Savageland, Chapter 1
The forest ahead was densely tangled between low-lying brush and the towering foreign trees. Even in the unusually bright morning, the forest concealed anything beyond its periphery in dense shadow. The edge of the shadowy world was marked by a light-brown sand that sloped down to the sea. Today the bay was calm, but for many weeks it had brought a terrible cold sweeping around and through the warping outer wooden walls. While the nearby trees were abundant and their wood dense, the ever-shifting salt air warped the mud and log construction into a sieve for the elements. Wind, snow and occasionally falling ice mostly passed through the structures and chilled the already irritable and shivering occupants. The outposts sitting atop the shaky walls were the worst, offering only a place to stand without any means of heating. Many of the ranks bemoaned the ocean’s relentless winter for their perpetual misery, but in truth, the entire complex was unfit for any meaningful protection or insulation. The huts inside the dingy fortress walls were poorly organized and had a propensity for collapsing in the winds.
William knew this, but hardly bothered to point the facts out at this point. He knew that the tools used to build their fortress were best used for crafting toys. He knew that their Captain had sold the original supplies to pay for a cask of spirits, which hardly lasted the passage of a week. It was this memory that ate at him while the crew felled trees with hand-hatchets and searched the earth for precious minerals with gardening spades. Looking around, the entire populous−some seventy-five strong−shared two full axes and one digging shovel; all of which were mostly ground to nubs. William gave the Governor and Captain credit for being more mindful with munitions, but the settlers-himself included-were hardly accustomed to hunting the game native to the land. Medium-sized birds were common and often noisy, but they were smarter and faster than the scrawny hounds that had survived the crossing. Deer were plentiful in the clearings, but the meadows lay miles away from the coastal position. Collecting venison was a journey that meant several days travel, dangerous encounters with bears and the elements.
Whatever foresight the leaders displayed in hoarding weaponry was negated by the difficulty of the hunt. The massive bay held untold numbers of fish and other life, but harvesting it meant venturing out into the uncertain and frigid waters in November- something that had already claimed the lives of five men. Food was usually short in supply, and accidental shootings were a growing regularity. Since landing on a blistering August afternoon, William had watched the colony shrink from a smallish one-hundred-and-twenty to their present collection.
Many of the settlers perished from using a sail contaminated with a pox as their bedding; but the majority died from exposure in their sleep. William had collected what garments he could from the dead and fancied himself the only man who did not shiver through the nights he spent in his shelter. The outpost was always different, though.
The sun offered a slight kiss of warmth through the stiff wool and game-skins. The snow might even melt somewhat later in the morning, but the chill of night had not yet left. William recalled the night being silent, without even a bird stirring through the darkness. He had not slept during his post, he never did, and had noted no movement on the entire southern wall. Mot nights might reveal a small fox or other creature he strained to observe, but the last night was moonless and blanketed in snow. He grew tired of straining to see his own hands and set to think about he might ever return to England. He had not thought of anything.
He had forgotten about the homeland by sunrise. William found himself unable to consider anything except what he could see in the early dawn: heavy footprints, awkward and dragging. He wondered if perhaps a bear had wandered by, but the snow could not have been displaced by anything other than a man. A man with a malformed leg, by the angle of the right foot. He stood, rifle on his shoulder, staring at the prints as they disappeared into the trees. He strained to hear someone or something, but the world was still asleep. The North gate’s watchman had long since abandoned his duties, but no footprints were to be seen for miles. William wandered back to his own post and traced the tracks from the gate to the woods. He knelt down to the closest tracks and noticed the discoloration. A deep red-brown: frozen blood.
William knew this, but hardly bothered to point the facts out at this point. He knew that the tools used to build their fortress were best used for crafting toys. He knew that their Captain had sold the original supplies to pay for a cask of spirits, which hardly lasted the passage of a week. It was this memory that ate at him while the crew felled trees with hand-hatchets and searched the earth for precious minerals with gardening spades. Looking around, the entire populous−some seventy-five strong−shared two full axes and one digging shovel; all of which were mostly ground to nubs. William gave the Governor and Captain credit for being more mindful with munitions, but the settlers-himself included-were hardly accustomed to hunting the game native to the land. Medium-sized birds were common and often noisy, but they were smarter and faster than the scrawny hounds that had survived the crossing. Deer were plentiful in the clearings, but the meadows lay miles away from the coastal position. Collecting venison was a journey that meant several days travel, dangerous encounters with bears and the elements.
Whatever foresight the leaders displayed in hoarding weaponry was negated by the difficulty of the hunt. The massive bay held untold numbers of fish and other life, but harvesting it meant venturing out into the uncertain and frigid waters in November- something that had already claimed the lives of five men. Food was usually short in supply, and accidental shootings were a growing regularity. Since landing on a blistering August afternoon, William had watched the colony shrink from a smallish one-hundred-and-twenty to their present collection.
Many of the settlers perished from using a sail contaminated with a pox as their bedding; but the majority died from exposure in their sleep. William had collected what garments he could from the dead and fancied himself the only man who did not shiver through the nights he spent in his shelter. The outpost was always different, though.
The sun offered a slight kiss of warmth through the stiff wool and game-skins. The snow might even melt somewhat later in the morning, but the chill of night had not yet left. William recalled the night being silent, without even a bird stirring through the darkness. He had not slept during his post, he never did, and had noted no movement on the entire southern wall. Mot nights might reveal a small fox or other creature he strained to observe, but the last night was moonless and blanketed in snow. He grew tired of straining to see his own hands and set to think about he might ever return to England. He had not thought of anything.
He had forgotten about the homeland by sunrise. William found himself unable to consider anything except what he could see in the early dawn: heavy footprints, awkward and dragging. He wondered if perhaps a bear had wandered by, but the snow could not have been displaced by anything other than a man. A man with a malformed leg, by the angle of the right foot. He stood, rifle on his shoulder, staring at the prints as they disappeared into the trees. He strained to hear someone or something, but the world was still asleep. The North gate’s watchman had long since abandoned his duties, but no footprints were to be seen for miles. William wandered back to his own post and traced the tracks from the gate to the woods. He knelt down to the closest tracks and noticed the discoloration. A deep red-brown: frozen blood.