and bruises. The evening air was crisp. It was nearly the middle of October. The year was growing late.
Jefferson came out from the back of the wagon. He was a young gray and white tom cat who liked to sleep among the sacks of cornflower and bundled clothing. He spent most of his waking hours peering under a flap of canvas in the rear of the wagon. Strapped to the frame were four cages holding a rooster and three hens. They kept a tether on Jefferson. They didn’t want him wandering until they reached their own plot of land. A log cabin was an open house for mice and other vermin. Jefferson would have to earn his keep.
Francis had checked his map an hour ago and thought they were quite close to their new homestead. He was to look for a clearing near the edge of the road. His acreage would be indicated by a whitewashed wooden stake bearing a number. The entire family would have to work quickly to build a shelter before the snow came, but a simple cabin was all they needed as they had supplies to see them through the first winter, and there was a stream on their new land.
It was so quiet here; there were no sounds but the calls of night birds and the croaks and chirps of frogs and crickets. The stars to the east looked like a handful of salt spilled on black velvet.
Jefferson slipped under the flap of canvas, returning to his bed.
Francis glanced at his wife, his lovely, pious wife. She and Molly had golden curls and pale green eyes. Stephen took after Francis, with eyes like gray flint and dark hair. Lorna had a smudge of dirt on her left cheek and her eyes seemed to hold the fading light of day.
The first time he had ever seen her unclothed, her pale green eyes and porcelain skin glowing in the golden light of an oil lamp on their wedding night, he had whispered, “Blessed
Lorna was a Scottish Presbyterian who had been raised in an almost Puritanical faith. Francis was a godless American who had become mad with arousal when he saw her kneeling naked and asking for forgiveness. He never told her that. She probably would have chopped off his manhood instead of laying with him a second time.
“It’s you who’ve done that to the boy’s head,” Francis said. “Filling it with all that tripe about spooks and witchery.”
Lorna was uneasy, having never been this far from civilization, but she cocked a defiant eyebrow at her husband. “Don’t let pride lead you by the nose and steer you into damnation,” Her voice was sheer music with an Edinburgh lilt, even when she snapped at him. “You may have served well in the war and been granted a fine parcel of far-flung land, but there are no armies and little government in the Northwest Territory, my love, and the only one watching over us is the Lord God.”
Francis said nothing. He wouldn’t be surprised if the cat or horses spoke up next. He ground his teeth. At this rate he’d have no teeth left in his final years. Not that he had many years left. He was forty years old, after all.
Forty! His life was more than half over and he was only now building a homestead. Madness.
Yet he wouldn’t let Lorna know how afraid he was, afraid of starting a life in the wilderness and leaving behind a comfortable house in Pennsylvania, and afraid of failing his family.
Family! It seemed like only yesterday he was an eager sixteen year old signing up to march with the Continental Army against the English and their King. Now he had a family, and sometimes he worried late into the night, debating every step he should take along this road they were on. If Lorna knew of his fear she would have him in on his knees asking for guidance, and the only thing he ever received from prayer was splinters.
They had to take this chance. They
They passed a faded sign made from two planks, large words of warning writ in whitewash.
Lorna leaned close to Francis and he wondered how she could smell so sweet when he smelled of sweat and grime and tobacco. “Have you heard talk of the Horror of the Territory?” She was whispering now. “They say it is out there, roaming the woodlands. That beast, that abomination created by Satan to turn nature against us.”
Francis pointed down the rutted path and brought the horses to a stop.
In the distance was a homestead in a clearing. It was a long log cabin.
firelight glowed behind the oiled paper covering the windows; no one could afford panes of glass in this wilderness. As Francis watched he saw a brighter light bobbing outside and heard the creak and rattle of wooden shutters being secured.
He urged the horses down the road, and by the time he reached the path leading to the homestead a man was standing there with a lantern at his feet and a rifle slung across one arm.
“Greetings,” Francis said. “I am—“
“Francis Applebaker, no doubt.”
“Yes,” Francis said, hopping down from the wagon and slipping on his eye patch. He was uncomfortable with anyone but his family seeing the five-pointed star of scar tissue which was all that remained of his right eye.
“Michael Fish,” the man said, extending a hand. He was a big man with a big belly, and a white fringe of whiskers along his jaw. “I am a fellow veteran. I’m to let you know that your parcel is just a few miles further down the road. It’s an enviable location. You’ve been treated well.” He laughed and said, “You must have shot balls through many a British skull.” And they returned the favor, Francis thought, shaking his head. “No, I’ve simply been touched by fortune’s grace. We’ll be neighbors then?”
“Aye,” Fish replied. “One of the few good things to come out of the war, a plot of land away from all the hogwash in the east.” Fish looked west and watched the last of the light fade from the sky. “You’ll want to stay with me tonight. I have five children and a wife, but I’m sure we can all squeeze in together. Safer, you see.”
Francis was surprised by the offer. He was told that settlers could be hostile, preferring their isolation. “We would not want to impose. We can pitch a perfectly serviceable tent with our wagon canvas and—“
“Nonsense,” Fish said. He looked into the dark woods nearby.
“You’ve not heard of the Punkin Man?”
Francis heard the wagon creak behind him and turned to help Lorna out of the carriage. He saw that the children were peeking out from behind the canvas flap.
“Lord, you’re a fine one,” Fish said.
Lorna blushed. “What were you saying about a pumpkin?”
“The Punkin Man,” Fish said again, lowering his voice. “Come every October he walks the woods in the dark of night, wandering near and far, filling his belly to sleep through the winter, some say. He’s called Big Jack, the Punkin Man. A horrible Pagan beast sired by the cold seed of Satan himself. And Jack don’t just have a taste for the white man, no, he’ll eat any savage in his grasp, from Chickasaw to Kickapoo.”
Lorna gasped and pressed one hand against her bosom. Francis hid his sudden laugh with a cough, covering his mouth with one hand like a powdered dandy.
“Sir,” Francis said, “I would ask you to not speak of such things. My children have sharp ears.”
“They should know what walks the land at this time of year,” Fish said. “I’ve seen him myself. Tall he was, with limbs as strong as the roots of an oak, and a great round punkin for a head.”
“Of course,” Francis said. He turned and took Lorna’s arm. “Thank you for the offer of creature comforts, sir, but we will manage fine with our tent.”
Lorna was horrified. “Francis Applebaker!” Of Fish she asked, “Sir, do you speak of . . . the Horror?”
Fish nodded.
Francis’ patience was waning. “I’m not going to let this fellow cause the children to suffer fits of the imagination with his fables of—“
