The wilderness had won, at least for now. The mud had hardened into a trap, and the wagons weren't going anywhere until spring. We'd accepted it, grim as it was, and set to work building a camp to survive the winter. The forest loomed around us, its bare branches clawing at a sky that promised snow. I'm Amos, a carpenter by trade, thirty-five, more at ease with wood and nails than words. Out here, though, my hands were my voice, shaping something solid against the chaos of the wild.
We gathered in the clearing, our breath fogging in the cold. Thomas led the effort, his voice steady as he divided tasks. Ezekiel and I would handle the huts—simple frames of logs and bark, enough to keep out the wind. Henderson and his sons would clear space, while Mrs. Greene and Elizabeth organized what little food we had left. Father Michael, pale and thinner than I remembered, insisted on a small church—a place to pray, he said, to keep our souls from breaking. I saw the sense in it. Hope was as scarce as bread, and we needed something to hold onto.
I swung my axe, felling saplings for the huts, the rhythm of the work calming my restless mind. The forest was quiet, save for the thud of axes and the creak of branches overhead. As I worked, a spark of hope flickered in my chest, small but stubborn. Maybe we could make it through this. Maybe the wilderness wasn't as cruel as it seemed. I glanced at William, hauling logs with a determined set to his jaw, and Elizabeth, tying bundles of bark nearby. Their quiet glances, the way her hand brushed his, stirred a warmth in me. There was still life here, still something worth fighting for.
That afternoon, a shout broke the monotony. Jedediah emerged from the trees, his face as grim as ever, but his pack bulged with promise. He dropped a bundle at the fire—four hares, their fur matted but their meat a gift. "Got lucky," he muttered, though his eyes darted to the forest, like he'd seen more than he was saying. The settlers crowded around, murmurs of relief rippling through the group. Mrs. Greene's hands shook as she took the hares to skin, her eyes wet with something like gratitude.
Then came more good news. Young Peter Henderson, barely sixteen, had ventured to the frozen stream nearby, chiseling through the ice to fish. He returned with a string of trout, their silver scales glinting in the fading light. "The Lord provides," Father Michael said, his voice softer than usual, his face almost gaunt in the firelight. I noticed how his hands trembled as he helped distribute the fish, his fingers bony, his skin stretched tight. Hunger was carving us all hollow, but it seemed to mark him deeper, though I pushed the thought aside.
The hope grew stronger as we worked. By dusk, the first hut stood—rough but sturdy, its walls a promise of shelter. The church was taking shape too, a small frame of logs with a cross at one end, Father Michael's doing. He moved among us, offering quiet blessings, though his steps were slower, his eyes sunken. "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness," he murmured, quoting scripture as he helped Ezekiel lift a beam. I nodded, my hands busy with a mallet, and let the words settle over me like a prayer.
We ate that night—hare stew and fish, meager but warm. The fire crackled, and for the first time in weeks, there were smiles, even laughter. William sat with Elizabeth, their shoulders touching, and Thomas watched them with a rare softness. Ezekiel shared a story of his blacksmith days, and I felt the weight of Daniel's death lift, just a little. Maybe we weren't doomed. Maybe we could carve a life here.
But the wilderness doesn't give without taking.
It started with the wind. A gust swept through the camp, sharp and sudden, rattling the huts and scattering sparks from the fire. I looked up, my skin prickling, as the trees swayed violently, their branches groaning like a chorus of the damned. The wind grew stronger, howling through the clearing, and in its wail, I heard something else—a low, mocking laugh, cold and cruel, like a demon taunting us from the dark. I froze, my hammer slipping from my hand, and saw the others tense, their faces pale in the firelight.
"Secure the logs!" Thomas shouted, leaping to his feet. We rushed to the pile of timber we'd stacked for the church, tying ropes to hold it steady. But the wind was relentless, tearing at our clothes, stinging our eyes. Father Michael stood by the cross, praying fiercely, his voice nearly lost in the gale. His face looked skeletal now, the fire casting harsh shadows on his hollow cheeks.
Then it happened. A log broke free, heavy and long, tumbling from the pile like a judgment from on high. It fell fast, too fast, and struck Peter Henderson, the boy who'd brought us the fish. He didn't even scream—just a sickening crunch as the log crushed him.