It was around that time Emmett had decided that the children of the Landry clan were all grown enough to be helping around the homestead. The 150-acre parcel was designated as a tobacco farm, and his eldest son would soon start preparing the fields for sowing. Matthew was almost a man now, and it was about time he started taking the responsibility off his old father’s shoulders. He decided early on to have Matthew work the new hands—Wiley and Clyde—in the fields. After the previous two ran for the north, Emmett let Matthew pick out the new ones, and it was only fair that he be the one to teach them properly.

On this early March morning, Emmett resigned himself to the barn. He’d built the upper floor addition when the fighting first broke out, figuring that the river would create a natural divide between north and south. In the rafters hung a large bell—just smaller than a church’s—that he would ring in case of Yankee movement. He sat on an old stool, stretching his back as he tried to work out the ache, his rifle leaning against the upper barn doors and the pullcord hidden just behind him.

If he leaned out that door he could see Eveline, just a few years younger than Matthew, running back from the creek through the garden with buckets of water. She stumbled as she tried to carry three, but Emmett thought she could get away with one more. Matthew ran over and helped her up, taking the buckets from her and leading her back home.

His attention was drawn to a clamor from below. Neighing and laughter. Lee’s high-pitched squeal, intertwined with Hosea’s low grumble. Emmett remembered what Caroline used to tell him—a boy who could hardly grow hair on his chest had no business handling a wild horse. He knew better, but agreed to have Hosea accompany each of their children as they learned how to care for the animals.

Emmett looked back out the upper barn doors and found Matthew stepping off the front porch. The boy waved to his sister and began walking back towards the fields. They had gotten an early start on the crop this season. Emmett and Matthew had collected additional seed for the year from Fredericksburg’s markets in December. Gerald Hoffsteder accompanied them after one of his hogs needed replacing. He told the Landrys there was a trail of blood leading from his pen to the woods of the Allegheny Mountains. That told Emmett one thing: the wolves were back.

Emmett allowed Matthew to steer the wagon. His first time. The trio made the trip there and back in just under a day, and just before the battle started. Emmett was glad to be gone, but Matthew was sorry he missed his chance to fight. By the time word had reached their farm, the bloodshed was over.

“Why in the hell would you wanna get yourself involved in that?” Emmett had asked his son.

“I want to defend my home,” his son stated flatly. “It’s only just that I fight for my country, the same as everyone else.” Emmett brushed him off, and instead had him tend to the hotbeds.

About a month later Mr. Thompson’s milk cow went missing. His only one, and by that point all the nearby markets were under careful watch or closed. Mr. Thompson wasn’t willing to risk his life by making the trip out to Fredericksburg—both for the realities of warfare and age—or willing to leave his family for Richmond. Instead, he struck a deal with Emmett—a colt for a milker—and it was Lee’s turn to drive.

“Which one you want, son?” Mr. Thompson asked Lee. He had two Morgans and a Narragansett, the latter would have been a first for the family. One Morgan had a copper color, the other was black with spots of grey. The Narragansett was a roan, and it was obvious Mr. Thompson was breeding it for sale; he had sheltered the animal behind the other two. Both Morgans were strong, calm, whereas the Pacer had a wild buck to it.

“The Morgan is a sturdy horse, Lee,” Emmett said. “It’s a good workhorse, you’ll need one soon.”

“I don’t like the black,” Lee said. His eyes kept wandering to the back of the barn, where the Narragansett snorted for attention.

“This one here is well-trained,” the breeder said, putting his hand on the copper Morgan. “He’s a heavy young lad, firm, and follows direction kindly.”

“I like the grey one,” Lee said. His father knelt down to whisper logic in his ear, and Lee tensed. “But we’ll take this one.”

Mr. Thompson, of course, was pleased. Emmett and Lee left with the horse and gave up their milk cow. Lee rode the Morgan back to the farm, struggling to keep it aligned with his father. He named it Dog, after their late dog. Emmett renamed it Mo, after its breed.

January left little mark after that. The rain came in drizzles, and while farmers spoke of late winter snows the Landry clan continued to work. The land froze through February, and was just now beginning to thaw. Emmett kept himself busy watching the Rapidan River.

So busy, in fact, that he hadn't heard the young Thomas Sheckle calling his name until Matthew fired his rifle.

“What in the—” he started.

“Sheckle boy’s been calling for you,” Matthew interrupted. He stood at the base of the northern edge of the barn, looking up at his father, smirking.

