Daniel
March 1771 Shenandoah Valley, British Colony of Virginia
THE LIE BURNED IN MY THROAT—a blazing fire that threatened to burst out and scorch the air between me and Mai. The setting sun gave a warm tinge to the sky as we sat on the grassy bank of the river, our bare feet dangling over its edge. We enjoyed throwing rocks in the water, as we had done many times, but I struggled to maintain the lie I’d woven that evening.
Mai’s gaze bore through me as she asked a simple question. “Daniel, where do you want to be in five years?” Her voice was soft, yet urgent.
My heart screamed, With you. I want to be here in this valley, married to you! My mouth refused to say it as tightness gripped my throat, my tongue anchored like a lead weight.
“W-Well, I d-don’t know.”
I knew.
Mai’s nose wrinkled, and her lips pursed. Of all the times for my stuttering problem, the problem that’s tormented me since childhood, to mangle my words.
The fiery, red-headed girl sitting beside me, who’d been my best friend for the past five years, was the girl of my dreams.
While flinging a stick into the water, I said, “I-I’m only f-fifteen. That’s far away.” Without serious thought, I asked, “What’s y-your plans, Maisey?” I cringed at hearing my question, and regret washed over my face. I feared her answer.
Mai’s eyes opened wide. “What? Daniel Paul Mason doesn’t have a plan? Did I hear you right?” Bristling at her try at humor, Mai said, “Well, I know where I’ll be in five years.” She stared at the distant mountains with their many shades of blue.
“Y-You do? You are just f-fourteen, Mai. How c-can you know what y-you will do?” I stiffened my bottom lip.
“Yes, I do. I’ll be roaming wherever the wind takes me.” I marveled at her infectious smile as the glistening sun radiated from her eyes. She stood and twirled, pretending to hold out her ball gown—the one she never had. With a sigh, I flung my rock, knowing her answer summed her up—wild and free, never to be caged.
“Well, I guess you’ll e-end up s-somewhere out east, m-maybe Williamsburg,” I spoke, not giving it much thought as I rose and looked for a good skipping rock.
Mai’s mouth gaped in disbelief, as if enlightened or reminded of a prior thought. “That’s it, Daniel.”
“That’s wh-what? I just meant the wind blows i-in that direction—e-eastward.”
“Williamsburg is east of us, right? Oh, I loved when Ms. Smith talked about it in school, causing me to daydream about its splendor more than I should have.”
“I didn’t care much f-for it.”
“Thank you, Daniel, for reminding me.”
She swiveled around, and her wavy crimson hair brushed against my face. I couldn’t help but notice her beauty as her grin tugged at my heart.
***
The memory of the conversation Mai and I had two weeks ago invades my mind tonight. I lie, looking up at the cabin’s ceiling, waiting for Grandpa to open the front door. Where is he? Why is he so late coming home? My eyelids grow heavy, feeling like they trap hot sand behind them. I reach with clenched fists to rub away the tiredness. Then, urgent thuds against our cabin door vibrate through the room like thunder, jolting me to attention.
In the past, hard thumping against the door might have separated it from its wooden hinges, but the new iron set holds it firm. The continuous beating can only mean one thing at night—something terrible has happened. I hope the barrage at the door isn’t to warn us of a frontiersman’s worst fear—an attack from the savages.
The loud pounding wakes Samuel and Isaac, who share the loft with me. We leap from our small feather-stuffed beds and rush to the loft’s edge to view the commotion. The banging creates a thick atmosphere of fear and uncertainty in our tiny home, causing a chill to run through my veins. Nervous anticipation fills my mouth, the saliva clinging to my tongue like a bitter crust, leaving a dry, metallic taste.
The dying fire in the fireplace shadows Pa’s silhouette as he grabs the long rifle he keeps above our hickory mantle. Ma follows close behind and retrieves a wooden splint from the tin box, holding it against the warm embers until it catches fire. She hurries to light a candle, and it flickers as her trembling hands hold it before her to light her path to the door.
“Martha, something is wrong,” Pa says.
“Oh, John, I hope it’s only Grandpa having drunk too much rum again and someone bringing him home,” Ma replies, her words competing with the banging cadence at the door.
Grandpa has an unyielding penchant for returning home late. He often gets liquored up or lost in telling stories at the general store about his time during the French and Indian War.
Please, God, let my grandpa be safe!
Isaac and Samuel slip down the ladder and take a defensive stance when they reach the bottom. Pa heads toward the door, prepared to fight for his family with a gun in hand.
