Archive of Our Own

October 27, 1702

Jack stared out the window of their cabin with wide eyes. Orange and red fell from the trees like flames; the forest was on fire. 

Yellows, purples, and browns painted the grassy ground in colors that he wished he could draw. 

His hand twitched.

He wanted to go play.

There was a strange woman in their cabin who was upstairs with Mama and Papa. They had shut the door behind them with strict orders to stay inside. Of course, they hadn’t told him why she was there, or why he couldn’t go play in the cold fire of the woods. All that he was able to gather was that the woman was there for Mama.

It was frustrating, all things considered. They gave him rules that didn’t make sense and never even thought to explain them.

And it was with that reasoning that he opened the front door and ran into the trees. It's not his fault that their rules were impossible to follow. If anything, they should blame themselves.

The pond by the cabin was too cold to swim in, but the weather hadn’t gotten warm enough to freeze it. Instead, he circled it to the other side and gathered up the rocks that lay across the shore, making stone towers that precariously stood tall.

If Auntie were there, she would tell him that making towers of stones was a waste of time, but she spent all day with two long sticks and a bunch of perfectly knottable wool strings, so he didn’t really care when she made fun of the things he does.

Nonetheless, his stony archetype soon got boring, and with no one else there to play with, he moved on.

As Jack moved further into the forest, a chilly breeze blew him forward and nearly knocked him off his feet. It messed with his mop of hair and pulled his cape over his head.

He flung his short arms until the fabric fell back again and glared at the sky. “Stupid wind! That's mean!”

Another gust blew him from behind, softer than before, as if in apology.

Pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Okay. I’ll forgive you. But just this once!”

Resuming his play, he started gathering all the dry leaves on the ground in his arms. He dragged them into a large pile until he could no longer see over it. When he finished, he made another one. And then another after that.

Piles of leaves formed a straight line that Jack stood in front of. A wide grin spread across his face as he let out a loud whoop, running towards the first pile and leaping into it. He laughed loudly, swimming through the leaves to jump into the next one.

Down the line he jumped, the crunch of the leaves catching his fall. He rolled around in the last one, throwing them up into the air and pretending that they were raining from the clouds. Jack liked the rain. He also liked mud.

Mud like the puddle he saw a few feet in front of him. He rolled onto his stomach, twigs and leaf shavings stuck in his hair, and stared at the puddle. Target acquired.

He shot forward and grabbed fistfuls of wet earth, laughing as it stuck to his fingers and splattered on his clothes. He caked it on his face, evening it out as if he had a beard like Papa. Papa’s beard was scratchy, nearly covering his mouth. Jack didn’t really like it all that much. Especially when Papa pulled him in for a hug and his beard rubbed against his cheeks. It made his skin itchy.

The thought of Papa’s hugs made him stop. He didn’t want to make Papa’s skin itchy when he ugged him. Then Papa might stop giving him hugs!

Jack began to wipe his mud beard from his face. Mama would be so proud when she saw it. His first shave. And he did it all on his own!

The other kids in the village would be so jealous.

He could picture their faces when he told them. Their mouths would hang open in shock, and some of them would stare in awe. Jack really was incredible. He was practically a grown-up now. He’d be able to boss all his friends around and they wouldn’t be able to say anything about it, because he was the adult and they weren’t.

Only, that would mean he’d be giving them stupid and impossible rules.

Is that why adults bossed him around? Because they could?

Must be. But Jack had a beard that he shaved by himself, so now he was a grown-up. He decided that he wouldn’t give the kids stupid rules, but only when they weren’t mean. And when he had kids, he wouldn’t give them stupid rules at all. They would be able to play whenever they wanted, and Jack would finally have playmates every day.

That sounded nice. Having someone he could play with every day made him feel warm.

Jack climbed out of the mud puddle and scampered up to a large oak tree with long low-hanging limbs. It was taller than any building he’d ever seen. He could probably see the whole world from the top.

He tried clambering up the trunk, but there wasn’t anything for his small hands to grab onto. He was pretty sure that he also scraped his knee but all the dirt on his legs made it hard to tell.

Trying a different approach, he tried to grab onto the branch by jumping. The first three times resulted in little success, and he cursed his legs for being so short. 

But Jack has never been known to be a quitter, so on his fourth jump, he put as much power as he could into his pounce. His fingers wrapped around the bark and he held on as tightly as he could.

The wood rubbed on his chest as he pulled himself up, his shirt being the only barrier. When he finally got his feet beneath him, he walked along the length of the trunk and pulled himself onto the one above him. It was rough and his palms ached, but he kept climbing. His arms began to hurt, and he imagined it felt a lot like Papa’s arms did when he came home from work.

