light.
After about thirty yards, he noticed the ground felt different. Where the rest of the earth was frozen mud covered in snow, this ground felt hard and slick with ice. William took his steps carefully so as not to slip. He reached the edge of a clearing and peered through an opening in the bushes, praying silently that he would not have to use his pistol. Washington and his rebels had a habit of treachery, and attacks at night and even on Christmas seemed to be fair game these days. William sat silently for a minute, looking carefully in the dusk for signs of movement. He saw none, but in the center of the clearing he found what had caught his eye earlier.
Pistol still drawn, he walked towards the metallic object. It was small, only about two feet across on the top and only about two feet high. It was cylindrical and seemed to be driven into the ground by some unknown force. William noticed that although the ground was covered in snow, the earth around the object was bare, though damp. He pressed his hand against the top and found out why. The object was warm, as if it was some kind of coal furnace, but he saw no smoke or exhaust. The metal was strange - a bit like brass, but more silver in color. It didn’t look like iron either, but, then again William was a soldier and a banker, not a blacksmith.
The light was dim, but when William bent down to look more closely, he saw engravings on the side of the object. Four engravings, each about 90 degrees apart. The one closest to him showed two cats, or maybe one cat with two tails. The other part of the engraving looked like a figure of the object itself.
William tried to lift the object to see what was underneath, but it was embedded deeply in the hard earth and it was too smooth to really get a grip on. Whatever it was, it didn’t look Colonial. Maybe Indian? He wasn’t sure. William said a quick prayer and made the motion of a cross against his forehead and chest. Best not risk it in case the object was cursed, he thought. Then he left, walking quickly, pistol still in arm, back to the camp.
He went straight to Captain Crenshaw’s tent.
“Hey! Whatta you want?” asked the man standing guard outside the tent.
“I’m looking for the King, he said something about making me a Duke,” William said sardonically.
“Yeah, yeah, very funny. Captain’s gone to sleep. Ain’t no reason to disturb him unless you seen men with blue coats sneakin’ around.”
“I found something strange in the woods. I thought the Captain should see it,” William said.
“Well he don’t-“ the soldier was cut off when the Captain stepped out of the tent, still mostly dressed but with his jacket partly off.
“What’s all this, then?” he asked.
“Sir, I was out in the woods, just south of here, and I found an object out there, I - I thought you might want to see it.”
Captain Crenshaw pulled out his timepiece, looked at it, then said “now? I suppose. I can’t sleep anyway, all this wildlife chirping and howling. It’s dreadful.” He buttoned his coat and stepped fully out of the tent. “Onward then. Which way?”
“This way, sir.” William led the Captain and the two men on guard duty towards the clearing he had found earlier. The men seemed mildly interested, certainly appreciating the break from monotonous guard duty. The sun was completely down now, so they only had the light of a torch and the faint gibbous moon. When they reached the hard ground of the clearing, one of the guards slipped, but caught himself on a branch.
“The ground is frozen solid here. How’m I suppose to walk?” he yelled, but the others just chuckled. “Once we get back to Princeton I’m burnin’ this whole damn forest to the ground.”
“There it is,” William pointed. The Captain walked over cautiously, his hand stroking his small beard.
“It looks Indian. Look! It has some sort of cat-god or spirit or what have you on the side,” he said.
“But it’s metal, right? Ain’t never seen no Indian shit made of metal,” said the guard who had nearly slipped earlier. The guard was as dumb as the best of them, but what he said made sense. As far as William knew, the Indians here were basically stone age when it came to tools.
“I supposed they could have learned, I mean these colonials trade with them. Who doesn’t like shiny things, really? It’s probably some silly idol or maybe a grave marker,” said the Captain.
“Could be worth something though, right? Worst case we get some lead for the muskets,” said the guard.
“If it even is lead,” William said.
“Well we’re not digging it out in the middle of the night. Thomas, bring two men in the morning and scoop this thing out, then bring it back to camp. Offer them a five percent cut of any salvage. Take twenty for yourself.”
“Yes, sir, will do,” William said.
