Where the Dead Talk Read Online Free PDF Page B

Women and children pleading, in agony. He grimaced and shifted in the mud. The voices grew in number. He struggled to hear anything else. For a minute, he thought he might have been wrong. Just the voices of the damned as always. As he turned to go, he caught a hint of deeper voices – and he froze. Below the cacophony of whispers, a faint chanting moved in and out of hearing.
    With a yell, Pannalancet pulled himself from the water, stepping back up onto the grass. All around was quiet again, nothing but the wind moving through the birch and pine. The lake stretched before him, scraps of mist clinging to the surface. With a falling in his gut, he suddenly realized that Nashoonon’s disappearance wasn’t a coincidence. He turned from the lake. As he made his way to the path that would bring him to his own far off cabin, he cursed Nashoonon, cursed the English for the unstoppable violence they’d brought upon them, cursed the other tribes for shunning the valley and leaving it all to his vanished people, a thousand years of stewardship. Mostly, he cursed the lake. He spat on the path. He hated this place, these dark woods where the dead talk.
     

As Good A Place As Any
     
    Thomas led them along a narrow lane beside a black brook. Hawkes was slumped over, gripping his horse’s neck. Pomeroy spotted a light up to the left. A cabin was nestled at the edge of a clearing, moonlight sketching in the tall grass around it.
    "Wait," he said.
    Thomas kept riding. With a frown, Pomeroy spurred his horse and came up beside him. He reached across and slapped his shoulder. Thomas startled, staring at him with big eyes.
    "Wait," Pomeroy said, raising his voice.
    "It’s further on," Thomas said, "I know a place, Pannalancet will know what to –"
    Pomeroy held his hand up and shook his head.
    "I don’t think so – and whoever you're going on about will have to wait. Hawkes can’t go any further, and this cabin will do just fine. Quartering the King’s troops is an honor."
    He was exhausted. It had been almost thirty hours since he’d slept, and he couldn’t stop hearing Hutchison's screams in his head. He turned his horse to the cabin and reached long to grab the reins from Hawkes, leading his horse along too. Looking back, the boy didn’t follow.
    "Well?" Pomeroy said. "I can’t lift Hawkes in there myself."
    "We’re not far enough. Another few miles and –"
    "I’m in no mood to tramp along any further without rest. Now come along – that’s an order."
    Thomas looked up the path, then back in the direction they’d come. After a moment, he followed, his face pinched up in worry. There was dim light shining through the lone window on this side. Pomeroy dismounted, every muscle in his legs and back stiff, then went to the door of the cabin and knocked.
    "Open up," he said.
    Silence. He stepped to the window. It was a single room, and empty, by the looks of it. A fire in the hearth was down to red embers. The latch was free, and the door opened. There were leather-working tools in one corner, a cot in another, a hide rug on the floor; a shelf with tin cups, some knives, a bag of powder, some apples; some faded clothing – but no occupant. Pomeroy turned and went over to Hawkes.
    "Come," he said, "let’s get you down."
    The soldier’s eyes were closed, his face a mask of pain.
    "Hawkes," he said, louder. He reached up. The Private trembled. Pomeroy looked over at the boy.
    "Help me with him," he said.
    A breeze gusted, knocking the door of the cabin against the frame. Together, they wrestled Hawkes down and somehow got him through the doorway. By then, Pomeroy was sweating, his arms on the verge of giving out. He blew a rivulet of sweat from his lip. They got Hawkes down onto the musty smelling bed. Thomas stared at the injured private’s leg. All that jostling hadn’t even brought him to.
    "Tuck him in," Pomeroy said. Thomas nodded and started trying to get the blanket on top of Hawkes. Pomeroy straightened up and went