My heart pounding with fear, I descend the ladder, each step slower than dripping molasses. The frantic banging on the other side gets louder and more insistent. Grandpa’s stories of Indian attacks run through my mind; he was always ready to act when needed.
“Who is it?” Pa’s voice booms loud enough to resonate through the cabin walls. He stiffens his back and tilts his ear toward the door while keeping one finger on the flintlock.
“John, it’s me, Orville Camden, and my brother is with me.” The commanding tone of the man’s words send shivers down my spine, causing my body to stay rigid with anticipation.
Pa lowers the gun to his side, pointing the barrel at the floor. He flings open the door, and the stranger steps inside the cabin. A calm, earthy chill permeates the room, pricking my bare skin and forcing gooseflesh to shoot the length of my arm.
The pungent smell of wet soil, deep forest rain, and the acrid smoke from a recent campfire fill the air, making breathing unpleasant. Mr. Camden pauses and gazes around the room as if to summarize every detail.
Every line on the man’s weathered face tells a story of surviving in these ruthless mountains. His mournful eyes hint at witnessing unspeakable horrors.
With each passing second, my heart throbs, as if trying to break free from my chest while waiting for him to speak. I quiet my breathing so none of his words escape me.
The man squints and clutches his hat against his chest. His breaths come in sharp gasps as he reaches out and clamps his hand onto Pa’s shoulder. His eyes stay downward.
“What is it, Orville? Is it my pap? Is it the Indians?” Pa’s arms tremble, a subtle shaking of muscles and bones echoing in his quivering voice.
Ma says, “Johnathan, it couldn’t have been the Natives. They left here ten years ago. We’ve had peace with them since the end of the war between the French and the English.”
Although Ma tries to exude confidence, the fear in her shaky voice suggests she is trying to convince herself.
The burly, yet respectful man, lets her finish speaking and turns to Pa; his words are chilling as he says, “John, we are so sorry to uh—I mean, I hate to . . .” He can’t find the words. “Well, you must . . .” He clears his throat. “You must step outside, please. Clarence and I have to show you something—and it’s not good.” The man’s voice sounds low and gravelly, reminding me of the tolling of a funeral bell signaling an end. He covers his mouth and shakes his head, never looking up. Pa steps outside onto the porch.
A piercing cry of terror rips through the air, and my heart labors in my chest. What enters my ears is beyond my understanding. “No! Not my father!” Pa’s words echo like a thunderclap, shaking me to the core. His screams tear through my soul as he speaks. “Savages killed my father!”
Tears flood our eyes as Pa’s anguish fills the cabin. Ma scrambles to the doorway, screams, and covers her mouth as she stares. Then, turning to her children, she utters, “Oh, dear God.” Her eyes close in disbelief. My insides unravel. I clench my fists until veins bulge in my arms. The pain transforms into a rage so hot I grit my teeth to keep from screaming out loud. Hatred floods every part of me—hate for Indians, and a deep knowing that I will never hear Grandpa’s voice again.
Could the savage responsible for Grandpa’s death be the one Mrs. Allen at the mercantile was talking about?
She said Lone Wolf had been plaguing the frontier for years while some claim he died in a flood. However, no one saw his dead body. I believe he survived, and Grandpa’s death tonight confirms he still roams our valley.
“It has to b-be Lone Wolf,” I murmur as my older brother Isaac, four years my elder, goes to the door to see Grandpa’s body. He heaves and cowers away from the horrible sight. Samuel, one year older than me, paces back and forth. My two little sisters, Ann and Liza, must still be fast asleep in the small room Pa built onto the side of the cabin.
“We found him on the creek bank,” the man says.
Pa asks, “Where? What creek? How could this have happened?”
“He was on our farm—the creek separating my property from McAllister’s. They propped him against a tree to send a—well . . .”
“But why?” Pa’s question trails into silence as if he knows the answer will stay hidden forever.
Even though I can’t see the porch, their words shower me with fear. Is the famous Indian chief back?
Pa’s booming voice shakes me from my thoughts. “Martha, send the boys to the loft.”
We climb the ladder, our feet slipping as we hurry to obey him. The wooden steps creak from the force of our frantic movements as the three of us ascend to the loft and hurl ourselves into bed. Trembling from fear and anger, I bury my face in the pillow, trying to escape the image of the unfolding terror. My eyes squeeze shut, and I pray it will disappear like a nightmare evaporating in the morning light.
Will the savages attack the rest of our family?
Pa’s voice trembles while instructing the two men, “Please bring him inside.” Heavy feet shuffle against the wooden floor as they carry my grandfather’s lifeless body inside the cabin. The men express their sorrow before shutting the door behind them and leaving.
