It’s past noontime. My stomach reminds me constantly that I haven’t had enough breakfast, but I don’t feel like returning to the house just yet. Instead, I decide to take a stroll of the campgrounds, taking in the vibe, trying to decipher the meaning behind John’s words. There is jumble in my head that only a long walk can clear out.

I know John hasn’t been completely forthcoming with me. There is something more to his speech about traditions, rules and regulations, and holding up to standards. Likening it to something I already know was simplifying it too much. But deep down, it’s not as simple as that.

I come out of the brick building and take a left turn, pushing my hands into my jeans pocket. It’s a lush green site, rolling over acres that stretch almost a mile in width and much more in depth. At the front, the camp is on ground level, where the steel gate stands guard. At the back, the camp disappears up a hill. From here I can see tall pines peeping over the hilltop beyond the camp fence. Even with my novice eyes, I can tell it must be at least five miles from this point.

I walk slowly, keeping the fence wall to my right. The path goes northwards, away from John’s office. The area is quiet, lush green, with only the leaves rustling in the wind. Some people are out and about. I see some ladies doing chores. Some of them wave at me, some are too busy to take note. Some just watch, with no intention of interacting whatsoever, as if I am some curious little foreign breed of dog.

I keep a wide smile plastered to my face. Never in my life have I felt the necessity to keep a friendly exterior. When I was in LA, I never missed friends. I was a rude loner and got by just fine. But here I know I can’t carry on like before. I need at least a few friendly faces if I am to survive here.

I walk casually, observing with keen eyes.

The place is beautiful. Small but neatly kept brick cottages litter the canvas. A criss-cross of interconnecting pathways surrounds the cottages. Lunch is cooking and I see dark smoke curling out of some chimneys. There is very little done here to disturb the nature’s harmony. I see no well-maintained landscapes, no manicured lawn or pruned hedges. Instead, clusters of overgrown trees are left around to keep the natural feel.

I like it. Having grown in a busy city and being a person with limited abilities, I have always avoided the wilds. It always felt dangerous and foreboding. My best rendezvous with nature so far has been an unfortunate horse ride in an orchard when on a trip to Tenerife. It was the worst day of my life, not counting yesterday, when I crashed into Adam. While Olly and Grandma enjoyed the ride tremendously, my horse kept dithering, as if it was touched by a lightning. It refused to carry me to the intended destination and was set on bolting somewhere else. I clutched the reins, pulled, pushed, yanked them continuously, but couldn’t steer the stupid horse. Like my destiny, it had its own freaking mind. By the end of it I swore I’d never ride a horse again. It must be the best entertainment the other two got in ages.

Luckily for me, there are no horses here. No animals, not even a fancy dog in sight to freak me out. I am quite happy about the fact that it’s so peaceful and serene.

I reach a cluster of willows and halt my trek. A white stream that I somehow failed to spot until now bustles through the shrubbery. It’s at least ten feet wide and originates on the hill above. It swirls and twirls and runs downwards, gurgling with laughter. I stand mesmerised. This place reminds me of the forest from my dream. Magical and ethereal. Empowering.

Sighing, I walk ahead. As I climb upwards, I gain height over the stream. Its frothy laughter bubbles in the background along with the chirping birds. I pass slowly, basking in the pleasant cool breeze. Tall willows line the path, their branches sway in the wind, their leaves rustling into a whisper as I walk by.

I come by a sawmill. It stands in a little clearing over the stream. Nearby is a cottage and a few storage sheds stacked with timber. The place looks deserted except for a low grinding of a machine churning some solid wood.

A sound of humming distracts me. I step ahead to peer over an overhanging ledge. Down below, near the water, stands an old man wearing brown overalls. To my surprise, he is carrying a large log on his shoulder. I cannot tell from this height, but it doesn’t look like he isn’t even breaking a sweat. He whistles a merry tune as he walks to the stream to throw the log into it.

My eyes follow the motion of the log, the effortless ease with which the bustling water carries it away. The primitive simplicity of it fascinates me. I stare in wonder as the heavy piece floats away.

By some uncanny instinct, the man turns and looks up at my ledge.

“Well, hello there, young lady! Haven’t seen you around here. You must be John’s new ward!” He raises his arm and shouts. I smile and wave at him.

“Hi! Yes, my name is Diane. Diane Winters. I just came yesterday with my sister. How do you do?”

“Aye, getting by, as you can see,” he says, his wrinkly face stretching in a grin, then motions me to walk to the mill. I shake my head and follow the direction of his finger. I do not believe his ‘getting by’. The ease with which he carried that log tells me he is no ordinary man.

I reach the mill and see him coming up a wooden staircase.

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“I am Will. William Crofter, the owner of this mill and oldest cog in the wheel around here.” He laughs a rumbling laugh and comes forward to shake a ragged hand. It feels like I touched a warped iron rod.

“Hi, Will. Beautiful place you have got here.” I smile as I withdraw my hand. “Mind if I have a look around? I haven’t seen a sawmill before.”

“You are welcome.” He smiles proudly. “My great grandfather built it in eighteen hundreds. Since then it has weathered many attacks and still it stands, solid as ever.”

My eyes narrow. What attacks is he talking about in the serene place?

“I mean the weather…” he clarifies quickly. “The snowstorms, forest fires, and what not. These mountains are treacherous. We can never be sure of what comes next.”