Another breeze ruffled his hair and he thought once more of cold fire as the leaves and branches swayed. The top of the tree looked out over the forest, and he was so high up that Jack instinctively clung to the branch.

He turned to find his cabin, hoping to shout for his parents to come and see the impressive height that he’d accomplished, but his smile froze. It slowly fell as he turned to look around in confusion.

It was true that he could see miles and miles of trees. What he could not see, though, was his home.

Jack dangled his legs atop the tallest branch, clutching the trunk as he turned his head all the way around. Only trees. A canopy of flames. But no wooden cottage in sight.

Fear prickled the back of his neck, and he started looking a bit more desperately.

A blood-curdling scream ripped through the air, sending birds flying. Pained and horrible.

He nearly lost his grip, gaze snapping forward towards the sound.

Mama.

Jack climbed down as fast as he could, his foot tripping the last few branches and sending him plummeting toward the ground. He could barely breathe, lungs refusing to hold air as he rolled to his feet. His ankle spiked in pain, but his blood was rushing too fast for him to notice.

He bound as quickly as he could for the sound, kicking up leaves and twigs as he raced. The wind pushed against his back as if urging him on.

Mama was hurt. Mama was scared. He’d never seen Mama scared before. Once, she had burnt herself on their little stove during the winter. Her whole arm had blistered, and her skin sweltered so much that it peeled. The smell of burnt flesh had filled their home for a whole week, and Papa had to go into town to get the doc to come and look at her. But, as Jack remembers, she never looked scared.

She had pulled him into her lap, petting his hair with her uninjured hand as he sobbed into her chest. Her voice had been soft, hushing his crying and assuring him that she was okay.

Nothing scared Mama. That was a fact. She never screams.

The brown wood of their cabin peeked through the trees and Jack ran faster than he thinks he ever has in his life. He crossed through the still-open threshold and down the hall to Mama’s room, mud tracking in from outside as he ventured further into the home.

Her door was still shut with the light of the candles underneath the crack, slipping out into the hall as Jack pressed himself against the frame. There were groans of pain and he could faintly hear his father and the strange woman whispering soothingly. “Mama?” He turned the handle, the lock clicking mockingly. “Papa!”

Minutes felt like hours as he stayed leaning on the door. He couldn’t tell if his parents couldn’t hear him, or if they were ignoring him.

Mama’s groans turned to whispers, sporadically filling the tense silence. Tears had begun to well in his eyes, simmering before they fell as they clouded his vision. He wanted to be let in. Mama was hurt. He wanted her to hold him and tell him she was alright again. Then he could hold her and make her feel better.

Jack’s lip was quivering slightly as he called out again. “Mama!”

He hadn’t expected anything to come from it but was surprised when the door opened up a crack. Papa stood over him, sweat on his brow with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Hey, buddy. Mama needs rest, ‘kay?”

“She’s hurt,” Jack whimpered.

Papa’s face softened and he bent down to scoop the small boy into his arms. Jack tried to see over his shoulder, but it was closed again before he could see anything but the stranger blocking his mother with her back.

He fisted Papa’s shirt in his hands as he was carried towards the fireplace. “I thought I told ya to stay inside,” Papa sighed, not sounding taken aback in the slightest.

Jack pushed his face into the crook of his father’s neck as if he could hide there, his tiny frame shaking. Papa stroked his back softly with work-worn hands, and he sat them down in Mama’s rocker so he could hold the boy in his lap. He began picking leaves from Jack’s hair, speaking softly to soothe his sniffles.

“Your Ma is doin’ just fine, bud. She ain’t hurt.”

“She was crying,” He frowned. “Why was Mama crying?”

Papa sighed. “Ya know how Mama’s belly has been gettin’ real big? And how tired she has been lately?”

“Too tired to play,” Jack said sadly.

“Too tired to play,” Papa agreed with a smile. “You’re gonna be an older brother, Jack.”

Jack’s tears stopped and he looked up at Papa in confusion. What did those two things have in common? It felt like his mind was broken. Older brother?

His confusion must have been apparent, as Papa chuckled and started wiping the dried mud from his nose. “Mama’s belly has been gettin’ really big ‘cause a baby was growin’ inside. And now that baby is coming out and is goin’ to be your new sibling. It’s all natural, Jackson.”

“Mama had a person growing inside of her?” Jack whispered in horror.

Papa nodded and Jack’s jaw dropped.

“Will I grow a person inside me too?”

A deep chuckle shook Papa’s chest and he smiled. “No Jackson. A baby will not grow inside of you.”

“How do you know that?”

Papa leaned down to whisper in his ear, his beard scratching his cheek. “I’ll tell ya when you’re older.” Jack didn’t know how to respond other than by tilting his head to the side.

A door opened down the hall and the strange woman stepped in. There was a tired smile on her face as she addressed his father. “The baby is finally here. You have a healthy little girl.”

