What is man, that he should endure such torment in this forsaken wilderness, where the earth itself seems to conspire against him? I am Ezekiel, a blacksmith, thirty-one, a man of iron and fire, yet here I am reduced to a trembling soul, wrestling with the shadows of my own heart. The caravan, stranded in this muddy hollow, labors under a sky that weeps gray tears, its cold seeping into our bones, our spirits. Two deaths—Daniel, Peter—have carved wounds deeper than any axe, and I wonder if we are not all marked for some greater judgment, some divine or diabolical reckoning.
The morning was a crucible of toil. We hammered at the huts, their log walls rising like frail prayers against the coming winter. My hands, calloused from years at the forge, bled as I drove nails, each strike a question: Why do we persist? For what do we suffer? Thomas, our leader, moved among us, his face a mask of resolve, yet I saw the cracks—his eyes, heavy with the burden of his brother William's safety. William, young and fervent, worked beside Elizabeth, their glances a fragile thread of hope. Amos, silent as ever, shaped beams with a carpenter's grace, his thoughts hidden behind a furrowed brow. And Jedediah, that solitary prophet of the wild, sat sharpening his knife, his gaze piercing the forest as if he could see the devil himself lurking there.
I paused, my hammer poised, and gazed upon Father Michael. He was a specter now, his once-stern frame withered, his skin pale as the frost that rimed the ground. He carried a plank for the church, his steps faltering, his breath a labored wheeze. At yesterday's service, his cough had rent the sacred words—"Our Father, who art in heaven"—and I'd seen the crimson stain on his handkerchief, a mark of consumption, or so I thought.
He was our shepherd, our guide through this valley of despair.
"Ezekiel, lend a hand!" Thomas called, breaking my reverie. I joined him, lifting a beam for the fourth hut, my muscles straining under the weight. We worked in silence, but the air was thick with unspoken fears. The forest pressed close, its bare branches like fingers clawing at the sky, and the wind carried a low hum, not unlike the moan that had haunted us before Peter's fall. I felt it—a presence, not seen but felt, like a shadow cast by no light. Was it God, testing us as He tested Job? Or was it something else, something that laughed in the dark?
Father Michael approached, his cough rattling like dry bones. "Blessed are the meek," he said, his voice a rasp, his hand clutching his Bible as if it were his last anchor. "We build not just for ourselves, but for Him." I nodded, but his gaunt face troubled me. His cheeks were hollow, his lips cracked, and when he coughed again, a speck of blood flecked his chin, quickly wiped away. Consumption, surely—yet why did my heart whisper of something fouler? I turned away, ashamed of my doubt, and drove another nail, each strike a plea for clarity.
Midday brought a moment of respite. Elizabeth distributed a thin broth, made from Jedediah's hares and the last of the fish. William sat beside her, their hands brushing, and I envied their youth, their capacity for hope. I, too, had once believed in such things, but the wilderness had forged me into something harder, a man who questioned the very stars. "What is man, that thou art mindful of him?" I murmured, the psalm rising unbidden. Did God see us, or had we wandered too far from His gaze?
The afternoon dragged on, the huts nearing completion, the church now a sanctuary of rough-hewn logs. Father Michael stood inside, arranging candles, his cough echoing in the quiet. "Deliver us from evil," he whispered, and I wondered if he sensed the same shadow I did. His face was a mask of suffering, his eyes too bright, like a man wrestling with demons. I wanted to ask if he was well, but fear stopped my tongue—fear of his answer, fear of what it might mean.
As dusk fell, the wind returned, colder now, slicing through our coats. It carried a faint sound—a low, guttural hum, not the laugh that killed Peter, but kin to it, like a voice testing its strength. I gripped my hammer, my heart pounding, and looked to the trees. The shadows seemed to writhe, just for a moment, as if something moved among them, unseen but near. Jedediah stood, rifle in hand, his face a storm of unspoken dread.
"Ezekiel," William called, his voice pulling me back. He stood with Elizabeth, their faces pale. "You feel it too, don't you?"
I nodded, unable to lie. "Something's out there," I said, my voice low. "But God help us, I don't know what."
And in that moment, as the wind hummed and Father Michael coughed blood into his sleeve, I felt the abyss of my soul yawn wide, and I wondered if we were already damned.