Now one of your pudding. I got a string going on here, something just because my dog. Something killed your dog. My dog. We're flying through the air over the tree. I don't know how it did it, Okay, Damn, I'm really confused. All I saw was my dog coming over the fence and he was dead. And once you hit the ground like, I didn't see any cars. All I saw was my dog coming over the fence. Sat, what are you putting? We got some wonder or something crawling around out here? Did you see what it was? Or
was it was? Standing enough? I'm out here looking through the window now and I don't see anything. I don't want to go outside, Jesus, Quice, you better hello. Hit thebody out here, Quen, I'm out there. I thought of a bet about Tech forty nine. I don't know. Easy him out there. Yeah, I'm walking right head June twentieth through twenty eighth, seventeen ninety nine. The night of June twentieth will haunt me until I die and perhaps beyond.
Jim's mental state had been deteriorating for weeks. The confrontation with the aggressive mail had broken something in him, and while he functioned well enough during the day. The nights were another matter. He drank. We all knew it. He'd found a way to distill some of our grain supplies into a rough whiskey, and he'd been consuming it in quantities that would have killed a lesser man. His eyes were red rimmed, his hands unsteady, his temper frayed to
the breaking point. I should have taken him off watch rotation. I should have confined him to his bedroll and kept him away from his rifle. I should have done one hundred things differently, But I didn't. And so on the night of June twentieth, Jim McAllister was on watch when one of the creatures appeared at the edge of our firelight. I didn't see what happened next. None of us did. We were asleep, trusting our lives to a man who
had lost the ability to trust anything. What I do know is this, The crack of a rifle shot tore through the darkness like the end of the world. I was on my feet before the echo faded, my own weapon in hand, searching for the threat. The others scrambled up around me, voices raised in confusion and fear, and then we heard it. A scream, not human, not a sound that any earthly throat should be capable of producing. It was rage and pain and something else, something that
I can only describe as betrayal. The creature had been shot. Crashing sounds erupted in the underbrush, something large and wounded, fleeing into the night, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Jim outed, what the hell have you done? He stood by the fire, his rifle still raised, his eyes wild and unfocused. It was coming for us, he said. His voice was slurred, distant, coming to kill us. I saw it, I saw the words died in his throat
as the forest came alive around us. The knocking started within minutes, not the measured rhythm we'd grown accustomed to, but rapid, frantic, like a thousand hammers striking in unison. It came from every direction, building in intensity, until the sound became physical, a vibration that reached into our chest and squeezed our hearts. Then the howls began, multiple voices, dozens, perhaps layering on each other, harmonizing in ways that shouldn't
be possible. The sound wasn't just loud, It was invasive, reaching into the primal parts of our brains and triggering responses we couldn't control. Will Harper began to scream. Solomon had to knock him unconscious to silence him. Josiah fell to his knees, his prayers reduced to incomprehensible babbling. Even Sam steady Sam, who had faced these creatures before, went pale and reached for his knife. The assault began moments later. Rocks crashed into our camp, thrown with force and accuracy
that spoke of intelligence and rage. Branches torn from trees came hurtling out of the darkness, heavy enough to shatter bone. One struck Thomas in the head, and he went down in a spray of blood. The horses broke free. We tied them securely, but their terror gave them strength beyond anything rope could contain. They fled into the darkness, screaming in that horrible way that horses scream when they know death is close. Henri ran after them, brave, foolish Henery.
He was gone for nearly an hour while the rest of us huddled in the center of camp, weapons pointed at a darkness that seemed to press in from every side. When he came back. His face was white as bone. They let me go, he whispered. They were all around me. I could feel them, hear them breathing, but they didn't touch me. They just let me walk back. The horses most scattered, some he swallowed hard. Some didn't scatter. We didn't ask for details. The siege continued through the night.
They could have come in. We all knew it. There was nothing stopping them. Our weapons were useless against their speed and strength, and they outnumbered us by factors we couldn't calculate. But they didn't come in. They stayed at the perimeter, making their presence felt in every possible way short of direct assault. Heavy breathing, close enough that we could feel the heat of their exhalation on our skin.
