Entry One - September 14, 1640
I write this journal to document my stay in the land of Salem, and those dark secrets that lie in wait in the Lumberwoods of this New World. I write to warn of the terrors that haunt my waking dreams for which no combination of words can ever truly articulate. And I write for I know that it consumes me, and soon I will be taken by the land and forces from which I flee.
One year. That is how long it has been since I first stepped foot on the soil of this place. I saw the town of Boston as it was still under construction. I remember the smell of refuse and fish oil, made all the more rancid by the hot baking rays of the late summer sun. Sweat shone on the backs of slaves and common laborers alike, adding to the reflective gleam of the shining new bell that stood perched in the half-finished town hall. It was dazzling, even with the unpleasant smell and heat, and I tried to soak up the experience with as much excitement as my young heart could gather.
In the sense of numbers, I wasn’t too much younger then than I am now. But now I know that age, true age, is not measured by time. Time is a contrivance of man demonstrated by the mundanity of pauses between action. The true rule with which to measure age is experience. And if that is true, then I have aged well past my prime. The burdens of knowledge and things that cannot be unseen weighs on my shoulders so that I feel as though I am old and decayed.
I feel constantly like I will collapse beneath the weight at any moment, and am now prone to long spells of rest without reason or explanation. The physicians of this place have been of little real use, most only trained to medicate livestock and slaves. Their cures of castor oil and blood letting do little for the maladies of my mind, and less for the humors. I have been diagnosed with bad blood and being highly melancholic, but I place no faith in their man-made explanations. The fools! It is not my humors. It is my mind that has been tea-stained by blood – so much blood – and now I am left to rot in a cage of fear and self-pity. I dare not return to England, for I know that I would not survive the journey in my current state. I still have the gall enough to entertain the idea of returning to the Lumberwoods, as I know the cure would there be within my grasp.
But no. Never again.
One year. That is how long it has been since I first stepped foot on the soil of this place. I saw the town of Boston as it was still under construction. I remember the smell of refuse and fish oil, made all the more rancid by the hot baking rays of the late summer sun. Sweat shone on the backs of slaves and common laborers alike, adding to the reflective gleam of the shining new bell that stood perched in the half-finished town hall. It was dazzling, even with the unpleasant smell and heat, and I tried to soak up the experience with as much excitement as my young heart could gather.
In the sense of numbers, I wasn’t too much younger then than I am now. But now I know that age, true age, is not measured by time. Time is a contrivance of man demonstrated by the mundanity of pauses between action. The true rule with which to measure age is experience. And if that is true, then I have aged well past my prime. The burdens of knowledge and things that cannot be unseen weighs on my shoulders so that I feel as though I am old and decayed.
I feel constantly like I will collapse beneath the weight at any moment, and am now prone to long spells of rest without reason or explanation. The physicians of this place have been of little real use, most only trained to medicate livestock and slaves. Their cures of castor oil and blood letting do little for the maladies of my mind, and less for the humors. I have been diagnosed with bad blood and being highly melancholic, but I place no faith in their man-made explanations. The fools! It is not my humors. It is my mind that has been tea-stained by blood – so much blood – and now I am left to rot in a cage of fear and self-pity. I dare not return to England, for I know that I would not survive the journey in my current state. I still have the gall enough to entertain the idea of returning to the Lumberwoods, as I know the cure would there be within my grasp.
But no. Never again.
Entry Two - September 25, 1640
I was visited by the physician today, and supposedly my illness has plateaued. The fat old man who has treated me of late and smells of sweat and tar smiled like a parent placating a naive child when I proposed that my condition could be something more than a simple malady of humor. The oaf even patted my brow with a handful of fingers the size of sausages. Had I the strength, I would have ripped my father’s saber from the wall and skewered the bloated pig where he stood.
Once the sack of fat and flesh left my homestead, a fact I ensured by having my washerwoman Mildred see him out the gate, I called for my box. I had no need to dictate which box I required, as there was only one I ever called on, and only one Mildred knew of. I was tired of the lack of results and thought maybe something would be left in me to spark a cure from this misery. When she left my side, I took the key out from within my shirt where it rested by a cord around my neck and unlocked the latch with some small amount of difficulty.
I don’t suppose anyone reading this could understand the fear that split through me as I looked upon that small wooden box. Any normal person would think me mad as I shook, fighting the urge to throw the thing from my lap and have it shatter against the stones of the lit hearth. But its contents couldn’t burn. They couldn’t be degraded, digested, dissolved, or disassembled. The only way to get rid of it was to hide it in pure water, but there were no pure founts left so far from real civilization. Just the tainted darkness.
Steeling my nerves, I opened the box, listening to and feeling the box shudder as its hinges grinded against each other where rust had gathered like lichen on a fallen tree. And as the pale afternoon light, filtered in through the gauze window shades, hit the dusky tome within, its sickening brown leather seemed to pulsate with a life all its own. I felt myself grow nauseous and slammed the box shut as the bile receded back down my throat. Images of death and blood flew through my mind’s eye with visions of things I had seen and things I had not. Chaos from ages and times long before I or any man stood one these naked shores, naked in our ignorance. Chaos and seeing and knowing that pierced by mind like a needle, injecting my brain with thoughts unthinkable, as though the hand of the divine were imbibing me with holy lore. But there was nothing holy or good about any of it.
It was evil. Pure, unadulterated, carnal evil and it pulses through the wilds and roots of this place like a heartbeat. You can hear it if you try hard enough, like I hear it now, even as I write these words. And once you hear it, you can never unhear it. It exists in your mind like plague of the imagination.
And then it convinces you to follow it to the source. To find the organ that beats out the pulsing rhythm that powers the ground with such darkness. And then, if the darkness deems you worthy and keeps you from dying at the hands of the savage wilderness, you find it; you find the source of the power and it fills you with a lust that is inexplicable. A lust for all, a greed for more. It taps into you like it has tapped into the land and then it is you who are pulsing with a blackness that leaves you soiled; tainted, like all the rest.
Mildred will be returning soon to bleed me. I must rest. I must rest and let my mind drift to places away from here.
Once the sack of fat and flesh left my homestead, a fact I ensured by having my washerwoman Mildred see him out the gate, I called for my box. I had no need to dictate which box I required, as there was only one I ever called on, and only one Mildred knew of. I was tired of the lack of results and thought maybe something would be left in me to spark a cure from this misery. When she left my side, I took the key out from within my shirt where it rested by a cord around my neck and unlocked the latch with some small amount of difficulty.
I don’t suppose anyone reading this could understand the fear that split through me as I looked upon that small wooden box. Any normal person would think me mad as I shook, fighting the urge to throw the thing from my lap and have it shatter against the stones of the lit hearth. But its contents couldn’t burn. They couldn’t be degraded, digested, dissolved, or disassembled. The only way to get rid of it was to hide it in pure water, but there were no pure founts left so far from real civilization. Just the tainted darkness.
Steeling my nerves, I opened the box, listening to and feeling the box shudder as its hinges grinded against each other where rust had gathered like lichen on a fallen tree. And as the pale afternoon light, filtered in through the gauze window shades, hit the dusky tome within, its sickening brown leather seemed to pulsate with a life all its own. I felt myself grow nauseous and slammed the box shut as the bile receded back down my throat. Images of death and blood flew through my mind’s eye with visions of things I had seen and things I had not. Chaos from ages and times long before I or any man stood one these naked shores, naked in our ignorance. Chaos and seeing and knowing that pierced by mind like a needle, injecting my brain with thoughts unthinkable, as though the hand of the divine were imbibing me with holy lore. But there was nothing holy or good about any of it.
It was evil. Pure, unadulterated, carnal evil and it pulses through the wilds and roots of this place like a heartbeat. You can hear it if you try hard enough, like I hear it now, even as I write these words. And once you hear it, you can never unhear it. It exists in your mind like plague of the imagination.
And then it convinces you to follow it to the source. To find the organ that beats out the pulsing rhythm that powers the ground with such darkness. And then, if the darkness deems you worthy and keeps you from dying at the hands of the savage wilderness, you find it; you find the source of the power and it fills you with a lust that is inexplicable. A lust for all, a greed for more. It taps into you like it has tapped into the land and then it is you who are pulsing with a blackness that leaves you soiled; tainted, like all the rest.
Mildred will be returning soon to bleed me. I must rest. I must rest and let my mind drift to places away from here.
Entry Three - October 1, 1640
Again Mildred has left me. She goes to town and market when I cannot. I do not mind being alone, and only wish she wouldn't insist on bleeding me before she goes. My distaste in leeches has only grown and now when I look on them, pulsing gently as they suck away my lifeblood, I feel a growing fear growing in the pit of my stomach. Like a child with a spider, I stop understanding its purpose and see only the terror in its actions. Blood. Feeding on blood for sustenance. I feel faint thinking about it, and added to my loss of the substance as it is, I'll try turning my thoughts elsewhere.
Mildred was cleaning my store shed behind the shed yesterday and brought back my old vellum tube. It was the first thing from those days that filled me with the smallest bit of happiness. After I established myself with a small room in one of the inns in Boston, a quaint room overlooking the square, I set off exploring the new land. Trappers and forestmen were always calling from the street corners, offering the bourgeoning adventures the opportunity to be led deep into the woods to claim a spot for themselves. The thought seemed as foolish to me then as it does not. Why anyone would pay a strange man good silver to be led deep into the woods with no one around to hear you scream when the brute stuck you with a shiv is beyond any of my comprehensions. Needless to say I let my instincts be my guide.
On reflection, perhaps if I had let a guide show me a different way to go, none of what happened would have happened. And whether I was led to start a homestead elsewhere or killed by the stroke of a quick dagger, I think now that either of those options would have been better than what would come. Hindsight is a curse as bad as any demon can cast.
Before setting off, I gathered the supplies I would need for a journey, and that included a fine vellum map tube, some charcoal pens, and rolls of parchment for maps. I fancied myself am amateur cartographer for quite a long time as I set about marking the sights and shape of the land. Eventually I became good enough to hawk them at a stall in Boston, but that is not important. What is important is what I saw when exploring westward down the Massachusetts River (or the Charles, courtesy of His Majesty’s editing).
I was in the middle of tracing the north bank a good two leagues from the city. The river bent sharply at this place and there was a peculiar outcropping of land jutting out into the river itself. As I was observing and considering crossing the river to get a better view for the map I was making, something caught my eye.
Stray boulders and rocks litter this untamed land from ages immemorial. I had taken the liberty of including the larger of the boulders in my maps, as they could serve the stray traveler well to use as markers. Now I faced a boulder that sat beneath a great oak tree, the leaves red and orange drifting down like a rain of colored paper during the Roman Carnival of old. It was muddied with age, but a form stood out that looked like a chiseled portion of moss, if such a thing were possible. I stowed my map and approached the rock, my inquisitive nature betraying me as it would continue to do.
