THE UPTON CHAMBER

At first light, Josiah rose to prepare Thunderbolt for the long trip to Boston. Rachel bid him good morning with a kiss and got ready to walk to the almshouse. It was a mile down the dirt road, a squat clapboard building two doors down from the meeting house. When she walked in the door, the matron led her to her sister's room. Rachael stepped through the creaking oak door of the almshouse, her woolen cloak brushing the rough-hewn floorboards. The air inside was thick with the sour stink of stale porridge, damp straw, and unwashed bodies.

The low, timbered room sprawled dim and narrow. Small windows spilled slivers of gray November light that danced faintly over the huddled figures along the walls. These were paupers swathed in threadbare blankets, their coughs and murmurs a steady hum beneath the crackle of a weak fire in the stone hearth. Sarah sat near the back. Her wiry frame was perched on a splintered bench, and her chestnut hair, once lustrous, was now tangled and dulled by neglect. Her hands clutched a wooden bowl, gruel-smeared fingers twitching as her wide, frantic eyes darted to unseen corners. A wild gleam cut through the strain etched into her face as Rachael approached.

Rachael knelt beside her, the cold seeping through her skirts. Her breath puffed faintly in the chill as she set down a small bundle. “I brought ye somethin’, Sarah,” she said softly, her voice a thread above the almshouse drone. Her own chestnut hair was tucked neatly under her cap, her face still smooth despite their shared years of hardship.

Sarah’s head jerked up, her gaze locking on Rachael with feverish intensity. Her bowl clattered to the floor as she leaned forward. “Demons, Rachael! They’re here, skulkin’ in the dark and gnashin’ their teeth!” she rasped. Her voice was sharp and brittle as she waved a trembling hand at the firelight’s flickering shadows. Her delusions painted horrors where only weary paupers sat, staring blankly or shifting uneasily at her outburst.

Rachael steadied her sister’s arm, her heart sinking as Sarah’s words tumbled faster. “They whisper curses, set to drag us down! Ye hear them, don’t ye?” Sarah pleaded, gripping Rachael’s sleeve with nails digging in to anchor herself. Rachael shook her head gently, her voice calm but firm. “No demons here, Sarah, just us and the cold. Eat something and steady yerself.” She pressed the bread into Sarah’s shaking hands, but Sarah flinched and dropped it. Her gaze snapped to a corner where the fire cast a jagged shadow. A bent old woman became a horned fiend in her mind’s eye. Her breath hitched as she shrank back, muttering, “They’re comin’ for us all!”

The hearth sputtered, throwing eerie shapes across the peeling plaster walls and amplifying Sarah’s delirium. Rachael stayed close, her presence a fleeting warmth against Sarah’s unraveling. Her own hands remained steady as she retrieved the bread and brushed off the dirt. “Ain’t no demons, just shadows. Ye’re safe with me,” she murmured, though doubt gnawed at her. Sarah’s mind had slipped far since their days spinning wool together. Her warnings were a stark echo of the sermons that filled their youth with brimstone fears. The other inmates watched with dull curiosity or broken indifference as Sarah rocked slightly, her voice dropping to a frantic whisper: “Ye’ll see. Mark me, they’ll take us!”

The matron, a gaunt woman with a crucifix clutched like a weapon, glared from the doorway. “She’s beyond mortal aid,” the matron intoned. “Best pray for her soul.”

Rachel fled, the taste of bile sharp on her tongue. As she stumbled into the sunlight, she collided with Nathaniel, Sarah’s husband, his face ashen. “They mean to bleed her,” he said hoarsely. “Said it’ll purge the evil humors.” Rachel’s heart lurched.

“Don’t let them,” she pleaded, gripping his arm. Nathaniel shook his head, tears carving paths across his cheeks. “What choice have I?” he whispered before turning away, his shoulders hunched as if bearing the weight of the gallows.

Josiah Ball’s journey from Braintree to Boston covered about ten miles along a rough colonial route. Starting on the Great Road in Braintree, he headed north and crossed the Neponset River at a ford roughly three miles out. The path then led northeast through Dorchester’s outskirts, passing settlements like the Neponset Hamlet and the Brush Hill precinct. From there, it joined the Roxbury Way where the Punkapoag Path marked the edge of town. The final stretch across a narrow neck of land ended in Boston near the common. The trip usually took Josiah three to four hours, depending on weather.

Josiah urged Thunderbolt forward, the cart groaning under the barrels of salt pork and sacks of corn. Boston’s promise loomed beyond the mud-choked trails, but the road gnawed at his resolve. Each rut was a reminder of Samuel’s grave, freshly turned. The path twisted through dense forests, rutted and uneven from recent rains. Thunderbolt plodded cautiously, sinking into the mud with each step while the thick undergrowth crowded both sides.

Colonial law required all able-bodied men to help mend the roads, a duty enforced by fines. To avoid the fine, men would spend their required hours, yet half the time they would arrive with oxen and shovels only to end up sprawled in the dirt, drunk on cider. Josiah had passed here last spring and saw it for himself. Four men with sloshing tankards had left the path a jagged mess. Mud sucked at Thunderbolt’s hooves, a testament to their games, and Josiah cursed under his breath as the cart lurched over a ditch they had never filled.

A rustle in the foliage snapped his gaze to the left. Thunderbolt’s ears flicked, and Josiah’s fingers tightened on his pistol. Before he could react, two warriors stepped silently into the path. They were lean and wiry, their faces gaunt and their bodies marked with tattoos. Simple patterns were etched into their arms and chests, standing out against their skin in the dim light. Their hair was long and unbound, streaked with red ochre.

The two warriors blocked the wagon. Josiah jerked the reins, his hand snapping to the flintlock pistol at his belt. He drew it in a flash, the steel barrel glinting as he aimed at the warrior with the war club. “Back off!” Josiah snapped, his voice cutting through the stillness. “I’ll shoot before you swing that thing.”

The warrior with the war club froze, his gaunt fingers tightening on the rawhide grip. His companion raised a spear halfway, his sunken eyes darting between Josiah and the wagon. These were remnants of King Philip’s War, a conflict that had left the natives scattered and starving. Their hollow cheeks told a story of desperation, yet their weapons held steady.

The spearman rasped in halting English, “No kill. Meat. Give meat, you go.”

Josiah studied them, the pistol still in hand. The war’s end had gutted their food stores, leaving them to scrape by on whatever the forest yielded. Meat was a prize worth risking this standoff. “Fine,” Josiah said, easing the pistol back into his belt, though he kept his stance wary. “Meat for passage. I’ve got some to spare.”

He climbed down and moved to the back, one eye on the warriors. He untied a sack and pulled out a slab of salted pork. “This do?”

The club-bearer’s eyes widened, a faint gleam breaking through his stoic mask. He grunted and pointed down the path with his club. “Give. Go,” he said, his voice trembling with restraint. Josiah tossed the pork onto the ground. The spearman darted forward and snatched it up. Without another word, they turned and slipped into the forest.

Josiah climbed back onto the wagon and urged Thunderbolt forward. Boston awaited, but behind him, the warriors carried their prize. It was a lifeline traded for passage, a fleeting reprieve from the starvation that stalked them in the war’s long shadow.

As they neared Boston, the forests opened to fields dotted with farms. The road tightened at Boston Neck, where marshes flanked the treacherous stretch toward the city. Three wooden staffs were installed at the beginning of the neck. The grisly heads of Indians were mounted on each as a warning to those who might harbor ill will towards the English.

At Faneuil Market, the air buzzed with vendors’ shouts and the clang of metal. Josiah hefted his produce from the cart as church steeples tolled the hour. Peter Faneuil greeted him with a warm smile and a hearty embrace. “Josiah, my old friend! It’s about time. I expected you two weeks ago.”

Josiah met the cheer with a somber look. “The boy?” Peter asked. “Gone,” Josiah rasped. “And Rachel is not well. She is set on leaving Braintree. I fear she will sicken like her sister if we stay, because everything reminds her of our babe.”