“Don’t mean you gotta put a hole in the dirt, boy.” He turned to Thomas Sheckle, about the age of Lee. A little more frail, perhaps, and a little less adept, but a good lad all the same.

“Mr. Landry,” the boy huffed. If not for the sprinkling of rain Emmett would have been able to see the sweat pouring off his face. “My daddy sent me, he needs you by the Fletcher house.”

“Why’s that, son?”

“I dunno, sir. He just told me to run. Quick as I could.”

“Well, all right. Why don’t you head on into the house, get yourself warmed up a bit.” He turned to yell down into the barn. “Lee! Take Thomas to the house! Have your mother fix a plate!”

There was no reply, but Emmett heard Lee’s scampered run. By the time he descended the ladder, Hosea had already brought his horse out of the stable.

“Figured you’d be heading off, then?” he asked.

“Yeah, get Opal for me too,” Emmett replied, taking the reins.

“Matthew as well, sir?”

“I think so. It’s time for him.”

—

They rode hard through the rain, covering the firearms as best as they could underneath their wool overcoats. Emmett’s hand remained firm on his pistol, his heart sinking with each stride closer to the neighboring farm. Matthew’s rifle remained slung over his shoulder, the barrel poking out over his head.

It took less than a quarter of an hour to make the ride. Sheriff Sheckle met them where the main road met the property, just as Emmett knew he would.

“Sheriff,” he nodded.

“Emmett,” replied the sheriff. “Thanks for coming out.”

“Anytime. Brought my boy with me. What are we looking at?”

“Probably better that I show you.”

They rode past the barren fields meant for corn and clover to the main house. Just like Emmett’s, it was built by the Fletchers with hand-hewn logs. Wooden shingles lined the roof and the smell of smoke permeated the air. Emmett and his son tied their horses—Buckeye and Opal—to a post just outside the front door, and as the late-winter wind whistled through the gap between the window pane and the logs, Emmett watched Sheriff Sheckle remove his hat and clutch it.

He swung the door open, and Emmett retreated, covering his eyes and nose with his sleeve. Blood soaked the walls. Streaks of red lined the wood-paneled floors and still ran damp against the single rug in the keeping room. Candles, pots, and blankets were strewn around the floor, while a stench of rotting meat filled the room. Emmett turned to see Matthew stepping deeper into the house, bending over to pick up a knife sticking up from the ground.

“Is there anybody here? Hardy? Sheryl?” Emmett asked through his shirt. The sheriff shook his head, and Emmett dropped his arm. “I take it they’re both dead?”

“Hardy is.”

“Show me.”

Sheriff Sheckle maneuvered his way across the room, stepping over red lines, careful not to repaint the bottom of his boots. He made his way to the fireplace and removed a fresh log, showing Hardy Fletcher’s mutilated face.

Matthew, standing right next to the fireplace, turned around and heaved into the corner. His breakfast came back to the world between gasps for air.

Emmett walked over and knelt down. He removed the rest of the firewood and pulled Hardy’s body from the furnace. His arms were covered with scratches, his belly with deep gashes. One of his eyes looked as if it had been clawed out, and he was completely naked.

“You didn’t strip him?” Emmett asked.

“And stuff him back inside? Hell no.”

“So what do you make of it?”

“I was hoping you would tell me.”

Matthew continued to gag in the corner as Emmett tore a chunk of wood off a log and hucked it at his son. Matthew raised his hand in obedience, and silenced himself after stifling one more surge.

“Wolf? Bear? Mr. Hoffsteder lost one of his hogs to a wolf late last year, could be that we should’ve hunted them down.”

“I found him in the hearth, Emmett. Wasn’t no wolf.”

“He was placed?”

“He was placed.”

“What about Sheryl?”

“You see that woman crying? You hear her screaming?”

“When’d you find the body?”

“Sent Thomas out for you first thing.”

“You mean to tell me that you found him just this morning? Look at him! He’s half eaten by slugs already.”

“I found Mr. Fletcher just this morning, just the way you did. Poor bastard.”

“My God, this stinks,” Matthew said.

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Emmett turned to him. “Why don’t you wait outside, keep that rifle handy but shout if people come calling.”

Matthew turned and walked away, but not before sneaking a glance at the dead man lying before the fireplace. Emmett let him, resolving to deal with the curiosity later, and the knife still in the boy’s pocket.

“All this blood—” the sheriff started.

“—too much for one person, I oughtta say,” Emmett finished. “Look at the walls, Jim, they’re almost completely covered. One man can’t cover the walls completely.”