With one gloved hand I brushed at the moss and saw there was, indeed something engraved not in the moss but in the stone itself. I brushed more and letters appeared before my eyes. The rush of discovery poured into my soul and I began to scrub until the carving was revealed.
I never had the opportunity to go to University , as my family simply lacked the means. But my parents could read and had a small personal library. I read every book we owned and still own a few of them that I brought across the ocean with me. One book we owned had been an old musty rhetoric on grammar. It was moldy and falling apart, held together by twine on the shelf. I never understood why my father hadn’t thrown it away, but was suddenly thankful he hadn’t. A single word was etched into the stone, and I recognized it instantly.
“Sagitta.” I read the word aloud and let it hang in the air. Latin. Nothing could be more foreign to a place like this. In the book, one of the few legible chapters was on the constellations and Sagittarius had interested me greatly. It was from there I learned the word sagitta meant arrow. Still, that did not explain what the word arrow was doing chiseled into a rock in the middle of nowhere across an ocean from civilization. Thoughts swam to the surface of my mind and were dismissed almost as quickly. Someone from Boston could have carved it, but the markings were too aged for that to be possible. It could have been brought from town, but it fit in too naturally with everything else in the area. And then I thought that it could have been left from earlier settlers before Boston was founded.
That thought sent a cold chill down my spine. The trailblazers of the New World were not remembered with much fondness back home as rumors of their exploits trickled back over the ocean, preceding their return.
But no matter who put it there, or when, the question of why was more important to me. I searched the area, but could find no sign of any other tampering. The leaves continued to fall upon me in my search for the rest of the day until the sun burned low in the sky and I knew I must return to my room.
That night took my maps out and spread them across the old wooden table at the foot of my bed that I used for a desk. Although I came to this place seeking adventure and new beginnings, this was the first time I had discovered even an inkling of mystery. And that mystery blew against my heart like a breath igniting an ember. Soon I was ablaze with intrigue as I marked the route I had taken on the parchment, trying my figure out where next I should look for more clues about the writing on the stone.
The taper of my candle had nearly dwindled to the bottom of the tin dish in which it stood before I saw what I was looking for. I had been staring at the maps for hours and my eyes were heavy and tired. I was in the midst of a debate with myself about giving up and trying again in the morning when the clouds outside parted, letting in a strong beam of light from the full moon. The shift in lighting drew my attention and I rose to stretch my legs by the window.
The square was empty but for a young couple giggling near the Boar’s Head tavern. The sky above was spotted with gray clouds blocking out groups of stars on their slow path across the black.
And then I saw it. Sagittarius, his bow and arrow pointing to the west as he breached the tree tops of the southern sky. He pointed west in the same direction the Massachusetts had led me, and it was then that I ran back to my maps.
There it was. How I hadn’t seen it, I’m not sure. But now it was as clear to me as the night sky overhead. The form of the centaur was marked like his constellation, but not in stars - in boulders, with sagitta as the star Alnasl being the tip of the arrow.
When I blew out the candle flame, I had circled the spot on my map and knew that tomorrow I would likely not return to my room for the night. I would brave the wilderness until I scoured that area for the next clue.
Mildred was cleaning my store shed behind the shed yesterday and brought back my old vellum tube. It was the first thing from those days that filled me with the smallest bit of happiness. After I established myself with a small room in one of the inns in Boston, a quaint room overlooking the square, I set off exploring the new land. Trappers and forestmen were always calling from the street corners, offering the bourgeoning adventures the opportunity to be led deep into the woods to claim a spot for themselves. The thought seemed as foolish to me then as it does not. Why anyone would pay a strange man good silver to be led deep into the woods with no one around to hear you scream when the brute stuck you with a shiv is beyond any of my comprehensions. Needless to say I let my instincts be my guide.
On reflection, perhaps if I had let a guide show me a different way to go, none of what happened would have happened. And whether I was led to start a homestead elsewhere or killed by the stroke of a quick dagger, I think now that either of those options would have been better than what would come. Hindsight is a curse as bad as any demon can cast.
Before setting off, I gathered the supplies I would need for a journey, and that included a fine vellum map tube, some charcoal pens, and rolls of parchment for maps. I fancied myself am amateur cartographer for quite a long time as I set about marking the sights and shape of the land. Eventually I became good enough to hawk them at a stall in Boston, but that is not important. What is important is what I saw when exploring westward down the Massachusetts River (or the Charles, courtesy of His Majesty’s editing).
I was in the middle of tracing the north bank a good two leagues from the city. The river bent sharply at this place and there was a peculiar outcropping of land jutting out into the river itself. As I was observing and considering crossing the river to get a better view for the map I was making, something caught my eye.
Stray boulders and rocks litter this untamed land from ages immemorial. I had taken the liberty of including the larger of the boulders in my maps, as they could serve the stray traveler well to use as markers. Now I faced a boulder that sat beneath a great oak tree, the leaves red and orange drifting down like a rain of colored paper during the Roman Carnival of old. It was muddied with age, but a form stood out that looked like a chiseled portion of moss, if such a thing were possible. I stowed my map and approached the rock, my inquisitive nature betraying me as it would continue to do.
With one gloved hand I brushed at the moss and saw there was, indeed something engraved not in the moss but in the stone itself. I brushed more and letters appeared before my eyes. The rush of discovery poured into my soul and I began to scrub until the carving was revealed.
I never had the opportunity to go to University , as my family simply lacked the means. But my parents could read and had a small personal library. I read every book we owned and still own a few of them that I brought across the ocean with me. One book we owned had been an old musty rhetoric on grammar. It was moldy and falling apart, held together by twine on the shelf. I never understood why my father hadn’t thrown it away, but was suddenly thankful he hadn’t. A single word was etched into the stone, and I recognized it instantly.
“Sagitta.” I read the word aloud and let it hang in the air. Latin. Nothing could be more foreign to a place like this. In the book, one of the few legible chapters was on the constellations and Sagittarius had interested me greatly. It was from there I learned the word sagitta meant arrow. Still, that did not explain what the word arrow was doing chiseled into a rock in the middle of nowhere across an ocean from civilization. Thoughts swam to the surface of my mind and were dismissed almost as quickly. Someone from Boston could have carved it, but the markings were too aged for that to be possible. It could have been brought from town, but it fit in too naturally with everything else in the area. And then I thought that it could have been left from earlier settlers before Boston was founded.
That thought sent a cold chill down my spine. The trailblazers of the New World were not remembered with much fondness back home as rumors of their exploits trickled back over the ocean, preceding their return.
But no matter who put it there, or when, the question of why was more important to me. I searched the area, but could find no sign of any other tampering. The leaves continued to fall upon me in my search for the rest of the day until the sun burned low in the sky and I knew I must return to my room.
That night took my maps out and spread them across the old wooden table at the foot of my bed that I used for a desk. Although I came to this place seeking adventure and new beginnings, this was the first time I had discovered even an inkling of mystery. And that mystery blew against my heart like a breath igniting an ember. Soon I was ablaze with intrigue as I marked the route I had taken on the parchment, trying my figure out where next I should look for more clues about the writing on the stone.
The taper of my candle had nearly dwindled to the bottom of the tin dish in which it stood before I saw what I was looking for. I had been staring at the maps for hours and my eyes were heavy and tired. I was in the midst of a debate with myself about giving up and trying again in the morning when the clouds outside parted, letting in a strong beam of light from the full moon. The shift in lighting drew my attention and I rose to stretch my legs by the window.
The square was empty but for a young couple giggling near the Boar’s Head tavern. The sky above was spotted with gray clouds blocking out groups of stars on their slow path across the black.
And then I saw it. Sagittarius, his bow and arrow pointing to the west as he breached the tree tops of the southern sky. He pointed west in the same direction the Massachusetts had led me, and it was then that I ran back to my maps.
There it was. How I hadn’t seen it, I’m not sure. But now it was as clear to me as the night sky overhead. The form of the centaur was marked like his constellation, but not in stars - in boulders, with sagitta as the star Alnasl being the tip of the arrow.
When I blew out the candle flame, I had circled the spot on my map and knew that tomorrow I would likely not return to my room for the night. I would brave the wilderness until I scoured that area for the next clue.
Entry Four - October 4, 1640
With my gear packed, I let the landlady know of my intentions on my way out the door the following morning. She gave me a pointed look over her long nose that I didn't quite appreciate. The look was calloused and seasoned, and I could tell that she held no stock in my return. For a moment, I considered returning upstairs to gather my few remaining belongings lest the hag hawk them in my absence, but I decided against it. I had the only thing that truly mattered: a locket given to me by my love, Rosalyn.
Losing that locket has led me to greater sorrow than anything else I have lost in this affair. I would lose every other scrap of possession I owned. I would lose my identity. My mind. But that locket was everything to me. It was a connection to my Rose across the sea.
I left clutching that locket and set out for the wilds. My memory has always been fairly strong, so I didn't need to use the map but a few times to regain my bearings. With the sun still low in the eastern sky, the shadows and perspective were almost innocent for such an untamed place. I did my best to allow me senses to lose themselves in the beauty while trying to stay aware of the dangers that could lurk around any tree.
Rumors had reached me of the rogue bands of thieves, highwaymen, murderers, and rapists who had traveled like the rest of us across the Atlantic to seek new beginnings in this place. For whatever reasons, their new beginnings held a nefarious tone, and a litter of bodies were found regularly through the wilderness. As yet Boston still had no real rule of law other than a loose militia, the king’s men (who cared more for drinking themselves stupid than assisting the citizens they were assigned to protect), and those brave rangers who did their best to preserve civility and order by punishing those who committed wrong-doings.
But I was young and stupid. I assumed the sword at my hip, the only piece of my father I had left, would be more than enough to deal with vagabonds and thieves.
I was wrong.
I reached the spot before midday and knew immediately something had changed. I was no tracker, not by any means, but there were portions of tall grass near the bank that were laid flat where I knew I had not been. I could see shapes in the mud and assumed them to be footprints, leading into and out of the water of the river. But most peculiar of all was a bit of flint that had been placed on top of the boulder.
At least, I thought it was flint at the time. The color was dark, stained by something almost to being black. And whether flint or some other mineral, it was chiseled back to form an edge and a point.
I had no idea what it was when I found it, but being young and stupid, it didn't keep me from pocketing it for future research. Had I considered that it was purposefully left for me, I may have thought twice. Had I known then what I know now I’d have left that thing on the rock where I found it, marched back to Boston, and set sail with the first ship leaving for Europe. But I didn't know. How could I?