Peter gripped his shoulder. “Josiah, what if she had another babe to nurture? There is an infant in my household who has lost his mother. Without care, he will not survive.”

Josiah’s brow furrowed. “What of the child’s father?” Peter glanced toward the wharf, where shackled men unloaded cargo. “A bondsman. He has no rights to claim kin.”

Josiah watched the glint of chains biting into flesh. His chest seized with cold rage. “God’s mercy, Peter! Are you trading slaves now?”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “It is business, Josiah. Ships sail empty without cargo, so I fill them up. You peddle turnips and I peddle men. It is the same coin, just a different weight.”

“Same coin?” Josiah snapped. “You chain men like beasts! It is a sin, Peter. I hate this cursed trade.” Peter’s grin wavered, but he squared up. “This boy has no chains, but he has no people either. Please, Josiah. My marriage and my business are in turmoil because of this babe.” “I will consider it for the boy,” Josiah replied in disgust, “but not for you.”

At the Faneuil mansion, a young black woman emerged cradling a swaddled bundle. Her hands trembled as she thrust it forward. “His mother’s dead. Master says you might take him?” Josiah took the babe with a heavy sigh. “His name?”

“Zenas,” she replied, her voice low and fierce. “His mother picked it from the Good Book before the fever took her. Said it means a freeman, one who knows his rights before the law. You keep that name on him, traveler. It is the only thing he has that his mother give him.”

Josiah felt a tumult of emotions. The infant’s slight weight stirred memories of sweet Samuel. Grief surged first, a piercing reminder of the son he had buried. “I will return before nightfall,” Josiah said. “Prepare him for the ride.”

Inside the wetu, tension thickened with each passing moment as Tantamom’s labor intensified. Anawon stood by her side and clasped her hand in a vise-like grip. His brow was furrowed with a mix of worry and determination. The flickering fire cast erratic shadows against the woven walls. These shapes seemed to mirror the tumultuous struggle happening within his wife's body. He could smell the sharp scent of her fear mixed with the heavy musk of the damp cattail mats. Every few minutes, a fresh blast of wind threatened to lift the very roof from the sapling frame.

“We need to turn the child,” said Nashawe, the medicine woman. Her voice remained steady despite the storm brewing both inside and out. Her hands were coated in a thick salve of bear grease and crushed yarrow. She worked with a calm that almost frightened Anawon. She leaned her weight into the task and her muscles strained under her weathered skin. She muttered ancient words that were intended to soothe the spirit of the unborn boy who seemed to be fighting against the world he was meant to enter.

“But is there time?” he implored. Fear edged his voice as he looked toward the entrance. Outside, the wind howled like a banshee and lightning flashes lit the darkened sky. The rain began to hammer against the bark exterior with a sound like a thousand drums. It was a chaotic rhythm that drowned out the crackle of their small hearth.

“We have no choice but to try,” Nashawe replied. She placed her hands on Tantamom’s belly and began to press. Tantamom screamed. It was a sound of pure agony that pierced the air and rose above the roar of the gale. Her fingernails dug deep into Anawon’s palm and drew thin lines of red. He did not pull away. He welcomed the pain because it was the only thing he could share with her in this moment of total darkness.

Outside, the elements waged their own battle. The storm’s fury unleashed wrath upon the land. Thunder rumbled ominously and blinding lightning illuminated the wilderness in stark relief. Within the wetu, Tantamom’s struggle pressed on. Her cries mingled with the tempest’s roar. The very air felt electric as if the sky were trying to reach down and touch the earth through the smoke hole above their heads.

Then came a sound deeper than the thunder. It was a physical blow that shook the very ground. The Great Turtle, which was the massive granite sentinel of their camp, groaned under the pressure of the strike. With a sound like a mountain snapping in two, the stone shattered. The vibration traveled through the soil and into the soles of Anawon’s feet. It felt as if the foundations of their world had finally given way.

Inside the shelter, Tantamom gave one final heave.

A sudden silence followed the destruction. The wind seemed to hold its breath. Then a thin, sharp wail pierced the air. It was the sound of new lungs tasting the smoky air for the first time.

“A son,” Nashawe whispered. She cleaned the babe with practiced speed and handed him to his mother.

The peace was short lived. The hide flap of the wetu was shoved aside and let in a swirl of freezing rain. Wunuxom stood there with his gray hair wild. His eyes were not fixed on the baby. Instead, they were locked on the darkness behind him.

“Good morning, Wunuxom,” Anawon greeted. “How did your family fare in the storm?”

Wunuxom approached cautiously and his eyes darted to the split boulder. “Our wetu is a mess but we are alright. I came to see the baby,” he said as he knelt by the rock. He pressed his ear to the granite as if he were listening to its heartbeat. The old man’s fingers trembled as he traced the new, jagged edge of the stone. He looked as though he were reading a story written in the cracks of the earth.

“You must seal this hole with a white stone,” Wunuxom admonished. His voice was a dry rasp. “The sky crack is now a crack in the earth. The underworld is open and the Chepi live among us.”

He looked at the newborn Pomhaman. “Born of a broken stone,” he muttered. “He will walk paths we cannot see.”

The old man turned and hurried back into the forest. He muttered prayers and searched the wet leaves for a piece of quartz. Anawon was left to gather firewood. He felt a new, cold seed of dread planting itself in his chest as he looked at the jagged fissure in the Sacred Turtle.

After leaving the Faneuil estate, Josiah urged Thunderbolt north through the cluttered arteries of Boston. The city was a cacophony of progress: the rhythmic thump of shipwrights’ mauls, the cries of hawkers, and the smell of roasting coffee beans from the coffeehouses near the Town House. He rode toward the northern outskirts, where the wooden hovels of the poor gave way to the brick-and-stone permanence of the wealthy. Nathaniel Brewer’s home stood as a fortress of English civility. It was a massive structure of Flemish bond brick, with windows of crown glass that glinted like ice in the fading light.

A servant met Josiah at the iron gate, viewing his mud-flecked coat and weary horse with a look of thinly veiled disdain. Josiah was shown through a grand foyer and into a library filled with the scent of old leather and hickory smoke. Nathaniel was standing by a fireplace large enough to roast a stag, his massive frame casting a long shadow over a desk cluttered with ledgers and maps. The older man turned, a brief, hearty smile lighting up his weathered face. He crossed the room with an outstretched hand.

“Josiah! It is good to see you. I had expected you weeks ago. I have been saving a cask of fine cider for your arrival. How is my favorite niece? And little Samuel? I wager the boy is nearly tall enough to help you with the spring planting by now.”

Josiah stood in the center of the room, the warmth of the hearth feeling wholly alien to him. He did not take the offered hand. Instead, his voice cracked like dry timber as the words he had been holding back finally broke loose. “Samuel is gone, Nathaniel. We buried him three days back. The fever was a thief. It took him before we could even call for the doctor to let his blood.”

The strength seemed to drain out of Nathaniel instantly. He grasped the edge of his mahogany desk, his knuckles turning white as he sank into a leather chair. The library, once a place of quiet authority, felt suddenly hollow. He sat in stunned silence, his head bowing as he absorbed the loss of the boy who was to be his heir once removed. “Not the boy,” he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy grief. “Not sweet Samuel. Lord, have mercy on us. He was the light of Rachael’s eyes.”

“Rachael is failing,” Josiah continued, his words rushed and desperate. “She wanders the house at night, searching in the dark for a child who isn't there. Her eyes are full of a darkness I cannot reach. Her sister Sarah is already in the almshouse, lost to the shadows and screaming at demons. I cannot let that be Rachael’s end, Nathaniel. I will not watch her wither away in a town that smells only of Samuel’s grave. She wants out. She wants the frontier.”