Shadows moving just beyond the firelight, shapes too large and too wrong to look at directly, faces appearing for split seconds in the darkness, there and gone before we could be sure what we'd seen. They were demonstrating, showing us exactly what they could do if they chose, making it absolutely clear that we lived because they permitted it. And underneath it all a single sound, repeated over and over,
a mournful cry, not rage, not threat, grief. The creature Jim had shot was dead or dying, and its family was mourning it. We had killed one of them, and the price for that killing was yet to be determined. Dawn came. Eventually, the sounds faded as the sky lightened, the howls giving way to silence, the knocking diminishing until it was just a memory. We emerged from our huddle to survey the damage. The camp was destroyed, equipment, smashed, supplies, scattered, blood,
trail leading from the perimeter into the forest. Jim's shot had found its mark, and whatever he'd hit had bled heavily before escaping. Seven horses returned over the following hours, wandering back in ones and twos. The rest were gone, whether dead or simply scattered too far to find. Thomas's head injury was serious, but not fatal. Solomon stitched it closed, while Thomas gritted his teeth and refused to cry out. Will Harper remained unconscious until mid morning, and when he
woke something had changed in his eyes. He looked at each of us in turn, then looked at the forest and began to laugh. They're angry, he said, so angry, can't you feel it? None of us answered. Jim sat apart from the group, his rifle across his knees, his face blank. When I approached him, he looked up at me with eyes that held nothing. It was coming for us, he said again. I saw it in the firelight, coming to kill us. It wasn't attacking, Jim. It was just
standing there like they've done every night for weeks. But it could have attacked, it could have his voice broke. Couldn't wait anymore, Captain, I couldn't just sit there waiting for them to decide to kill us. I didn't have the energy to argue. I just turned away and began assessing our situation. We were alive, barely, but we were still alive, and the creatures, the creatures were waiting to see what we would do next. We have to make
this right, Sam said, appearing at my shoulder. Whatever Jim did, we have to answer for it, all of us. How I don't know. He looked at the blood trail leading into the forest. But if we don't find a way, they'll answer for us. I followed his gaze. The trail was dark and ominous, a pathway into consequences we couldn't predict one of them was dead or dying because of us, and something told me that the creature's judgment when it came, would be terrible. Indeed, Marcus's hands were trembling as he
set down the journal. The narrative had taken a turn. He hadn't expected. Violence, blood, the fragile peace shattered by one man's fear and too much whiskey. He thought about Jim McAllister, the war veteran, the fierce friend, the man who'd lost everything and then lost himself. Marcus had grown to like him through Elijah's descriptions, his loyalty, his skill, his wounded courage. Now Jim had become the instrument of catastrophe, and the expedition would pay the price. Marcus looked at
the stack of remaining journals. There was so much more to come. The atonement Elijah had mentioned the two deaths the outline promised. He wasn't sure he wanted to keep reading, but he picked up the journal anyway, because some truths, once started, demanded to be finished. June twenty eighth through July tenth, seventeen ninety nine, Sam insisted that we returned to the place where the shooting had occurred. That we make our atonement there where the blood had been spilled.
They understand ritual, he said, they understand exchange. If we're going to have any chance of surviving this, we have to show them that we understand it too. I didn't know if he was right. I didn't know if anything we could do would matter. But I had no better ideas, and Sam had more experience with these creatures than any of us. We made the journey in silence. The forest felt different, now, hostile in a way it hadn't been before.
The watching eyes were still there, but their quality had changed. They weren't evaluating us anymore. They were judging us, condemning us. We reached the side of the shooting in the late afternoon. The blood had dried to dark stains on the ground, and the underbrush was trampled and broken from the wounded creature's flight. We'll make our offering here, Sam said, each of us, something personal, something that matters. Will that be enough? I don't know, but it's all we have. We gathered
our offerings in silncellance. Thomas gave his surgical instruments, the ones that had belonged to his mentor that he'd carried through thirty years of practice. His hand shook as he laid them on the ground. Josiah gave his wife's bible, the one he'd carried since her death, the one that had sustained his faith, and then watched it crumble. Tears streamed down his face as he placed it beside Thomas's instruments.
