October skies

The thick canopy above them had kept all but the slightest dusting of snow from reaching the ground beneath. Through occasional gaps, lances of light speared down ahead of them, dappling the brown forest floor. They stepped forward in silence, the muffled crackle of dry twigs beneath their feet and the soft, muted gurgle of the river to their right the only sounds the wood allowed. Looking hopefully ahead for any sign that the wood was thinning out once more, Ben could see only an endless forest of tall lodgepole pine trunks with a high canopy of branches, punctuated by clusters of squat spruce trees hugging the ground where the sun came through.

‘I’m scared,’ Mrs Zimmerman whispered.

Broken Wing looked back at them and frowned at her.

‘Just keep going,’ Ben replied softly, ‘quiet as you can.’

They walked in silence for another five minutes before the Indian suddenly stopped and cocked his head, listening to something. Then he turned to face them, with the slightest smile on his stern face.

Ben shrugged.

Broken Wing pointed to their right, and cupped an ear. Listen.

Ben did so, noticing nothing at first.

Mrs Zimmerman frowned. ‘I hear something.’

Then he did too — the faint sound of rumbling. He felt it more through his feet than he heard it with his ears. ‘That’s the river, isn’t it?’ he whispered.

She nodded. ‘Yes… yes, I think it is.’

Broken Wing pointed ahead.

‘It’s coming from that way,’ said Ben.

‘Crosss riv-uhh ahead.’ Broken Wing pointed insistently. The rumble of water could only mean the river had narrowed, perhaps offering them the opportunity to cross. The sound was heartening.

Ben placed a hand on Mrs Zimmerman’s shoulder. ‘Come on, then.. it can’t be that much further through the trees.’ She nodded and set off after the Indian, eager that the Shoshone not leave them too far behind.

Ben turned to Emily. ‘Come on, we’ll be out of-’

The girl was rooted to the spot, her eyes wide, her jaw slackened and hanging open.

‘Emily?’

Her eyes remained fixed on something above them.

‘He’s here,’ she whispered.

Ben turned round and looked up at the branches. For no more than half a second, he saw the outline of something crouching on a branch. Pale like a ghost, but with spines or spikes emerging from its silhouette, and a long skeletal face. It uncurled from the branch, dropping soundlessly down to the floor of the wood and out of sight beyond a tangled veil of undergrowth.

‘Oh God!’ he shouted. ‘It’s here!’

Broken Wing stopped and whipped round. Ben pointed towards where he’d seen it drop. ‘THERE!’

The Indian swiftly levelled his musket and dropped to one knee with practised and elegant swiftness. Mrs Zimmerman stumbled towards the Indian, sobbing with fear as she dropped to her knees at his feet and started muttering in prayer.

Ben reached out a hand for Emily. ‘Come on,’ he whispered quietly. Her small hand grasped his obediently, and they moved slowly towards the others.

‘Anyone see it?’ Ben called out, his eyes darting left and right. ‘Where is it?’

His voice echoed around the wood, then diminished. In the stillness there was only the continuous muted rumble of the river and the sound of the four of them breathing.

‘I’m right here,’ a whispered voice hissed from somewhere nearby. The sibilant hiss echoed in the silence, bouncing from tree trunk to tree trunk. Broken Wing’s aim darted swiftly from a bramble, to a cluster of ferns, to another. He muttered something under his breath — a curse.

‘This is fun,’ the voice hissed again.

Ben and Emily quickly joined the other two, and he let her hand go. Mrs Zimmerman reached out a comforting arm to the little girl and held her tight.

Ben stood beside Broken Wing, scanning the forest around them, the hunting knife and his stick held ready.

‘What do you want?’ Ben called out, hating the warbling sound of fear in his voice.

‘Emily.’ The whisper seemed to come at them from all sides, quiet yet deafening in the thick silence of the wood.

There was a long pause. He would have been happier with complete silence, but instead he could just about detect the quiet muttering of a voice coming from somewhere. A small, plaintive voice arguing under its breath, pleading with some kind of silent partner. It sounded like the insane one-sided conversations he’d heard echoing from the cells of Banner House Asylum; pathetic, quiet voices that asked nonsensical questions and moments later riposted the silent replies. He knew this was no angel, no demon — it was the pitiful sound of someone who had lost their mind.

He swallowed nervously. ‘Who are you?’

There was no answer. The question peeled around the wood, and as the echo died away, he could hear the whispered debate had ceased. Ben had been sure he knew who this was last night, but now he was not so sure. There was a timidity to that small voice that just didn’t square with the man.

‘You’re not Preston,’ said Ben. ‘I know that much.’