I began my search by walking in the direction the centaur’s arrow pointed, which meant crossing the river. While no easy feat, it wasn't deep in this spot, and I made it across fine enough, albeit damp. The walk dried me as I made my way deeper into the land, taking breaks only to map my progress. Shadows danced with scarce beams of light the deeper into the forest I went, and I noticed for the first time that presence I mentioned before. That thrumming beat of dark life that intertwines itself through this land. I shrugged it off then, but I know it now for what it was and is.
The singing began once I was a league away from the boulder. It was discordant and lilting, like a violinist repeatedly sagging the bow. At first I thought it some critter calling out for its mate, but the further I went, the more I noticed the lack of regularity that would otherwise be present in nature. Yes, unnatural is the best way to describe the voice that echoed out through the trees.
I readied my sword, unsure who could be making such a song. Every few steps brought further clarity to the notes and eventually words that the singer sang. But they made no sense! Inarticulate babbling with a sentence or two of clear sanity before it went back into that maddening chant.
“Sing a song of six pence
In a wagon full of wool
Sat upon an eggman’s wall
Near a candle and a fool.
Twinkle went the little goose
Sent Georgie Porgie around the town.
Til Robin Red Breast baked whey,
Then ashes, ashes, they all burned down.
Burnt them with a searing kiss
And then my silence you will miss…”
And on it went, more than I could remember before I finally found its source.
Before I go further, I should mention that the light of the forest was dim at best with the broad canopy above, and while I have come to be presented with far more supernatural events in the past year than I can explain, this instance in particular engendered in me a fear for the broad world that I now realize is hidden within the wilds. It is the world that existed before we rooted out the darkness of Europe, spread our gift of fire and lit the night. We mapped out the nooks and crannies and did away with secrets, real secrets.
But here, in this place, there are nothing but secrets.
When I walked around the final tree, with the singing at its loudest level yet, I looked down to the ground to the place the noise originated. There, below me, was a fallen branch of a wood I have never seen before or since. It was old, though, like the wood of a great cathedral, the kind that goes gray and petrifies hard as rock. And along the side of the log was a small mouth, no bigger than my coin purse, that sang and babbled for all the forest to hear. There were no eyes and the thing never breathed, but the constant stream of madness flowing from those lips was strong and the sight of something so particularly maddening froze my mind and body. The outsides of my vision darkened as I stared. I remember wanting to turn away, but also of wanting to look on and study such a thing for the bizarrity it was.
Where the log came from, I’ll never know. As I stood against that tree, unable to look away or move on I felt a sharp and sudden pressure at the base of my skull. Then my world went black as another voice joined the babbling with a malicious cackle.
Losing that locket has led me to greater sorrow than anything else I have lost in this affair. I would lose every other scrap of possession I owned. I would lose my identity. My mind. But that locket was everything to me. It was a connection to my Rose across the sea.
I left clutching that locket and set out for the wilds. My memory has always been fairly strong, so I didn't need to use the map but a few times to regain my bearings. With the sun still low in the eastern sky, the shadows and perspective were almost innocent for such an untamed place. I did my best to allow me senses to lose themselves in the beauty while trying to stay aware of the dangers that could lurk around any tree.
Rumors had reached me of the rogue bands of thieves, highwaymen, murderers, and rapists who had traveled like the rest of us across the Atlantic to seek new beginnings in this place. For whatever reasons, their new beginnings held a nefarious tone, and a litter of bodies were found regularly through the wilderness. As yet Boston still had no real rule of law other than a loose militia, the king’s men (who cared more for drinking themselves stupid than assisting the citizens they were assigned to protect), and those brave rangers who did their best to preserve civility and order by punishing those who committed wrong-doings.
But I was young and stupid. I assumed the sword at my hip, the only piece of my father I had left, would be more than enough to deal with vagabonds and thieves.
I was wrong.
I reached the spot before midday and knew immediately something had changed. I was no tracker, not by any means, but there were portions of tall grass near the bank that were laid flat where I knew I had not been. I could see shapes in the mud and assumed them to be footprints, leading into and out of the water of the river. But most peculiar of all was a bit of flint that had been placed on top of the boulder.
At least, I thought it was flint at the time. The color was dark, stained by something almost to being black. And whether flint or some other mineral, it was chiseled back to form an edge and a point.
I had no idea what it was when I found it, but being young and stupid, it didn't keep me from pocketing it for future research. Had I considered that it was purposefully left for me, I may have thought twice. Had I known then what I know now I’d have left that thing on the rock where I found it, marched back to Boston, and set sail with the first ship leaving for Europe. But I didn't know. How could I?
I began my search by walking in the direction the centaur’s arrow pointed, which meant crossing the river. While no easy feat, it wasn't deep in this spot, and I made it across fine enough, albeit damp. The walk dried me as I made my way deeper into the land, taking breaks only to map my progress. Shadows danced with scarce beams of light the deeper into the forest I went, and I noticed for the first time that presence I mentioned before. That thrumming beat of dark life that intertwines itself through this land. I shrugged it off then, but I know it now for what it was and is.
The singing began once I was a league away from the boulder. It was discordant and lilting, like a violinist repeatedly sagging the bow. At first I thought it some critter calling out for its mate, but the further I went, the more I noticed the lack of regularity that would otherwise be present in nature. Yes, unnatural is the best way to describe the voice that echoed out through the trees.
I readied my sword, unsure who could be making such a song. Every few steps brought further clarity to the notes and eventually words that the singer sang. But they made no sense! Inarticulate babbling with a sentence or two of clear sanity before it went back into that maddening chant.
“Sing a song of six pence
In a wagon full of wool
Sat upon an eggman’s wall
Near a candle and a fool.
Twinkle went the little goose
Sent Georgie Porgie around the town.
Til Robin Red Breast baked whey,
Then ashes, ashes, they all burned down.
Burnt them with a searing kiss
And then my silence you will miss…”
And on it went, more than I could remember before I finally found its source.
Before I go further, I should mention that the light of the forest was dim at best with the broad canopy above, and while I have come to be presented with far more supernatural events in the past year than I can explain, this instance in particular engendered in me a fear for the broad world that I now realize is hidden within the wilds. It is the world that existed before we rooted out the darkness of Europe, spread our gift of fire and lit the night. We mapped out the nooks and crannies and did away with secrets, real secrets.
But here, in this place, there are nothing but secrets.
When I walked around the final tree, with the singing at its loudest level yet, I looked down to the ground to the place the noise originated. There, below me, was a fallen branch of a wood I have never seen before or since. It was old, though, like the wood of a great cathedral, the kind that goes gray and petrifies hard as rock. And along the side of the log was a small mouth, no bigger than my coin purse, that sang and babbled for all the forest to hear. There were no eyes and the thing never breathed, but the constant stream of madness flowing from those lips was strong and the sight of something so particularly maddening froze my mind and body. The outsides of my vision darkened as I stared. I remember wanting to turn away, but also of wanting to look on and study such a thing for the bizarrity it was.
Where the log came from, I’ll never know. As I stood against that tree, unable to look away or move on I felt a sharp and sudden pressure at the base of my skull. Then my world went black as another voice joined the babbling with a malicious cackle.
Entry Five - October 9, 1640
When I next awoke my wrists were bound. I was looking up at a man with gray hair and a wildness in his eyes like I had never seen before. And around his neck sat my Rose’s locket, along with a hundred others, each polished to a bright gleam that danced from the light of a nearby fire.
For several long moments we studied eachother. What he saw in me, I can only guess. My head throbbed to the beat of my heart and matching it was my pulse beating against the too-tight ropes that latched my arms together. The man, or rather the Chief as he would bid me to call him, was surprisingly small and lithe for the imposing aura he gave off. Dirt caked his unwashed hair and skin above the tattered breeches that clung to his hip bones.
“Hello, Whiteman,” said the Chief, grinning. Even in the dim light (night must have fallen for how dark it had become) the rot that covered his teeth, or those that remained, was clearly visible and the air buzzed with the soft hum of flies.
I didn’t immediately respond, a fact that seemed to please the man. He let out a wild laugh and leapt up from where he perched on a fallen log, landing a short span from where I sat.
“The Chief sees that the Whiteman is impressed. Though we are many steps from the Great Apple, the power of the forest beats in me. Can you feel it, Whiteman? Can you feel the Chief’s power all around us?”
And in truth, I could. Maybe not the Chief’s power, but I felt what I now know to be the true source of what lurks in the darkness of this place. I felt it like my own pulse against my skull. But it was not from the Chief. Now that he was closer, I could see rough tattoos done in red inks and blues, mapping out patterns across his chest. I had heard tales of native men and women living in tribes throughout the forests and plains of the New World, but had not yet seen one.
Even so, this was no native.
I had seen drawings of those who lived in the Americas long before I left for my voyage, and every account held certain features as the same. For one, the shape of this man’s face was long and pointed, and his skin, though ragged and unshaven, was pale like his hair. Those accounts I had heard told tales of tan men, with skin like red earth, or even brown like the skin of those in southern Spain.
More than his skin, though, was the flash of writing I had seen on his wrists when he leapt at me. It was partially covered by those colored inks, but I saw it clear enough. They were a series of numbers, tattooed in black. The man was a prisoner, likely escaped, and judging by his features, born of English blood.
I hadn’t pieced all this together just then; my mind was consumed with terror. Native or madman, I was his captive. He introduced himself as the Chief of some tribe to the northwest. He spit obscenities at the “Whiteman” for all he had wrought on his beautiful land. His rambling reminded me of the singing log I had seen earlier, but I didn’t dare let my thoughts drift with danger so close. The mystery of the log could wait – survival took precedence to curiosity.
“So does the Whiteman see why the Chief and his people cannot suffer the Whiteman to live? There will be no peace until you and your kind are gone from this place. Whether by boat-“ the Chief smiled a sickening smirk and reached behind his back to reveal a rusty hatchet that he wielded with deft prowess, “-or by diplomacy, the Chief will see you on your way.”
At the sight of a blade, I found my voice, though it wasn’t as strong or intimidating as I had hoped. I did not beg, but rather tried to calmly reason with the brute as best I could, trying to appeal to his humanity. He bloodied me for that, cracking the side of his hatchet across my skull and knocking me full to the ground, laughing all the while.
“How can’t the Whiteman see? How is he so blind? The serpent’s tongue that rattles around in his jaw has no effect on the great and noble Chief! Now, the time-”
The Chief had stopped talking. The silence was almost more terrifying than his words in the dark that formed behind my closed eyelids. When I opened my eyes despite the ringing pain in my head, I saw that he was staring at the ground where I lay, face frozen in a mixture of crazed emotions that I cannot begin to describe.
Chancing a glance, I saw that the bit of flint I had found on the boulder had tumbled out of my pocket and was laying clear on the grass, the rough, shiny surface dancing by the erratic light of the fire.
“This...this is not yours,” he said, the rough accent dropping slightly. “How did you find it?”
