The green ribbons writhe and knot into a ball of fire, swishing closer against the wind.

Taika, please. The voice resonates from the approaching fireball, a high-pitched whine.

Please! Help us!

The flames whip left and right in a frantic dance, closer then farther away, almost as if it’s beckoning me to follow. Part of me realizes this can’t possibly be a prank; another part is still waiting to become the punch line of this joke.

I’ve read about marsh flames, so-called ignis fatuus or will-o’-the-wisps caused by the breaking down of certain swamp gases, but as much as I want a perfectly logical explanation for what I’m seeing, the literature never mentioned will-o’-the-wisps speaking. Possibilities swarm like yellow jackets inside my skull. One buzzes louder and stings harder: liekkiö.

Taika, please please please—the flames swirl in a frenzy. Taika, please. The way the wisp says my name—I don’t want to, but I recognize that voice.

“Help you? How, why?” Despite my better judgment, I follow the fireball along the shore where it cuts a zigzagging trail through the trees. It darts away from the water and into the forest where the spruce and birch, juniper and maples tangle together like metalheads in a mosh pit. Branches snag at my hood as I push my way through the undergrowth. Musti, Kamu, and Rekku follow too, keeping pace above me, silent still, but their presence is reassuring.

We haven’t gone far before the green light stops its chaotic flight, hanging suspended between blackened branches.

“What now?” I ask, but there’s no response, only a dimming and brightening of the light.

It pulses like a star, bobbing higher and lower.

“I don’t know what you want.”

Something crunches under my heel: the remains of a cell phone. One I know far too well considering I’m the one who bought the case for Natalie’s birthday last year.

The colors of the South African flag are streaked with ash and mud . It must have been here for hours. Wow, so Natalie’s still using the gift I gave her. I assumed the others would’ve given her something better by now—that they’d want to erase every trace of me from Natalie’s life. But maybe this is proof Natalie doesn’t completely hate me and that she might be able to forgive me for what I did.

I pluck the phone from the muck of fallen leaves, inspecting it for damage. The screen is shattered beyond repair. No wonder Natalie didn’t respond to my messages. But when did she lose it? During Thaumaturgy? After? What was Natalie doing this far from the path anyway?

Carefully, I pocket the phone, trying not to touch it too much in case I smudge away fingerprints or other evidence.