Henry gave his survival knife, the blade that had saved his life more times than he could count, fifteen years of wilderness travel, condensed into a single piece of steel. Solomon gave his carved figures, the wooden sculptures he'd been making since we entered this territory, Humans and creatures standing
side by side, his grandmother's stories made tangible. Will Harper barely Lucid gave a sketch, the best he'd ever done, he said, A portrait of the juvenile that had befriended Zeke, rendered with a tenderness that made my heart Acheke gave the pressed flower he'd been keeping in his journal, a gift from his creature friend, now returned to the forest. I gave my commission papers from the Continental Army. Everything I'd been, everything I'd fought for, condensed into a single
document and Jim. Jim walked forward slowly, his face a mask of grief and shame. In his hands, he held his father's dirk, the only link he had left to the family the war had taken from him. I'm sorry, he said, his voice breaking. I was afraid. I've been afraid since the war, and I couldn't. I couldn't. He couldn't finish. He just placed the dirt with the other offerings and stepped back, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. We retreated to the edge of the clearing and waited.
The first night, nothing happened. We sat around a fire that seemed too small, watching the darkness, listening for any sound that might tell us whether our atonement had been accepted. Silent, complete silence. The second night, we heard movement shapes in the darkness, circling our camp, examining the offering pile from a distance, but they didn't approach. They didn't interact, They just watched. The third night they came. There were three
of them. They emerged from the forest just after midnight, moving slowly deliberately. Their eyes reflected our firelight like lanterns. I recognized the gray elder the one who had made first contact at the stream. He walked at the front, his scarred face unreadable, and behind him, limping heavily favoring his left leg. The wounded creature Jim shot had found its mark, but it hadn't been fatal. The creature was alive, injured, clearly in pain, but alive. My breath caught in my throat.
They approached the offering pile and stopped. The Gray Elder examined each item, carefully, picking them up, turning them over in his enormous hands. He spent the longest time with Jim's dirk, holding it up to the moonlight, studying the blade. Then he looked at us. At Jim, Jim stood frozen, his face pale, his hands trembling at his sides. But he didn't run, didn't reach for his weapon. He just stood there, waiting for whatever judgment the creatures had decided
to render. The Gray Elder walked toward him, Each step seemed to take an eternity. The creature was massive, easily seven feet tall, with shoulders that could have blocked out the moon. Its face was a mask of shadows, only those ancient eyes visible in the darkness. It stopped in front of Jim, close enough to touch, close enough to
kill with a single sweep of those enormous hands. Jim didn't move, didn't speak, just stood there, tears streaming down his face, waiting and stay tuned for more sasquatch ott to see. We'll be right back after these messages. The gray Elder reached out one massive hand descended towards Jim's shoulder. My finger tightened on my rifle, every instinct screaming at me to intervene. But the hand didn't strike. It simply rested a weight on Jim's shoulder, heavy and warm and
somehow gentle. I'm sorry, Jim whispered, I was afraid. I'm so sorry. The creature made a sound, low rumbling, almost like a sigh. Then it squeezed Jim's shoulder once and stepped back. It walked to the offering pile, selected Jim's dirk, and turned back to face us. It held up the blade, not threateningly, but deliberately, making sure we all saw what it was doing. Then it carved something into a nearby tree, a symbol an open hand, gift for gift, offering for offering,
exchange for EXE. The other creatures took the rest of our offerings. We watched them examine each item, handling them with what seemed almost like reverence, And then in the place where our things had been, they left something new, a single object, gleaming in the firelight. A stone knife, beautifully crafted, the edge sharp enough to shave, with cymbols carved along the handle that matched the ones on my pendant.