“I found it.” I didn’t want him to think me lying, so I answered quickly; but I also didn’t want him to know my true purpose out here. “I found it in a tree when making camp.”
The Chief only nodded, eyes transfixed on the figure on the ground.
“The Whiteman has brought a great treasure to the Chief and his people today. There will be much rejoicing in the tribe for many moons.” The Chief rose his eyes to look at me, something not done without some visible difficulty. When I met his stare, I could see that he had changed somewhat. Whatever madness decayed his mind has either stabled or shifted, but either way, if there was a time to act, it was then.
“Then may we sup, my Chief? May we eat to the gift I have brought your people?”
A shadow passed over the Chief’s face, and one eye twitched, but the reaction only lasted a moment before he rose straighter, folding his arms over his chest.
“And what is this? The Whiteman has never recognized the Chief before? Is this a trick, Whiteman? Does the Whiteman fantasize of scalping the Chief, hm? Ha!”
More laughter. Raising his legs, the Chief began to dance, all the while fishing through his neck full of lockets before bringing out a tattered leather strand, clinging to which were a dozen feathers. Turning his back to me, he walked over to the fire where I saw a rough table was set up, as well as a collection of crates and barrels beyond. After some time, he returned, and my bit of flint was placed prominently at the bottom of the necklace.
The Chief puffed out his chest like a child, smiling the first genuine smile I had seen in my company with the man.
“It is perfect. The winds and the trees and the rivers will speak of this reunification for seasons to come. Rise, Whiteman, and join me at the fire! You will have your last request, as you have earned the right to eat by the Chief’s side.”
The Chief walked away and left me to struggle to my feet, still tied as I was. I took the time to scour the ground but couldn’t find any kind of weapon. By the time I reached the fire, the Chief had returned from one of his many containers with two bowls full of something brown. Forcing me to the ground, he dodged behind me and I felt the lines connecting my wrists break free. Placing the bowl in my hands, he backed away with a bowl of his own and sat across the fire, sharing his attention between me and his own bowl.
“The Whiteman must be starved of nutrients with his poor diet. The Chief brings the only food necessary to survive, offered up from mother earth herself. Eat, Whiteman. Eat and grow strong like the Chief.”
Then the Chief began to feed, fingering out the contents and dropping them into his open mouth. He barely chewed and after the first swallow let out a hearty laugh. “And such a pleasing taste. Mother earth is too kind to us. Eat!”
I looked down at my own bowl, but was unable to initially make out what sat within. It almost resembled a pudding, but with whole roots mixed in and bark. I fingered the mixture, but remembering my position, hastily scooped up a small handful and brought it to my nose. It smelled of moist dirt, and judging by the texture certainly had a lot of it in there. The roots were wet, no doubt boiled.
Not wanting to insult my host, I quickly mimicked his motion, tilting my head back, opening my mouth, and draining my hand down my open mouth. It slid surprisingly easily down my gullet, despite the awful taste. Still, my stomach gave a threatening heave, wanting to reject the recent delivery, but somehow I kept it down to more laughter from across the fire.
“It is good, Whiteman! Best you’ll ever eat!”
I gave the man a weak smile and tried for another scoop. But when I did, I felt something move. Fearing spiders or mice, I pulled my hand back out of the mixture and peered closely.
Initially I saw nothing - just the dark soil-like substance and the roots. And then one of the roots twitched. And another. With a pulsating nausea that began rhythmically in my gut, I took two fingers, covered with what I was now sure was actually dirt, and reached in to grab on of the moving ingredients.
At first it hung limp and I started a quiet prayer of being afraid of a boiled root. But no sooner had I begun to pray than it curled and twisted as I held it, fighting against my grip in a twisting wrestle. I could clearly see the segmented body now, the translucent, boneless body by the light of the fire. Twisting over itself again and again, the worm sought the soil from which it had been pulled.
Beneath it, the other worms had all awoken, or so it seemed, for the bowl and its dirt quaked with life. The worm dropped from my fingers, twisting atop the dirt.
I was too shocked for words, too shocked to control the bile clawing its way up my gullet. From the other side of the bonfire, the Chief was howling like a mad dog in his glee over my reaction. My eyes found him, searching for something that wouldn't make me think of what I had just consumed, but he had been waiting for me and let loose another handful of worms and dirt into his waiting jaws. This time he chewed, and I could see bits of the masticated goo ooze out from his thin, chapped lips.
Dropping the bowl, I turned away from the fire and let loose the contents of my stomach. As my body shook with revulsion, the worms filled my mind’s eye so that all the world was a writhing pit and me in its center. I could feel them from the dropped bowl, squirming over my fingers, in my belly, in my throat.
I made sick until my throat felt nothing but a numb burn. My head pounded from the two blows and this new incident and my mind swam when I tried to right myself. Closing my eyes helped and so I used the moment to steady my position until I could return to sit where I had been.
I opened my eyes to see the Chief had moved and was next to me again, holding out his bowl with a dark grin.
“You are too impure for the gifts of mother earth, Whiteman. You will try again. And this time, you will keep down the worms or I will slice open your gut and stuff you with them.”
I shook. I shook with fear and disgust, but still I reached for the bowl. I had almost gripped it in my hand when a noise like a steamer horn bellowed out from behind the Chief. He dropped the bowl and spun around, his hatchet whipping out in a flash. Another roar.
Twigs and branches snapped and broke in the darkness as some great form lumbered into our view. The steps crunched into the forest floor, and though my senses were raw, I could feel each stamp as a great weight against the protesting dirt beneath me.
“You are in luck, Whiteman. The dinner of peace must be cut short. The Chief will collect your scalp after he treats with his brother. Watch how diplomacy unfolds in the Lumberwoods.”
My mind was still a haze from vomiting, but from beyond the Chief I could see something great and brown make its way into the clearing. More than twenty hands high on all four paws and over 2,000 stones in weight, the great brown bear walked unwavering with black eyes staring straight ahead at the Chief. Again it roared, and I could feel the power of it shake me to my core. I felt faint again, and fought to stay awake.
I knew this would be the last chance I would get to escape the mad Chief. Then the bear rose to its hind legs and the Chief laughed out a roar of his own and lunged at the creature.
I did not remain to see what happened next, but as I stumbled out of the clearing in the opposite direction, the laughs of the chief led way to screams; whether the screams belonged to animal or man, I couldn't tell. Louder and louder the screams grew until distance forced them to fade. And I ran and ran. I ran like death ran at my heels, and I believe it truly did on that night. I ran until I couldn't breathe. I passed through streams and thickets, tripped over roots and logs, but I did not stop then. I ran throughout the night.
I do not remember stopping, but when I awoke the next morning, I was whole and alone. And softly, silently, I cried.
For several long moments we studied eachother. What he saw in me, I can only guess. My head throbbed to the beat of my heart and matching it was my pulse beating against the too-tight ropes that latched my arms together. The man, or rather the Chief as he would bid me to call him, was surprisingly small and lithe for the imposing aura he gave off. Dirt caked his unwashed hair and skin above the tattered breeches that clung to his hip bones.
“Hello, Whiteman,” said the Chief, grinning. Even in the dim light (night must have fallen for how dark it had become) the rot that covered his teeth, or those that remained, was clearly visible and the air buzzed with the soft hum of flies.
I didn’t immediately respond, a fact that seemed to please the man. He let out a wild laugh and leapt up from where he perched on a fallen log, landing a short span from where I sat.
“The Chief sees that the Whiteman is impressed. Though we are many steps from the Great Apple, the power of the forest beats in me. Can you feel it, Whiteman? Can you feel the Chief’s power all around us?”
And in truth, I could. Maybe not the Chief’s power, but I felt what I now know to be the true source of what lurks in the darkness of this place. I felt it like my own pulse against my skull. But it was not from the Chief. Now that he was closer, I could see rough tattoos done in red inks and blues, mapping out patterns across his chest. I had heard tales of native men and women living in tribes throughout the forests and plains of the New World, but had not yet seen one.
Even so, this was no native.
I had seen drawings of those who lived in the Americas long before I left for my voyage, and every account held certain features as the same. For one, the shape of this man’s face was long and pointed, and his skin, though ragged and unshaven, was pale like his hair. Those accounts I had heard told tales of tan men, with skin like red earth, or even brown like the skin of those in southern Spain.
More than his skin, though, was the flash of writing I had seen on his wrists when he leapt at me. It was partially covered by those colored inks, but I saw it clear enough. They were a series of numbers, tattooed in black. The man was a prisoner, likely escaped, and judging by his features, born of English blood.
I hadn’t pieced all this together just then; my mind was consumed with terror. Native or madman, I was his captive. He introduced himself as the Chief of some tribe to the northwest. He spit obscenities at the “Whiteman” for all he had wrought on his beautiful land. His rambling reminded me of the singing log I had seen earlier, but I didn’t dare let my thoughts drift with danger so close. The mystery of the log could wait – survival took precedence to curiosity.
“So does the Whiteman see why the Chief and his people cannot suffer the Whiteman to live? There will be no peace until you and your kind are gone from this place. Whether by boat-“ the Chief smiled a sickening smirk and reached behind his back to reveal a rusty hatchet that he wielded with deft prowess, “-or by diplomacy, the Chief will see you on your way.”
At the sight of a blade, I found my voice, though it wasn’t as strong or intimidating as I had hoped. I did not beg, but rather tried to calmly reason with the brute as best I could, trying to appeal to his humanity. He bloodied me for that, cracking the side of his hatchet across my skull and knocking me full to the ground, laughing all the while.
“How can’t the Whiteman see? How is he so blind? The serpent’s tongue that rattles around in his jaw has no effect on the great and noble Chief! Now, the time-”
The Chief had stopped talking. The silence was almost more terrifying than his words in the dark that formed behind my closed eyelids. When I opened my eyes despite the ringing pain in my head, I saw that he was staring at the ground where I lay, face frozen in a mixture of crazed emotions that I cannot begin to describe.
Chancing a glance, I saw that the bit of flint I had found on the boulder had tumbled out of my pocket and was laying clear on the grass, the rough, shiny surface dancing by the erratic light of the fire.
“This...this is not yours,” he said, the rough accent dropping slightly. “How did you find it?”
“I found it.” I didn’t want him to think me lying, so I answered quickly; but I also didn’t want him to know my true purpose out here. “I found it in a tree when making camp.”
The Chief only nodded, eyes transfixed on the figure on the ground.
“The Whiteman has brought a great treasure to the Chief and his people today. There will be much rejoicing in the tribe for many moons.” The Chief rose his eyes to look at me, something not done without some visible difficulty. When I met his stare, I could see that he had changed somewhat. Whatever madness decayed his mind has either stabled or shifted, but either way, if there was a time to act, it was then.
