What is this wilderness, that it should strip a man to his very soul, leaving him to wrestle with the specters of his own frailty?
I ama wanderer of fifty winters, forged by the wild's unyielding hand, yet now I stand upon the precipice of despair, my heart a furnace of doubt and dread. The cold has come, a merciless angel of judgment, its breath freezing the blood in our veins. The caravan, trapped in this accursed hollow, labors under a sky of iron, and I, who have walked alone through countless perils, feel the weight of an unseen gaze, as if the forest itself harbors a malice beyond naming.
The morning broke with a frost that cracked the earth, the air so sharp it cut the lungs. The settlers moved like shades, their faces gaunt, their eyes hollowed by hunger and the shadow of Peter's death. The huts stood half-finished, their bark roofs frail against the gathering snow. Thomas, that steadfast giant, urged us on, his voice a beacon in the gloom, yet even he faltered, his gaze lingering on young William, who clung to Elizabeth as to a lifeline. Ezekiel hammered nails with a blacksmith's fury, while Amos, ever silent, shaped wood with a reverence that seemed a prayer. Father Michael, a wraith in black, coughed blood into his sleeve, his face a mask of suffering—consumption, they whispered, yet I wondered if some darker affliction gnawed at his soul.
The cold brought death, swift and unyielding. By midday, the first fell—old Mr. Carter, Elizabeth's father, whose heart gave out as he hauled a log. He collapsed without a cry, his eyes wide, as if he'd seen the face of God or devil. We buried him beside Peter, the ground resisting our shovels, and Father Michael, his voice a rasp, spoke of eternal rest: "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." His cough punctuated the prayer, a crimson fleck staining his lips, and I saw fear in Elizabeth's eyes, not just for her father but for the priest himself, whose frame seemed to shrink with each passing hour.
Work resumed, driven by necessity, but the cold was a tyrant. The second death came at dusk. One of Henderson's sons, young Samuel, slipped on the ice while fetching water from the stream. His head struck a rock, blood pooling beneath him, his body still before we could reach him. Henderson's wail rent the air, a sound of such anguish I felt my own soul fracture. We carried Samuel to the grave, Father Michael staggering as he blessed the boy, his handkerchief sodden with blood. "Suffer the little children to come unto me," he whispered, but his eyes burned with a feverish light, and I wondered what visions tormented him.
Night fell, and the cold deepened, a darkness that seemed to seep from the earth itself. We huddled by the fire, its warmth a mockery against the frost. I sat apart, my rifle across my lap, my eyes on the forest. The trees stood like sentinels, their branches heavy with snow, yet I felt them watching, as if they harbored secrets too terrible to speak. The settlers were breaking—Mrs. Greene wept silently, Thomas's face was carved with guilt, and William clung to Elizabeth, their love a fragile flame in this abyss. I, too, was breaking, though I would not admit it. What is man, that he should defy such a wilderness? "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" I muttered, the words a bitter echo of my doubt.
Then came the third death, as if the cold sought to mock our frail resistance. Mrs. Greene, driven by grief or madness, wandered from the camp, seeking kindling in the dark. We found her at dawn, frozen stiff at the edge of the clearing, her shawl clutched in rigid fingers, her face serene yet terrible, as if she'd welcomed death's embrace. Father Michael, barely able to stand, led the burial, his cough a relentless torment. "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," he said, his voice breaking, a trickle of blood staining his chin. I saw Ezekiel flinch, Amos avert his eyes, and I wondered if they, too, sensed something amiss—not just sickness, but a shadow within the man.
We returned to work, for what else could we do? The huts were nearly done, the church a sanctuary against the storm. Yet my soul was troubled, my instincts, honed by years in the wild, screaming of danger. I scanned the forest, seeing nothing but snow and shadow, yet feeling the weight of eyes upon me. Was it God, judging our sins? Or was it the wilderness itself, a leviathan that devoured the weak? I gripped my rifle, my heart a battlefield of faith and fear.
As evening fell, I walked the camp's perimeter, the snow crunching under my boots. The wind was still, the silence oppressive, and I felt the forest's gaze like a blade at my throat. Then I saw it—a sign, subtle yet chilling, on the trunk of a pine at the clearing's edge. Not a mark, but a frost pattern, unnatural in its precision: a faint, jagged outline, like a skeletal hand pressed against the bark, its fingers long and twisted. I touched it, my glove coming away wet, and a shiver ran through me, not from cold but from a truth I could not name. Was it chance, a trick of ice? Or was it, as my soul whispered, a herald of something that walked in the dark?
I turned back to the camp, the fire's glow a distant star. Father Michael stood by the church, coughing into his sleeve, his silhouette frail yet menacing in the dusk. The settlers huddled, their faces etched with despair, and I wondered if we were not all condemned, our souls laid bare before a wilderness that knew no mercy.