The sheriff nodded slowly, and Emmett watched his eyes struggle to hold back tears. “I’ve been meaning to come up here and visit. Ever since Polly left, these two been lonely.”

“You don’t think this was either of them, do you?”

“No, boys loved their parents too much. James may have suckled at the teat for a little too long, but otherwise he’s harmless. I heard Polly died last year in Fort Darling, one of the fifteen. Poor bastard. Could’ve been one hell of a sheriff.”

“You always took a liking to that kid. James ran north?”

“Yeah, said he didn’t wanna fight. Last I heard he was somewhere around Chicago, but that was at least a year ago from Sheryl.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“Not one. Like I said, no cryin’, no screamin’. If that woman were alive she would’ve been kicking my door in first thing. By the looks of it, man has been dead for a few days. Smell of it, too.”

“So why bring me out here?” Emmett asked, rising from the body. “What do you need from me and my boy?”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to bring your boy along, first. Second, mind helping me dig the hole this afternoon? Third, I’d like to find Sheryl, bury them together.”

“Is that all?”

Sheriff Sheckle hesitated, rubbing the top of his bare head. “No, I don’t like this. He was tucked up in the fireplace, no fire. Why? Where’s Sheryl? Place is covered in blood, but the body is mostly intact. You really want to try to tell me this wasn’t murder?”

“You want to tell me that it was?”

“Not yet, but it wasn’t no animal neither. A bear would’ve torn him limb from limb, and look close, no bite marks from wolves…”

“There’s something else. I know you, Jim.”

“Yeah, there’s something else.” The sheriff reached over the hearth and ran his fingers along the wall, swiping at the red that leaked down them. He reached out to Emmett, displaying his newly colored palm. “You see that? This morning, when I walked in, these walls were dry.”

If only they had waited a few more hours in Fredericksburg. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to wait outside Hardy Fletcher’s house for his rotting corpse to rot further. Even from beyond the threshold, Matthew could still catch a whiff of the bloat.

He heard his name called from inside, and groaned quietly to himself as he loosened his grip on his rifle, and trudged back through the doorway.

“We gotta look for Sheryl, boy,” his father said.

“Why? Ain’t she dead?”

“Watch your mouth,” the sheriff barked. “We don’t know until we know. Stranger things have happened. What I want you two to do right now is figure out what happened here. I’m going to go outside and take a look around. Good?”

“Good,” Emmett said.

The sheriff brushed past Matthew, who remained still. Waiting for additional orders. He watched as his father sniffed at the walls, rubbed fingers along the wood and then against each other, and sniffed the fingers. He watched as his father turned over pots, rolled up the carpet, and lifted the bed.

Matthew took in the sight once more. Every drawer, every cupboard in the house was either open or on the floor. The few windows were intact, save for the gap where the wind whistled. Beeswax candles lay cut in half—or snapped—on the floor.

“Pa, you notice anything missing?” Matthew asked.

Emmett looked up and around. “No rifles. Take a look at his hands, would you?”

Matthew walked over to the body, using the barrel of his own weapon to maneuver the palms upward. Black soot covered them.

“There any charcoal in the stove?” Matthew asked. Emmett shook his head. Matthew leaned in to smell his hands. “Don’t smell like gunpowder.”

“It’s cold, but not cold enough for a smell like that to last for days. By the looks of him, he’s been dead a while.”

“Still a heavy load of powder to be on a man without anything being in the stove. And all on his hands? Nowhere else?”

“I get a sense he was shooting at something. Hardy wasn’t one to go down without a fight. Question becomes—”

“Where are his guns?” Matthew finished. He and his father stood there, looking around the whirlwind house. “They ain’t here.”

“Not inside, no,” Emmett agreed. “But I’m not sure that’ll give us any heading on Sheryl anyway.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be figuring out how Hardy died?”

“That’s Mr. Fletcher to you. He might be dead, but you still show respect. And no, it was a wolf, or a bear. One of the two.”

“You think maybe Mrs. Fletcher took off with them?”

“Mrs. Fletcher knew how to shoot, but she couldn’t carry that much firepower. She’d be slowed down. I suspect we’re looking for a body anyhow, she would have gone to Jim if she were alive.”

“Unless she killed him,” Matthew said.

Emmett crossed the room in two strides and slapped his son across the face. Matthew could tell the swing was restrained, but still felt the sting seeping through his skin and the heat rise against the cold of the room.