A piercing cry erupts from Ma and Pa—mournful sounds of heartbreak and grief I have never experienced. The nightmarish scene lingers, their moans filling the room.
After rolling out of bed, I peek over the loft’s edge to view the scene. Kneeling next to Grandpa’s battered body, Pa is in agony. Ma walks over and caresses his shoulder, trying to soothe him.
“Martha, what could have possessed him to go to the Camden farm?” The anguish in his words saddens my heart, and I try to hold back my cries.
Not waiting for her answer, he turns to Grandpa and asks, “What were you doing out there, Pa?”
My brothers join me, and we peer at the unbearable sight from the railing. Ma and Pa weep, unaware of our presence. The sight of Grandpa lying sprawled on the floor, covered in blood with a gash across his forehead, makes me want to vomit. The image, like a brand on cattle, sears into my mind.
“John, do you think it could have been him?”
Pa’s eyes shoot upward. “No. It couldn’t be Martha. He’s been dead for years!”
“But the rumors and what people say . . .”
Pa raises his voice. “I know, but it can’t be him—my father saw him wash away in the flood!”
So, Grandpa was at the river that night and told the men in town!
A surge of energy erupts inside me as I recognize the savage. Without thinking, I shout, “Is i-it Chief Lone Wolf you are t-talking a-about?”
Pa whips around to catch my brothers and me, looking in awe at the shocking scene. His eyebrows furrow in disbelief as he rushes toward us, looking up at the loft and pointing his finger at me. I hold my breath, expecting his anger, fearing what will happen next.
What did I do wrong?
“How do you know that name, Son? Where did you hear it? Answer me, boy!”
“Uh, only what some men said a-at the store, Pa; I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to say h-his name.”
“Don’t you ever repeat that name; you hear me?”
Before I can respond to Pa’s question, Samuel descends the ladder. His face twists with rage. “I hate those savages for what they did to my grandpa.” Then, pointing toward me, he says, “And to think you brought one of them—”
“What did you just say, Samuel?” Pa interrupts in a demanding voice. “Answer me!”
Samuel stiffens his frame while lifting his chin—something a man would do when confronted. “I said you brought one to live—”
Like a volcano erupting, Pa backhands him across his jaw, not letting him finish. “Don’t you ever say that again!” He yells at Samuel.
The force of the blow knocks him into the small drying table we use to tan animal hides. One leg breaks under the weight of his body, causing him to fall, hitting his head against the corner of the rock fireplace. Blood trickles across his face as he lies motionless. I am shocked at the scene before me. Oh Lord, please don’t let Samuel be hurt!
“John, stop it! What are you doing?” Ma screams, running toward Samuel, kneeling on the floor beside him. “Oh, Samuel, my sweet boy.” Tears spill from her eyes. She trembles, caressing his face and wiping away the blood from the growing lump on his forehead.
Ma looks at Pa and cries, “What have you done, John? Get him to bed. Hurry! Isaac, come down and fetch cool water from the springhouse.” Ma’s stoic voice brings order to the chaos.
“I’ll g-get it, Ma.” I slip from the loft and rush to the door to avoid Grandpa’s fixed gaze.
When I return with the pail of water, Samuel’s motionless body is lying on the bed. Ma takes wet rags from Isaac, who filled the bowl on the little table. I hear the soothing sound of her voice as she hums a soft tune and wipes the blood from his face.
Pa sits collapsed on the floor beside the bed, covering his face with both hands. His body trembles with unbearable sorrow. “What have I done? Dear Lord, what have I done to my boy? I’m so sorry, Martha.”
Pa’s guilt and pain overcome him. My words escape me as I sit beside him, but Samuel’s words keep repeating in my mind. Is Samuel saying I’m an Indian? Is that what made Pa so angry?
If his words are true, Maisey will hate me, and I will hate myself. I am not a savage.
A terrible event has turned into horrific chaos tonight—almost insufferable. I’m grateful my two little sisters are sound asleep and haven’t seen the tragedy. My family is falling apart right before my eyes, and I’m helpless to stop it. Besides the calamity, I’m forced to question my identity. Who am I?
Grandpa’s stiff body lies on the cabin’s floor, half wrapped with a blanket, now soaked with his dark red blood. The slash across his forehead reveals the top of his head. His scalp is missing, as if an animal had gnawed it from his body. My back stiffens, and my muscles tighten as I resolve what must be done.
Hatred for the Indians rises inside me like a raging flood. Without a doubt about who the savage animal is, I vow to Grandpa I will find and kill him, even if I may not speak his name.