There was a crinkle in Papa’s eyes that shone with promised love, and he looked down at his son excitedly. “Do ya wanna meet your new sister?”

Jack nodded his head. It wasn’t like he’d never seen a baby before. He had seen infants in the village, wrapped with blankets and swaddled against the cold as their mothers held them close. He had seen their chubby arms and big eyes as they sat on their father’s lap, always looking around curiously.

But, for all of Jack’s reckless courage and curiosity (which got him into trouble more often than not) he had never gone up and asked to see closer. He doesn’t exactly remember the first time he’d seen a baby, but he remembers Mama gripping his hand and saying that he had once been a baby. She had said that babies were fragile; which meant that Jack wasn’t allowed near. He thinks he’s garnered a reputation for trouble, something he feels more proud of than he thinks he should.

He had no idea what Papa meant by Mama growing the baby inside of her, and that being why Mama’s belly had gotten so big, or why Mama could grow a baby and he couldn’t. He wished he did if only to satiate the questions in his mind.

Papa’s arms were wrapped around him again, holding him against the man’s hip as they followed the lady back into Mama’s room.

Wet rags lay across the floor, some bloodied and some not. There was a bucket of water at the foot of the bed with a towel hung on the edge that Papa stepped around. The candles were burning low, most of the light coming from the open window that let the cool Autumn breeze blow inside.

On the bed, propped up against the pillows while the quilts lay scattered, Mama cradled a bundle against her chest. The stranger began to wipe at her sweaty brow with a rag, but Mama didn’t look away, stuck staring at the thing wrapped in a brown and red blanket.

Jack was set down on the bed next to her, with no concern for his dirty clothes. Her soft whisperings were full of nothing but fondness. “Mama?”

“Meet your baby sister, Jack,” She smiled, leaning towards him so he could take a peek. “Her name is Mary.”

Baby Mary’s face was scrunched up like she had tasted something sour. Her stubby fingers squirmed and pulled at the blanket around her, tiny whines and whimpers as she looked up at him with eyes as brown as chestnuts. She reached a small hand towards him, and Jack, enraptured and quiet, reached back.

Her hand wrapped around his finger, small and weak, and he felt something in his chest tighten. He sucked in a breath, the air feeling thin, but it almost seemed too loud for the atmosphere of the room.

Mama carefully shifted the baby into Jack’s arms with a quick warning of supporting her head, and Jack took her with a gentleness that he hadn’t known he had. The weight of his new sister pressing into his shoulder was something he didn’t think he could ever get enough of. He felt warm in all the right places, his heart swelling with a kind of pride he didn’t think possible.

“You’re ‘er older brother, Jack. It means you have to protect her,” Papa said with a hand on his back.

Older brother.

Her older brother.

Jack repeated the words in his mind over and over again, liking them more and more. He couldn’t wait to show Mary everything that he knew. All the best places for hide and seek, the best trees to climb, which berries were delicious, and which ones were poisonous. He wanted to show her the best places to sneak tarts, which stars made the constellations, and how to weave crowns from wildflowers.

He wanted to show her what it was like to be free and untamed.

He wanted to protect her from anything that tried to hurt her.

He wanted her to know just how much he loved her from the moment he laid eyes on her.

His arms tightened around her and he touched his forehead to hers. “I love you,” He whispered reverently. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Hearing her laugh was something that would make his heart feel light for weeks to come.

November 3, 1702

Mama recovered gradually over the next week. The midwife, which Papa had told him was the woman in their cabin, stayed with them to help take care of the baby.

Mary slept soundly in a crib by his parent’s bed, rarely making a fuss. Jack liked to sneak into the room before dawn to watch her sleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell rhythmically, hand gripping the blanket she was wrapped in.

She looked as fragile as glass, so small that he sometimes thought she would disappear. He’d imagine the wind blowing in and whisking her away as if she were a leaf of fire.

It was these mornings that Papa would rise from the bed and give him a smile filled with pride. He would lead the boy into the kitchen to start on breakfast.

The beginning chills of winter were starting to creep in, and Jack shivered as Papa placed new wood in the fireplace. Gray filled the sky as the clouds got ready for the first snowfall. Most of the leaves had fallen off the trees following the rainfall from last night, creating a wet blanket of color on the ground.

He stared out the window, thinking about what it would be like if he used the leaves to make a picture when a soft curse brought his attention behind him. Papa stood over their meat barrel with the tallow in hand, looking inside with a frown.

“What's wrong?” He asked.

“We’re near outta meat, that's what,” Papa responded, then quieter, “and right before winter. Damn.”

Jack pursed his lips worriedly. He could already feel the hunger pangs that would be setting in if this winter was anything like the last. He didn’t want to be that starving again. “What do we do?”