“I knew this woman nearly my entire life,” he barked. “Ain’t no way she murdered her husband. Do you understand me?”

Matthew nodded. Emmett placed a calloused hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s time we start looking outside. Right?” Matthew nodded again.

They stepped out into the pattering rain. Sheriff Sheckle had already come back, and was tying up his horse once again.

“Your timing couldn’t be better. Anything?” he asked.

“Found something, but why don’t you tell me first?” the sheriff responded.

Emmett nudged Matthew. “I mean aside from the candles that look like they’ve been ripped apart and the blood, no rifles.”

“He noticed it first,” Emmett said. “I had him check Hardy’s hands, he’s got unwashed soot all over them. Didn't see any coal in the hearth. Blood is still running, too. Maybe it’s the rain?”

“You think Hardy would have built a home that couldn’t stand a little rain?”

“Doubt it. Maybe it was a big bear, knocked the roof loose.”

“You two follow me,” the sheriff said, his eyes ambivalent. “Before you start going on about the wild, I want you to see something.”

They took off on foot through the muddy field east of the house. As they neared, he realized how quiet it had become. Not a pig squealing, not a bird chirping. His steps across the muddy ground barely squelched, as if the earth itself was trying to keep quiet.

“I see it on your face, son,” the sheriff said. “The Fletchers ran a pig farm. Where are the pigs?”

“Always hated hogs,” Emmett said. “Dirty animals.”

The barn doors were already open. Matthew noticed the pig pens were as well, not a single animal inside.

“Where’d they all go?” he asked.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, but we’ll search for them,” the sheriff said. “For now, just look up.”

He did. In the rafters of the barn were four rifles and a pistol hanging, each with their barrels pointed down.

“Don’t step under them,” Sheriff Sheckle said. “Don’t want a misfire.”

“You think they’re loaded?” Matthew asked.

“I think with the rain and them hanging upside down they all probably had a cap pop, but I don’t wanna be burying you or your father along with Hardy.”

Matthew took a step toward the wall where the beam met the floor. He unslung his own rifle and handed it to his father, and wordlessly pulled himself up to a support beam. He found his footing, and climbed again, all the way up until he was at the top of the barn. He drew the knife that he had taken from the house, and cut loose the firearms.

“Thank you, son,” the sheriff called. “Keeping an old man from breaking his neck, you doing that.”

Matthew drew the pistol up to him rather than cut it down, and stuffed it in his pocket alongside the knife.

“I’ll tell you what, if you help me find Sheryl, you can keep that pistol,” Sheriff Sheckle said. “I bet James got no use for it anyhow.”

“Guns slung up, huh?” Emmett cut in. “What do you make of that?”

“I make that it wasn’t no goddamn wolf and no goddamn bear, that’s what I make of it,” the sheriff replied. “And look at this.”

Matthew dropped off the last beam just in front of the older men. He took his rifle back from his father and smiled at the sheriff, grateful that Sheckle hadn’t started explaining until he was ready.

“You see this here?” Sheriff Sheckle pointed to a circle of blood. “We saw the inside of the house. Covered roof to floor. What about here?” “Hog blood. So what?” Emmett asked.

“When all the pens are open? Why? You and I could have taken these pigs in, Sheryl could have lent them over to us, if she were alive. But there ain’t no other sign of blood in this place, except…” he walked over to the barn door. “...right here.”

Three straight long lines lay against the frame. They were bright against the wood, but unnatural.

“That’s blood?” Matthew asked.

“Yes, son, it is. Now tell me, does that or does that not look like a hand?”

“It can’t be a hand,” Emmett said. “Too long, if those were fingers, where’s the rest of it? And there would be another right here,” he pointed to a large gap where the finger for a ring should sit.

“Maybe,” the sheriff said, “but follow me further please.”

He led them back out into the field. Pointing out blades of grass or patches of dirt with spots of blood on it. None of it heavy, just sprinkles, most of it washed away by the rain. Patches of ice still lay in pockets spread throughout the area where the red lay encased.

“That’s why I think this happened days ago,” the sheriff said. “When was the last snowfall?”

“Five days ago? Six maybe?” Emmett replied.

“It’s been cold and windy, with sprinkles of rain here and there. But this? This is still

here. It’s been five or six days at least.”

They continued through the field until they hit a large patch of dirt. The blood here was thicker. It wasn’t droplets as it had been along the way, but soaked through the land.