Nathaniel looked up, his gray eyes wet, and gestured vaguely toward the large parchment map spread across his desk. “The frontier is a hard cure for a broken heart, Josiah. But perhaps it is the only one. You want a new start? You want to go west into the Nipmuc country?”

Josiah leaned over the map, his eyes tracing the jagged lines of the western territory. “I want land where the neighbors do not know our business and the church bells don't ring for funerals every Sunday. You are a proprietor out near Mendon. I have heard how you secured those grants.”

Nathaniel offered a firm, knowing nod, his grief momentarily shielded by his pride as a man of affairs. “It was a matter of bringing the light of commerce to a wilderness that knew only the seasons, Josiah. The Nipmuc lived upon this land like shadows, claiming no stake and leaving no mark. We offered them a fair exchange. We brought them iron that does not break, woven wool that does stay warm when wet, and the protection of English statutes. These were things of great value, and value must be paid for in full.”

“And when they could not pay in coin?” Josiah asked, watching the older man’s face.

“They paid in the only capital they possessed: the idle wilderness,” Nathaniel replied. “It was a matter of simple, honest accounting. They chose to take our goods on credit at the trading posts, and our courts merely enforced the terms of the debt. We gave them the opportunity to join a civilized economy. If they fell into arrears, it was their own lack of thrift that cost them the land. We did not steal it. We harvested it from their negligence. We turned their hunting grounds into townships, which is the highest and most Christian use of the soil.”

Nathaniel stood and walked to the window, looking out over the orderly, brick-lined streets of Boston. “The section I hold is called Bungay, named after the stubborn marshes of old Suffolk. I settled the accounts of a local sachem who found himself in deep debt after a poor harvest. I provided the grain to keep his people from starving, and in return, he rightfully ceded the rights to the granite ridges and the swamp. It was a mercy, Josiah. I traded bread for rocks, and in doing so, I secured a future for men like you.”

He returned to the desk and took up a quill, scratching his name onto a parchment with a heavy, authoritative hand. “I am giving you one third of my proprietorship in Bungay. It is a clean title, recognized by the General Court. But do not expect the Nipmuc who remain in the cedar swamps to understand the legality of it. They lack the English mind for contracts. They will see your walls and they will feel a covetousness for what they have rightfully forfeited through their own debt.”

Josiah took the deed, the paper feeling heavy in his calloused hand. “I will build the walls, Nathaniel. If the law says the land is mine, I will make the stone say the same. I would rather fight the wilderness than watch my wife lose her mind in Braintree.”

Nathaniel gripped his shoulder, his voice returning to a low, somber tone. “Take the land, then. Go to Mendon and build. You are not just saving Rachael; you are expanding the kingdom. That is the work of a Christian man, even if the work is hard and the ground is stubborn.”

With the deed secured, Josiah left the brick fortress of the Brewer estate. But he did not steer Thunderbolt toward the western road just yet. He had one final stop to make. It was almost dark when Josiah arrived back at the Faneuil place. The servant girl had assembled everything Josiah would need: a supply of milk, warm clothes, and a small glass nursing bottle.

Josiah lifted the infant, seeing the steady, dark eyes watching him from the folds of the linen. He tucked the boy securely inside the heavy folds of his coat, pinning him against his chest for warmth. Mounting Thunderbolt once more, he finally turned away from the cobblestones of Boston, the rhythmic thump of hooves marking the start of a grueling pilgrimage through the deepening cold of the wilderness.

Every few leagues, beneath the shelter of a hemlock or leaning oak, Josiah would rein in. He reached inside his coat, pulling the bottle from his satchel and pressing it against his own skin to take the chill off the milk before feeding the quiet boy. The infant Zenas was a miraculous traveler, lulled to sleep by the steady gait of the horse. It was well past midnight when the silhouette of the farmstead finally rose out of the mist.

Josiah entered the silent cabin, where the hearth was nothing but glowing embers. Rachael lay in the bed, her breathing shallow and ragged. With the steady hands of a surveyor, Josiah laid the sleeping bundle on the quilt beside her and stepped back out to tend to his exhausted horse. He was halfway to the barn when a sharp, piercing wail shattered the quiet. He threw open the door to find Rachael sitting bolt upright, her hands clutching the blankets in terror.

“Josiah!” she gasped, her voice a raw shriek. “In the name of God it is Samuel's Ghost!”

Josiah hurried to the bedside and pulled back the heavy window curtains, letting the silver moonlight flood the bed and illuminate the tiny, dark face. “He is no spirit, Rachael,” Josiah said softly, his voice thick with the gravity of the moment. “He is a boy. He needed a home, and God knows we have a bed that was far too empty. I brought him from Boston on horseback.”

Rachael’s hands trembled as she reached out, her fingers hovering over the child’s velvet skin before she finally pulled him against her breast. The scream died in her throat, replaced by a low, jagged sob. She looked up at Josiah, her eyes searching his in the silver light. “A Black babe, Josiah? They will think us slave holders!” she exclaimed. “What will the people in Mendon say? The deacons... they will speak us ill.”

Josiah knelt by the bed, covering her hand with his own. “The deacons are miles away, Rachael. Out there, the only law is survival. Does his heart beat any different than the one we laid in the soil? Since I put him in your arms, the darkness in your eyes has moved back. If this boy keeps you from the shadows, then he is a blessing, not an omen.”

“They will wonder if he is servant or son,” Rachael breathed, tracing the infant’s brow. “They will fear the difference.”

“Then let them,” Josiah replied. “This land does not care about the color of a man’s hand, only the strength of his back. He is a part of this farmstead now, as surely as the stones I will stack for our walls. He will grow to be a trustworthy and faithful servant, and he will be the one who helped us build a home where there was only sorrow.”

Rachael looked down at Andrew, who had fallen back into a milk-fed sleep. The darkness that had threatened to swallow her began to recede, anchored by the small life in her arms. “He is so small,” she breathed. “He will grow,” Josiah replied. “And he will be the first of many to call the Bungay land home.”

Deep within the cedar swamps near the edge of the Bungay waters, the air was still and thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. Anawon stood before a small clearing, his hands resting on the rough bark of a young sapling. Beside him stood Pomhaman, his eyes wide as he watched his grandfather work. The boy had spent too many months in the Praying Town of Natick, where the English forced them to live in square houses of sawn timber, buildings that trapped the spirit and grew cold the moment the fire died. Anawon wanted him to remember the old ways, the ways that moved with the earth rather than trying to conquer it.

“A wetu is not just a house, Pomhaman,” Anawon said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from the ground itself. “It is a living thing. The English build with dead wood and heavy stones, trying to pin the world down. But we bend the world to our needs. To bend is to survive.”

He gestured to the circle of holes they had dug in the soft soil. “First, we choose the red cedar or the young oak. They must be flexible, like the spirit of a warrior. We sharpen the ends and drive them deep into the mother. This is the foundation.” Anawon took a sapling and set it into the hole, then signaled for Pomhaman to help him. Together, they pulled the top of the pole toward the center of the circle, arching it until it met its companion from the opposite side. Anawon bound them together with tight wraps of spruce root, soaked in water to make it pliable.

“See how the frame curves? The wind cannot catch a circle. It flows around us, while it batters the flat walls of the English mansions until they groan and crack.” They continued the process, lashing horizontal ribs to the vertical arches until a sturdy, dome-shaped skeleton rose from the forest floor. It was a masterpiece of geometry and strength, light enough to be portable but strong enough to bear the weight of a winter gale.

As they worked, Anawon spoke of the coverings. “In the warm months, we use the stitched mats of cattail or bulrush. They breathe, letting the summer air pull the smoke away. But winter is coming, and the cold requires the skin of the birch tree. We harvest the bark in large sheets, overlapping them like the scales of a fish so the rain and snow slide away. We tie them down with more root, leaving only the smoke hole at the top and the low door to the east, to greet the sun.”

