The morning after Peter's death was a cold, gray wound, the air thick with frost and the sting of loss. The caravan moved like ghosts, our faces pale, our hands trembling as we worked to make sense of the tragedy. Peter's body lay wrapped in a blanket, waiting for burial, a silent accusation of our frailty out here. I'm William, twenty-two, and the wilderness was carving lessons into me—about grief, about survival, about the flicker of hope that somehow kept us going. My brother Thomas was rallying the group, his voice hoarse but firm, though I saw the weight in his eyes.
We buried Peter at dawn, the earth resisting our shovels, as if it begrudged us even this small claim. I dug beside Ezekiel, my hands raw, my heart heavy. Elizabeth was nearby, soothing Peter's younger brother with a gentleness that made my chest ache. Her eyes met mine, a quiet strength passing between us, and it gave me something to hold onto. She was a beacon in this darkness, and I didn't know how I'd make it without her.
Thomas spoke after the burial, his words cutting through the chill. "We keep building," he said. "Huts, church, whatever it takes to survive winter. We owe Peter that much." Murmurs followed—some weary, some defiant. Henderson stood apart, his face etched with pain, while Mrs. Greene clutched her shawl, whispering to herself. Father Michael prepared for the service, but he looked worse than yesterday—his skin pale as frost, his frame gaunt, his eyes sunken like he hadn't slept in days. I figured the cold and hunger were hitting him hard, maybe worse than the rest of us.
Work was our refuge. Ezekiel and Amos hammered away at the third hut, their rhythm steady despite the gloom. I hauled logs, sweat mixing with the chill on my skin. The church was nearly finished, its log walls solid, a cross rising at one end like a promise. Father Michael helped, carrying planks with trembling hands, his breath ragged. He seemed driven, almost frantic, to see it done. "The Lord is our fortress," he said, passing me a bundle of nails, his voice thin. I nodded, but his bony fingers and hollow cheeks made me uneasy, like he was wasting away before us.
Jedediah sat by the fire, sharpening his knife, his eyes flicking to the trees. He'd brought those hares yesterday, a small victory, but his face was a mask of tension, like he was waiting for the forest to strike. I wanted to ask what haunted him, but his silence was a barrier I couldn't cross. Instead, I turned to Elizabeth, who was helping Mrs. Greene sort our dwindling supplies. She caught me staring and smiled, a small thing that warmed me more than the fire.
"Need a hand?" I asked, joining her as she struggled with a sack of flour.
"Always," she said, her voice soft, her fingers brushing mine as we worked. "You're keeping us going, William."
I shook my head, blushing. "You're the one doing that. I'm just… trying not to fall apart."
She laughed, and it was a sound I wanted to bottle and keep forever. Thomas saw us, his eyebrow raised but his lips twitching with approval. For a moment, I let myself believe we could build something here, not just huts but a future.
That evening, we gathered in the church for Peter's memorial service. The air smelled of pine and wax, the candles casting shadows that danced like specters. Father Michael stood at the altar, his black coat hanging loose on his frame, his face almost skeletal in the dim light. He began the Lord's Prayer, his voice steady at first—"Our Father, who art in heaven"—but then a cough tore through him, sharp and wet. He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth, his shoulders shaking, and continued, "hallowed be thy name." Another cough, harsher, and I saw a fleck of red on the cloth before he tucked it away. My stomach twisted—consumption, maybe? It'd explain his pallor, his wasting frame. The settlers exchanged glances, but no one spoke.
"Thy kingdom come," he rasped, his eyes fever-bright, pushing through the prayer despite the strain. His hands gripped the altar, knuckles white, and I felt a pang of pity. He was fighting to hold us together, even as his body failed. The service ended with a hymn, his voice faltering but fervent, and I tried to focus on Elizabeth's warmth beside me, not the unease gnawing at my gut.
Afterward, I stepped outside, the night biting at my skin. The forest was too quiet, the stars hidden by clouds. Something caught my eye—a mark on the church's wall, etched deep into the wood. A jagged spiral, like a claw had scratched it, fresh and raw. I ran my fingers over it, my breath catching. It wasn't there this afternoon. A prank? An animal? I looked to Jedediah, sitting by the fire, his rifle across his lap. His gaze was locked on the mark, his jaw tight, but he didn't move.
"William?" Elizabeth's voice pulled me back. She stood beside me, her shawl tight around her. "What's wrong?"
"Don't know," I said, forcing calm. "Just a mark, probably nothing."
But it didn't feel like nothing. The wind stirred, low and mournful, carrying a faint hum that prickled my skin—not the laugh from last night, but close, like a whisper from the dark. I pulled Elizabeth close, her hand in mine, and scanned the trees. The shadows seemed to pulse, just for a heartbeat, as if something watched us, patient and hungry.
"Stay with me," I said, my voice unsteady. She nodded, her grip tightening, and we stood there, our fragile hope flickering against a darkness that felt alive.