“Now look here,” the sheriff said. “We’ve got one waypoint, and three directions. One leads back the way we came, we saw droplets here and there coming from the barn. But look at this line.” He pointed to a streak of blood that ran nearly parallel to the direction they came from. “This one is thicker, it runs almost directly back to the house.”

“You think that’s Sheryl?” Emmett asked.

“No, I don’t. I think someone grabbed a pig, killed it or nearly killed it out in the barn,

and tried to carry it off. Hardy heard, grabbed a rifle, and shot whoever did it. That person then attacked Hardy, took his wife, released the pigs, slung up the rifles, took his prize pig and ran off again.” He pointed to a trail of blood leading into the woods.

“Meaning you believe this to be a cold-blooded murder. No animal attack. No wolves, no bears, someone came in here from another farm and tried to take one of his pigs.” Emmett shook his head. “I think you’re clutching at straws.”

“Look at the winter we’ve been having. Didn’t you tell me that you boys accompanied Hoffsteder out to Fredericksburg for a pig? Maybe the poor bastard lost another one?”

“Gerald wouldn’t go killing for a pig. He certainly wouldn’t be stealing one from the Fletchers. They’ve been here almost as long as the Hoffsteders, he probably could have just asked for one.”

“And why kill it? If he needed a pig he would have needed it alive,” Matthew said. “Mr. Hoffsteder put some chains on his barn anyhow, right? Pa didn’t you help him with that?”

“I did, and he’s got his negroes watching over it through the night. Paranoid. Point is, only other pig farm around here isn’t gonna challenge the Fletchers. Not like this, anyhow.”

“So maybe it was one of them tribes in the mountains?” Matthew suggested.

“No, we pushed them out generations ago,” the sheriff said. “You see one or two occasionally, like you boys did last summer, but most of them live closer to Tennessee and stay out of the mountains if they can. Too spooked to come near us.”

“Maybe it was just some man living in the mountains then? Just living out there on a homestead, hungry after a harsh winter?”

“Boy, if it is, we got a bigger problem on our hands,” the sheriff said. “But here’s what I want for now. You two head off after that trail. I won’t be far behind, don’t go too deep into those woods without me. Just keep an eye on the path while I take one more look around the farm.”

“Sure thing, sheriff,” Emmett said. As simple as that, Matthew was no longer waiting. He followed his father as they picked up the track, and noticed he was holding his weapon closer.

“What do you think?” Matthew asked.

His father didn’t respond.

He led them to the edge of the property. The line was thick when they started, but soon Matthew was on his hands and knees in the tall grass, looking for leaves in the brush with just a hint of blood. Excitement crept over him, the sensation of stalking a doe that he knew he wounded came quickly. Through the snapping of sticks and the crunching of snow, Matthew eventually spotted what they were looking for.

A clearing lay ahead. He could see it through the trees, light spilling out from the clouds as the drizzle turned to a mist. His father held him back.

“Slow down. If Jim is right…” he trailed off. Matthew nodded, pulling his rifle to his shoulder. His father pulled his pistol, and broke the treeline first.

A pig carcass lay in the center. Flies buzzed around it, its innards exposed to the air. The rump was gone, gnawed on, Matthew could see the teeth marks embedded in the meat, and traced them with his finger. Bone was cracked under pressure, but the head was untouched.

“You see that?” Emmett asked, pointing to the bite marks. “You remember what your momma told you about raw meat?”

“If the meat is off it might give you fever,” he replied. “Or worse.”

“Everybody knows that. Now why would a man go eating raw meat?” “Maybe it wasn’t a man or a wolf,” Matthew replied. He caught the sharp glance that came from his father, and noted the stiffness of his forearms as he clenched his fists. He braced for a hit that never came.

“Maybe,” was all his father said. “Let’s get going, there’ll be no more trail.”

As Matthew turned to walk away, something else caught his eye. A flicker in the stillness. He looked around as his father moved toward the way they came, but saw nothing. He heard nothing. True silence. Just like the barn, there wasn’t a bird singing, a cricket chirping, not even the wind spoke.

“You coming?” his father called.

Matthew turned toward the direction of the farm. A sudden need to shoot the carcass erupted from within him. He’d found a pig instead of a woman, naturally. As was his luck. He ignored the urge and began the trek back through the woods, keeping his finger on the trigger of his rifle, ready to fire upon anything that stepped out of hiding. He wanted it. He was tired of waiting.

They made it back to the farm before Sheriff Sheckle made it into the woods. He had just untied the horses and was working his way across the fields.

“Tell me you found a body?” he asked.