Pomhaman ran his hand along the smooth interior of the birch bark. “Grandfather, why do the English hate our houses? The Minister in Natick says they are the dwellings of heathens. He says we must live in houses with chimneys and windows to be saved.”

Anawon’s face darkened, the lines around his mouth deepening. “The English hate what they cannot control. Their houses are cages. They stay in one place until the soil is exhausted and the wood is all burned away. When winter comes, we move. We leave the coastal lands and retreat into the deep valleys, into the heart of the cedar swamps where the trees break the wind. We carry our mats and our furs, and we leave the earth as we found it. The English stay and starve, or they demand more land because they do not know how to move with the seasons.”

He paused, looking toward the horizon where the smoke of the colonial settlements stained the sky. “It is an ill omen, Pomhaman. Our people are split. Half of your cousins are behind the fences of the Praying Towns, wearing English cloth and forgetting the language of the trees. They think the fences protect them, but the fences only make it easier for the English to count them. They build square houses because the English want them to be stationary targets. A man who cannot move is a man who can be owned.”

Anawon looked at the sturdy wetu they had built. It was a refuge, but a fragile one. He knew that even now, men like Nathaniel Brewer were scratching their names onto papers in Boston, claiming this very swamp. He knew the English viewed this sacred process as nothing more than savages squatting in the dirt. “When the snow falls, we will be warm in here. The fire in the center will heat the stones, and the mats will keep the frost at bay. But never forget, boy. The true house is the land itself. If they take the land, the wetu is just a pile of sticks.”

Pomhaman nodded, though the fear remained in his eyes. He looked at the circle of cedar poles, a sacred boundary against a world that was rapidly closing in. The difference between their bent wood and the English brick was more than just material; it was the difference between a people who belonged to the earth and a people who believed the earth belonged to them.

The year was 1707, and the Mendon hills were locked in the grip of the spring thaw. The air was a sharp mixture of lingering winter chill and the scent of waking earth. Josiah stood at the edge of the western field, his boots sinking deep into the dark, heavy mud of his farmstead. He looked across the clearing toward the original cabin. Twelve years had passed since they first arrived in this wilderness. He remembered the first night clearly. The infant Zenas had been a mere heartbeat against his ribs, tucked so tightly inside his wool coat that they shared a single breath. Now, that same bundle stood beside him. Zenas was a boy of twelve years whose limbs had begun to stretch with a lean, sudden strength.

They were engaged in the most fundamental work of a Mendon farmer. They were clearing the New England potatoes, which were the endless granite boulders pushed to the surface by the winter’s frost. To Josiah, the field was not just dirt and rock; it was a ledger of their lives. Every wall that hemmed in the rye and corn represented a year of Zenas’s growth. The stones at the bottom of the oldest wall were small, gathered when the boy could barely carry a pebble. The stones they moved today were massive, requiring the strength of two men and the leverage of iron.

“Do you remember the first through-stone we set, Pa?” Zenas asked. His voice was cracking slightly with the uneven register of his age. He leaned his weight against the stone boat, his eyes fixed on the trench. Josiah paused, the iron crowbar still biting into the earth. He allowed himself a rare, fleeting smile. “I remember you tried to help. You were barely four winters old. You picked up a piece of quartz no bigger than a robin’s egg and insisted it was the heart of the wall. I let you tuck it into the foundation of the north sheepfold.” Zenas let out a short, dusty laugh. “I thought if I put it there, the wall would never fall.”

“And it has not,” Josiah replied, his tone turning serious as he caught the boy’s eye. “That is the secret of this place, Zenas. The world sees a master and a servant clearing a field. But these walls? They are our history. Every layer is a year we survived when the world thought we would not. When I brought you here, you were a trade made in a dark house in Boston. Now, you are the very bone of this farm.”

“The frost has let go, Zenas. Now is the time to set the footings,” Josiah said, his voice returning to its low and private register. He held a six-foot iron crowbar, a tool beaten and bent from decades of prying at the stubborn soil. He signaled to the boy, who stood by the head of Bess, their massive ox. The animal was hitched to a stone boat, a flat-bottomed oak sledge that slid easily over the slick, thawing grass. Zenas clicked his tongue, a soft, practiced sound. “Hush, Bess. Steady now.” The ox leaned into the heavy wooden yoke, and the chains snapped taut. With a wet, sucking sound, the stone boat moved toward the trench Josiah had dug.

“Watch the seat of that one, lad,” Josiah said, wiping mud from his forehead. “Every rock has a face and a heart. You must seat the face outward and the heart toward the center. If you do not tilt them slightly inward, the weight of the soil will push the wall over before the corn is knee-high. A wall that buckles is a sign of a man who does not respect the weight of things.” Zenas reached for a hearting stone, a smaller wedge used to fill the gaps. His hands were smeared with clay, but his grip was sure. “I see the tilt, Pa,” he whispered, the forbidden word barely a breath. “I will wedge it tight so it never breathes.”

Josiah felt a surge of pride, but his hand dropped as the sound of hooves echoed from the ridge. Constable Tyler was approaching, his tricorn hat a dark blot against the budding trees. Josiah’s posture shifted instantly. His spine turned to iron, and his face soured into a mask of cold command. “Don’t just stand there gaping, boy!” Josiah barked. His voice was suddenly loud and harsh, cutting through the spring air like a whip. “Get that crowbar and pry the next one! Move, or I will give you cause to!”

Zenas did not flinch, though a flicker of shadow passed over his eyes. He knew the play. He dropped his gaze to the mud, his shoulders hunching in a practiced show of submission. “Yes, Master Ball,” he murmured. His voice was flat and empty, sounding far older than twelve. The Constable slowed his mount at the edge of the clearing. “Making progress, Josiah? That is a fine bit of walling. You are lucky to have such a stout lad to do the heavy lifting. Most of them have a lazy streak, but you seem to have taught this one the value of a hard day.”

Josiah leaned on the iron bar, forcing a dry, humorless chuckle. “The land does the teaching, Tyler. He does what he is told because the stone does not argue. Soil does not care who breaks it, so long as it gets broken.” Once the official had ridden out of sight, the tension bled out of Josiah’s shoulders. He looked at Zenas, who was still staring at the ground. “He is gone, Zenas. Look up.” Zenas raised his head. His eyes were not filled with tears, but with a cold fire. “One day, Pa, we will not have to build walls just to hide behind them.”

They trudged back toward the farmhouse in a silence that was no longer empty. It was filled with the weight of a bond that was tougher than any granite they would ever pull from the Mendon soil. Behind them, the wall stood as a monument to their labor and their secret. It was rooted deep and built to last. Your mother has the pottage on the fire, Josiah added, resting a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. They walked together, two figures against the vast, shifting landscape of a new world.

Would you like me to do the same for the transition in Pomhaman's journey in the next chapter?

"Can you hear him?" asked Manush in a hushed tone as they approached their grandfather's wetu. "His breathing sounds like it's coming from the depths of hell." Pomhaman nodded, his throat tight with fear. "Do you think the priest's scratch will really keep the great sickness away?"

"I have seen it myself, Pomhaman; the Whites do not get the great sickness," replied Manush. "I can't believe he did that to us," Pomhaman said, his voice shaking with anger and pain. "He's supposed to be a man of God."

"Some men enjoy inflicting pain," Manush replied, gritting his teeth as he thought about the pain in his arm. "The Reverend is one of those men."

As the two boys entered the wetu, a sense of dread washed over them. The air was thick with the smell of death and decay, a sickly sweet aroma that seemed to seep into every pore of their skin. They could hear the faint sound of their grandfather's labored breathing as they drew closer to him in the small, cramped space.

Their grandfather lay on a straw mat, barely illuminated by the dim light. His skin was covered in large, red, oozing bumps, his face contorted in pain, his eyes sunken and hollow. The boys' stomachs churned at the sight of their grandfather in such a state. The smell of the wetu only made things worse—a mixture of sweat, vomit, and the sharp, acrid smell of the great sickness.