The gray elder looked at us one final time, then he turned and walked back into the forest, the wounded creature limping behind him. They were gone. We stood in silence for a long time, none of us willing to be the first to move. Finally, Sam walked to the rock and picked up the stone knife. He turned it over in his hands, examining the craftsmanship forgiveness. I asked, Maybe he looked at me and there was something in his eyes that I couldn't quite read. Or maybe just acknowledgment.
They understand that Jim was afraid. That fear makes people do terrible things. They've seen it before, they'll see it again. But they're not going to kill us, not for this. He handed me the knife. But Captain, this is a second chance. There won't be a third I took the knife and felt its weight in my hand, A gift from creatures that could have destroyed us, a symbol of mercy, from beings that owed us nothing. The siege was over,
but the expedition was changed forever. And as we gathered our remaining supplies and prepared to press on, I knew that whatever came next would test us in ways we couldn't imagine. We had been forgiven. Now we had to prove ourselves worthy of that forgiveness. Marcus looked up from the journal. The fire had burned down to coals, and the cabin was cold. Outside, the first hints of dawn were coloring the sky, painting the mountains in shades of
gray and gold. He'd been reading for hours. Day he'd lost track, but he was starting to understand his ancestor had been given something precious in that wilderness. Not just knowledge of the creature's existence, but an understanding of what they were. Intelligent beings, ancient watchers, something that existed alongside humanity but apart from it, and that understanding came with responsibility.
The creatures had shown mercy, they'd forgiven a transgression that could have ended the entire expedition, but they'd also made clear that mercy had limits. Marcus thought about his father, all those years of watching the mountains, all those years of carrying a secret that no one would believe. Had his father been given a similar chance, a moment of mercy that he'd spent his life trying to be worthy
of the journals would tell him. Eventually. There were still so many pages to read, but for now, Marcus needed sleep, needed food, needed a few hours away from his ancestory's voice and the weight of two centuries of secrets. He closed the journal and said it carefully aside. Then he walked to the window and looked out at the mountains, watching the sun rise over peaks that had witnessed things no human should know about. Somewhere out there, they were watching, too,
They were always watching. July tenth through twentieth, seventeen ninety nine. We could not continue as we were. That much was clear to everyone. Seven horses remained of the fifteen we'd started with. Our equipment lay in ruins, specimen jars, shattered notebooks scattered, Thomas's precious camera apparatus smashed beyond repair. Will Harper could barely walk without assistance. His mind fractured by horrors. None of us could fully comprehend. Jim was improving, but fragile.
The creature's touch on his shoulder had done something to him, healed something or broken something further, and none of us knew which our supplies would last part perhaps another month if we were careful. Winter was still months away, but in these mountains the weather could turn deadly without warning. We had traveled far beyond any territory known to white men, and the journey back would be arduous, even under the best circumstances. And through it all the creatures watched, always watching.
We need to decide, I said on the morning of July tenth, gathering the men around our meager fire. We cannot stay here indefinitely. We cannot press forward without resupply. We must choose our path. The debate that followed lasted most of the day. Thomas argued for a complete withdrawal. We have documentation, he said, gesturing at the notebooks he'd managed to salvage. We have observations, sketches, physical evidence. It's enough to prove the creatures exist, enough to change everything
we thought we knew about the natural world. It's not enough Sam said quietly, not nearly enough. Two men nearly died in the sea, each will may never fully recover. How much more are you willing to sacrifice for this expedition as much as it takes. Sam's voice was flat certain. I didn't walk two hundred miles to turn back now. I didn't spend twenty years waiting for this moment just to leave before I understood what I came to understand,
and what is that? What understanding could possibly be worth dying for. Sam didn't answer. He just looked at the forest around us, at the shapes that moved in the shadows, and shook his head. Zeke surprised me by speaking next, my nephew, who had seemed so young and eager when we departed. Richmond had aged a decade in the months since. His face was thinner, his eyes harder, and when he spoke there was steel in his voice that hadn't been there before. I'm not leaving, he said, the young one,
My friend, It's still out there. I can feel it watching me. There's something that wants me to understand, something it's been trying to show owe me. I need to know what that is. It's not your friend, Zeke, Thomas said gently, It's an animal. A highly intelligent animal, yes, but an animal. Nonetheless, it doesn't have friends. It has prey, and it has competitors, and it has whatever we are to it, curiosity perhaps, or territory markers. You don't know that.