“Of a pig, sure. No woman.” Emmett took Buckeye’s reins and drew himself up into the saddle. Matthew did the same with Opal.

“So it wasn’t Sheryl that drew that pig off then? Couldn’t imagine it was her anyway,” the sheriff said.

“There was something strange about it,” Matthew said. “Pa, you saw it too?”

“Someone was eating off the carcass. Not cutting it up and cooking it, just eating. We saw the bite marks.”

“All right, easy solution then. Find someone with fever or a… looseness of the bowels, shall we say?”

“The flux, you mean?” Matthew asked, with a smile.

“Sure, son. Someone shitting liquid, how about that? We find someone shitting liquid and we’ve got our killer, and hopefully they’re keeping Sheryl alive too.”

“With everything you’ve seen here, do you believe that?” Emmett asked. Silence from the sheriff was his answer, and sent the hair on Matthew’s neck standing.

“I think it’s time we go home. Don’t you say? I’ll have to go to the court and get this figured out, make sure you two get some pay for today. That sounds all right?”

“You don’t need help digging a hole?”

“Not without his wife. Not yet, at least.”

“Well, call us when you’re ready, Jim,” Emmett said. “Come by when you have more and I’ll have Caroline cook you up something.”

Sheriff Sheckle gave the two a flick of his hat—back atop his head—and rode off. He rode hard, harder than Matthew thought he meant to, but he felt the urge just the same. There was something on his back, creeping along, ready to grab him. If he stayed too long, if he were there alone, he wouldn’t be himself. He knew it deep, and he was tired of waiting.

“Let’s get home,” he said.

The two rode off the farm together, side by side. It wasn’t until they hit the main road that Emmett allowed them to slow down.

“Did you hear that rustling?” he asked. “In the bushes? After Jim left?”

“No,” Matthew said. “Back in the woods, by the pig, did you see anything in the woods? Like a flickering candle?”

“No,” Emmett responded. His voice was tight. His body tense. Matthew took note and released the tension within himself, letting his legs loosen and his arms fall.

“You said it ain’t a man… so what was it?”

“It wasn’t no man.”

“Then what? No wolf hangs a man’s rifle.”

Emmett waited, and for the first time all day, Matthew recognized the music of the world coming back.

“I’ll tell you this. I don’t know what it was, but for the first time in my earthly life, I felt as if we saw something we were not meant to see.”

“That’s the northerners for ya,” Hosea told Zella as they ate. “They treat us like humans, but still keep us property.”

In the forty seasons he had known Emmett Landry, not once did the man bring him a hot meal. He turned soft when he met the missus—softer than he was, anyway. Even when he was a child, and Hosea was plowing his father’s fields and tending to his father’s horses, Emmett never gave him a meal. He was kind as Hosea taught him to ride, and let him sit in on lessons—reading and writing—once in a while. Hosea learned more than the white boy did, more than likely, but never earned the kindness of a hot meal.

So he and his boy rode in that night, struck spooked and pale white in the late evening sun. Hosea and Lee were just finishing with the horses, while Clyde and Wiley were tending the hotbeds, and Zella was likely preparing a meal for the family with the wife. He had no idea where sweet Eveline was, but she would do just fine on her own.

“Where’d my daddy go?” Lee asked him.

“He went to help a friend,” Hosea replied.

“Should I have gone with Thomas?”

“No, sir. Your momma made him a bowl and sent him on his way. That was right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I ain’t no sir, sir. I’m just Hosea.”

Every day was the same with the boy. Hosea was awake before the sun. He would check the water, look over the stalls, and set out the feed. Lee was woken at first light by his father and collected from the house. Lee would gather eggs, refill feeding troughs, let chickens out of the coop and check for any sick birds. Every once in a while he would move too sharply and scare the hens, and Hosea always corrected him quietly.

They would drive the cows to water, or Lee would hold a bucket while Hosea milked. Clyde and Wiley would collect the manure, that was below the young boy’s responsibilities. Horses were brushed, and any time Lee chose to stand directly behind a horse Hosea would gently guide him away. One time, when Emmett and Matthew were in Richmond, Hosea pushed Lee down just so he would know what might happen.

Afternoons were largely spent teaching Lee how to ride a horse. Zella would often watch from nearby until her time to tend to the kitchen came. Eveline would watch from the house most days, and Hosea never told the master about it. It wasn’t his place.

