The trail was overgrown with grass and vines and the occasional spider web, whose placement invariably was exactly at nose-level. It was hot, even under the forest’s lush canopy, and I was sweating uncomfortably. I had only a saddlebag and a hat and a determination to reach my destination before night. I would have made it farther, but the carriage I hired wouldn’t go down the trail, for fear of ghosts or spirits or whatever he had started blathering on about. I told him to meet me at the same spot in two days. I’ll see if he’s as good as his word.
A bridge offered safe passage over a narrow, but rapid stream. I checked my map and compass and verified I was on the right path. I was a city colt, not a camper and this whole experience was about as much fun as I expected: it wasn’t. It was so hot, I couldn’t even come up with metaphors anymore—I hate the outdoors.
I followed the trail for a time longer until I found something blocking it: a wooden sign which had fallen over from neglect. I lifted it and tipped it against a tree. “Welcome to Forest Grove” it said in large, friendly letters.
The canopy slowly broke and I was standing in a wide clearing. The forest had mostly healed from the fires ten years ago and there were saplings throughout the charred remains of the village. Vines and grass were overtaking the ruins, which were barely recognizable as such. In the center of town, where the community building had stood, was a stone memorial. Erected by the EWS, it marked the town and offered what little sympathy granite can offer. Chiseled in the stone were the names and ages of those who perished in what was, like all premature deaths, a senseless affair. I read the names and thought it would be fitting to see those names who had survived, whose lives had been ruined by the tragedy, that maybe Squeaky and Velvet deserved places on this stone—like so many, they never escaped the blaze.
I found Squeaky Clean that afternoon in the ruins of a building I assumed was his house. He had ended where his ending started. I built a cairn atop him, using the stones I found around the village. Next to the pile, I placed a newspaper with a headline: CIM Admin Confesses to Arson. I hoped he’d appreciate the article, if not the funnies buried deeper in the paper.
Camping turned out to be more enjoyable than I expected. As the sun set, the forest cooled and the stars came out, one by one. Before long, I was bathed in a magnificent view. Gathered there in the gloom fireflies—lightning bugs, my father had called them when I was young—danced in the clearing like sequence on a long dress. They whispered to me on an evening breeze; words I wanted to hear, promises I wanted to keep.
But, it was over. She was gone, the case was closed.
I slept and was better for it.
End