I don't know anything anymore. That's rather the point. In the end, we reached a compromise that satisfied no one, but seemed the only viable path forward. The expedition would split. Thomas, Will, Henry, and Josiah would return east, carrying the journals written so far, the specimens Thomas had preserved, the sketches Will had made
before his breakdown. They would resupply, rest, and wait at a rendezvous point on Ree would designate a spot in Shawnee Territory where we had cased supplies on our outward journey. The rest of us, myself, Sam, Jim, Solomon, and Zeke would press on deeper into the creature's territory, toward whatever lay beyond these mountains, whatever it was the creatures seemed to be guiding us toward. We would reunite in the spring God, willing share what we had learned, decide together
what to do with our knowledge. If we survived. The preparations took three days. We redistributed supplies, giving the returning party enough to make the journey safely, while keeping enough for ourselves to continue. Thomas protested vigorously. He wanted to leave us more certain we would need it, but I overruled him. If something happens to us, the journals must survive, I said, That's all that matters now. Everything we've seen,
everything we've documented, it cannot be lost. Do you understand? Thomas nodded slowly. His face was gray with exhaustion and something else, grief, perhaps for the scientist fix certainty that had died somewhere in these mountains. I understand, Captain. I'll guard them with my life. See that you do. And Thomas I hesitated, uncertain how to say what needed to be said. If we don't return, the journals must be hidden, not published, not shared with anyone who might use them
to find this place. The creatures have shown us mercy. I won't repay that mercy by leading hunters to their doorstep hidden. But the scientific value is nothing compared to what would happen if the wrong people learned about this. Imagine it Thomas. An army of settlers armed to the teeth invading this valley, hunters seeking trophies, scientists wanting specimens. How long would the creatures survive? How long before this place became a slaughter house? Thomas was silent for a
long moment. Then he nodded again, more firmly, this time. I understand hidden until humanity ready, if it's ever ready. The morning of departure was clear and cold, the sky a deep blue, unmarked by clouds. The creatures were visible on the ridgeline above our camp, five or six of them, their shapes dark against the pale sky, watching as always. The farewells were brief but heavy with emotion. Aunt Re embraced me, his usual charming smile nowhere to be seen.
If you survived this, Captain, i'll see you in the spring. If not, he shrugged, a gesture that somehow conveyed both fatalism and hope. Then I'll drink to your memory until I join you. Josiah took my hands in his. The former reverend had found something in these mountains, not the faith he'd lost, but perhaps something to replace it, a sense of purpose, or at least of acceptance. God go with you, he said, Whatever God watches over places like this.
Thomas shook my hand formally, the scientist maintaining his composure even now, but his eyes were wet when he turned away. Will Harper didn't speak, he hadn't spoken coherently in days, But as anri led him toward the waiting horses, he turned and looked at me, really looked, with eyes that seemed to see things the rest of us couldn't. They're beautiful, he whispered, Don't you see They're so beautiful. Then he was gone, are guiding him down the trail, and the
Eastern party was disappearing into the forest. We watched until they were out of sight. Then we turned west toward the deeper mountains, toward whatever waited in the wilderness beyond. Five men, now alone in territory that had already claimed our horses and nearly claimed our lives. The creature still watching from the ridge line. Whatever comes next, Sam said, his voice quiet but steady. We face it together, or we die together. Solomon added, those are the only options now.