“A huntin’ trip might be necessary.”

Just as Papa said this, Mama came from the bedroom with Baby Mary in her arms. Her hair was still bedraggled and her eyes were still tired, but she was walking again. “Hunting trip?”

“Yeah. We could sell the extra fat and sinew in the market for bread.”

“Be careful. Oh! You could take Jackson with you,” Mama smiled. “Teach him a little about how to hunt, would you, dear?”

Jack wanted to protest. He wanted to whine and pout about how he didn’t want to stare at tracks and do nothing for hours at a time. So much of what happened when he joined hunting excursions was waiting waiting waiting. Well, Jack was sick of waiting.

But Mama sounded so happy and energized for the first time in weeks. She was walking around with the baby in her arms and the light returned to her eyes.

He didn’t want to make Mama sad.

Papa considered it for a moment, looking out the window and back at the boy. “I don’t see the harm,” He said finally.

And just like that, Mama was forcing his feet into boots and his hands into mittens. She wrapped his shoulders with his duster and sent him out the door behind his father. Jack hated it when she made him wear his boots.

The air was chillier than when he’d gone out to play, and the difference was noticeable. Frost matted the leaves and grass like a white halo that melted in their steps. His breath blew back into his face in a cloud that caused him to shiver. Jack looked up at Papa’s towering figure. His musket was hung over his shoulder like a shiny promise of death, and Jack moved to the left to avoid its swing. A knife bounced against Papa’s hip from where it was concealed on his belt.

Jack could still remember the last time Papa had taken him hunting. After hours of sitting in bushes and listening to the sounds of the forest, Papa had led him to one of their traps. A bunny had been caught leg-up in the snare, frantically trying to sprint away from certain demise. Blood sprinkled the grass from where the wire had begun to dig into its skin.

He’d watched Papa kill it with his knife.

Rabbit stew had never tasted more bitter.

A jingling sound drew his attention away from the weapon, and Jack stopped to look around, trying to see if there were any bells. He listened again, but all he could hear was the call of geese flying south and rainwater dripping from trees.

Papa moved on, not seeming to hear anything as he didn’t so much as look up.

Jack’s brow furrowed and he started to follow after, but the jingling rang again. It bounced off the trees from every direction, almost like a laugh.

The wind swayed the forest, echoing with the sound of cheerful mischief. It felt like it was meant for him. A wide grin spread across his face, fear forgotten, and he followed the sound where he thought it might be coming from. He didn’t know what might be making it, for it didn’t sound like any bell he had ever heard.

It was a beautiful sound that rang like the happiness of his soul. It was good.

Wet leaves silently crunched beneath his feet as he looked around. Could it be some kind of elf? What about one of the faeries that Mama had told him about before bed?

Mama had told him to be wary of the fae. She said that they were tricksters that would steal you away if you weren’t careful. But Jack is very careful. He knows not to give his name to faeries, and he is very very polite. Mrs. Jane, the seamstress, had told him so.

He wonders what fae like to do. Would they want to play with him?

The jingling sounded in his ear again.

It was so loud and so captivating that he could hardly think of anything else. At one moment, he thought he heard it coming from behind a great Oak tree, and he jumped out the other side only to find nothing there.

Then it sounded like it was coming from a small animal’s den, but closer inspection found that the hole was empty. Jack turned around when he heard it behind him. He chased after it, diving into the new game of tag with a wild grin. Just as he jumped into a bush, the jingling rang to his right.

He scrambled clumsily through the brush, thorns, and twigs scratching his palms and arms, and followed after. A small cliffside came into view, rocky and curved like a wall.

The jingling stopped.

It was so sudden and quick that Jack’s steps faltered, nearly sending him tumbling.

Where did it go?

He frowned and looked around. It was then he realized that he didn’t recognize his surroundings.

Pebbles fell loose from the mud-covered cliff face as he brushed his hand over it, walking down the wall. Maybe it was behind it? He could ask it to take him back home, as he was feeling a bit winded. His boots sunk into the wet ground with plop sounds, and Petrichor aired from the mud. The drag of his feet made his aching legs throb.

Jack rounded the corner and froze. His eyes blew wide and his knees wobbled, and he reached out for a rock to stabilize himself. A choked whimper dragged itself from his throat. He could feel his hands shaking tremulously. All he could do was stare.

Because there, laying still in the leaves, a wolf growled. White teeth gleamed like Death’s scythes.

Its brown and gray fur was matted and bloody, some fresh and some old, the skin on its shoulder and chest shredded to pieces of flesh that hung like threads on worn unhemmed fabric. Red splattered the rocks around it, still wet and muddy from the rain, and still sluggishly bleeding. Large stones trapped the wolf’s hind leg, keeping it down.

