Past The Patch

The cabin took most of their time, from sunrise to sunset. The family had first laid a foundation of flat rocks from the river, tamping them down with wooden mallets until they were level and then covering them with dirt that would be replaced with a rough wooden floor during the winter. Then they constructed a simple cabin of notched logs. It was twenty feet wide by twenty long, a tight space for four, but in the spring they would begin building a house. Francis had been fortunate. Most of the citizen soldiers he served with in the Continental Army were men of skill, not means, and he had learned a great deal from them.

“We need a fireplace,” Lorna had reminded him every day as the cabin took shape.

When the cabin walls and roof were complete, Lorna and Molly filled the gaps between the logs with clay from the river. The family brought some small parts of their future house with them, including hinges and a latch for the door, but for the cabin leather hinges and a sturdy crossbar would do fine. Stephen made a small chicken coop, and he was quite proud of his work. Francis made the fireplace and chimney from stones and pale clay from the river. Most of it sat outside the cabin. He made sure it was vented properly and would reflect enough heat to warm the cabin. Francis and Stephen made the sleeping loft together. It spanned the breadth and width of the cabin, leaving the floor below open for Lorna’s kitchen, a corner for the children and space for Francis to work in winter. They also brought oiled paper, which they set in window frames that could be opened or closed.

Francis belched, his belly full of Lorna’s skirlie, a hearty oatmeal, bacon and onion mash. That was the last of the bacon, the last of their meat, but there were deer and rabbits and squirrels in the woods, fish in the stream, and the hens had already started laying eggs.

There was still so much to do. They needed a proper privy. They needed shutters; Francis would set Stephen to work on them in the morning while he split and planed logs for a proper floor. They needed a porch where they could knock dirt and snow off of their boots, and a roofed workspace behind the cabin where they could butcher game. Francis wanted a big comfortable chair, but that would come after a sturdy workbench, and proper chairs to replace the stumps around their table, and—

A twig snapped in the woods, a stark sound. Usually after sundown there was only the song of night birds and frogs and the stealthy rustle of mice and other foragers. Jefferson had been curled into a ball at Francis’

feet, his own belly full of white-bellied mice. Now the cat stood up and stretched, his golden eyes reflecting the fires.

“Don’t you go wandering—“

The cat trotted away and slipped into the dark woods.

“Cats,” Francis said.

The horses were secured nearby with hobble ropes around their forelegs, so they could graze on grasses near the trail but not run off. Now they began to snort and stomp. Francis led them close to the cabin, between the fires.

The woods were illuminated by a full moon bright enough to read by, and the multicolored fall foliage took on an unearthly glow. Francis realized the frogs down by the stream had gone silent; they usually sang to each other all night.

There was a low sound, half grunt, half exclamation of surprise, not at all human.

Jefferson raced out of the trees with his ears tucked back and his tail low. Francis scooped the cat into his arms, felt claws pierce his shirt, and held the cat at arm’s length by the scruff of the neck. He could feel the cat’s heart hammering away.

There was the snapping of dry wood and a heavy thud. It could have been a dead tree falling over… But s omething had chased the cat out of the woods.

Francis carried Jefferson into the cabin, his flesh creeping as if he had been caught in a cold draft. He put a tether on the cat and tied it to an iron hook on one wall, and then barred the door.

“What is it, Francis?” Lorna whispered. She was sitting on a log seat by their crude table, stitching a tear in Stephen’s trousers by candlelight.

Overhead, the children were asleep in their shared bed up in the loft.

“Something is out there,” he said softly. “A bear, mayhap.” That something came out of the woods and passed beyond the two fires outside. Lorna was terrified when she heard one of the horses let out a sound like a scream, and when Francis went to one of the windows as if to peek outside she grabbed his arm and shook her head.

“If it doesn’t see you it won’t come for you,” she said.

“What won’t come for me?”

“Whatever is out there,” she said.

The children were awake now, peering down from then loft, sleepy and curious.

Francis reached for his longrifle where it was hung over the door and began loading the weapon.

The Applebaker family heard the most unsettling series of sounds, a soft thump like heavy footfalls, accompanied by the rattle of dry branches.

Something pushed against the door, and Francis took a step back. The leather hinges were strained, but the cross bar held the door firmly closed.

The rattle and thump sounds carried to one side of the house, paused, and then a thick branch punctured the oiled paper over one window.

Molly and Lorna screamed, and Stephen moved in front of his sister.

Fish reported only human remains, not animal, Francis thought, as he raised the long barrel of the rifle and aimed at the shape that was now just a shadow thrown by light from one of the fires behind it. And I’ve never seen any animal carcasses. What if this thing only has a taste for men?

He saw movement through the tear in the oiled paper and fired. The shot was like cannon fire inside the single large room. The ball connected and Francis heard the clatter of fragmenting wood, followed by an otherworldly moan. The shot filled the cabin with the bitter scent of burned powder.

They heard more of those odd rattling thuds as the thing moved away.

Francis guessed the thing was making for the road, and after a moment the sounds faded.

Jefferson had been standing with his back arched and his tail fluffed out. Now he relaxed, and began to wash one foot with his rough tongue.

Francis felt relieved, and immediately felt foolish and angry for feeling such relief. I am a man of the modern age, he thought, not some superstitious bumpkin! But that was no bear . . .

He opened the door, hearing Lorna gasp behind him.

The frogs were singing down by the steam again.

Francis stepped outside, and walked softly to one of the fires. Stephen followed, his mother reaching for him and failing to hold him back.

The horses were unharmed, but they were breathing fast, their hot breath white vapor in the chilly air.

There were marks in the well-packed earth around the homestead. It looked as if someone had dragged a crude wicker broom or a bundle of sticks out of the woods, in a wide arc around the fires, past the cabin and back into the woods, following a path running parallel to the road.

“Lorna,” Francis called, “Put out the fire in the fireplace. Then get Molly dressed and come out here.” To Stephen he said, “Help me hitch the horses to the wagon.”

He and Stephen put bridles on the horses. They were strapping the horses to the wagon when Lorna appeared, carrying Molly.

“A bit late in the day for a ride, is it not?”

“Get in,” he told her. “Whatever that thing was it’s making its way through the woods alongside the path to the Fish house. I have to warn them, and I’m not about to leave you and the children alone.” By the time the horses were hitched securely and everyone was in the wagon, the night had grown colder. The moonlight was stark and brilliant.

Francis gathered his weapons, paused to be sure the fires outside were banked and safe to leave unattended, and then snapped the reins and set off down the road.

The journey was a quick one. With the moonlight the horses were able to run as fast as they were able.

Fish must have heard the gunshot earlier and their approach now. By the time they pulled up at the end of