The wilderness had us in its grip, and it wasn't letting go. The trail had turned to muck, a quagmire of mud and roots that sucked at the wagon wheels and slowed us to a crawl. By noon, we'd stopped entirely, the ground too treacherous to cross. The sky was a heavy gray, the air thick with the promise of snow. I stood by our wagon, my hands on my hips, watching the settlers argue over what to do. My brother William was nearby, his face drawn, his breath fogging in the chill. He was only twenty-two, too young for this kind of hardship, and I felt the weight of keeping him safe like a stone in my chest.
"Thomas, what now?" William asked, his voice low, almost lost in the wind. His eyes were red-rimmed, probably from lack of sleep since Daniel's death. The boy's fall had shaken us all, but it hit William hard. He'd been the one to find him, sprawled and broken at the base of that outcrop.
"We wait," I said, trying to sound sure. "The ground'll firm up, or we'll find a way around. We're not licked yet."
He nodded, but his shoulders slumped, and I hated seeing him like that. I'd always looked out for him, ever since we were kids back in Ohio, dodging our father's temper. Out here, though, it wasn't fists I was protecting him from—it was the land itself, cold and unforgiving.
The caravan was a mess. Henderson was cursing at his oxen, their hooves sinking deep in the mud. Mrs. Greene sat in her wagon, staring blankly, still mourning her nephew. Elizabeth Carter was helping the children, her voice soft as she handed out bits of bread from our dwindling stores. I caught William watching her, a flicker of warmth in his eyes, and I let myself hope for a moment. Maybe she'd be good for him, give him something to hold onto.
Jedediah approached, his face weathered like old leather. "We're low on food," he said, his voice a low growl. "I'm heading out to hunt. Deer, rabbit, anything I can find. Keep 'em in line while I'm gone."
I nodded. "Be careful, Jed. Don't go too far."
He didn't answer, just slung his rifle over his shoulder and vanished into the trees. I watched him go, his silhouette swallowed by the forest. He'd been tense lately, always scanning the horizon like he expected trouble. I didn't blame him. The wilderness had a way of making you feel small, like you were being watched by something bigger than you could understand.
With Jedediah gone, I turned my attention to the camp. The wagons were stuck fast, and the men were arguing over whether to dig them out or wait for the ground to freeze. Ezekiel, the blacksmith, was trying to reinforce a broken axle, his hammer ringing out in the quiet. Amos, our carpenter, was whittling something, his face unreadable. I checked on William again, who was helping Elizabeth carry water from a nearby stream.
"You holding up?" I asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged, managing a half-smile. "Trying to. Just… feels like we're fighting the land itself."
"We are," I said. "But we're tougher than it thinks."
He nodded, but I could see the doubt in his eyes. I wanted to say more, to promise him we'd make it, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I ruffled his hair like I used to when he was a kid, and he swatted my hand away, laughing despite himself. It was a small thing, but it eased the tightness in my chest.
As night fell, the camp settled into an uneasy quiet. The fire crackled, casting long shadows that danced across the trees. Father Michael moved among us, his tall frame stooped as he offered words of comfort. He'd always been stern, his faith like iron, but tonight he seemed… off. His skin was pale, almost waxy in the firelight, and his cheeks looked hollow, more so than the rest of us, despite our hunger. He knelt beside Mrs. Greene, speaking softly, his Bible open in his hands. "The Lord is our strength," he said, but his voice was thin, like he was trying to convince himself.
I watched him closely. He'd been tireless since we started, always praying, always helping, but now his movements were slow, almost deliberate, like a man carrying a weight no one else could see. When he stood, his eyes caught the firelight, and for a moment, they seemed too bright, too sharp. I shook my head, telling myself it was just the cold and the strain.
"Thomas," he called, catching my eye. "Will you join me in prayer?"
I wasn't much for praying, but I nodded, sitting beside him. "For strength," he said, his voice low, "and for protection." His hands trembled slightly as he closed the Bible, and I noticed his fingers—long, bony, almost too thin. I told myself it was the hunger, the same hunger we all felt, but something about him made my skin crawl.
The night deepened, and the air grew colder, the wind carrying a low moan through the trees. William was asleep in our tent, his breathing steady, and I stayed by the fire, keeping watch. Jedediah hadn't returned yet, and that worried me. The forest was too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you're being hunted. I gripped my rifle, my eyes scanning the darkness, and tried to shake the dread that was settling over me like a fog.
Then, from the trees, came a faint rustle—a sound too deliberate to be the wind. I stood, heart pounding, and stared into the black, waiting for something to move.