“Then may we sup, my Chief? May we eat to the gift I have brought your people?”
A shadow passed over the Chief’s face, and one eye twitched, but the reaction only lasted a moment before he rose straighter, folding his arms over his chest.
“And what is this? The Whiteman has never recognized the Chief before? Is this a trick, Whiteman? Does the Whiteman fantasize of scalping the Chief, hm? Ha!”
More laughter. Raising his legs, the Chief began to dance, all the while fishing through his neck full of lockets before bringing out a tattered leather strand, clinging to which were a dozen feathers. Turning his back to me, he walked over to the fire where I saw a rough table was set up, as well as a collection of crates and barrels beyond. After some time, he returned, and my bit of flint was placed prominently at the bottom of the necklace.
The Chief puffed out his chest like a child, smiling the first genuine smile I had seen in my company with the man.
“It is perfect. The winds and the trees and the rivers will speak of this reunification for seasons to come. Rise, Whiteman, and join me at the fire! You will have your last request, as you have earned the right to eat by the Chief’s side.”
The Chief walked away and left me to struggle to my feet, still tied as I was. I took the time to scour the ground but couldn’t find any kind of weapon. By the time I reached the fire, the Chief had returned from one of his many containers with two bowls full of something brown. Forcing me to the ground, he dodged behind me and I felt the lines connecting my wrists break free. Placing the bowl in my hands, he backed away with a bowl of his own and sat across the fire, sharing his attention between me and his own bowl.
“The Whiteman must be starved of nutrients with his poor diet. The Chief brings the only food necessary to survive, offered up from mother earth herself. Eat, Whiteman. Eat and grow strong like the Chief.”
Then the Chief began to feed, fingering out the contents and dropping them into his open mouth. He barely chewed and after the first swallow let out a hearty laugh. “And such a pleasing taste. Mother earth is too kind to us. Eat!”
I looked down at my own bowl, but was unable to initially make out what sat within. It almost resembled a pudding, but with whole roots mixed in and bark. I fingered the mixture, but remembering my position, hastily scooped up a small handful and brought it to my nose. It smelled of moist dirt, and judging by the texture certainly had a lot of it in there. The roots were wet, no doubt boiled.
Not wanting to insult my host, I quickly mimicked his motion, tilting my head back, opening my mouth, and draining my hand down my open mouth. It slid surprisingly easily down my gullet, despite the awful taste. Still, my stomach gave a threatening heave, wanting to reject the recent delivery, but somehow I kept it down to more laughter from across the fire.
“It is good, Whiteman! Best you’ll ever eat!”
I gave the man a weak smile and tried for another scoop. But when I did, I felt something move. Fearing spiders or mice, I pulled my hand back out of the mixture and peered closely.
Initially I saw nothing - just the dark soil-like substance and the roots. And then one of the roots twitched. And another. With a pulsating nausea that began rhythmically in my gut, I took two fingers, covered with what I was now sure was actually dirt, and reached in to grab on of the moving ingredients.
At first it hung limp and I started a quiet prayer of being afraid of a boiled root. But no sooner had I begun to pray than it curled and twisted as I held it, fighting against my grip in a twisting wrestle. I could clearly see the segmented body now, the translucent, boneless body by the light of the fire. Twisting over itself again and again, the worm sought the soil from which it had been pulled.
Beneath it, the other worms had all awoken, or so it seemed, for the bowl and its dirt quaked with life. The worm dropped from my fingers, twisting atop the dirt.
I was too shocked for words, too shocked to control the bile clawing its way up my gullet. From the other side of the bonfire, the Chief was howling like a mad dog in his glee over my reaction. My eyes found him, searching for something that wouldn't make me think of what I had just consumed, but he had been waiting for me and let loose another handful of worms and dirt into his waiting jaws. This time he chewed, and I could see bits of the masticated goo ooze out from his thin, chapped lips.
Dropping the bowl, I turned away from the fire and let loose the contents of my stomach. As my body shook with revulsion, the worms filled my mind’s eye so that all the world was a writhing pit and me in its center. I could feel them from the dropped bowl, squirming over my fingers, in my belly, in my throat.
I made sick until my throat felt nothing but a numb burn. My head pounded from the two blows and this new incident and my mind swam when I tried to right myself. Closing my eyes helped and so I used the moment to steady my position until I could return to sit where I had been.
I opened my eyes to see the Chief had moved and was next to me again, holding out his bowl with a dark grin.
“You are too impure for the gifts of mother earth, Whiteman. You will try again. And this time, you will keep down the worms or I will slice open your gut and stuff you with them.”
I shook. I shook with fear and disgust, but still I reached for the bowl. I had almost gripped it in my hand when a noise like a steamer horn bellowed out from behind the Chief. He dropped the bowl and spun around, his hatchet whipping out in a flash. Another roar.
Twigs and branches snapped and broke in the darkness as some great form lumbered into our view. The steps crunched into the forest floor, and though my senses were raw, I could feel each stamp as a great weight against the protesting dirt beneath me.
“You are in luck, Whiteman. The dinner of peace must be cut short. The Chief will collect your scalp after he treats with his brother. Watch how diplomacy unfolds in the Lumberwoods.”
My mind was still a haze from vomiting, but from beyond the Chief I could see something great and brown make its way into the clearing. More than twenty hands high on all four paws and over 2,000 stones in weight, the great brown bear walked unwavering with black eyes staring straight ahead at the Chief. Again it roared, and I could feel the power of it shake me to my core. I felt faint again, and fought to stay awake.
I knew this would be the last chance I would get to escape the mad Chief. Then the bear rose to its hind legs and the Chief laughed out a roar of his own and lunged at the creature.
I did not remain to see what happened next, but as I stumbled out of the clearing in the opposite direction, the laughs of the chief led way to screams; whether the screams belonged to animal or man, I couldn't tell. Louder and louder the screams grew until distance forced them to fade. And I ran and ran. I ran like death ran at my heels, and I believe it truly did on that night. I ran until I couldn't breathe. I passed through streams and thickets, tripped over roots and logs, but I did not stop then. I ran throughout the night.
I do not remember stopping, but when I awoke the next morning, I was whole and alone. And softly, silently, I cried.
Entry Six - October 24, 1640
Today I left the house. For the first time in days I have the strength to do so. This place, the air, something here saps at me. My recollections in the last entry forced me to shelve this journal like so many others. I had Mildred put it with the crate so I wouldn't have to look at it until I was ready.
She has gone into town now to buy the things we need to exist out here. After my run-in with the Chief, I wandered for miles in the middle of nowhere. I scrounged and dug under roots for mushrooms and lichens that I knew to be safe. I found a few farms and helped myself to their supplies. In my heart, I could not bring myself to call for help of the people who may have lived within. The first farm was cold, abandoned. The gate stood open and I walked inside. A field full of cabbages grew nearby, and although I detest the bitter leaf, I helped myself to a head. Wary of prying eyes, I skirted my way behind a chicken coop, hoping that I might be able to regain my bearings.
The cadaver sat, propped against the stone hedge, staring at me with eyes of ink. The clothes that hung loose on the bones of the corpse was once rich and fine material. A shovel lay across the lap of the man - a man, I knew, for the beard hairs still clung to the taut skin of his jaw.
It may have been the residual shock of what I had experienced, but I did not immediately react. Instead, I stared. I stared at the graying flesh of the face, where the skin parted to reveal the yellowed bulge of a cheekbone. I saw the teeth, some missing within the slack jaw. I saw the marks where rats had begun to gnaw at the body’s pant leg and ankle. A sharp image of an eye, surely some kind of crafter’s mark, on the shovel’s handle. I saw everything and I see it now just as clearly. But I could never have known what it was that I was seeing - not then. Not yet.
I did not remain on that farm. It may have been safe, I think to myself now. I may have been able to collect supplies to attempt to find my way back to Boston. But something felt...wrong there, like the cloud of death itself had claimed the homestead. The next was no better, though life did still exist within its fenced-off barrier. There was a couple, stooped over their labors. Both were hunched and walked with an ancient weight, but neither were old. Their sallow faces playing out a misery that I have felt.
At that time, I was still too afraid of what I had seen in these woods to call out for help, but even if I had, I doubt they could have done anything. They toiled like slaves, making no comment or motion toward even acknowledging the other. The scene was surreal, and even with the mechanical lifelessness inside, I felt the beat of the forest heart strongly. It called out for me to join the work, to submit. I cast the idea out as I retreated from my perch near the fence, but not before spotting another eye carved on the post, low near the ground. It was roughly hewn, but identical to the one on the handle of the farmer’s shovel.
That the same craftsman would use the same mark for both items is believable, but these were woods-people. They cut their own trees and set their own fencing. The tools they used were produced from their own hands. It was too unlikely.
Once, when I was younger, I took a trip to the old east, visiting a relative who was on extended holiday in the Romanian countryside. He led me through the local thoroughfare, visiting merchants and sh
ops. It was extraordinary, and the curios were unlike anything I had seen elsewhere. At night,w e would visit the local common-house, and the village elders would tell stories of ages past, local legends and lore.
There is a myth of the evil eye and its power to affect the world around it when cast, as though it is some kind of natural phenomenon or spell. As I walked on and thought of the symbol, my mind turned toward those stories that I had originally considered childish superstition. But the more I thought, the more I began to scare myself, and I decided to first focus on surviving my way out of the wilderness. Then, should there be time and health, I would think more on the eye and its meanings.
I hadn't realized I was being followed until the next day. It was past noon and I had just made my way through a shallow river when I heard the steady, even paced cracklings of footsteps across a leaf-strewn floor. Instead of shuffling up the steep bank, I rolled as quietly as I could to the side, laying myself beneath a flowering bush, the lower half of my body completely submerged and the rest hidden behind its needled canopy. through the branches, I watch the opposite bank, hoping to see a doe or squirrel.What I saw instead was a man.
For a moment, my eyes registered the wild white hair and crazed eyes of the Chief staring directly at me, hatchet in hand. The urge to run took hold of my limbs and my legs convulsed with the force of my fear. In the space of a heartbeat, though, my eyes overruled the falsehoods of my brain. It was a man, but not the Chief. This one was covered in furs, hair dark as fresh humus, with a great brown beard. The skins over his shoulders were many and thick, and I had no doubt that he had earned each token on the hunt. There were no weapons visible as he stood on the other bank, looking across to where I would have been.
With bounding steps he crossed the river and stopped. I could hear his breathing, slow and Deep like the rumble of coming thunder, or the growl of some unseen beast lurking through the underbrush. I could have reached out and grabbed his leg, he was so close. But I didn't, of course. I didn't move, didn't breathe. I just lay there from my hiding place, watching, wondering if he would find me and end my life.
Then he climbed up the bank and his footsteps grew quieter until they were gone.