“Uh, sir, what about us?” said the guard who was more surefooted, though less talkative.
“Well you’re welcome to be those two men, if the Corporal here likes you enough,” the Captain smiled. “Right, then, back to camp. Thank you for the diversion, Corporal. Quite interesting.”
With that, they left the strange clearing and the strange object behind and headed back to the warmth of the fires and tents. The captain had been kind to offer a portion of the salvage. Truthfully he could have kept it to himself and there was little they could do about it. But the Captain was a wealthy man to begin with, high-born and heir to some ancient title and associated holdings. Captain Crenshaw cared little for the “menial transactions” of business, proclaiming instead his love of “adventure.”
They were almost at the wooden stockade when out in the distance William heard a horn blow, then an echo, than another long blast. It didn’t register at first, but then a wave of fear hit him and his sweat grew cold. He reached for his pistol, still loaded, and saw the Captain do the same.
“Where are they? The sneaky bastards. Run! Toward the gate!” the Captain commanded. But it was too late, and the gate was closing. They would not make it inside. Then they heard a loud crack, then another, then more. William saw the gleam of rifle fire to their left. The enemy was there, in the bushes, between them and the stockade gate. The soldiers that were guards just moments ago powdered their muskets quickly and methodically. The Captain and William held their pistols close and ready.
“There! I see ‘em!” yelled the more sure-footed soldier.
“Keep quiet!” whispered the Captain, as loudly as a man could whisper, but the soldier lowered his musket and aimed.
“No, not yet!” the Captain yelled, but it was too late. The soldier fired at the bushes ahead and to their left. He might have hit something, but in all likelihood his lead ball was just embedded in some tree, waiting to be found hundreds of years from now. But the rebels saw the flash, heard the sound, and turned to face the ambush. William and the others got down to one knee when the Captain yelled. “Volley! Hold!”
But the rebels had already loaded and aimed. They were not men of discipline or of honor. Their shots were haphazard, but fast. William saw a ball explode through the captain’s throat. The rebels always went for the officers first. Then the soldier beside him took a ball to the chest, and the other soldier began to charge. William retreated, pressing his back against a tree just in time to see his comrade impale himself on a bayonet hidden in the bushes. The first soldier still writhed in pain on the ground in front of William, blood oozing from his chest. It was not well-hidden by his red coat. The Captain lay dead, his head half severed from the blast to his neck.
William stood there a moment, then raised his pistol towards his chest. His neck felt cold, and he went to clasp his coat closed when he felt something warm and wet, then saw blood on his fingers, on his neck, and on the knife of the gaunt, hairy man in blue beside him. He tried to cough but only spewed blood everywhere. Then he pointed his pistol right between the mans eyes and pulled the trigger. The loud crack, the flash, and the smell of powder overtook him. Blood seeped from William’s throat, then everything grew dark, and the world forgot all about William Thomas.
Tukhìkakunèn
&nbs
p; Tuki’s new bow was thick and heavy. The wood was darker and denser than his old bow and the sinew string was thicker and tighter. It was taller as well, and when he picked up his old bow it felt like a child’s toy in his hands. It was a child’s toy, and Tuki was no longer a child, so he had no time for it.
The long bow cut into his fingers and the longer arrows weighed him down, but he never complained. A boy might complain, but a man did not. And besides, there was no one around to hear his grievances.
Tuki looked beside him to his left, then his right, and realized the bow was not with him. He had left it with Father, he remembered, three days ago, or was it four? Tuki could not remember. His mind was fuzzy and weak from fasting. He had not eaten since he had left the village and the ever-present hunger made his arms feel frail and his legs feel thin. He fought constantly against sleep, trying to stay awake. Sometimes he could not tell if he was awake or just dreaming about the moss-covered rock he sat upon. But he tried not to doze, and as far as he could tell he succeeded.
Forgoing water had been the hardest. Just yesterday he had given in and stole a drink from a nearby stream. He felt guilt at first, but afterwards he had resolved not to stray from his rock. As Tuki drifted through levels of semi-consciousness, the evening sun shone against his parched lips. His black hair felt thick and oily on his