The Secret. Ariana Chambers

the flames in Izzy’s fire leap up and immediately die out yet again.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Izzy snaps at Stephen. ‘Here, give them to me.’ She grabs the matches from him.

      ‘Oh, this will be good,’ Holly mutters, staring at them intently.

      Izzy strikes a match and the flame leaps up, almost singeing her fringe. She shrieks and drops the match on to the ground, where it instantly fizzles out.

      ‘Good job,’ Mr Matthews says as he crouches down next to us, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘Very good job indeed.’ He continues making his way around the circle, inspecting the fires until he gets to Izzy. ‘Oh dear.’

      ‘There’s something wrong with our matches,’ Izzy says sulkily.

      Holly laughs. ‘What’s that saying about a poor arsonist always blaming his matches, sir?’

      Mr Matthews smiles. ‘A poor workman always blames his tools.’

      Izzy scowls.

      ‘Never mind,’ I call out to her. ‘You guys can’t be best at everything. And, hey, at least you won the bunny-rabbit bunting.’

      The flames in our fire start leaping about as if they’re laughing, blocking the glares coming from the other side of the clearing.

      Once we’ve had dinner – blackened sausages cooked on our fires, which actually tasted surprisingly good – Mr Matthews declares that it’s story time.

      ‘Storytelling around a campfire is a tradition that goes back to the dawn of time,’ he says. ‘It was a way of bonding as a tribe, communicating ideas and –’

      ‘Would anyone like to begin?’ Miss Black cuts in.

      Izzy nudges Stephen. ‘I will,’ he says immediately.

      Holly groans. ‘Seriously? He only knows about twenty words.’

      ‘Once upon a time,’ Stephen begins, pushing his floppy blond hair back from his face, ‘there was an evil demon who haunted a wood, just like this one. The demon’s name was – was – Bloodbark, and he was the grossest thing you ever saw. He had, like, really rough skin like tree bark and these teeth that were, like, so sharp they could shred human skin in just one bite.’

      ‘Yawn, yawn,’ Holly mutters.

      Somewhere in the woods behind me I hear a rustle and a twig crack. I hug my blanket around me.

      ‘Bloodbark lived in the trees in the wood. He was actually, like, a wood demon. The evil spirit of the oldest tree in the wood. Just like that one.’ Stephen points to a huge old tree at the side of the clearing. As if on cue a chill wind gusts through the clearing, causing the tree’s branches to wave and creak. A shiver runs up my spine. Why did Mr Matthews have to suggest this? Why couldn’t we have had a sing-song around the fire instead? I wistfully think of my guitar, propped against my bed where I left it after my farewell strum this morning.

      ‘And Bloodbark would creep around the woods at night-time, looking for campers to kill and possess.’ The dying flames from the fire cause shadows to dance on Stephen’s face, making it look as hollowed out as a skull.

      Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots.

      ‘What was that?’ Izzy says. She looks really rattled.

      ‘It was Bloodbark,’ Stephen says with a grin. ‘That’s how you know when he’s coming – when you hear him howl.’

      ‘Shut up. It was just an owl,’ Vivien says, but she’s looking really uneasy now too.

      ‘The thing is,’ Stephen continues, oblivious, ‘you never know when Bloodbark’s going to strike because he looks just like a tree.’

      The wind picks up again, causing all of the trees around the clearing to sway.

      ‘And you never know when his branches are going to reach out and grab you.’

      We all sit in silence for a moment, listening to the trees swaying and creaking.

      ‘So, what does he do when he catches you?’ David asks.

      ‘He, like, sucks all your blood,’ Stephen says theatrically.

      Holly lets out a loud sigh. ‘Boring!’

      Stephen glares at her. ‘Why’s it boring?’

      ‘It’s been done already.’ Holly shakes her head, causing her curls to bounce wildly. ‘Er, hello? Dracula? It would be way better if he captured your spirit and trapped it inside a tree. Then the whole wood could be possessed by the trapped spirits of bitter, dead teenagers.’

      I glare at her.

      ‘What?’ she mutters. ‘That’s a way better ending.’

      ‘Could someone else please tell a story?’ Eve says, staring into the dying embers of her fire.

      ‘I have one,’ Mr Matthews says.

      I breathe a sigh of relief and prepare myself for a jolly tale about nature – or marking books.

      ‘It’s funny, actually,’ Mr Matthews says, sitting up straight. ‘It came to me earlier, when I was checking your fires. Which goes to show you just never know when inspiration might strike. Anyway, it’s the story of two rival groups of witches.’

      I shoot a glance at Holly.

      ‘One group are good witches but the other – they’re pure evil.’

      I glance across the clearing. Izzy, Stephen and Vivien are looking at each other and frowning.

      ‘Now these witches are in competition. They have to . . .’ Mr Matthews breaks off for a moment, as if deep in thought. ‘They have to find a bag.’

      ‘What kind of bag?’ Eve asks.

      ‘The bag that contains the five most powerful spells.’

      I feel a weird unsettled feeling inside. His story is dangerously close to the story of the Silver and Blood Witches. Could Mr Matthews know about it? Could he have heard the folklore?

      ‘And these spells contain the secret to everlasting life,’ he continues.

      ‘How many of these witches are there?’ I ask casually.

      ‘Oh, thousands,’ Mr Matthews replies. ‘In the land where my tale takes place, they are all witches – it’s just that some are good and some are evil.’

      ‘So it’s not set in the present day, then?’ Holly asks.

      Mr Matthews laughs. ‘Of course not. It’s about witches! Anyway, where was I?’

      As Mr Matthews continues his increasingly fantastical tale of the world of Witchvale, Holly and I exchange relieved glances. It had to just be a coincidence. The wind whips around the treetops and deep in the woods another owl hoots. I pull my blanket tight around me.

      The next morning when we all gather to eat breakfast, it looks like a scene from a zombie apocalypse. I’m guessing from the dark circles and bags under everyone’s eyes that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t sleep well last night. Thanks to our ‘bedtime stories’ I ended up having a nightmare about a tree demon that was trying to steal my guitar from me. ‘You’ll never, like, play it again,’ it yelled – in Stephen’s voice. ‘You’re doomed to live a life without music.’ I’d woken in a cold sweat and lay in my sleeping bag rigid as a corpse as I listened to the rustling and creaking from the woods. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so relieved as when the first pale light of dawn started creeping inside the tent.

      ‘Well, on the positive