The thundering engine was deafening as the black helicopter came to a hover over the hunting ground and began descending toward the snow, creating a storm of its own. The skids on its underside touched down, then rose a few feet as the pilot corrected the angle before settling onto the ground. The awful beat of the engine died and the smell of aviation fuel carried on the wind. The rotor blades slowed and became still, creaking a little as they settled.

Immediately there was a clinking of kit and crunching of boots as the soldiers hurried across to the helicopter, ducking as they went even though the rotor blades had stopped spinning.

Morris stayed where he was, reaching down to grab the president by the scruff of his jacket and drag him to his knees.

“You’re about to meet someone who’s been looking for you, Bill.” He spoke the president’s name with sarcasm and disrespect. “His name is Hazar and he’s the illegitimate son of one of the richest oil sheiks in the Gulf. You know what? I have a feeling you’re not going to like him very much.”

“He won’t get anything from me.” The president sounded strong, but I knew he was trying to look tough. Underneath it all, he was tired and afraid. There was disappointment, too, at having been betrayed by the man he thought was his friend. I imagined it would be ten times worse than the disappointment I had felt when I had found Dad’s note.

Morris laughed. “Oh, Hazar doesn’t want anything from you. This isn’t about politics or ideology. It’s not even about religion, Bill, he’s just a certified Grade A psychopath who thinks of himself as a hunter. Which means you’re in a lot of trouble. You see, all he wants to do is kill you.”

The president didn’t say or do anything. He just knelt in the snow with his head hanging so that his chin was almost on his chest. His breath billowed around him in clouds. He was exhausted and beaten, probably knowing that no one was coming to help him now. He had been captured and would have to suffer whatever came next.

I looked about the hunting ground, trying to think of something, anything I could do to help, but we were in the middle of nowhere and all I had was my bow and my knife. Maybe if I could make some kind of distraction …

The sound of the helicopter door sliding open made me look around to see Hazar step down onto the snow. He put his hands in the small of his back and stretched, turning his neck from side to side as if it had been an uncomfortable journey. I could almost hear the creak of his tight-fitting leather jacket as he moved, and I gritted my teeth, imagining myself firing an arrow straight into his heart. Right then, I hated that man more than I had ever hated anything. All the anger I had for everything else was directed at him. Only him.

Hazar looked around at his men, nodding with satisfaction. Then, without turning back to the helicopter, he reached up with his right hand.

“My rifle.”

Without a second’s delay, one of the soldiers passed Hazar’s weapon from inside, putting it right into his hand. Hazar sniffed, hefted the weapon, then sauntered across the hunting ground toward the president.

Behind him, one of his men jumped down from the helicopter carrying a tripod with a large camera fastened to the top. He jogged to catch up with Hazar, then followed a couple of paces behind.

As he passed the freezer chest and the deer head, Hazar glanced down for a second, but didn’t stop. He didn’t even stop in front of the president, but walked around behind him and ordered Morris to move aside.

The man with the camera stopped a couple of yards away from where the president was kneeling, and set the tripod on the ground.

“You know the tradition,” Hazar said, “in which the hunter poses for a photograph with his prey?”

The president remained silent.

“Well, it’s good to observe the old ways of doing things, don’t you think, Mr. President?” Hazar put his boot on the president’s back and kicked him forward into the snow. “Lie down.”

The president tried to turn and look at the hunter, but Hazar kicked him hard in the kidneys. “Lie down,” he spat.

I couldn’t bear to see my friend like that, beaten and defenseless. He was coughing and groaning, writhing in pain on the ground.

Hazar put one boot on him and held his rifle in both hands. He put his shoulders back and stuck out his chest. The camera clicked several times and the cameraman nodded at Hazar.

“You got a good one?” Hazar asked.

“Yes, sir.”

In that instant, I saw the board in the Hunting Lodge with all those photographs pinned to it. I saw the one of Dad with the bear on his back, but mostly I saw the ones of the other men, standing with the bow in their hands and their trophy at their feet. Is that really what all this was about? It was a hunt?

And that’s when it came to me. Like a bolt out of the sky that dusted away the clouds and showed me the real reason why that plane had crashed across my path and knocked me from the ATV. The real reason why I had seen the red light blinking in the sky and found the pod. The real reason why I had found the president.

Because this was what the forest wanted.

My wilderness. My president.

Hamara’s words echoed in my head. The forest is a harsh judge. It gives each of us what we deserve. We must know how to listen and fight tooth and nail for our prey.

Now I understood. I was supposed to rescue him. This was my Trial. I had not come into the forest to kill something — I had come here to save something.

All I had to do was figure out how.