His dreaded conversation with Lee came only three days after Emmett and Matthew returned from the Fletcher’s farm. The sixth of March. Hosea only knew it was the sixth of March because it had been three days since the third of March, which meant three extra notches in his frail bedframe, for a total of seventy and one.

“Hosea?” he called from beneath the cow. “Why is daddy acting strange?”

Hosea looked up at the barn. He had noticed the behavior himself. Instead of keeping his eyes on the river, like he usually did, Emmett Landry was watching the woods. Sometimes he would swing himself out of the open doors on the second floor. Sometimes he would lean his chair back to peek out the shutters. To the east lay civilization, land filled with people. Rich people, poor people, devil people, good people. White people. Blacks. The only thing that lay between civilization and the wilderness was farmland. The Landrys, the Thompsons, a few others, and beyond that, the Fletchers.

Hosea knew the area well enough. He knew that away from the river, if the sun were setting to the right, the Fletchers built their farm. That was south. He knew that in the direction the sun rose were cities, armies. He knew, even though the fine white people told him otherwise, that across the river he would still be a slave. He’d lived most of his life with the Landrys, on this land, and never had he seen Emmett watching the woods.

“Your daddy is just tryna protect his kin. That’s all, sir.”

“Protect us from what?”

He’d had the same conversation with Emmett, back when the master was Lee’s age. Emmett’s father had told him to bite his tongue over superstition, nearly cut it out of him when he’d found out he’d run it. It was his woman’s mercy that had saved Hosea.

“I tell every young master and every young missus this story. I give them all the same deal. Can you make me a deal, sir, just this once?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I ain’t no sir, sir. You must never tell your father I told you this. You understand? It could put me in the hole.”

“Yes, s—yes, I understand.”

“Good, now hold that bucket still for me.” He squeezed the cow’s teat in his hand downward. A faltering stream of white plopped into the bucket. “I think that’s about enough here. Let me help you with that bucket.”

They walked from the barn, the dry sun blinding Hosea enough that he slipped in his boot. A little milk sloshed out of his bucket, but when he looked up to the barn Emmett’s attention was still elsewhere.

“Sir, the story I’m about to tell you is all folk. You understand? We don’t know what’s true and what’s not.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Remember our deal now. When the white man first settled this land, you know there were other people here?”

“The Indians, right?”

“Yes, sir. Not India Indians, but savage Indians we know here. They was here before the white man, and between us I suspect they’ll be here after.”

“But we’re here now—”

“I know that. But listen to this story and you’ll get my meaning. It’s important.” He waited for a response, but when he looked over all he saw was Lee’s bright blue eyes staring back at him, waiting. “Now, these Indians, they lived in towns that they call tribes.”

“Like the… ‘Sunian?’”

“Siouan, sir, yes. There were more, like Algonquian, Iroquoian, and… God, too many to count. I think some of those might have been smaller tribes that became larger, but most people just blanket them as savages.”

“Like a city?”

“Sure, if the city moved from place to place. We moved them all out beyond the mountains so we could have this land.”

“Away from home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wouldn’t want to go away from home. Why’d they have to leave?”

“That’s a story for another day. I met one of these savage Indians once. It was a long time ago. I was a boy about your age, before your father was born and before I knew your father’s father. I was lost in the woods—he saved my life.”

“Did he bring you home to us?”

“Yes, sir, he did. Well, he gave me to someone to give to you, let’s put it that way. And not for cheap, neither. But the man saved my life, and he gave me some lessons. One of them I’ll tell you now.”

Hosea set the bucket on a bench as Zella came running out the front door of the house.

“You got it?” he asked.

“Yessuh. Miss Caroline is expecting it.”

“Very good. Young master, shall we tend to the horses?” They walked off, back toward the green and brown fenced field where the horses ran wild.

“He taught you a lesson?”

“Yes, sir. This man, I never learned his name, he told me a few rules for living here. Rules I’ve lived by since, and that I believe everyone who passes through here must live by. Some don’t, and they’re all right. Some do, and they’re not.

“Rule One: Never enter the woods at night. Don’t do it alone; don’t do it with people. Don’t go whistling; ignore the voices you hear; don’t go looking at deer or trees or streams. There are things crawling around in the dark out in the woods when the sun sets, and you don’t want these things to see you.

“Rule Two,” he raised two fingers. “Comes from Rule One. Ignore voices that call your name unless you see the person doing it. If you can’t see it, you don’t hear it. If we went out into the woods right now and got separated, and you heard me calling for you but didn’t see me, you didn’t really hear me. Same with whistling. You understand this one?”