Their grandfather let out a rasping cough, his body convulsing with every effort, the wet, phlegmy sound of his lungs filling with fluid. They knew their time with him was running out and hoped the priest's scratch would protect them.

"Pomhaman, Manush, come closer," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "I must speak with you."

"Grandfather, please don't speak. Save your strength," said Pomhaman.

But the old man was determined to share his secret before it was too late. "No, Pomhaman, I must tell you both a secret before I go."

Manush nodded, his expression grave. "Grandfather, I will listen and keep your secret safe."

The old man took a deep, ragged breath before speaking. "Our clan has a sacred place made by those who came before us."

"What is this place?" asked Pomhaman.

"It is a place of great power, my grandsons," he whispered, his voice a ghostly echo in the dimly lit wetu. "This place sits behind the Great Hill on the other side of the water. You must follow the river along the path to where we find deer."

"Yes, we know this place well, Grandfather," said Manush, his tone tinged with apprehension as he glanced nervously around the cramped confines of the wetu.

"You must follow the White Man's path near this place and go towards the morning sun," the old man continued, his voice strained with an urgency that sent shivers down their spines.

"But Grandfather, my father forbids me from the White Man’s paths," replied Pomhaman, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This is why you must go to the sacred place, my grandson," the old man insisted, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. "Many days from now, the White Man’s paths will cover all the land, and their villages will be as many as the stars in the sky."

"What do you mean, Grandfather?" asked Pomhaman, as he struggled to keep his composure.

"You must see for yourself and then tell the others," their grandfather whispered, his breath rattling in his chest like the final gasps of a dying beast. "No, you must hear this; bring me a stick."

Pomhaman snatched the first stick he could find and raced back into the wetu. The old man's hand emerged from the deerskin covers like a skeletal claw. With painstaking determination, he dragged himself to the edge of the mat and etched a series of lines into the earth.

"You must follow the White Man's wide path until you reach the great tree where Manush’s father would hang his deer kill. After the women have planted the corn and it grows as tall as your knees, on the day when the sun reaches its highest, only then, take the big white stone from the mouth of the Sacred Turtle and bring it with you to this place."

"But Grandfather, if we remove the stone from the Sacred Turtle's mouth, won’t the bad spirits escape again?" interjected Pomhaman.

His grandfather offered no reply, instead continuing his instructions. "You will find a Pesuponk built into the side of a hill with a big square stone above the door. The whole place is made of stones stacked upon each other. You must get on your hands and knees to enter this place. When you reach the end, you will find yourself in a stone room shaped like a Wetu, where you can stand upright once more.”

“But what do we do there?” asked Manush.

“The light comes from a hole in the stones, and there is writing.” Their grandfather began to scratch the ground with his stick again. First, he drew a circle within a circle and drew several curvy lines through it. “You will see a circle like this on the floor, and you must place the white rock from the Sacred Turtle mouth in this spot.”

“What then?” asked Pomhaman.

“You must wait... For the sun, my grandsons, it must be exact.” Their grandfather began coughing violently, his body contorting with every cough. The sick old man fell back down onto the mat. His breathing became increasingly shallow, and the boys leaned in closer.

“What happens there, Grandfather?” asked Pomhaman again.

The old man began to shake violently, sputum running from his lips as he tried to speak. “Never in the moonlight! Never in the moonlight!”

Those were the last words the boys would ever hear from their grandfather's lips. A terrible, liquid rattle shook his chest, and then the wetu fell silent. The air seemed to grow instantly colder, the presence of the spirit departing leaving a void that felt heavier than the sickness itself. His eyes, wide and seeing nothing, stared up at the birch bark ceiling.

Panic surged through Pomhaman. He scrambled backward, his heel catching on the fire ring. "He is gone!" he choked out.

Manush grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the flap of the wetu. The smell had become suddenly unbearable, a suffocating weight. They burst out into the cool night air, gasping like drowning men surfacing. "Mother! Aunt!" Manush screamed toward the main fire, his voice cracking. "He has passed! The breath has left him!"

***

That night, the air in the village was heavy with the smoke of sage and the low, rhythmic wailing of the mourning women. Pomhaman and Manush sat apart from the main circle, huddled near a smaller fire that crackled and spat embers into the dark sky. The fear of the afternoon had settled into a dull, aching exhaustion.

"Why does your father stay in the praying village?" Pomhaman asked quietly, staring into the flames. "If the Reverend cuts your arm to make you sick, why does he not leave?"

Manush poked the fire with a stick, sending a shower of sparks upward. "The praying village has fences," he said, his voice flat. "My father says the English God demands we live in square houses and cut our hair. But inside the fence, there is bread when the winter is hard. And the Mohawks do not attack the praying towns."

"Is that worth the scratch?" Pomhaman asked, rubbing his own soreness.

"I do not know," Manush admitted. "But Grandfather... he hated the fences. He hated the English road."

"He spoke of the stone room," Pomhaman whispered, leaning in closer. "Do you think he was fever-dreaming? The Sacred Turtle... the circle on the floor?"

From the shadows beyond their fire, a figure approached. It was Wunuxom, an elder with hair like dried river grass and one eye clouded white by an old injury. He sat down heavily on a log opposite the boys, the firelight dancing on his deep wrinkles.

"He was not dreaming," Wunuxom croaked, his voice like grinding stones.

The boys straightened up. "You know the place?" Manush asked.

"I know the hill. I know the stone chamber," Wunuxom said, staring past them into the dark. "I went there once, many winters ago, when I sought a vision. It is a place where time does not flow like the river. It circles like the hawk."

"What did you see?" Pomhaman asked, his heart beating faster.

Wunuxom’s good eye widened, reflecting the flames. "I saw the land stripped of trees. I saw the earth turned to stone, hard and black as obsidian, stretching in long paths across the hills. And on these paths of black, I saw shiny carts with no horses."

The boys stared at him. "Carts with no horses?" Pomhaman repeated.

"They moved with the speed of a fired arrow," Wunuxom continued, his voice rising in agitation. "They had eyes of fire that cut through the night, and they roared like bears. There were no English, no Nipmuc. Only the shiny carts and the black paths covering the world."

Manush let out a nervous laugh and looked at Pomhaman. He shook his head. "The sickness must have touched Wunuxom too," he muttered in English. Then, switching back to Nipmuc, he said, "Old one, that is a child's nightmare. A cart cannot move without a horse or an ox. The spirit of the hill played a trick on you."

"Crazy," Pomhaman agreed, though a shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "Grandfather spoke of the white stones and the sun. He said nothing of horse-less carts."

Wunuxom spat into the fire, the spittle hissing as it evaporated. "Laugh, boy. But the stone chamber sees what it sees. The day will come when the silence of the woods is gone forever." He rose slowly and limped away into the darkness, leaving the two boys alone with the crackling fire and the haunting memory of their grandfather's final warning.

Zenas slipped through the autumn forest, his flintlock musket balanced in his hands. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth, the forest floor a vivid tapestry of fallen leaves—golden maple, fiery oak, and chestnut—crunching under his patched leather boots. His dark woolen breeches and linen shirt were patched at the knees, and a faded green cloak draped over his shoulders, blending him into the shadowed undergrowth. His flintlock was a weighty weapon, its walnut stock scarred from years of use, the barrel faintly rusted but meticulously cleaned. It was a fickle weapon, prone to misfires in the damp, but Zenas had learned its quirks through countless hours shadowing his father in these woods.

Shafts of pale sunlight pierced the canopy of towering hemlocks and white pines, illuminating patches of moss clinging to granite boulders. A red squirrel chattered overhead, dropping pine cones that thudded softly to the ground, while a distant woodpecker’s drumming echoed through the stillness. Zenas moved with practiced stealth, his breath shallow, eyes scanning for the telltale twitch of a rabbit’s ears. His hunting pouch swung at his hip, heavy with black powder in a horn, a dozen lead balls, and a coil of hemp wadding. A small tin of goose grease hung from his belt to lubricate the bore, and his ramrod—a thin hickory stick—rattled faintly in its holder beneath the barrel.

