Page 144 of Forsaking All Others

The movement isn’t lost on Thorun, who steps back too fast, her back slamming up against a tree trunk.

At Thorun’s surprised squeak Miranda grins and bounds forwards, all subterfuge dispelled with.

Thorun, spinning on her heel, darts away like a startled deer, making a mad dash through the trees the way she’d come. But neither she nor I anticipated how fast Miranda would be.

“Come on, Thorun,” I murmur. “Move!”

The director taps me on the shoulder, and I lean back and shove him into the cameras, the crash and his cry filling the small room. Starlen makes the most of it by going into overdrive for the audience about how close I am to losing a favourite. I contemplate turning around and ripping his head off, but I can’t take the time; I’m glued to the screen.

As I stand with bated breath I, like the audience, am now racing through the forest in Thorun’s shoes, my breath coming hard, my legs sinking knee-deep in the snow as I try to ignore the laughter of the Australian catching up to me.

As we reach the area where the moose trap is set Thorun injects a burst of speed into her legs and runs around the trap before Miranda rounds the corner of the trail.

Leaning down, Thorun grasps her ankle and cries out, pretending an injury as Miranda approaches at speed. The Australian, keeping her eye on the prize, runs straight over the trap just as Thorun had hoped. She gets a frightening two thirds of the way across before the ground gives way beneath her and drops her into a pit lined with sharp stakes.

Her screams are terrible.

Thorun clasps her mittened hands to her ears and screams equally as loudly as she sees the Australian lying, face up, her body pierced by more than a dozen timber stakes.

“Help me! Help meeee!” Miranda screams as dark blood bubbles out of her mouth. “Thorun, help me! I’m your friend, Thorun. Thorun help me.”

I bow my head, my heart heavy, as the Icelander, sobbing, folds down into the snow and gives in to her horror, her relief and her shame, as the Australian continues to beg, threaten and cajole as she bleeds out.

Even if she wanted to Thorun couldn’t get down into that hole without a ladder. Even if she did she wouldn’t be able to do anything to save the Australian. But she does what she can do. She sits for an hour or more unmoving in the snow as a silent witness to Miranda’s last breath.

Finally, rising stiffly, she stumbles back the way she came, nightfall almost upon her.

Reaching her shelter, she searches high and low in the waning light for the tomahawk or knife to cut Cat free, not knowing that Miranda had beaten her to the punch and already taken them.

Crying softly, she leaves the shelter to run to the tree where Cat is still hanging.

When she comes across her, deathly still, blood completely covering her face and frozen into a garish red mask, she screams and falls to her knees.

“Oh, no, Cat. Oh no. Oh, Cat! Caaaaaat!”

109

When I wake, shuddering, I’m lying in strong, warm arms against an equally warm body.

“Where am I?” I murmur.

“You’re in your cabin,” a deep, familiar voice says close to my ear. “You’re safe.”

“Thorun,” I croak, struggling to disentangle myself and rise. “Where’s Thorun?”

“Shhh, keep still. She’s safe. She’s outside gathering firewood.”

I relax back into his arms, groaning.

“My head hurts.”

“I know. You have a concussion. You’ll need to rest for at least a week, maybe two before you begin the march to the finish line.”

“Oh, God. Miranda!”

“She’s gone, Cat.”

I let out a long, deep breath.