I must pause in my recollection. A man was just at the door asking after Mildred. She is not too old for a caller, by any means, but I question the propriety of the man. His hair was unkempt and cheek unshaven. He spoke cleanly enough, and maybe it is the recollections setting me on edge, but my instinct draws me back to the book. It wasn't long after the incident in the river that I found it, lying abandoned in a stump, covered in - no, I can’t think of it. Not yet.
The day grows dim. Mildred will be home soon to cook supper. She commented on my writing recently, asked to read what I was so interested in jotting down. I didn't let her, of course. Now I hide this journal, for fear that she will discover the truth behind those autumn nights when I spirited myself away to practice the Devil’s work.
She has gone into town now to buy the things we need to exist out here. After my run-in with the Chief, I wandered for miles in the middle of nowhere. I scrounged and dug under roots for mushrooms and lichens that I knew to be safe. I found a few farms and helped myself to their supplies. In my heart, I could not bring myself to call for help of the people who may have lived within. The first farm was cold, abandoned. The gate stood open and I walked inside. A field full of cabbages grew nearby, and although I detest the bitter leaf, I helped myself to a head. Wary of prying eyes, I skirted my way behind a chicken coop, hoping that I might be able to regain my bearings.
The cadaver sat, propped against the stone hedge, staring at me with eyes of ink. The clothes that hung loose on the bones of the corpse was once rich and fine material. A shovel lay across the lap of the man - a man, I knew, for the beard hairs still clung to the taut skin of his jaw.
It may have been the residual shock of what I had experienced, but I did not immediately react. Instead, I stared. I stared at the graying flesh of the face, where the skin parted to reveal the yellowed bulge of a cheekbone. I saw the teeth, some missing within the slack jaw. I saw the marks where rats had begun to gnaw at the body’s pant leg and ankle. A sharp image of an eye, surely some kind of crafter’s mark, on the shovel’s handle. I saw everything and I see it now just as clearly. But I could never have known what it was that I was seeing - not then. Not yet.
I did not remain on that farm. It may have been safe, I think to myself now. I may have been able to collect supplies to attempt to find my way back to Boston. But something felt...wrong there, like the cloud of death itself had claimed the homestead. The next was no better, though life did still exist within its fenced-off barrier. There was a couple, stooped over their labors. Both were hunched and walked with an ancient weight, but neither were old. Their sallow faces playing out a misery that I have felt.
At that time, I was still too afraid of what I had seen in these woods to call out for help, but even if I had, I doubt they could have done anything. They toiled like slaves, making no comment or motion toward even acknowledging the other. The scene was surreal, and even with the mechanical lifelessness inside, I felt the beat of the forest heart strongly. It called out for me to join the work, to submit. I cast the idea out as I retreated from my perch near the fence, but not before spotting another eye carved on the post, low near the ground. It was roughly hewn, but identical to the one on the handle of the farmer’s shovel.
That the same craftsman would use the same mark for both items is believable, but these were woods-people. They cut their own trees and set their own fencing. The tools they used were produced from their own hands. It was too unlikely.
Once, when I was younger, I took a trip to the old east, visiting a relative who was on extended holiday in the Romanian countryside. He led me through the local thoroughfare, visiting merchants and sh
ops. It was extraordinary, and the curios were unlike anything I had seen elsewhere. At night,w e would visit the local common-house, and the village elders would tell stories of ages past, local legends and lore.
There is a myth of the evil eye and its power to affect the world around it when cast, as though it is some kind of natural phenomenon or spell. As I walked on and thought of the symbol, my mind turned toward those stories that I had originally considered childish superstition. But the more I thought, the more I began to scare myself, and I decided to first focus on surviving my way out of the wilderness. Then, should there be time and health, I would think more on the eye and its meanings.
I hadn't realized I was being followed until the next day. It was past noon and I had just made my way through a shallow river when I heard the steady, even paced cracklings of footsteps across a leaf-strewn floor. Instead of shuffling up the steep bank, I rolled as quietly as I could to the side, laying myself beneath a flowering bush, the lower half of my body completely submerged and the rest hidden behind its needled canopy. through the branches, I watch the opposite bank, hoping to see a doe or squirrel.What I saw instead was a man.
For a moment, my eyes registered the wild white hair and crazed eyes of the Chief staring directly at me, hatchet in hand. The urge to run took hold of my limbs and my legs convulsed with the force of my fear. In the space of a heartbeat, though, my eyes overruled the falsehoods of my brain. It was a man, but not the Chief. This one was covered in furs, hair dark as fresh humus, with a great brown beard. The skins over his shoulders were many and thick, and I had no doubt that he had earned each token on the hunt. There were no weapons visible as he stood on the other bank, looking across to where I would have been.
With bounding steps he crossed the river and stopped. I could hear his breathing, slow and Deep like the rumble of coming thunder, or the growl of some unseen beast lurking through the underbrush. I could have reached out and grabbed his leg, he was so close. But I didn't, of course. I didn't move, didn't breathe. I just lay there from my hiding place, watching, wondering if he would find me and end my life.
Then he climbed up the bank and his footsteps grew quieter until they were gone.
I must pause in my recollection. A man was just at the door asking after Mildred. She is not too old for a caller, by any means, but I question the propriety of the man. His hair was unkempt and cheek unshaven. He spoke cleanly enough, and maybe it is the recollections setting me on edge, but my instinct draws me back to the book. It wasn't long after the incident in the river that I found it, lying abandoned in a stump, covered in - no, I can’t think of it. Not yet.
The day grows dim. Mildred will be home soon to cook supper. She commented on my writing recently, asked to read what I was so interested in jotting down. I didn't let her, of course. Now I hide this journal, for fear that she will discover the truth behind those autumn nights when I spirited myself away to practice the Devil’s work.
Entry Seven - October 31, 1640
My last entry has plagued my mind for all this time. I have not been able to sleep for the power of those recollected memories. Each time I linger behind the twilight of my eyelids, ready to plunge into the inky black unconscious sea, I am jolted awake as though I were stabbed with a hot poker. And those few times when I inadvertently dipped into the abyss, I have been assaulted with the most horrible of dreams. I need more time; time to formulate my thoughts and shake the image of the Chief’s worm-ridden maw grinning at me from behind a mask of mud and filth.
Besides, there are more pressing things to consider. I have given Mildred off to make a sojourn to town to obtain the blessings of the preacher, but I regret the decision with each passing moment. Today is known to be a day where the forest writhes nearby, more powerful than ever.
I can feel them. I see their faces as they stare in through the windows. Would that I could believe it was my fevered brain playing me for addled, but I know better! For now they are kept at bay, though I know not how. I dread that they will find a way in, finding me in this state.
My sole excursion for today has been to retrieve the chest. It sits open and accusing, its contents on my lap. The book beats with a rhythm all its own, different from that of the forest around us, but very similar. There is a power inside - but no, I must not think on that. I must get better. I must put what I have done from my mind. But the spirits, they can’t stand the book. Their aversion is even stronger than my own, and already I feel less of them.
Already there are so many dead in this “new” land. Scouts for years have reported entire native villages that stand devoid of life, littered with bones. We have had our scuffles with the people of this land, but nothing like what has been seen by the men who travel through these forests. So much death, and no one knows how. There are no great battlefields to explain it away. The villages have not been razed. Hearing the accounts reminds me of the readings from my childhood of the plagues that swept through Europe. The thought that such a force could do so much damage to the savages is chilling.
But their deaths are not the only ones that have nourished the soil of the forests and hills. Death is commonplace among the colonists and settlers. It is a natural progression of life, almost like it is expected. We traded our lives of civilization for the adventure of poisonous mushrooms and snake venom. And for what? There are no riches here. No law. No society. Only power, to be taken by the strong and unconscionable.
Already the stones of my home have begun to crack. When last I was out, I saw that the entire foundation would need to be reset at cost. Silver coins to pay the toll, a pint of blood to sate him. The rest of the poem escapes me, but its message rings true. I may pay for this small piece of land in coins of silver and gold, but my blood will be the true compensation.
Despite my fears, I feel that I can - no, should - progress with my story. The best is yet to come, dear reader, and the next portion deals with my meeting of Mildred. I remained on the bank of that river for quite some time, listening for the woodsman to return and take the flesh off my bones for another pelt in his collection. But time wavered on, and I neither heard nor saw another sign of the intimidating foe.
It was a splash from downriver that caught my attention. The fiend! He had circled around and hoped to catch me unawares by traveling along the babbling of the waters. But that splash, I had certainly heard it clear enough, and it was no ordinary piece of the pattern that was the river’s course. A chill had begun to seep into the heart of me and I knew that if I waited much longer beneath the rolling waves of that waterway I would never warm again.
Behind me was a thick branch that matched my wrist in width. Wielding it, fingers digging through the moist, flaking bark to grip the solid wood beneath, I waited. Minutes passed and I became worried that my mind was playing tricks on me. It wouldn’t be hard to believe, given what I had been through, but I couldn’t let my guard waver! That hulking brute would use any opportunity, any flaw in my defense, and easily. The next splash, for it was certainly a splash, reaffirmed my caution, and I prepared to strike from beneath the brush.
From where I hid, I saw something brown that appeared to be a sopping pant leg as a cascade of ripples followed its movement. Putting what remaining strength I had into my legs, I rolled forward and lunged forward, crying a bestial snarl that no sane man could have matched. Both I and the figure fell into the water in a bundle of thrashing limbs. He was surprisingly frail for such a large man, but I continued to fight in the blinding cold water, ever roiling to get the upper hand.
I could feel my hand around his throat and his around mine. In a strange moment of cooperation, both of our breath seeming to have run out, we worked as one, each trying to reach the surface but unwilling to release the other. We broke the surface with frantic gasps, and though water dripped unhindered down my eyes, I felt shock at what I saw. The man, the great brute, was none other than a slender young woman in a brown dress.
I immediately attempted to let go, but she had made no misconception in my attack and was still ready to defend herself ‘til death. Despite my hurried protestations, I earned a scratch under one eye and a curled fist to the jaw. Then, as smooth as a gentleman may draw a pocket watch, she brought a rifle out from a strap around her shoulder and leveled it at my face.
I explained everything then, the words tumbling from me like the water from my hair. Whatever the outcome, I couldn’t bear it any longer. Too much had happened, too many evils had I witnessed and gone through. Whether she decided to shoot or not, I had to say it all, tell someone what I had gone through and seen and done. And though she initially showed no sign of wanting to listen, she did. Her hardened face grew soft, but as I said, her demeanor wasn’t important to me at that point. Still, I noted a focusing of her eyes when I mentioned the boulder with “Sagitta” chiseled into it. Speaking of it gave me pause. Could it have been so recently that I set off in search of deeper truths with all I had already seen?
By the time I had finished, her gun had been lowered.