He spotted his first quarry near a trickling brook. A plump rabbit, its gray-brown fur mottled with white, nibbled at a patch of clover beneath a tangle of bushes. Zenas dropped to one knee behind a lichen-crusted log, his heart thudding as he prepared the flintlock. He poured a measured charge of coarse black powder down the barrel, the faint sulfur scent tickling his nose, then dropped in a lead ball, wrapping it with a scrap of wadding torn from an old shirt. He tamped it down with the ramrod, the metal clinking softly, then primed the pan with a finer pinch of powder from a separate flask, snapping the frizzen shut. The flint, sharp and newly knapped, sat snug in the cock, ready to strike.

He steadied the musket, the stock pressed hard against his shoulder. A slow exhale, then he squeezed. The flint snapped forward, sparking against the steel frizzen and igniting the pan with a flash. The main charge erupted with a deafening crack, smoke billowing in a thick white cloud, the recoil jarring his thin frame. The rabbit flopped dead, a clean shot through the chest. Zenas grinned, retrieving the kill and tying it to his belt with a leather thong, its warmth seeping through his shirt.

Emboldened, he pressed deeper into the woods, reloading as he went. An hour later near a stand of birches, Zenas followed a buck until the forest grew unfamiliar. He had strayed beyond his family’s land, past the boundary stones his father warned him never to cross. The air shifted as he neared the pond at the head of their stream, the tang of woodsmoke mingling with the damp musk of water. He heard voices, soft and rhythmic, and crouched behind a screen of elderberry bushes, peering out at a Nipmuc village along the shore.

The village hugged the lake’s edge, a crescent of activity. The camp was a cluster of five wetus, their domed frames crafted from bent saplings lashed with strips of elm bark and covered in woven mats. Smoke curled from the tops, and the scent of roasting fish wafted toward him. A woman in a fringed deerskin dress tended the fire, while a young girl kneaded corn dough on a flat stone. Nearby, a large granite outcrop jutted from the ground; it had a large crack in which the clan had placed stones.

Zenas watched, transfixed, until his boot slipped on a slick patch of moss. A dry branch snapped beneath his weight. Panic seized him as heads turned. He bolted, crashing through the underbrush, branches clawing at his face. Behind him, he heard the boys’ pursuit—steady and relentless. An arrow whistled past, burying itself in a pine trunk inches from his shoulder. Zenas staggered into a small clearing and spun, raising the flintlock. Two Nipmuc boys emerged. The taller one, broad-shouldered with a single braid, notched an arrow to his bow. The leaner one, with a scar across his cheek, held a stone knife ready.

“Ni yôtôk?”—Who are you? The taller boy challenged. Zenas held the gun steady. “I ain’t here to fight,” Zenas said, his voice cracking. “Just huntin’ rabbits.” The boys exchanged a look. “Pomhaman,” the archer said, tapping his chest, then nodded to his cousin. “Manush.” Zenas replied with his own name, the tension shifting as they realized they were all hunters. Pomhaman, switching to halting English, noted that Zenas was on clan land. “Lost my way,” Zenas admitted. Manush stepped closer, eyeing the musket. “Good shot,” he said, pointing at the rabbits.

“I need more than this,” Zenas said. “Family’s waitin’ on meat.” Pomhaman tilted his head, then gestured toward the lake. “Come. We give. Then you go.” Zenas followed them back to the village, where Pomhaman ducked into a wetu and emerged with a fresh deer leg. He handed it to Zenas as a gift for his family. Manush, with a grin, cut one rabbit from Zenas’s belt. “Fair trade,” he said.

They sat by the fire, sharing a bowl of fish stew. “You hunt good,” Manush said, nodding at the musket. “Loud, but good.” Zenas laughed. “Yours is quieter. Faster, too.” Pomhaman offered to teach him sometime, an offer that bridged the gap between their worlds. Zenas asked the name of the lake, and Pomhaman smiled. “Mas-pen-ock. Means ‘choice fishing place.’ Ancestors knew it. We know it.”

They talked as the sky darkened, piecing together English and Nipmuc words. The deer leg rested beside Zenas, a promise kept. When he finally stood to leave, Pomhaman clapped him on the shoulder. “Next time, no running.” Zenas stepped into the trees, the village glowing softly behind him. The forest felt less wild now, the path home lit by the weight of a bond struck between boys who saw past the lines of the frontier.

The militia arrived without warning. Twenty men in drab wool coats and wide-brimmed hats marched through the woods, their boots crunching through the crust of the snow. Muskets were slung over their shoulders and bayonets glinted in the weak winter light. Their captain, a gaunt man with a scarred jaw and eyes as cold as the flint in his hammer, barked orders in English that cut through the morning stillness. "All of you, out! By order of the General Court, you are to be removed!" The soldiers fanned out across the Nipmuc camp, kicking over drying racks and scattering strips of smoked perch into the mud. They showed no regard for the meticulous work of the autumn harvest, treading the winter stores into the dirt with their heavy, square-toed boots.

Kwenite stood clutching her wooden spoon, her eyes fierce but helpless as a soldier shoved her toward the center of the camp. Nippa screamed, dropping her weaving mat, the intricate patterns of her family’s history unrolling into the slush. Tashmoo lunged for his spear only to be felled by a musket butt to the temple. Blood stained the snow a bright, shocking red, steaming in the frost. Pomhaman, fourteen and wiry, was hauling firewood from the treeline when he heard the commotion. He dropped the bundle, the pine logs tumbling into the frost, and skidded behind a lichen-covered boulder. He watched in a cold sweat as the soldiers bound his family’s wrists with hemp rope, the fibers biting deep into their skin. The wigwams were torched with a clinical efficiency. One soldier tossed a lit brand onto the cattail mats, and flames leaped up to devour the bark walls, sending thick, black smoke billowing over the lake. Tashmoo, dazed and bleeding, was dragged to his feet with a rope looped around his neck like a noose, his dignity stripped as he was forced into the line.

The soldiers herded the ten remaining members of the clan toward a cart waiting on the frozen path. The lake, once a lifeline and a place of "choice fishing," watched mutely as its people were torn away from its shores. Pomhaman’s chest tightened with a rage that felt like fire, a heat so intense it threatened to consume his breath, but he knew he was no match for twenty armed men. He slipped back into the trees, his breath a white cloud, vowing on the spirits of his ancestors to find them. He did not know yet that miles away, in a praying village near the English settlement, Manush and his family faced a similar fate. The praying Indians had hoped their Bibles, their English names, and their Sunday hymns would spare them, but the war spared no one. Manush had been repairing a chair with his father, Wompala, when fifty militia members stormed in. The village preacher stood aside, wringing his hands in a silent, cowardly prayer as the soldiers shouted, "Heathens, all of you! To the harbor!"

The journey to Deer Island was a grueling march of days through sleet and ice. The Nipmuc were prodded like cattle, their moccasins soaking and splitting until their feet left bloody prints on the frozen mud. Pomhaman and Manush managed their escapes separately in the chaotic darkness of the march, fleeing into the frozen labyrinth of the forest where the militia feared to tread. They met by chance days later near the blackened ruins of their burned camp. They did not speak at first. There was only a slow, heavy nod and a shared understanding of total loss. The smell of the ash still hung in the air, a bitter reminder of the wetus that had once been filled with laughter and the smell of corn stew. Driven by instinct and the memory of a shared meal, they set out together toward the only refuge left in a world that had turned its back on them: the farm of Zenas Ball.

