The Ritual

stayed silent.
    He squinted again, straining his eyes into the distance. The perimeter of the forest was hazy through the far-off vapours and too indistinct to reveal individual trees; so it was further away
than it looked. But still within reach. Maybe six kilometres away. More like seven. And over to the south west, in the direction Hutch guessed at correctly. But Luke had been leading them due
south. That route led into a bulge of green, misted with a heavy white fog of low cloud that he could not see the end of. ‘Jesus Christ.’ Had they kept on in a straight southerly line
they would have plunged back into the thicker belt of virgin forest spilling across the border of Norway. This tree had saved their lives.
    To Luke came the recollection of faces and streets and buildings in London that he might see again. An impression of Charlotte’s soft skin. Dark fragrant ale. Music from a stereo. Egg and
chips with brown sauce in the café at the end of his street. The patient faces of his parents. Even the patched and musty shop where he sold CDs. He’d treasure every precious second
spent there when he returned, cling on to the counter and tell his prick of a boss that he was so pleased to see him, every day. His chest heaved with emotion. Out out out, a little voice
started in his head. He found himself grinning. It seemed like the first time in days. It felt awkward on his face, stiff. ‘God. Thank you, God.’ They could live. He could be alive for
much longer than a few days. A pinhead of light spread to a horizon of thrilling, then choking hope. He closed his eyes.
    Maybe he should strike out for it tonight. After a rest, and his last three energy bars. He became giddy with the speed of his new and shining thoughts. He shivered and opened his eyes.
    Slowly, he withdrew the compass from inside his coat and held it up in front of his face to asses a precise outward trajectory, out of the trees and on to what looked like a long formation of
treeless black rocks breaking through a scrub-covered expanse. Mist hovered over the far clear ground. It was a boulder field or hard rock plain, and somewhere inside of it was the Stora
Luleälven River, which would run east to Skaite. Nothing would follow him out there; it didn’t like to be seen, he told himself. It crept about the ruins and relics of a
former time.
    From up so high, at least twenty metres from the ground, he could see Hutch’s logic with the short cut. But irrespective of the fact they were now being hunted, actually completing the
short cut would have put Dom on a stretcher. Even he and Hutch, on their own, would have struggled to complete this shorter route. If one of them had suffered an accident, it would have been
doubtful they both would have survived. ‘Stupid, H. Just stupid, mate.’
    Carefully, he turned his head, but not his legs, and stared down at the branch that supported his weight to make sure his feet did not move of their own volition again. He caught site of the
tiny tent below. Raising his eyes from his feet, he saw the inlet in the vast treeline in which they entered this godforsaken place three days before. Behind it he could see the uneven silhouette
of a mountain range. About one third of the distance so far covered still remained before they could leave the southern tip of the forest. But at his pace, not slowed down by Dom and Phil, and
after a decent rest and plenty of water, plus the last energy bars, he reckoned he could clear the forest by midnight, which would mean three hours in the dark with a torch. Or maybe tomorrow was
better and he’d be out by noon the following day, if he could risk another night in here.
    Before he could decide on when to strike out for the closest edge of this wooded hell, the world below him erupted into a loud voice. No, two voices. One inarticulate, the other calling for,
‘Phil. Phil. Phil.’ Each word gradually ascended in volume, until the voice was shouting. Then it settled for cries of ‘Oh God. Oh God.’ This second voice came from closer
to the tree. It came from the tent.
    Up in the spruce, Luke could not move his legs. His fingers closed tighter around the branches he was gripping. The thick rounded wood beneath his feet burned into his soles as if to fuse him
into the limb.
    It’s taking them. Won’t see me up here. Don’t move, don’t move. It’s still light, you can run. Wait. Wait here. Wait.
    But then his head dipped and rose, dipped and rose, and