That makes sense. I relax and begin my inspection. From afar, it looked like a normal wooden structure. Up close, I can see it’s marvellous. Made out of pure timber by bare hands, it’s rustic yet beautiful. It’s not just a few walls and a roof, it has a proper design, well placed windows and doors, sturdy staircases and beautiful handmade furniture. It’s not posh or sleek like a holiday resort, but it has a cosy, homely feeling. Evidently it’s been well-loved.

In a corner there is a stone aga alight with fire. Next to it is a table set ready for lunch. As of now, there is just one plate. Will moves forward to place one more.

“Can’t let a beautiful girl go hungry,” he says, winking. “I've got to watch my manners. And we don’t get many guests around here.”

I wait to feel my usual embarrassment, but it does not come. His compliment is so good-natured, my usual defences are already down.

“So how did your parents know John?” Will gets busy as I wander about.

I shrug.

“Not my parents. John knew my grandparents. He was a friend to my grandfather.”

He stops what he is doing to look at me. “I take your parents died early?”

“Mom died when we were young. I have never seen my father.”

“Hmm… we all have our stories, don’t we?” he looks pensive, then shakes his head. “So John knew your grandfather. I was with him when John was a young lad. I might know your grandfather. What’s his name?”

“Rey Hayward.” I say merrily as I watch is face darken. He purses his lips, then looks away. Then turn back to me, looking thoughtful.

“Do you know him?” I ask curiously. I would so love to know more about grandfather. The man who dared to love the cold-hearted Adele Winters. Surprisingly, they managed to keep their affair under the wraps. There is hardly any news about him in the newspaper at the time. We had no picture in the house. Grandma made a point never to talk about him. It was as if he never existed. As if she sired her child out of thin air.

I watch Will curiously. He purses his lips to give me a noncommittal shrug.

“Rey Hayward, you say? Not sure if I’ve heard that name. There was only one Rey here. And he died before John became Alpha.”

It takes him a few seconds to realize his gaffe. He rushes to correct.

“I mean the chief. Reymond Armstrong was the commander-in-chief of this camp before John. John took over after Rey died in a fight.”

I nod. I do not know why I am disappointed. A part of my heart has always wanted answers - why I am treated as a stranger in my own house, why grandma loved Olly as if she was her only granddaughter. Why no one ever talked about grandpa, and why no one ever queried who my father was.

We have no relatives or extended family. It’s as if we were dropped into this world from some outer space.

For a while nobody speaks. Will disappears inside the house and I watch the food until he’s back. We sit at the table with our plates of roast chicken and vegetables and begin eating. I sense a shift in his attitude.

He asks more questions but gives fewer answers. His talk is more generic than specific as if he knows this place only slightly better than me. He has turned more cautious, and less spontaneous, taking time to think his responses carefully.

My curiosity is hiked. It seems John is not the only one withholding information. There are mysteries here that need to be unearthed. They may or may not have any relevance to me, but they are certainly having an impact on me.

I keep my face calm with a sweet smile playing on my lips, but my brain runs a million different scenarios. Snippets of past conversations sound in my ears – with Tamara, Phyllis, John. With Will just now and the two liner from grandma’s parting note.

As of now it's just information that I have stored. It needs to be analysed, carefully, in my spare time, to draw any conclusions from it. My fingers itch to hold a pencil, to scratch a paper with calculations, probabilities, graphs. Or just with weird images that are shaping up in my mind.

“So how come you are a Winters? Isn’t that your grandmother’s name? No child around here goes without a father’s name.” Will comments pouring himself a drink.

I grimace, remembering the third point in my to do list.

#3. Change my name from Diane Winters to…Diane Hayward.

Grandma never took her husband’s name and my mother never married. I’m stuck with a name that reminds me of nothing but frosty winters.

I tell him the reason and he shakes his head. City women…he mutters under his breath.

We eat. It’s my first hearty meal in the past four days. I hog like a hungry child rescued from some shelter. Will tuts and fills my plate with more. It’s the first time anyone has fed me with such care.

“You need to eat more, child. It’s hard to survive here if you do not look after yourself.”

I agree. I need to eat and strengthen myself. Don’t know how much I can take, but I have to try nonetheless.

I stay a bit longer, then say goodbye to Will. He is disappointed. I promise him to drop by from time to time. I have a feeling I’m going to need his help sooner than I think.

I take the path uphill as per Will’s directions. When I reach a small intersection, I turn left and that brings me back to the big square where John’s house is. It’s nearly four in the afternoon and the sun is slanting. I wonder if anyone missed me for lunch. I should not have been away for so long without informing anyone.

I come closer and notice there is a flurry of action. A truck is parked in front of the house and young men in combat gear are swarming the place. Tina stands at the steps wearing a nervous expression. None of the remaining family members are around.

“Tina, what’s the matter?” I ask curiously. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, you took your time.” Her voice is high-pitched, squeaky. “Go in fast. They are all waiting for you. Where have you been?”

My heart sinks. “Waiting for me? But why?”

“Adam is back. And he is so angry. You better watch out.”

Adam is back? My face splits in a grin but it vanishes the next moment. I thought Adam was on my side!

“But why should I watch out? And why is he angry?”

“Because,” Tamara smirks, choosing that moment to appear from inside the house. She seems to be waiting for this moment, her gloating face watches me hungrily. "Adam is angry with you. And he wants you gone, like NOW.”

***** *****