They reached the farm at twilight, the sky a bruised purple over the granite ridges. Zenas was splitting wood by the barn, the rhythmic thud of the axe the only sound in the clearing, when he dropped the tool at the sight of them. They looked like ghosts emerging from the mist. Their clothes were shredded by thorns, their skin was grey with cold, and their faces were gaunt with a hunger that went deeper than the belly. "God’s mercy," Zenas breathed, rushing toward them. He did not see the "shadows" his mother often spoke of; he saw only his friends. He pulled them inside to the warmth of the hearth, the golden light of the fire reflecting in their hollow eyes as he ladled hot porridge into bowls. The steam rose around them, and for a moment, the scratching of the Reverend’s needle and the heat of the fire were the only things that mattered.

However, the peace was shattered by the heavy footsteps of Josiah Ball. "We cannot keep these boys here, Zenas," Josiah said, his voice heavy with the crushing reality of the law. He stood in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light from the hallway. "It is against the law now. The General Court has issued a decree. Any Indian found wandering is to be treated as an enemy. They can have supper and sleep in the barn, but they must leave by morning before the militia comes looking. If they find them here, I will be hung for sedition, and this farm—everything we have built—will be forfeit."

Zenas looked at Josiah with tears welling in his eyes, his hands trembling as he held the ladle. He saw the fear in his father's face, a fear that had replaced the steady confidence of the man who had once ridden through the night with a babe in his coat. He knew his father was right, and that realization felt like a betrayal. Since the raids began, the English trusted no one with dark skin, whether they carried a Bible or a bow. The air in the cabin grew thick with a tension that mirrored the suffocating smoke of the burning wetus. Rachael watched from the shadows of the corner, her fingers nervously twisting her apron, her silence a heavy weight in the room.

"Alright, Pa," Zenas finally whispered, his voice cracking. "I will fetch some blankets. I understand." He turned back to Pomhaman and Manush, whose eyes had never left the fire, their expressions unreadable but their posture rigid with the knowledge that they were being cast out once again. "But can I stay out there with them tonight? Before I have to say goodbye forever? I won't have them freezing alone in the straw."

Josiah looked down at the floor, the firelight catching the gray in his beard. He saw the boy he had raised becoming a man who understood the weight of a debt. "I do not think that will be a problem," he answered in a soft, tired voice. "Just do not cause a ruckus out there. I need my sleep, and so does your mother. And Zenas... keep the lantern low." With that, Zenas went to collect the heavy wool blankets and a small satchel of dried meat, knowing that the morning sun would bring a finality he was not ready to face. He led his friends out to the barn, the cold air biting at their cheeks, while the moon hung indifferent and pale over the shifting boundaries of the land.

Night cloaked the Ball farm in shadow. The barn, no more than a primitive timber shack meant to keep animals out of the cold, had weathered plank walls that creaked under a bitter wind. Inside, the air hung heavy with the musk of hay and a faint tang of manure. The dim flicker of a single lantern swinging from a nail in the loft was their only light. The flame cast jagged shadows across the slanted thatch roof, where frost glinted like tiny stars, and the boys, Zenas, Pomhaman, and Manush, shuffled about, setting up blankets hauled from the farmhouse. Zenas shook out a threadbare quilt his mother stitched from scraps, its faded patches blooming in the lantern light. Pomhaman spread a coarse wool blanket over a pile of straw, its edges frayed from years in the farmhouse attic. Manush kicked a burlap sack of grain aside to clear space for the wool blanket Rachel offered him, his scarred cheek twitching as he spoke under his breath.

“Cold as a grave up here,” Manush grumbled, tugging the hide-skin blanket tighter around his shoulders, the straw crunching beneath him.

Zenas glanced over, his dark eyes catching the light as he propped his flintlock musket against a sack. “Pa’s gonna tan me if he finds out I snuck this gun out.”

Pomhaman snorted, settling onto the wool blanket, his deerskin tunic torn at the hem. “We’re quieter than that lot down there,” he said as he pointed toward the ladder, where the faint snorts of livestock drifted up from below.

Below the loft, in the barn’s shadowed depths, three cows and a pair of oxen slumbered fitfully, their bulk filling the pens of split logs that lined the walls. These animals were Josiah’s most prized possessions, the beating heart of his farm’s survival. One cow, her udder swollen and veined, tucked her head against her side, her curved horns tipped with wear, a faint snore rumbling from her muzzle. Her milk kept the family fed through lean winters, a steady gift that could be bartered for grain with neighbors. The oxen, massive and tawny, rested in the adjacent pen, their yokes unstrapped and leaning against the wall, the wood polished smooth by years of labor. One ox, his shoulders knotted with muscle, lay with his head stretched forward, his blunt horns scraping the dirt as he exhaled in deep, shuddering gusts, the heat of his breath fogging faintly in the chill.

Zenas sat cross-legged, pulling the quilt over his knees. “What did you do to get the whole militia after you?”

Pomhaman’s face hardened. “They came fast, burned everything. Took my ma, my sister, everyone. Soldiers with muskets, bayonets sharp enough to gut them if they moved wrong. I got away, but they’re still out there, hunting us down.”

Manush nodded, his voice low and rough. “Same for me. Militia hit the praying village; they didn’t care that we’d bent knee to their God. They whipped my pa, dragged them all off. I escaped when a soldier fell, been running since.”

Zenas stared at the lantern’s flame. “That’s why you’re here, to hide? Pa says they’ll hang him if they find you. We can’t stay here.”

Pomhaman’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What do you mean 'we'? You want to go with us? You’re mad. You got a family, a warm house, food. Why would you run from that?”

Zenas clenched his fists. “Because I’m sick of it; sick of the village looking at me like I’m half a person because I am black skinned. Sick of people thinking I’m a slave, the dirty looks, having to sit in the back of the church. They’d chain me up too, Pa says so. They do it to others like me.”

Manush leaned forward, his voice dropping softer. “Maybe there’s a way, something Grandfather said before he died. He talked about the Pesuponk. Says it will guide us, show us something. Told us to wait for the sun, not the moon. It is crazy old man stuff, but he swore it. We could hide there; they will never find us.”

“Guide us where?” Zenas asked.

“Don’t know,” Manush shrugged. “‘Never in the moonlight,’ he kept yelling. But maybe it’s a way out.”

Zenas’s breath sharpened. “Then I’ll come. If they chase you, they chase me too. Let me help; three’s better than two.”

Manush met his gaze. “You’re crazy, farm boy. But if you’re set, fine. We don’t wait until dawn; it is too late. We go now.”

The three boys climbed down from the loft and shuffled past the animals, careful not to wake Josiah. Zenas was the last to hop the stone wall that delineated the western pasture of the Ball farm. “Pa always says to be home before dark or else the beasts of the night find us.”

Manush picked up a stone from the ground and placed it upon a pile of other rocks. “For good luck.”

“More Indian superstition,” Zenas replied. “What is this Pesuponk thing we are looking for?”

Manush stopped to explain. “What we call a Pesuponk is a hot house, a kind of cave built into the side of a hill that’s used for sweat lodge purposes. Grandfather says to take the white stone from the Sacred Turtle rock and bring it to this place. There are symbols. We have to meet the morning sun.”

Shadows swallowed the boys as they slipped deeper into the woods, the lantern’s glow a frail shield against the pressing dark. They neared the Nipmuc camp’s remains, a charred scar on the earth. Pomhaman slowed as he spotted the Sacred Turtle, a large, moss-covered piece of granite jutting from the frozen ground. Manush knelt, brushing snow from its base, his fingers searching for the quartz. Then he saw it, white as bone, smooth and sparkling in the moonlight, nestled in the crack that spanned the granite slab.

“We’ve got it, let’s go!” blurted Manush as he held the quartz boulder in his arms. The wolves’ howls were getting closer, echoing through the empty forest as the three boys turned toward the Great Hill.