“Yes,” Lee said. “I think so.”

“Repeat them back to me please.”

“Don’t go out at night, don’t answer my name.”

“Good. Remember the details. Only not when you can’t see what’s calling you. Rule Three: Don’t touch anything dead. Sometimes you’ll come across a deer or a hog, move on. Don’t stand there and stare like we do at the town fool. Your best chance is to run, and run until you can’t run no more.

“Rule Four: If you hear a woman scream, it wasn’t a woman. There ain’t no woman out there in so much peril as to scream like that. If there is, she is already dead. Trust me when I say you cannot save her—”

“What if it's momma?” Lee asked.

“Mistress Caroline would be right by your side, sir. She wouldn’t go leaving you alone in those woods now, would she?”

“No.”

“Good. Now, what are the rules so far? Remind me, sir.” “Don’t go out at night. Don’t answer my name.” Lee quickly jotted out two fingers, and slowly raised a third. “Don’t touch any dead animals.”

“Don’t touch anything dead, sir. Anything.”

“Don’t touch anything dead. And don’t… don’t scream?”

“Don’t go chasing screams.”

“Rule Four: Don’t go chasing screams.”

“Good, sir. Rule Five: If you must go out, light a fire big enough to last you all night. Don’t sleep. Sit next to that flame and let it burn you, because whatever suffering you might feel it’s better than what might happen if that fire goes out. This one is the most important. If you ignore all else, let that fire consume you before you let the darkness come near.”

The boy watched as his horse galloped across the field. Hosea reached for his shoulder, but paused just before placing his hand. He looked back at the barn one more time, finding Emmett wandering around the second level. He laid his hand on the fence instead.

“The man found me in the woods, sir. I was alone. I was hearing things I didn’t know I shouldn’t have been hearing. I couldn’t recall what exactly it was to you now if I tried, just that something was wrong. I understand if you think this fanciful, too foolish to be true. I thought it that way for a while, and then I heard another old negro tell the same. His name was Malachi, and every day I wonder where he ended up. Mal was smart, smarter than your k—the masters gave him credit for.”

“How’s that?” Lee asked.

“Mal had a gift of some kind. I couldn’t explain it to you, he would have to do that. But he knew things before they would happen, and he told my people the same warnings when they came around to the farm. He’d say ‘Don’t go in them woods at night or it’ll get you.’ I don’t know what the ‘it’ is, and I ain’t willing to find out.”

Hosea dropped to a knee as Mo came closer to the fence. He pulled the apple from his pocket and gave it to Lee. “Put your hand through there, just like that, give it gentle.”

“What happened to the Indian?”

“Not sure, I assume he was sent off with the rest of his kind out beyond the mountains.”

“Have you ever been out there?”

“Beyond the woods? Sir, I barely go in the woods. Only when I have to. There’s something about it that scares me.”

“You’re scared?”

“And not too scared to admit it. Sir, if you take anything from our lessons today, take this. Never, ever, go into those woods unless you have to. You can go around them to the south, you can go up to New York or Boston, you can live right here on this land for the rest of your life. Whatever you do, do not enter those woods.”

“Lee!” Eveline called from the door of the house. “C’mon inside! I got something to show you!”

Lee looked down at Hosea, still kneeling in the dirt. “Go on, now. You don’t need me to tell you. You’re the master here.” Lee smiled and ran off, kicking up dirt in his wake.

Hosea stood, wiping the dirt from his hands where he used them to steady himself. He gave a sigh and walked to the barn, where he picked up a brush and reins, just in case. The boy was likely to stay inside for the rest of the afternoon, and that was just as well.

He walked out to the patch where the family’s horses pranced. Buckeye stood at the feeding trough, Opal on the far side avoiding Hosea as best as he could. That was a wild one, still not familiar with the brush.

He approached Mo, the calmest of the three. He laid a hand on the back of his neck and gently brushed the dirt and dust off his side. Lee took good care of his new steed, even if he was often distracted.

Hosea looked off toward the woods. He felt his gut twist, and the muscles in his neck tense. His hand clutched the brush as a weapon, and every instinct told him to run in the opposite direction. It was largely true, what he told Lee. He wasn’t sure what might be out there. He wasn’t even sure if there was anything out there, perhaps it had all been a trick of his mind, as Mal wanted it to be. Yet, that thing he’d told Lee he couldn’t remember—the thing he heard when the Indian found him—echoed in his mind, and he kept one eye on the trees, never fully turning his back to the woods.