The Ritual

stove going. A hot drink. Get Phil to organize the firewood. As much dry stuff as he could scrape together. He would climb that tree and check out the view. Stick to
a plan. Be methodical. Keep your mind busy. Leave no room for anxiety to rush in and bustle.
    Setting up camp, finding the stove, the pan, and filling it with water, lighting the stove; Luke shuffled about as if drugged, too worn out to even smoke. A cigarette would kill him now; his
lungs were spent, bruised, tattered. Much of the coordination had gone from his legs too and he kept tripping over his feet. Balance was an issue. Dehydration or malnutrition or something. Felt
like he’d been doing dead lifts in a gym all day. He wondered if any of the greenery around them was edible. He thought of wild berries and began to drool.
    Eventually they were all sitting together in silence, their dirty hands cupping mugs of hot sweet coffee. The smell of it alone nearly made them cry. They stared, glassy-eyed, into its black
surface while it cooled. No one could wait to find the creamer. The need for heat inside their bodies was too great. As soon as it had cooled enough to be gulped, it was.
    Dom lay back after finishing his coffee, but gripped the mug to extract every last quantum of warmth into his dirty hands. Phil put his elbows on his knees and hung his head right down. After a
while Luke thought he might have fallen asleep.
    But into Phil’s mind had come Hutch. He was quietly crying to himself. And such reflections were contagious. The enormity of what had been lost to them reared up again in their chests and
clotted the back of their throats. Exhaustion had staved off thoughts of the tortured spectacle of their best friend, hanging limp from a tree. But now they were resting, Hutch’s final image
came back to each of them swiftly and mercilessly. Dom lay back inside the tent, covered his face; his shoulders began to twitch, to move with the rhythms of grief. Luke stared off into the trees
they had stumbled through that afternoon and slowly felt his eyes burn and his vision blur.
    ‘Phil. Mate.’ Luke spoke once the cold and drizzle had become an unbearable addition to their mourning.
    Eventually, Phil said, ‘What?’ but never moved his head.
    ‘I’m going to get up that tree. Take a look around from up there. Maybe I’ll see the edge of this. Who knows.’
    Phil looked up suddenly at the tree, his eyes bright. Dom sat up too quickly and winced; his eyes were red.
    Luke pointed at the tree. ‘I think I can build up some of the flat stones into a step, then jump and reach the lowest branch. If I can pull myself up, it’ll be like a ladder a bit
higher. Halfway up I should be able to see between the branches where they taper.’
    Dom nodded. ‘Could work.’
    ‘It’s why I made for the high ground. It nearly bloody killed us, but it’s a good spot. Bit exposed, but we have the tent to keep out the rain. And for once it’s not
under a tree, so we’re not risking the waterproofing again. A fire might be possible too. Phil, I’m going to need you to scout about for some dry stuff. In the undergrowth, right down
by the soil. Bark. Loads of small twigs. For kindling. We’ll get it going and keep it going all night if possible. But don’t go far from the tent.’
    Dom looked at Luke with something approaching approval, nodded. ‘What about me?’
    ‘I think you need to hit the showers, mate. We’ll take it from here. But keep a look out. You hear anything, you start shouting.’
    ‘Roger.’

THIRTY-SEVEN
    Luke tried not to look down.
    Twice a foot had just slipped from the wet bark on the branch beneath his feet, and his fingers tightened into claws on an upper branch until the hot-cold feeling passed from his skin and his
frantic mind stilled. Sweat cooled on his forehead. He breathed out noisily; forced his chest to work in and out at a normal rhythm.
    He could go even higher, but was already well above the treetops sloping about the foot of the hill. Once the shaking eased in his legs, he dared to look up and then around his position, peering
through the branches of the spruce heavy with wet knots of spiky leaves that reached out from the trunk.
    For the first time since they’d entered the forest, he could see for miles. Miles in every direction. And he could see the edge of the forest too. He nearly wept. It looked so close. He
was about to shriek the news down to the others, but then imagined himself falling and