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Description
It was dark, a soft rain was falling, dripping off the leaves of the old oak tree. A fox emerged from the bushes, sniffed the ground and backed away from the foot of the oak. There was a soft sound of movement close to the bole of the tree as a small head appeared above one of the massive roots. The boy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around. He was about ten, a little small for his age with blond hair and deep brown eyes. A surprised look came suddenly into his eyes but was quickly replaced with memory and shock. He jumped over the large root and ran along the path next to the tree.

"I didn't think I had run so far", he thought to himself as his legs pumped driving him on. His lungs began to burn as he forced himself on. "Almost there." he thought, "Only around the corner and up the hill." The sky above the hill was aglow, had he slep all night under the grandfather oak? "Wait the sun raises more to the right not in front of me. Smoke. NO! Please no!" As he reached the top of the hill he saw where the smoke was comming from. There, in the small valey below his home was ablaze along. The barn and even the old hen house were shooting flames high into the night sky.
On the ground in front of the barn lay their old cow, an arrow in her neck. A little way off was his fathers workhorse Dan, numerouse arrowes protruding from his proud neck and shoulders. Even the pigs and goats where dead, the smell of burning feathers told him that the hens and that bully of a rooster were gone too.

The boy looked back at the house. It was almost gone now, just two walls and a chimney stood.
Suddenly the thought stuck him. "Ma, Dad!" where were they? Panic took hold of him, he ran around the house frantically searching but found nothing, so he looked further afield. Searching around the animal pens he found them. His father had been tied to the fence, arrows in his arms and legs told of torture, his face cut and bruised. On the ground near his feet layed the boy's mother, a single arrow in her back. The boy threw himself on the ground beside his mother and gently lifted her head. She was dead, cold, empty. A gran came from behind, the boy leapt up and movedto his fathers side and touched his arm gently.
"Jaren? Is that you boy?" he said as he lifted his head. Jaren saw that his eyes were swollen shut.
"Yes father, it's me."
"We told you not to come back Jaren, they may come back. You have to go. Now! Don't look back! Don't stop! Get away!" and with that his head fell into his chest.

Jaren touched his father's neck and felt a weak pulse. He took his small hinting knife from his belt and cut the ropes holding his father to the fence. He groaned as he slumped to the ground, the points of the arrows protruding from the back of his arms and legs glistened with blood in the flickering light of his burning home. Jaren cut the heads from the arrows and slowly dragged his unconscious father into the woods behind the smouldering barn. It took a long time. Jaren was small and his father was a big man. At last he came to the old hut that was his play house. His father had built it when Jaren was only two, he had covered it with moss and grass so that if you didn't know that it was there you would never be able to find it. He had told Jaren over the years, "Everyone needs a place that is for onll them, a place to be quiet and feel safe."

When his father was inside and as comfortable as he could possibly make him Jaren walked back to the yard and looked down at his mother. She still looked beautiful, her small delicate face framed by her long blond hair. Her eyes were shut, he was glad of that, he didn't want to see the horror and pain of her last moments tainting her brilliant green eyes. He pulled a blanket from the washing line and gently wrapped her in it and then searched until he found his fathers shovel. Tears poured down his small face as he dug and dug until the sun was high in the sky. Jaren the gently dragged his mothers body into the grave and covered her with the earth she had loved so much, only then did he find himself water to drink. He then gathered herbs and water and all the clothing and blankets he could find and hurried back to his father. Jaren lit a candle and looked down at his fathers bruised face. His breathing was shallow and his skin had a sheen of sweat from pain and fever. Jaren steeped the herbs in water headed over the candle as his mother had taught him. When they were ready he put the hearbs around the arrows still in his fathers arm and legs.
"I am sorry father, but that is all I can do for now. I have to go and get help. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Description
It was dark, a soft rain was falling, dripping off the leaves of the old oak tree. A fox emerged from the bushes, sniffed the ground and backed away from the foot of the oak. There was a soft sound of movement close to the bole of the tree as a small head appeared above one of the massive roots. The boy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around. He was about ten, a little small for his age with blond hair and deep brown eyes. A surprised look came suddenly into his eyes but was quickly replaced with memory and shock. He jumped over the large root and ran along the path next to the tree.

"I didn't think I had run so far", he thought to himself as his legs pumped driving him on. His lungs began to burn as he forced himself on. "Almost there." he thought, "Only around the corner and up the hill." The sky above the hill was aglow, had he slep all night under the grandfather oak? "Wait the sun raises more to the right not in front of me. Smoke. NO! Please no!" As he reached the top of the hill he saw where the smoke was comming from. There, in the small valey below his home was ablaze along. The barn and even the old hen house were shooting flames high into the night sky.
On the ground in front of the barn lay their old cow, an arrow in her neck. A little way off was his fathers workhorse Dan, numerouse arrowes protruding from his proud neck and shoulders. Even the pigs and goats where dead, the smell of burning feathers told him that the hens and that bully of a rooster were gone too.

The boy looked back at the house. It was almost gone now, just two walls and a chimney stood.
Suddenly the thought stuck him. "Ma, Dad!" where were they? Panic took hold of him, he ran around the house frantically searching but found nothing, so he looked further afield. Searching around the animal pens he found them. His father had been tied to the fence, arrows in his arms and legs told of torture, his face cut and bruised. On the ground near his feet layed the boy's mother, a single arrow in her back. The boy threw himself on the ground beside his mother and gently lifted her head. She was dead, cold, empty. A gran came from behind, the boy leapt up and movedto his fathers side and touched his arm gently.
"Jaren? Is that you boy?" he said as he lifted his head. Jaren saw that his eyes were swollen shut.
"Yes father, it's me."
"We told you not to come back Jaren, they may come back. You have to go. Now! Don't look back! Don't stop! Get away!" and with that his head fell into his chest.

Jaren touched his father's neck and felt a weak pulse. He took his small hinting knife from his belt and cut the ropes holding his father to the fence. He groaned as he slumped to the ground, the points of the arrows protruding from the back of his arms and legs glistened with blood in the flickering light of his burning home. Jaren cut the heads from the arrows and slowly dragged his unconscious father into the woods behind the smouldering barn. It took a long time. Jaren was small and his father was a big man. At last he came to the old hut that was his play house. His father had built it when Jaren was only two, he had covered it with moss and grass so that if you didn't know that it was there you would never be able to find it. He had told Jaren over the years, "Everyone needs a place that is for onll them, a place to be quiet and feel safe."

When his father was inside and as comfortable as he could possibly make him Jaren walked back to the yard and looked down at his mother. She still looked beautiful, her small delicate face framed by her long blond hair. Her eyes were shut, he was glad of that, he didn't want to see the horror and pain of her last moments tainting her brilliant green eyes. He pulled a blanket from the washing line and gently wrapped her in it and then searched until he found his fathers shovel. Tears poured down his small face as he dug and dug until the sun was high in the sky. Jaren the gently dragged his mothers body into the grave and covered her with the earth she had loved so much, only then did he find himself water to drink. He then gathered herbs and water and all the clothing and blankets he could find and hurried back to his father. Jaren lit a candle and looked down at his fathers bruised face. His breathing was shallow and his skin had a sheen of sweat from pain and fever. Jaren steeped the herbs in water headed over the candle as his mother had taught him. When they were ready he put the hearbs around the arrows still in his fathers arm and legs.
"I am sorry father, but that is all I can do for now. I have to go and get help. I'll be back as soon as I can."