They were jagged rocks that cut and splintered into the muscles the more it moved. Split veins and sinew roped around the twigs and stones.

It stared at him with bared bloody fangs, lips curled, and eyes dangerous. The claws on its front paws scratched the Earth erratically, desperately digging into the wet ground. One of them was broken at the toe and folded awkwardly at the crazed movement.

It was dying. That was something he knew with distant certainty.

If it wasn’t the wounds or infection that killed it, it would be starvation. Or worse yet, a bigger animal found it first. A dead rabbit laid not too far away, ripped to shreds like a chew toy, bones and guts spilling out onto the autumn leaves. The scent of death and rot permeated the air, wafting with the smell of damp wood. He could almost imagine the wolf tumbling down the cliff, fresh kill in its maw, before getting trapped.

It had been hunting. Stalking its prey through the bushes, much like Papa did. But it made the mistake of standing too close to the edge of the ravine, especially after the rain. It probably chastised itself for its carelessness. It had known about the slick ground, after all.

The rabbit had probably been dead by the time the ground started giving way, copper tang sliding down its throat. The taste of a kill. It had probably been shredding it up with that same broken claw, ripping off fur before having its own fur ripped off.

More struggling; more blood leaking out across the forest’s leafy blanket.

Now it was trapped, much like the rabbit had been, under the thumb of fate. A hunt gone wrong. A shame, its pack would think.

Jack could see fear in its eyes as it tried swiping him with its dangerously sharp claws – the broken one still limp – pulling and pulling to free itself only to fail when its strength waned. He was too far away for it to attack him, but Jack still felt too frightened to move.

It was bleeding out onto the fire leaves, and huffing labored smokes of breath.

It was dying. Blood coated its fur.

He didn’t want to watch it die, the life fading from its body as its blood went cold. But he didn’t want it to be free. It would pounce at him with wide jaws and sink its sharp teeth into his throat. He could only hope that it would die quickly. 

All he could do was stare in terror, knowing what would happen but being unable to look away.

Eventually, the wolf stopped struggling, laying defeated as death slowly crept in. It stared back.

It was dying.

Footsteps fell behind him, heavy and hurried, but he didn’t dare look away. “Jackson!” Papa rushed, grabbing his shoulder to force his attention on him. “What have I told you about runnin’ off?”

He didn’t respond, only met his worried scolding with a blank expression and fearful eyes. He turned back slowly to the wolf’s mangled body.

It was dead.

Papa’s brow furrowed as he followed his gaze, and cursed. “Shit! Jack, don’t look!” Jack’s face was pulled into his father's chest, hiding him away from the morbid scene. But it was too late. It stayed behind his eyelids and was forever branded into his mind.

They went back home shortly after, a few squirrels strapped to Papa’s pack that they later ate for supper.

Jack didn’t say another word for the rest of the day.

October 5, 1703

If there was one thing that Jack learned in all his years (which was a lot of years, by the way), it would have to be that the sweet tarts made by Ms. Genevieve were the best in the whole settlement.

The crust was always a golden brown that melted on his tongue while the berries on top were just juicy and tangy enough to complement it.

Unfortunately for Ms. Genevieve, and fortunately for Jack, her window was the perfect height to hide under. He crouched beneath the sill with his back to the wall, head tilted to hear the inside over the snickers of the kids next to him.

They had all come together in Old Man Tom’s barn to plot the heist. Jill and Steph, his cousins older by three years, tried to talk them out of it, ultimately failing. Eventually, they had decided that if they were going to be stealing tarts again, then they’d tag along to keep them out of trouble.

Now, they crouched beside him with mischievous smiles and watery mouths. They were kneeling in a way that would have both of their mothers gasping in their lady-like horror, hands on the dirt, and sleeves rolled up past their elbows. He could almost imagine Mama with her hand on her chest and cheeks puffed out in anger.

Alex and Nicholas grinned at him from behind the girls. They had always been close, living next door to each other, and Jack somewhat envied them for it. Mary was only a year old, too young to play with. Her first birthday was coming up, as was his, and Jack would soon be turning seven.

The boys practically vibrated with excitement. They whispered to each other between giggles while Jack motioned for them to hush.

Boots pounded on the wooden floorboards inside as Ms. Genevieve hummed around the room. He could hear the opening of an oven, and before he could do anything else, the smell of fresh pastries wafted through the window. His tongue watered.

Jack waved his hand and the group of thieves pressed themselves against the side of the house, out of sight. A tray was placed on the sill above them.

He held his hand up tensely, waiting for the sound of retreating footsteps.

Then they struck.

Each child took about three, nearly all of them, and ran. Laughter filled the silence in their wake as they kicked up dirt. The tarts in their hands were still hot, but that hardly mattered.

