Music of the Birds (OPEN)

Everything was quiet- only the songs of the trees could be heard as a graceful, strong stag leant down to drink from a small pool of water on the forest floor. His ears twitched and his nostrils flared as he smelt the air, for any threat. By the time the deer had heard the cracking twig- the arrow had already deeply penetrated its neck causing rivers of blood to run down its skin as it fell to the forest floor; heaving and gasping for breath as it died. The shooter stood around a meter away, a red scarf pulled up across the lower half of her face, allowing her two startling green eyes to stare out onto the world. Hester watched as her prey fell to the ground, her cross bow pressed against her shoulder in the same position she had shot from. Going over, twigs and leaves of last autumn crunching beneath her feet, she sheathed her knife. Kneeling down she touched the stag’s neck where the blood seeped from, before burying her knife deep into its chest. The deer took one last breath of life, before it fell still. Dead.

Hester yanked the knife from the deer chest, wiping it on the ground. She examined the deer, wondering if she would be able to carry it but the muscle structure and the horns proved that it would be challenging to lift it, let alone carry. Camp would have to be here for tonight, Hester thought as she removed the backpack from her shoulders and placed it on the ground beside her; before she reached inside and removed the large tarpaulin sheet that would be used for her shelter. Standing, Hester looked round for a good sturdy branch to tie the sheet too- something that would not break in the middle of the night and not something that was rotten to the core and would break when she touched it. The trees around her look proud and robust, perfect for tying things to. Walking over to a large oak- whose skin wrinkled and creased like an old mans- she stung up a piece of thick rope, working it into a strong knot with her nimble fingers. The rough rope chaffed and sliced at her finger tips as she tugged on it- making sure it was secure. Once the tarpaulin was attached, she began to collected pieces of wood from the surrounding area- she did not stray too far from her camp, just in case another wanderer came across her catch and stole it.

Hester listened to the birds as they sang their songs, the music of the forest reminded Hester of her home back in District 7- the piano music wafting out into the forest, her mother’s fingers gracefully gliding over the ebony and ivory keys. I will be your mockingjay, the valley song, hanging tree; only a few that Hester could name and remember from the many afternoon she used to sit beneath the study window and listen to the notes and the pauses and the beautiful songs that her mother played- but that was gone now. Her mother was dead, as was her music. Hester didn’t really care for music anymore but she did like to listen to the birds. They were her lifeline, if they stopped their song then Hester knew danger was coming or was near- the birds would keep quiet if something of evil penetrated their mists and many a time the silence of the birds saved Hester’s life. On returning to the camp, the girl lit a fire- the flames crackling in front of her as she began to skin the animal in front of her. The knife slice through the skin, cutting neatly sheets of deer hide that could be sold on the black market; if she were to come across one.

Night began to fall, and the bird song continued. Hester whistled with, her scarf now at her side- revealing her scared face. The birds responded, then there was silence. The only sound Hester could hear was the crackling of the fire and the wood that it burned from and her own breathing as well as someone else’s Hester immediately ceased cutting up the meat of the deer, and gripped the bloody knife tightly in her pale palms. She leapt to her feet and stared into the darkness of the surrounding forest, the only light coming from the fire in front of her- casting an orange glow across the trees as they faded away into the darkness. Hester heard something move in the darkness, and she gripped the knife even tighter; her heart beating loudly in her chest. Her eyes scanned the emptiness again and listened- still the birds did not sing; meaning whoever was here, hadn’t left. Slowly Hester moved herself so she was standing in front of the fire, the knife and the blood glinting in the flittering glow of the campfire.

“Whose there.” Hester spat through clenched teeth.
Somewhere far in the distance, a wolf howled for its pack- calling and calling through the somewhat empty woods. Hester’s face was red with fury- she was ready to slice whoever this was hiding in the shadows like a ghost; watching her with malicious intent. She heard movement in the darkness- and she clenched the knife tighter in her hand; her green eyes glaring out into the emptiness of the open forest.