The Call of the Woodland Spirit

Chapter 1

My legs ached terribly, I could barely feel the frosty air kissing my face as I treaded painfully on. I hugged my thin fur coat closer to my body as my teeth clattered uncomfortably. My honey eyes were starting to water. I have been walking away from the dreaded Orphanage for many days now, I had left when everyone (especially the mistress) was fast asleep and escaped in the dead of night.

I had managed to smuggle as much food in my worn-out satchel as I could for a living, at least until I find some sort of shelter. Perhaps I should've been more wise than to bring only crusty loaves of bread and apples, along with a jug full of the Orphanage's foul-tasting water which I had to refill every time I came across a freezing cold lake.

Sure, it wasn't paradise, but it was all I had. The orphanage, if you think about it, was much worse.

Miss Eden's Orphanage for the Mental Youths was not a lucky place to be. Especially to grow up. It was a large, scary-looking building so dull it was more ominous than going outside to use the restroom by yourself in the middle of the night. It took over many acres and was set in a vast clearing in the middle of a ginormous cluster of trees so thick you couldn't see through them. A few miles outside those trees was the town square.

Although we had no idea how our mistress, Miss Eden, gets very easily to the town to purchase our resources once every week and comes back looking heavily pleased with her snooty self as she unloads the fresh food from her horse-drawn wagon. It baffled me. I have lived in the orphanage basically my whole eighteen years, and even though I have ventured every nook and cranny along the edge of the woods (we weren't allowed to go any further than where we were supposed to) I haven't seen any such trail. And that was just one mystery.

When we were little, the other children at the orphanage and I would get informed about our relatives and why we were stuck in this horrid building anyway. I remember, a sorrowful-looking boy named Warren who sat two seats in front of me in classes had gotten notified that his parents had unfortunately passed away many years back. He had to stay with the orphanage until he was of age.

It was our sour-faced teacher (who taught droning history) that told us our parents' present status. Those children, who I had thought to be very extremely lucky, with alive and well parents, were transported back home in a few days time. Eventually, no matter how bad or good it was, even if it took many anticipating months, every child was informed about their guardians.

Except for me.

Yes, I cried and I whined like the annoying little youngster I was. But the staff at the orphanage for some reason straight out refused to tell me anything about my parents. I was so enraged I myself went direct to Miss Eden as a protest. But, as it turned out, my whining just exploded out of my reach in her dull office. I still remember, that evil woman would just sit at her desk, take a small sip of her freezing cold coffee, and watch me cry my eyes out as I screamed for my mother and father on the floor of her head office. It still echoed in my head, her quiet voice that sent secret sharpened daggers at me, as a result of me sobbing even more.

"Nomiraye Ainsley." she whispered just barely loud enough to reach my delicate ears. "This is not just an orphanage, but a school. As I had taught you since you first set foot here, schools require respect. And gratitude for what you have rather than what you don't. So, until you think otherwise, you will only get what you need, not what you want." And with that she pushed me out of her office and slammed the door behind me, leaving me all cold and sodden as I leaned on the wall of the long, dark corridor.

I remembered I had sat quietly there by myself, hugging my knees to my chest and curling up into a heaving ball of long brown hair and a tight orphanage garb. To be honest, I was merely six years old. At that age I had waited very patiently until it was my turn, after all the other children, to be told about my parents.