They ran through the square to make it back to the barn.

Jack could already taste the tarts.

Then a fist closed around the back of his vest.

The wind left Jack’s lungs in one big choke as his head flew forward. He could feel the hand holding him upright as he gasped air back into his chest.

When he looked up, it was to the sight of a stern glare. He smiled sheepishly.

The other kids turned when they realized they couldn’t hear him running anymore. The girls’ eyes widened in fear while Alex and Nicholas grimaced. “Hello Mr. Coon,” Jack said cheerfully. 

Mr. Coon.

Old Man Tom.

The Scourge of Fun.

Bringer of Evil.

Messenger of the Devil.

The Farmer.

Looked like he’d overheard them in the barn.

Rats.

Old Man Tom held him up further, a strength that almost seemed impossible for how emaciated he looked, grasping him from the scruff like an unruly kitten. His scowl lines stretched further. “Has your day been pleasant?” Just pretend. Pretending seemed right.

His back hit the ground roughly, tarts falling from his arms when Old Man Tom dropped him abruptly. Pretending was not working.

“You darn brats!” He shouted. “No respect, have yous. Your parents will be ashamed! A good pelting is what you need to set yous straight!”

Jack frowned as he pulled himself up. Never in the whole entirety of his, admittedly short, life had he ever even considered the thought of his parents raising a hand to him except to ruffle his hair. Just the idea that they would do such a thing was so innately wrong to him that it clogged his brain.

Mama was fierce like a bear, and just as protective. She had claws that were as dangerous as swords and a tongue that was as sharp as a siren’s. But they were things that she had never once used against him.

Papa was like a fox; despite his broad shoulders and tall stature, he was quiet; Sly. Every step he took was measured and calculated. He watched before he acted. And when he found the need to strike, he did so with precision, sinking razor fangs and thorn claws into the most lethal place.

When he spoke, people listened.

But Jack had only ever experienced warmth with him. Soft purring shook his chest. Strong arms that held him close.

To Jack, they weren’t predators capable of harming him. Their claws and fangs were used to protect him, not hurt him.

“No,” Jack said.

“I reckon you do. A good disciplinin’ is what you brats need.” Old Man Tom’s finger waved in his face. The other children gathered behind him.

“No,” Jack said more forcefully.

“Yes!” The man shouted. “It's what you deserve for trespassin’ on my property, raisin’ a racket, causin’ trouble!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

How dare he even suggest that Mama or Papa would do such a thing! Anger swelled in his chest, so tight and hot he could barely breathe. Jack was about to jump on the man and attack him with all the might in his tiny body when something from behind scooped him up.

He thrashed about, trying to scratch at the old man’s face, which was wide-eyed in surprise. “Jackson, calm down!” Papa ordered from behind him. But Jack didn’t hear him. Or more like, he didn’t want to hear him.

“How dare you! You don’t know what you’re talking about! You don’t know anything!” He screamed.

Old Man Tom recovered from his shock and shook his head with a frown. “Yous better get a handle on that boy, Lewis. He’s a right troublemaker.”

Jack stopped struggling so he could glare at him with bared teeth. Much to his dismay, the man did not burst into Hell flames. He settled for growling.

“Wild thing,” Old Man Tom said to himself with vitriol. “Rabbid.”

“Very sorry, sir. We’re leaving now,” Papa said, voice tight. He was angry.

Papa carried him back home, sending the other children off with a stern command to return to their parents.

His father quietly made their way through the forest. Anger slowly drained from his body as he relaxed into Papa’s arms and pushed his face into his shoulder. He was glad that Papa wasn’t saying anything. If he was, Jack wouldn’t know how to respond.

A breeze made him shiver into Papa’s hold, gripping onto his shirt. Small snowflakes fell from the darkening sky and glimmered on the frost-covered grass. Papa had been grumpy about the early frost recently. The crops hadn’t gotten as big as he and Mama wanted.

“Why’d you try to hit him, Jackson?” Papa asked after a few minutes of silence.

Jack sniffled. “He was being mean.”

“How so?”

“He said I deserved a pelting.”

Papa hummed non-committedly, but his shoulders were tense. “But why did you try to hit him?”

“I was mad,” Jack mumbled.

“I see.” In the distance, their small cottage came into view. The small garden was reaped of crops and the pond was half-frozen. Smoke billowed from the chimney, and the promise of a warm fire soothed what was left of his frustration. “You know that we would never hurt you, Jack. Never ever ever. I would never let anythin’ hurt you. ‘Specially not Thomas Coon.”

“I know.”

“But, Jack, we do not hit people. You get too riled up, son. You need to learn to control that temper. Violence is never what we resort to unless there is absolutely no other solution, understand?” Papa said gravely.