I touched the pendant at my chest, warm as always, pulsing with that strange heartbeat I'd grown accustomed to and led my men into the unknown. Marcus closed the journal and stood up from the chair. His legs ached from sitting too long, his eyes burned from reading by firelight. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten and how long he couldn't remember. The cabin was cold, the fire had burned down to embers while he read, and the October night had settled in with a chill that
seeped through the old walls. He added more wood to the fire, watching the flames catch and grow, then went to the kitchen to find something to eat. His father's pantry was well stocked, as everything in this cabin was well maintained. Canned goods, dried fruit, coffee, and whiskey, the supplies of a man who expected to be alone for long stretches of time. Marcus opened a can of soup and ate it cold, too impaindat to wait for it
to heat. His mind was still in seventeen ninety nine, still following five men into the wilderness, still wondering which of them would survive what was coming. He knew some of them didn't survive. The outline in his father's notes made that clear. Two deaths described in horrifying detail. The thought of reading those passages made his stomach clinch, but he knew he would read them anyway. He had to know, had to understand, had to carry this burden as his
father had carried it before him. He went back to the chair and picked up the next journal. July twentieth through August fifteenth, seventeen ninety nine. The forest transformed around us as we traveled west. I have seen ancient places before, the ruins of settlements abandoned during the war, churches built before the first English colonists arrived, even once a stone circle in the Virginia Highlands that my Lenape guides claimed
predated their own people's arrival on this continent. None of it prepared me for what we found in the deep country. The trees here were older than old, their trunks stretched wider than houses, their bark cracked and weathered by millennia of growth. The canopy above formed a continuous ceiling that blocked all but scattered fragments of light, creating a perpetual twilight that made it impossible to judge the hour. Moss and liken covered every surface in shades of green and gray,
and the silence. God. The silence had a weight to it, a physical presence that pressed against the ears and filled the spaces between heartbeats. No human had ever walked here. I was certain of that. No axe had ever fallen on these trees, No fire had ever cleared these underbrush, No trail had ever been cut through this endless green darkness. We were walking into prehistory, and we were not alone.
The creatures no longer hid from us. They walked beside us openly, now assive shapes, moving between the ancient trees with a grace that defied their size. And stay tuned for more sasquatch ott to see. We'll be right back after these messages. Sometimes they were ahead of us, sometimes behind, sometimes flanking us on either side, always visible, always watching. I counted at least a dozen different individuals over the first week of travel. The scarred elder appeared frequently, his
gray hair distinctive even at a distance. Several younger males displayed occasionally chest beating, screaming, charging displays that stopped just short of actual contact. Females with young stayed further back, visible only as shadows among the greater shadows, and the juvenile that had befriended. Zeke appeared every few days, approaching my nephew with what I could only describe as eagerness.
They would stand together for long minutes, these two young beings from utterly different worlds, examining each other with a mutual fascination that troubled me deeply. It's teaching me, Zeke said. After one of these encounters. His face held that strange expression he'd been wearing more and more often, part wonder,
part fear, part something else I couldn't name. Showing me how to see the forest, how to read the signs, what signs everything, The way the light falls, the direction of the moss growth, the sounds that aren't sounds, vibrations in the ground, patterns in the silence. It's like learning a new language, except it's not a language. It's something older than language. I didn't know what to make of that,
neither did anyone else. We fell into a routine of sorts, walking by day, following trails that seemed to appear just when we needed them, camping by dusk, and clearings that were always somehow present, somehow perfectly suited to our needs. Leaving offerings each night, food, small tools, bright objects that were always taken by mourning, finding gifts in their place.
Herbs with medicinal properties, stone tools of remarkable craftsmanship, once a bundle of dried meat that sustained us for three days. The exchange continued, gift for gift, presence for presents, a fragile equilibrium that could shatter at any moment, but the danger never diminished. The creatures reminded us of it regularly, threat displays when we moved in directions they didn't want us to go, Screams and charges that stopped just feet away,
close enough to feel the heat of their breath. The howls at night, still coming every few days, still reaching into our skulls and touching something primal. We were being tolerated, not welcomed, not accepted. One misstep, one wrong move, and that tolerance would end. Physical hardships accumulated. The terrain was brutal ravines that required hours to cross, cliffs that had to be climbed with ropes. We didn't have enough of rivers that ran too fast and too cold for safe fording.
