meant that Ziio was in danger.

This revelation was enough for me. I sprung to my feet. My heart – already racing from the smoke – made me jolt with the force of being shot. I whipped around, left to right, frantic, paralysed. A Mohawk woman ran in front of the burning building. I ducked – and prayed not to be seen.

Perhaps it was the smoke playing with my mind. Perhaps it was my heart rate. Perhaps it was the nostalgia. But something changed me, there and then. I devised a sudden, thoughtless and idiotic plan.

I need to find Ziio.