“I understand.” Jack squeezed Papa’s neck in a hug as the man carried him inside. Mama was in her rocker, knitting a warm blanket as Mary played on the rug at her feet. Jack crawled over to her as he was set down by the hearth.

“Ja-Ja!” His baby sister giggled, reaching up for him. He pulled her into his lap with a smile, feeling content.

May 13, 1706

The ground was hard and cold as Jack dug his hands into it. A bag of seeds sat on the ground between him and Mama as they worked to spread them around the garden.

New life was growing all around them as the snow from winter melted. Bird song filled the swaying trees and the sun peeked through the clouds with the first rays of warmth. Mama had asked him if he wanted to help her in the garden this year, seeing as his hands were finally big enough to do work.

But the ground was still cold.

Jack frowned deeply.

“I hate winter,” He announced, breaking the peaceful silence.

Mama looked up at him curiously. “And why is that?”

“It kills everything. It’s cold and it kills all our food. I wish it was Summer all year.” Jack leaned back to rest his aching hands - covered in dirt and blisters - and stared at the sky with a pout.

“That certainly is a reason to not like it, huh? Times do get harder.” Mama smiled as she admitted. “But dear, winter is very important.”

Jack turned back at her with a furrowed brow. “How?”

“It gives the land a chance to rest,” She said cryptically. At Jack’s deepening confusion, she continued. “The toils of summer tax the ground of its energy. Farmers work the soil for crops, the animals graze on the grass, and the sun scorches the dirt. Winter is a time for the Earth to renew itself. The leaves of Autumn fall and decay beneath the snow, creating fertilizer and new ground. And the animals get time to rest, as well.”

“But what about how cold it is? If winter was so great, why do people die in it?” He asked desperately.

Mama gained a pitiful look in her eyes. “Oh Jack,” She said. “That is important too, in the renewal of the Earth.”

“How is death good?”

“Death is simply the ending of existence and a transfer onto a new plane of being. It isn’t necessarily good, I would say, but not evil. It's a part of life. All living things must die eventually. Jack, do you know how the deer eat the grass?”

Jack nodded.

“And we eat the deer,” She continued. “And when we die, our bodies become the grass. It's the cycle of life and death. Now, what would happen if there was nothing to kill the deer?”

“The deer would live?” Jack guessed.

Mama snorted with a fond smile. “Yes hun, the deer would live, but the population of the deer would grow, as well. And if there are too many deer to graze on the grass, then what happens to the grass?”

“There would be less grass.”

“Exactly. This means there will be less food and coverage for other animals, and the soil wouldn’t be as fertile if the sun beats down on it all day. The forest would suffer.”

Jack looked down again thoughtfully as he considered what his mother was saying.

“Do you see now, Jack, why winter is so important? It's a time of rest.” He nodded his head understandingly, and Mama pulled him into her arms for a warm embrace. Resting his head on her shoulder, he stared at the remnants of snow as Mary kicked her way through it, laughing joyfully.

December 11, 1708

Snow crunched together in his hands, packed tightly as he smoothed it off before sending it throwing.

The ball found its target on the back of Alex’s head, and the boy stumbled forward with a heatless glare. “I’ll get you for that, Overland!” He shouted among the cheerful screams of the others.

“I would like to see you try!” Jack cried, already forming another snowball. His hands were red and his fingers were beginning to go numb, but he was having too much fun to notice. He’d deal with Mother’s scolding later. Right now, he had to take cover.

He ducked behind a snow-covered bush as Alex and Nicholas bombarded him with snowballs. They were trying to flank him. They had him cornered.

All he could do was make as much ammo as he could and wait.

Jack had just begun to accept his defeat as one of the snowballs flew over him when a tiny figure flew past with a loud cheer. “Mary!?” Alex screamed as the girl threw a snowball at his face. “What is she doing here?!”

“Saving my dignity, it appears!” He called with a wide grin, appearing from his cover to join Mary in their now unified assault.

“She’s a baby, though! She is too weak to play with us!” Nicholas cried.

Mouth dropping open with an indignant shriek, Mary shouted, “I am not a baby!” The four-year-old’s cheeks were red with anger as she turned from Nicholas towards her brother. “Tell them, Jack!”

Jack’s brow furrowed as he looked between her and the other kids gathered, watching the scene. “I don’t see why she can’t play. If she can throw a snowball, I say she’s good.” He shrugged, smiling again when he saw Mary gleam.

Nicholas still didn’t look happy. The boy’s shoulders tensed. “But I don’t want to play with her. She can’t do anything right. She always messes with our games!”

“That’s not true,” Jack said defensively. Mary had been following Jack around from the moment she could walk, tagging along behind him with adoration in her eyes. He would have found it annoying if it weren’t for the fact that her admiration made him feel so great, and his love for her so deep.