The night was a shroud over the smoldering ruins of the Nipmuc camp as Zenas, Pomhaman, and Manush slipped away, their footsteps muffled by the crunch of frost. The quartz stone rested heavy in Manush’s arms, its surface cool and smooth, reflecting the moonlight like a trapped star. The full moon hung low, casting a silvery light that pierced the bare branches overhead; it illuminated their path but also painted them as targets against the dark. The boys couldn’t afford to be seen.

They moved through the woods in a tense silence, the air biting at their skin. Zenas gripped his flintlock musket, the barrel cold against his sweaty palms. He wasn’t sure he could aim true in the dark, but the weapon was a lifeline, a thin thread of courage. Pomhaman, ahead, scanned the shadows with eyes sharp and wary, his breath fogging in quick bursts. Manush led the way, the stone cradled like a child, his face twitching with every rustle in the underbrush.

“Keep it down,” Pomhaman hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. “One sound, and they’ll be on us.”

Zenas nodded, swallowing hard, every snap of a twig underfoot sending a jolt through him, his mind conjuring the gleam of bayonets in the moonlight. The forest was alive with nocturnal whispers—owls hooting, wind rattling the pines, the distant howl of coyotes. But beneath it all was a deeper unease, a sense that they weren’t alone.

Manush paused, adjusting the stone’s weight. “We’re almost there,” he murmured. “The Pesuponk’s just past the ridge.”

The woods thickened as they pressed on, skeletal trees clawing at the sky, their shadows dancing in the moon’s glow. The ground sloped upward, slick with pine needles and patches of ice. Zenas’s legs burned, but fear kept him moving. They had to reach the chamber before the militia closed in. The quartz stone was their only hope—Grandfather had said it held power, a secret tied to the Pesuponk, though he’d never explained it fully.

A sudden growl shattered the stillness. The boys froze. A massive bear emerged from the shadows, its fur shining in the moonlight. It reared up, towering over them, claws exposed. Zenas fumbled with the flintlock, raising it with trembling hands. Before he could shoot, Manush’s hand clamped onto his arm. “No noise,” he snapped. Dropping the stone gently, he yanked his bow from his shoulder, notched an arrow, and drew the string taut. The bear lunged, but Manush released. The arrow sang through the air, striking the beast square in the chest. The bear staggered, then crumpled to the earth with a soft thud, motionless.

“No time to waste. Let’s go.”

By 4 a.m., the Pesuponk loomed before them. Its entrance was a low, narrow gap framed by weathered stones. A small sapling stood to the right of the entrance, its delicate branches trembling in the wind. Zenas, with the lantern, dropped to his knees first, beginning the crawl through the fourteen-foot gauntlet of stone. The walls pressed in, rough surfaces snagging at their tunics. The tunnel finally opened into a beehive-shaped chamber—a domed sanctuary of corbelled granite slabs.

“Here,” Manush said, pointing to a carving on the floor. He moved to place the quartz, but Pomhaman grabbed his wrist. “Wait—Grandfather warned us—never in the moonlight.”

“We can’t wait,” Manush snapped. “The militia is behind us.” He placed the stone in the symbol’s center.

The moonlight struck the quartz, and the chamber erupted. The stone flared, a blinding white light exploding outward. The carvings pulsed, glowing as if molten. A wind whipped through the chamber, unnatural and fierce. The ground shuddered, and a roar swallowed their thoughts. They felt a pull, weightless in a brilliance of swirling colors. Then, silence crashed in.

They crawled back out. The dawn light was soft and golden. “Hey, look at the tree,” whispered Pom. The sapling was gone, replaced by a towering oak, its trunk thick with age. The air carried the faint tang of gunpowder, and in the distance, a drumbeat rolled. Pomhaman stared at a field filled with men in uniform. “The Pesuponk... it went forward,” he whispered. “The little tree has grown big—there is a field where last night was a forest.”

A group of men in colonial uniforms approached. A broad-shouldered man, Captain Ebenezer Taft, stepped forward. “You three! Are you the scouts we’ve been expecting?” Another man eyed Zenas’s musket. “And you, lad, why are you not in uniform? Go to the provisions tent. The Redcoats are stirring east, and Captain Taft needs every man today.”

Zenas led the way to the provisions tent, but as they entered, the activity slowed. The quartermaster looked up from his ledger, his eyes traveling from Zenas’s dark hands to his face with pointed skepticism. “Name and unit,” the man grunted. “Uh, Zenas Ball,” Zenas stammered. “Captain Taft sent me for a uniform.”

The quartermaster appraised Zenas like a stray dog. “Are ye free-born or a runaway?” he asked. Zenas’s face burned. “I’m no one’s property,” he said. The quartermaster spat into a bucket. “Fine. Take the brown coat. It’s small, but it’s all I’ll waste on a dark-skin till Taft says otherwise.”

The coat was thin and frayed. When Zenas reached for ammunition, the man pulled the box back. “Take only what ye need, boy. Lead’s for those who can aim.”

On the training field, the drumbeat grew louder, a steady thump-thump that pulsed through the ground. Zenas fell in beside a lanky boy with a pockmarked face, but the boy shuffled six inches to the left, creating a physical gap. “Watch yer step, soot-face,” the boy muttered.

Captain Taft strode to the front, his voice booming. “Load yer pieces! Step lively now!”

Zenas fumbled with his flintlock, mimicking the others. He poured a measure of black powder from his horn, the sharp sulfur scent stinging his nose, then rammed a lead ball down the barrel with his hickory rod. His hands shook, but he kept his eyes on the boy beside him, copying the swift, practiced motions. The militia drilled in basic volleys: load, aim, fire. Taft’s lieutenant, Jonas, demonstrated, raising his musket. “Present arms! Fire on my count!”

A ragged chorus of clicks sounded as flints were cocked, followed by a thunderous crack as the line fired into the air, smoke billowing in thick white clouds. Zenas flinched at the noise, his ears ringing, reloading as Taft roared, “Again! Faster this time!” The men practiced in pairs, one loading while the other fired, a rhythm meant to keep a steady hail of lead. Zenas’s musket spat flame on his third try, the recoil jarring his shoulder. Taft watched him, but instead of a nod, he barked, “Ball! Put some back into it! Use that field-hand strength for something useful!”

The training shifted to bayonet work. Taft handed out wooden staves to mimic steel blades. “Close quarters, ye thrust and twist—gut ‘em afore they gut ye!” The men lunged at straw-stuffed sacks. Zenas gripped his stave, sweat beading on his brow, imagining British red against the burlap. But even here, he was sidelined; the pockmarked boy refused to pair with him, forcing Zenas to drill alone against a rotting fence post while the others laughed.

By midday, they staggered into marching drill. Zenas was relegated to the "dust-eater" position at the rear. Every time the drum slowed, the man in front of him would heel-back, stepping on Zenas’s toes. The militia wasn’t polished, but it was fierce, and Zenas realized with a sinking heart that he was part of the line, but not part of the brotherhood.

As the sun began to dip, the camp buzzed with talk of the march to Concord. A rider galloped in, screaming that the Regulars had crossed the water. The boys huddled together. "This isn't our fight," Manush whispered. "If we stay, we die."

Zenas looked at his frayed sleeve, then at the pockmarked boy. "He's right," Zenas said. "We have to go back to the chamber."

Under the cover of the chaos, they slipped away. Retracing their steps to the hillside, they reached the weathered stone entrance of the Pesuponk. The full moon was rising high again. They scrambled into the tunnel, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Inside the chamber, the ancient carvings waited in the gloom. Manush stepped to the center and held out the quartz stone.

As the moonbeams found the crevice in the ceiling, Zenas and Pomhaman reached out, each placing a hand on the cool surface of the stone. The quartz began to vibrate, a low thrum that rattled their teeth. Outside, they could hear the distant shouts of officers calling the roll, realizing three scouts were missing. But as the white light began to bleed from the stone once more, the world of the militia faded into a blur of blinding radiance. The hum grew into a roar, and with a sudden, gut-wrenching lurch, the stone chamber vanished into the stars.