Our food supplies dwindled despite the creature's gifts. Our clothes wore thin, our boots fell apart and had to be wrapped in scraps of leather and bark. The creatures sometimes helped. Sometimes we would find fresh kills at the edges of our camps, deer rabbits, once a young bear, placed where we would see them, but not close enough to seem threatening charity or something else. They're fattening us up, Jim said one evening, his voice holding a darkness. I didn't like.
He'd been stable since the atonement, but something in him remained broken, like livestock before the slaughter. That's not what's happening, Solomon said quietly. He was carving again, his hands never steal wooden figures emerging from the rough chunks of wood he gathered each day. They're not feeding us because they want to eat us. They're feeding us because because what. Solomon was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. Because they want us to
reach wherever we're going. They want us to see what's ahead. How do you know that. I don't know it, I feel it. He held up one of his carvings, a figure with broad shoulders and long arms, rendered in remarkable detail. My grandmother used to say, that some truths can't be spoken, They can only be felt. These creatures, they're communicating something, not in words, not even in actions, in something deeper. I thought about the pendant at my chest, the warmth
of it, the pulse that matched my heart beat. Maybe Solomon was right. Maybe we were being led somewhere, drawn towards something the creatures wanted us to see. The question was what. Sam provided the answer, or at least part of it. They're not leading us, he said one night, as we huddled around a fire that seemed too small against the vast darkness. They're hurting us like cattle, like sheep,
toward what. I don't know, But whatever it is, it's important to them, important enough to tolerate our presence, important enough to keep us alive. That doesn't make me feel better. It's not supposed to. Sam's weathered face was grim in the firelight. We're not guests here, Captain. We're not explorers or scientists or anything else we might want to call ourselves. We're subjects, test subjects maybe, or specimens specimens of what humanity? What else do we have that they might want to study?
The Western Mountains rose before us as time wore on higher peaks than any we'd seen before, their summits lost in clouds that never seemed to lift. The trees grew larger, the canopy denser, the silence more profound, and the creatures grew more numerous. We counted twenty or thirty now different individuals from different areas, converging toward the mountains, toward whatever
lay beyond. Their behavior changed as well, less aggression, less wariness, something almost like anticipation in the way they moved, the way they watched us. Something was waiting in those mountains, something we were about to find. Marcus turned the page and found a break in the narrative, a gap of several days with no entries. When the journal resumed, Elijah's handwriting had changed. It was shakier, less controlled, as if his hand had been trembling when he wrote, we have
found it. God help us, we have found it. August fifteenth through thirtieth, seventeen ninety nine. Before we reached the hidden valley, we encountered the Wyandot. They found us on the edge of their territory, five white men, ragged and half starved, with a procession of creatures visible on the ridge line behind us. The wind Doot scouts didn't know
what to make of us. Their confusion was written on their faces in the way they raised and lowered their weapons, uncertain whether we were threat or curiosity, or something else entirely. Solomon saved us. His knowledge of trade signs learned from contacts among the freed communities of Maryland allowed him to communicate our peaceful intentions. The scouts conferred among themselves for a long time, glancing repeatedly at the shapes on the ridge,
before finally gesturing for us to follow. The Wyandot village was larger than any native settlement i'd seen, perhaps two hundred people living in longhouses arranged around a central plaza. The village showed signs of long occupation, but also signs of conflict. Burned structures that had never been rebuilt, defensive walls that seemed recent, markers for the dead that stretched in rows beyond the village edge. This was a people
who had known war. They took us to their council house, a massive structure at the center of the village, and there we met she who remembers she was ancient, so old that her skin had gone thin as paper, her eyes clouded with cataracts that should have rendered her blind. But when she looked at us, when she looked at me, I felt the weight of her gaze as surely as