“My name is Mildred,” she said, tipping the barrel further as a stream of water leaked out. “And thanks to you the powder’s wet and this is hardly more than a dull metal tube. Let’s get out of the water, shall we?”
We both decided on the opposite bank from where I had seen the huntsman go and not far along we found a clearing and built a small fire to dry our wet clothes. As I had said all there was to say of my own adventure, I remained silent and ashamed of my behavior in our first meeting. She stayed quiet as well, busying herself with drying our gear.
I would say we’ve been together ever since, but the story of our meeting is not so simple as that. Nor was she, for I found out that her adventures had been even darker than mine. But though at the time I knew little of her past, she made for excellent company on the roads ahead, for darkness was fast approaching and any hope I had of returning to the life I once knew was weakening with the dying light of the sun.
Besides, there are more pressing things to consider. I have given Mildred off to make a sojourn to town to obtain the blessings of the preacher, but I regret the decision with each passing moment. Today is known to be a day where the forest writhes nearby, more powerful than ever.
I can feel them. I see their faces as they stare in through the windows. Would that I could believe it was my fevered brain playing me for addled, but I know better! For now they are kept at bay, though I know not how. I dread that they will find a way in, finding me in this state.
My sole excursion for today has been to retrieve the chest. It sits open and accusing, its contents on my lap. The book beats with a rhythm all its own, different from that of the forest around us, but very similar. There is a power inside - but no, I must not think on that. I must get better. I must put what I have done from my mind. But the spirits, they can’t stand the book. Their aversion is even stronger than my own, and already I feel less of them.
Already there are so many dead in this “new” land. Scouts for years have reported entire native villages that stand devoid of life, littered with bones. We have had our scuffles with the people of this land, but nothing like what has been seen by the men who travel through these forests. So much death, and no one knows how. There are no great battlefields to explain it away. The villages have not been razed. Hearing the accounts reminds me of the readings from my childhood of the plagues that swept through Europe. The thought that such a force could do so much damage to the savages is chilling.
But their deaths are not the only ones that have nourished the soil of the forests and hills. Death is commonplace among the colonists and settlers. It is a natural progression of life, almost like it is expected. We traded our lives of civilization for the adventure of poisonous mushrooms and snake venom. And for what? There are no riches here. No law. No society. Only power, to be taken by the strong and unconscionable.
Already the stones of my home have begun to crack. When last I was out, I saw that the entire foundation would need to be reset at cost. Silver coins to pay the toll, a pint of blood to sate him. The rest of the poem escapes me, but its message rings true. I may pay for this small piece of land in coins of silver and gold, but my blood will be the true compensation.
Despite my fears, I feel that I can - no, should - progress with my story. The best is yet to come, dear reader, and the next portion deals with my meeting of Mildred. I remained on the bank of that river for quite some time, listening for the woodsman to return and take the flesh off my bones for another pelt in his collection. But time wavered on, and I neither heard nor saw another sign of the intimidating foe.
It was a splash from downriver that caught my attention. The fiend! He had circled around and hoped to catch me unawares by traveling along the babbling of the waters. But that splash, I had certainly heard it clear enough, and it was no ordinary piece of the pattern that was the river’s course. A chill had begun to seep into the heart of me and I knew that if I waited much longer beneath the rolling waves of that waterway I would never warm again.
Behind me was a thick branch that matched my wrist in width. Wielding it, fingers digging through the moist, flaking bark to grip the solid wood beneath, I waited. Minutes passed and I became worried that my mind was playing tricks on me. It wouldn’t be hard to believe, given what I had been through, but I couldn’t let my guard waver! That hulking brute would use any opportunity, any flaw in my defense, and easily. The next splash, for it was certainly a splash, reaffirmed my caution, and I prepared to strike from beneath the brush.
From where I hid, I saw something brown that appeared to be a sopping pant leg as a cascade of ripples followed its movement. Putting what remaining strength I had into my legs, I rolled forward and lunged forward, crying a bestial snarl that no sane man could have matched. Both I and the figure fell into the water in a bundle of thrashing limbs. He was surprisingly frail for such a large man, but I continued to fight in the blinding cold water, ever roiling to get the upper hand.
I could feel my hand around his throat and his around mine. In a strange moment of cooperation, both of our breath seeming to have run out, we worked as one, each trying to reach the surface but unwilling to release the other. We broke the surface with frantic gasps, and though water dripped unhindered down my eyes, I felt shock at what I saw. The man, the great brute, was none other than a slender young woman in a brown dress.
I immediately attempted to let go, but she had made no misconception in my attack and was still ready to defend herself ‘til death. Despite my hurried protestations, I earned a scratch under one eye and a curled fist to the jaw. Then, as smooth as a gentleman may draw a pocket watch, she brought a rifle out from a strap around her shoulder and leveled it at my face.
I explained everything then, the words tumbling from me like the water from my hair. Whatever the outcome, I couldn’t bear it any longer. Too much had happened, too many evils had I witnessed and gone through. Whether she decided to shoot or not, I had to say it all, tell someone what I had gone through and seen and done. And though she initially showed no sign of wanting to listen, she did. Her hardened face grew soft, but as I said, her demeanor wasn’t important to me at that point. Still, I noted a focusing of her eyes when I mentioned the boulder with “Sagitta” chiseled into it. Speaking of it gave me pause. Could it have been so recently that I set off in search of deeper truths with all I had already seen?
By the time I had finished, her gun had been lowered.
“My name is Mildred,” she said, tipping the barrel further as a stream of water leaked out. “And thanks to you the powder’s wet and this is hardly more than a dull metal tube. Let’s get out of the water, shall we?”
We both decided on the opposite bank from where I had seen the huntsman go and not far along we found a clearing and built a small fire to dry our wet clothes. As I had said all there was to say of my own adventure, I remained silent and ashamed of my behavior in our first meeting. She stayed quiet as well, busying herself with drying our gear.
I would say we’ve been together ever since, but the story of our meeting is not so simple as that. Nor was she, for I found out that her adventures had been even darker than mine. But though at the time I knew little of her past, she made for excellent company on the roads ahead, for darkness was fast approaching and any hope I had of returning to the life I once knew was weakening with the dying light of the sun.
Entry Eight - November 15, 1640
My health has again taken a turn. My mind escapes me for hours at a time and I am left in a sea of inky nothingness. It is not sleep, to be sure, for I do not dream during these spells. The world simply dims and I am left to float along listlessly beneath the down throw of my bed, wondering if I will die.
Mildred is cooking now, and the smell of turkey stew has surely made the house smell heavenly. Unfortunately with each turn of the ladle, I feel myself growing somehow weaker. I do not know how this could be possible, but I swear it’s true. Obviously I have taken to writing in her company now. I explained to her that it soothes my temperament and she has yet to again pry into the details. Oh, if only she knew who she resembled as she mixes the contents of that large soup crock, a long wooden spoon dancing in deft hands as clouded breaths rose above a rancid green glow.
But no. It’s too soon for that, and I am too unwell to begin there. Neither I nor Mildred slept during the night of our meeting, for fear of each other and the demons that haunted our waking minds. We both jumped to the snap of every twig, brush of leaves, or lamenting howl of the woodland beasts. When the morning sun broke through the misty haze that hung low over the tops of the forest’s trees, I recall feeling that I had passed the worst of it and that this meeting would bring me the respite I deserved after such hardships. And for a time, I was right.
Mildred (she made a vain attempt to have me call her “Milly” after our third day of trekking through that godforsaken forest, an invitation I humbly declined and have ever since) was born of a well-bred family from the isles of Britain. Her father had shares in a tobacco enterprise to the south and saw it fit to move his family to the New World in order to more closely associate himself with his business and monitor its progress. Mildred, adventurous even a young age, met the idea with great enthusiasm
The poor creature had become homeless when her family’s home caught fire due to a fault in the stove. I had heard of similar occurrences and shuddered to think of how many more there would be until masonry became commonplace. She had journeyed south for a time, intending to relocate to her father. However, she was robbed, and though she escaped, lost everything.
It was difficult to believe that such a slight girl could had survived in the wilderness as long as she. Then again, I realized, I was of a thin build myself, and there I stood. I wondered what she must think of me, a filthy wretch clinging to the skirts of his own sanity. Perhaps it was what I saw in her, that what stood before me was merely a pawn who had lost her board, thrown into the wastes of fallen pieces.
But I was not in a position to pity anyone. The only thing that separated me from an untimely death in the middle of nowhere were my wits, my jacket, and now my new companion.
I recall that it was day time when we found the next arrowhead. I, of course, had seen one before, but that had been taken from me by the Chief. We had just stopped near a great fallen tree for a rest in our journey. Mildred left to forage and returned with a handful of berries and one very familiar piece of chiseled flint.
“It’s an arrowhead!" she explained. "The natives make them to tip their spears and arrows for fighting. My father had a collection brought to him after the plantations were made. I never thought I’d find one myself, though.”
Seeing the object set my spine on edge, fear forcing me to glance around my shoulders. Was it the same? Could he have left it for us to find? Was he watching, waiting for the moment to strike out?
The idea was preposterous that the Chief could have followed us all this way. I’d sooner be worried about the hunter, but that was a week ago and we hadn’t seen a soul since. Despite this, terror clung frantically at my heart as I tried in vain to swallow it down.
Somehow, I managed to choke out the question that burned inside me.
"Where did you find it?"
She brought me to the place, a sunny spot free of trees. A single bush grew in the crack of a boulder, branches bearing the same fruit that Mildred had left back at our camp. At the base of the great rock, Meredith pointed to a spot on the ground that had been disturbed recently. She explained that the tip was pointing out and she saw its gleam from the sun as she walked to the bush.
Seeing no use in hiding it from her, I recited what I had previously explained about Sagitta and the boulder, adding that I had found a similar arrowhead at that location. This detail I had forgotten to add in my previous telling, not having found it important until now. But as I told the story, I let my eyes sweep over the clearing and immediately spotted four or five large stones and another boulder at the far end.
I couldn’t be sure without drawing it out, but somehow I knew that I stood before another constellation.
As I told the story, a look of wide-eyed interest took over Mildred’s countenance. Now she too gazed out across the grass, spotting the rocks. She admitted her ignorance to the field of astronomy and asked if there was a constellation here as well.
To speak it true, I was afraid. I was afraid to look through the rocks that jutted forth from the soil, afraid to find another name chiseled by some ancient hand on the stones. However, if there was any true relation to the such a constellation, he could work his may be able to work his way back to Boston. Then we could be out of this nightmarish adventure and I’d never leave my bedroom again.
It didn’t take long to find, and I wished I had been more surprised, but I could feel myself becoming desensitized to shock in this place. One word, written in the same rough form:
"Vega"
It was written on the back of the large boulder beneath which the arrowhead was planted. Climbing atop it, I looked out over the rest of the rocks and began connecting them with the imaginary lines scrawled in every star chart.
