THE LIVING FLAME 

By Tessa Harvey


    
    The sun was setting. Ernst was stumbling through the darkening forest. Brambles snagged his bare arms and legs. Even the trees appeared hostile, looming over him threateningly. Branches creaked and moved, seemingly of their own volition, for there was no wind.
    Rooks cawed loudly high above. Breaking free of the trees and brambles, the young teen stumbled over the uneven ground, a recently-plowed field. Solitary ravens cawed from high above as though condemning. The boy could not outrun his conscience.
    Breathing heavily, he reached the old mill house above the river. Even above the river noise and creaking waterwheel, Ernst heard awful weeping. He crept to the blue door, flaking paint in tiny curls, and knocked timidly.
    The sobbing ceased, and slowly Aunt Queenie opened the wooden door. Her eyes were red and swollen, old face tear-stained. "Come to gloat, boy?"
"No, no!" Ernst stammered. "Is Uncle really dead?"
    "Best come in and see," she answered.

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