I had felt the weight of the creature's stairs. She was the tribe's keeper of history, the one who remembered what others had forgotten, the one who knew the full truth of what lived in the mountains. We know what follows you, she said through translators. Her voice was surprisingly strong, carrying the authority of accumulated years. We have known them forever, the Messinguo, I said, the Chiatanka, the stone giants, different names, same creatures. You have learned something that is more than
most whites achieve. She leaned forward, her milky eyes searching my face. But you do not yet understand what you have learned. Then teach us. She was silent for a long moment. The fire in the center of the council house crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows on the walls. We call them the big Elder Brothers, she said finally, not because they are kin to us, but because they were here before us, long before, when our ancestors first crossed into this land. So long ago, that the stories
have become legends, and the legends have become myths. The elder brothers were already ancient. They watched us come, they watched us spread, they watched us grow, and they fought you. Yes, her voice dropped. The wars lasted generations. My grandmother's grandmother told stories of the long war. Villages burned in the night, warriors sent into the mountains who never returned, children stolen from their beds, bodies found in pieces or not found
at all. The fire popped again, sending sparks spiraling upward toward the smoke hole in the roof. No one moved, no one spoke. We fought because we did not understand. She who remembers continued. We thought we could drive them out, claim their lands, make them submit, as we had made other people submit. We were wrong. What changed exhaustion. Both sides bled white. We could not defeat them, and they could not or would not exterminate us. So we reached
an understanding, not peace. They do not know peace as we understand it. Ditunt an acknowledgment that more killing benefited no one. The boundary, Sam said quietly, the forbidden lands. Yes, we stay out of their places, they stay out of ours. The agreement has held for generations. She paused, her clouded eyes moving to the entrance of the council house, toward where the creatures waited on the ridgeline beyond the village. Until now. We didn't mean to break the agreement. Intent
means nothing to the elder brothers. You crossed into their territory. You saw what should not be seen. The agreement is broken, whether you intended it or not. Then why are we still alive? She who remembers smiled. It was not a comforting expression. That is the question, isn't it. You have traveled deeper into their lands than any human in living memory. You have walked among them, eaten their food, received their gifts, and you are still alive. Why I do not know,
but I can guess. She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. Ahead of you lies the heart of their territory, the place where they have lived since before humans walk this land. No one who has entered that place has returned, not because they kill everyone who enters, though many have died there, but because those who enter change or disappear. We've come too far to turn back now I know I can see it in your eyes, the hunger, the need to know. She settled
back into her furs, looking suddenly tired. My people had that hunger once. It nearly destroyed us. What would you have us? Do? What you will do regardless of what I say. Go forward, see what lies beyond. Learn what the Elder Brothers have been hiding from humanity since before we had a name for them. She closed her eyes, and may your gods protect you. Ours cannot help you where you're going. We left the Windott village the next morning.
She who remembers, came to see us off, standing at the edge of the village with her attendants supporting her frail body. Remember, she called after us. They are not evil, They are not good. They simply are. But the world you are about to enter has no mercy. It does not care about human hopes or human fears. It cares only about who's survival, everyone's, everything's. She raised one hand in a gesture that might have been blessing or farewell. That is what you are about to learn. That is
what has broken everyone who learned it before you. We walked into the mountains, the creatures flanking us on either side. Behind us, the Wyandot village disappeared into the forest. Behind us, the human world disappeared, and ahead of us, something weighted, something that would change everything. Marcus stopped reading. His hands
were shaking, his heart was pounding. He could feel the narrative building towards something terrible, something that would justify all the warnings and all the fear and all the generations of silence. The creatures weren't evil, they weren't good, They simply were. But they were about to do something, or allow something to happen that would haunt Elijah Stone for the rest of his life. Marcus knew he should stop, knew he should eat, sleep, try to process what he'd
already read, but he couldn't. The story was dragging him forward towards whatever weighted in the hidden valley. He turned the page di