“It’s Lyra,” I told Mildred, sounding more confident than I wanted to. “The harp.”
Assuming my memory did not fail me and that the Sagitta written on the previous finding wasn’t actually the Sagitta constellation, an arrow pointing itself completely opposite Sagittarius, we were a great distance from home. I hadn’t considered the rock being anything other than the point of Sagittarius at the time because the stones lined up so well. But now I began to wonder at whether or not they lined up at all. In my internal debate, I lost all faith that I could with any hope guide us back.
Seeing my mood darken, Mildred offered to fix lunch while I pondered.
It was a clear day, so I still knew north from south and I could tell that the rocks were a direct reflection of how Lyra would be placed in the night sky. Both the Sagitta constellation and Saggitarius were due south. If there was any consistency, I determined, between this constellation and the last, then it must have been Sagittarius I discovered, for it pointed east, unlike Sagitta.
This meant I had been taken out further than I thought. Up to this point I had resisted the urge to turn east, find the coast, and follow it for fear that I would head in the wrong direction. Now, if the constellation on the ground was to be believed, I was north of Boston, most likely northwest.
I searched the area a while more for any trace of whomever had made the markings but found nothing but crickets and field mice. After a time, Mildred came with some berries and roots in a basket. Along the side of the basket was a small jar holding a piece of golden honeycomb, dripping its contents along the glass walls.
“I found a hive nearby, so I made a fire and smoked them for a bit, then took a piece.” My stunned silence forced a sheepish grin on her dirty face as she broke off a piece of the comb and handed it to me. I gratefully accepted and enjoyed the treat, suddenly much more appreciative of my companion’s ability to survive the wilderness than my own. Despite my best intentions, I made a terrible mess and we both enjoyed a brief laugh at my expense.
It was nice to hear laughter after so much hardship. I treasure the memory now, knowing in hindsight that I would not hear it for a long time after.
The day had been still, but a sudden breeze kicked up the leaves overhead. Birdsong was replaced by a gentle, shifting whisper. Normally a sound like this soothed me, reminded me of the long, slow summers of my childhood. But something was different with this wind and the sound it carried. It didn’t get louder as much as it became more insistent. The rhythm was so varied that it almost seemed as though the trees were attempting to speak. And I listened, or tried, but I couldn’t make out the warning in time.
Mildred’s head was tilted to the side as she smiled queerly at the leaves. “That’s a strange sound, isn’t it?”
That was all she said before a form darted out from a crevice beneath the boulder, sinking its fangs into her forearm and wrapping its tail to keep hold. She let out a cry of pain and surprise, tipping the basket of food in her haste to be away from the snake that clung to her.
I stood and rushed to her, grabbing the creature by both sides of its hinged skull, forcing the jaw open so I could remove it without ripping the skin. Her moans of pain were as quiet as the rustling leaves to me as I focused on minimizing the damage. I had no experience with snake bites, and I still don’t know how I knew what to do. What I do recall was knowing that if she died, I would again have to face the wilderness alone.
Mildred is cooking now, and the smell of turkey stew has surely made the house smell heavenly. Unfortunately with each turn of the ladle, I feel myself growing somehow weaker. I do not know how this could be possible, but I swear it’s true. Obviously I have taken to writing in her company now. I explained to her that it soothes my temperament and she has yet to again pry into the details. Oh, if only she knew who she resembled as she mixes the contents of that large soup crock, a long wooden spoon dancing in deft hands as clouded breaths rose above a rancid green glow.
But no. It’s too soon for that, and I am too unwell to begin there. Neither I nor Mildred slept during the night of our meeting, for fear of each other and the demons that haunted our waking minds. We both jumped to the snap of every twig, brush of leaves, or lamenting howl of the woodland beasts. When the morning sun broke through the misty haze that hung low over the tops of the forest’s trees, I recall feeling that I had passed the worst of it and that this meeting would bring me the respite I deserved after such hardships. And for a time, I was right.
Mildred (she made a vain attempt to have me call her “Milly” after our third day of trekking through that godforsaken forest, an invitation I humbly declined and have ever since) was born of a well-bred family from the isles of Britain. Her father had shares in a tobacco enterprise to the south and saw it fit to move his family to the New World in order to more closely associate himself with his business and monitor its progress. Mildred, adventurous even a young age, met the idea with great enthusiasm
The poor creature had become homeless when her family’s home caught fire due to a fault in the stove. I had heard of similar occurrences and shuddered to think of how many more there would be until masonry became commonplace. She had journeyed south for a time, intending to relocate to her father. However, she was robbed, and though she escaped, lost everything.
It was difficult to believe that such a slight girl could had survived in the wilderness as long as she. Then again, I realized, I was of a thin build myself, and there I stood. I wondered what she must think of me, a filthy wretch clinging to the skirts of his own sanity. Perhaps it was what I saw in her, that what stood before me was merely a pawn who had lost her board, thrown into the wastes of fallen pieces.
But I was not in a position to pity anyone. The only thing that separated me from an untimely death in the middle of nowhere were my wits, my jacket, and now my new companion.
I recall that it was day time when we found the next arrowhead. I, of course, had seen one before, but that had been taken from me by the Chief. We had just stopped near a great fallen tree for a rest in our journey. Mildred left to forage and returned with a handful of berries and one very familiar piece of chiseled flint.
“It’s an arrowhead!" she explained. "The natives make them to tip their spears and arrows for fighting. My father had a collection brought to him after the plantations were made. I never thought I’d find one myself, though.”
Seeing the object set my spine on edge, fear forcing me to glance around my shoulders. Was it the same? Could he have left it for us to find? Was he watching, waiting for the moment to strike out?
The idea was preposterous that the Chief could have followed us all this way. I’d sooner be worried about the hunter, but that was a week ago and we hadn’t seen a soul since. Despite this, terror clung frantically at my heart as I tried in vain to swallow it down.
Somehow, I managed to choke out the question that burned inside me.
"Where did you find it?"
She brought me to the place, a sunny spot free of trees. A single bush grew in the crack of a boulder, branches bearing the same fruit that Mildred had left back at our camp. At the base of the great rock, Meredith pointed to a spot on the ground that had been disturbed recently. She explained that the tip was pointing out and she saw its gleam from the sun as she walked to the bush.
Seeing no use in hiding it from her, I recited what I had previously explained about Sagitta and the boulder, adding that I had found a similar arrowhead at that location. This detail I had forgotten to add in my previous telling, not having found it important until now. But as I told the story, I let my eyes sweep over the clearing and immediately spotted four or five large stones and another boulder at the far end.
I couldn’t be sure without drawing it out, but somehow I knew that I stood before another constellation.
As I told the story, a look of wide-eyed interest took over Mildred’s countenance. Now she too gazed out across the grass, spotting the rocks. She admitted her ignorance to the field of astronomy and asked if there was a constellation here as well.
To speak it true, I was afraid. I was afraid to look through the rocks that jutted forth from the soil, afraid to find another name chiseled by some ancient hand on the stones. However, if there was any true relation to the such a constellation, he could work his may be able to work his way back to Boston. Then we could be out of this nightmarish adventure and I’d never leave my bedroom again.
It didn’t take long to find, and I wished I had been more surprised, but I could feel myself becoming desensitized to shock in this place. One word, written in the same rough form:
"Vega"
It was written on the back of the large boulder beneath which the arrowhead was planted. Climbing atop it, I looked out over the rest of the rocks and began connecting them with the imaginary lines scrawled in every star chart.
“It’s Lyra,” I told Mildred, sounding more confident than I wanted to. “The harp.”
Assuming my memory did not fail me and that the Sagitta written on the previous finding wasn’t actually the Sagitta constellation, an arrow pointing itself completely opposite Sagittarius, we were a great distance from home. I hadn’t considered the rock being anything other than the point of Sagittarius at the time because the stones lined up so well. But now I began to wonder at whether or not they lined up at all. In my internal debate, I lost all faith that I could with any hope guide us back.
Seeing my mood darken, Mildred offered to fix lunch while I pondered.
It was a clear day, so I still knew north from south and I could tell that the rocks were a direct reflection of how Lyra would be placed in the night sky. Both the Sagitta constellation and Saggitarius were due south. If there was any consistency, I determined, between this constellation and the last, then it must have been Sagittarius I discovered, for it pointed east, unlike Sagitta.
This meant I had been taken out further than I thought. Up to this point I had resisted the urge to turn east, find the coast, and follow it for fear that I would head in the wrong direction. Now, if the constellation on the ground was to be believed, I was north of Boston, most likely northwest.
I searched the area a while more for any trace of whomever had made the markings but found nothing but crickets and field mice. After a time, Mildred came with some berries and roots in a basket. Along the side of the basket was a small jar holding a piece of golden honeycomb, dripping its contents along the glass walls.
“I found a hive nearby, so I made a fire and smoked them for a bit, then took a piece.” My stunned silence forced a sheepish grin on her dirty face as she broke off a piece of the comb and handed it to me. I gratefully accepted and enjoyed the treat, suddenly much more appreciative of my companion’s ability to survive the wilderness than my own. Despite my best intentions, I made a terrible mess and we both enjoyed a brief laugh at my expense.
It was nice to hear laughter after so much hardship. I treasure the memory now, knowing in hindsight that I would not hear it for a long time after.
The day had been still, but a sudden breeze kicked up the leaves overhead. Birdsong was replaced by a gentle, shifting whisper. Normally a sound like this soothed me, reminded me of the long, slow summers of my childhood. But something was different with this wind and the sound it carried. It didn’t get louder as much as it became more insistent. The rhythm was so varied that it almost seemed as though the trees were attempting to speak. And I listened, or tried, but I couldn’t make out the warning in time.
Mildred’s head was tilted to the side as she smiled queerly at the leaves. “That’s a strange sound, isn’t it?”
That was all she said before a form darted out from a crevice beneath the boulder, sinking its fangs into her forearm and wrapping its tail to keep hold. She let out a cry of pain and surprise, tipping the basket of food in her haste to be away from the snake that clung to her.
I stood and rushed to her, grabbing the creature by both sides of its hinged skull, forcing the jaw open so I could remove it without ripping the skin. Her moans of pain were as quiet as the rustling leaves to me as I focused on minimizing the damage. I had no experience with snake bites, and I still don’t know how I knew what to do. What I do recall was knowing that if she died, I would again have to face the wilderness alone.
Notes:
1/2/13 - Adjusted dates for historical accuracy.
3/2/13 - Thank you to Mereni for being my new pre-reader/editor. This is all way better due to her help.
3/2/13 - Thank you to Mereni for being my new pre-reader/editor. This is all way better due to her help.
Glad you liked it!