He liked keeping an eye on her for Mother and Father. It was endearing how much she tried to include herself in his games.

She seemed to enjoy hide-and-seek and hopscotch the most and had started keeping score of wins. Her competitiveness only served to rile him up, more often than not, which led to all sorts of mischief.

Each morning was a new adventure. Mary would wake him up just after dawn to drag him outside for games, and just as they began to tire, one of their parents would come out to give them chores. Along with that was usually a lesson or a lecture.

Mother would try to still them enough to focus as she taught them about the ways of the world, natural or man-made. She taught them about the importance of life and death; cruelty and compassion; greed and charity. She had explained once that some things can’t exist without the other. For every evil, there was good.

Father would teach them more practical skills. A few nights ago, he had sat Jack down to teach him how to write his name. While Jack could read, something that had mainly been taught to him so he could read the Bible, writing was more difficult. The pen felt awkward in his grip and his spelling was atrocious. He could never quite seem to understand which vowels he was supposed to use. Luckily, his father had told him that he would only really need to know how to write his own name. Unless he planned to move to the city and go to college, of course, but that wasn’t something that interested him.

Along with writing, Jack was also taught to shepherd their new livestock of sheep. Father had bought them at the auction house the year before with a bonus he’d received for working overtime. Mother wasn’t very happy at first that Father had done something so uncharacteristically impulsive, but the prospect of fresh wool won her favor enough that they built a small barn and pen. They sheared the wool after winter and sold half of it to the village seamstress. 

But right after all their chores and lessons were done, the children were released to their games. Since the forest had been sprinkled with snow the night before, Jack had gathered all the village kids (excluding the reclusive Cooper twins) for a snowball war.

Mary had still been finishing up learning a new stitch when he had left, but she obviously rushed through to catch up with him if she was here. Now he had someone on his team.

“What about last week, huh? She ruined our snow angels!” Nicholas cried.

“Did not!” Mary shouted.

“Did too!”

“Yours looked more like a snow bear than a snow angel. She did you a favor,” Jack grinned. Steph giggled silently behind them, a polite hand covering her mouth.

“Hers didn’t look any better. She can’t do anything right. She’s a screwup.” Nicholas crossed his arms with a heated glare. Alex, who had been standing at his friend’s side wordlessly, looked at Nicholas in shock, mouth open and eyes wide.

Jack’s smile faded. “Take that back.”

“No.”

“I said ‘take that back’!”

“No! What are you going to do, Overland? Tell on me? I only speak the truth. Go on and tell, I dare you.”

For a moment, as his hands curled into fists and anger roared in his gut, Jack remembered Father’s words from all those years ago. “We do not hit people,” He’d said.

“Prove that you’re a baby just like your sister,” Nicholas taunted.

And then he forgot.

His hands flew forward before he could think to tell them not to, and Nicholas flew back into the snowbank with a humph.

He could hear gasps from the other children, and Alex looked between Jack and his friend like he was debating who he should side with, eventually just backing up so as to not get involved.

Nicholas sat stunned for a moment, brow furrowed in confusion before his face contorted with rage. The boy pulled himself to his feet with only a short stumble and charged at Jack with a shout. His body collided with his, and both of them fell back onto the ground in a pile of tangled limbs.

A fist hit his cheek clumsily as another hand pulled at his hair. Jack reached out and swung his arms blindly, clawing like a cat in hopes of scratching his attacker. He bucked his legs and hips to get the taller boy off, and he pulled at anything he could reach. They rolled around the snow until Nicholas ended up beneath him.

He wasn’t sure if what he threw could be considered a punch or not, but it caused specks of blood to fly from Nicholas’s nose which was good enough for him.

Shouts rang out all around them, but his heart was roaring too loud for him to hear.

His fingers were red, either from the cold or from fighting, he didn’t know. His teeth rattled in his skull as Nicholas smashed his head on a snow-covered tree, stars dancing in his vision. Both of their duster cloaks were torn off with unrelenting aggression, leaving them choking without air and gasping for breath.

He was about to go in for another hit when an arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him back. Huffs of steamy breath left his mouth like a bull as he struggled to get his arms on Nicholas again.

Nicholas was already scrambling to stand up before someone else grabbed his wrists.

“Both of you stop it!” Steph commanded from behind him. “Calm down.”

“He started it!” Nicholas growled.

“And I’m finishing it,” She replied coolly.

“Not until he apologizes for what he said about Mary,” Jack glared. Unfortunately, Nicholas did not burst into flames.

“Both of you apologize. Now.” Her tone carried a warning, a sternness that she had inherited from her mother.

It was a trait that her sister didn’t possess but imitated nonetheless as she shifted her grip on the other boy. 

Probably seeing that there would be no escape until compliance, Nicholas scowled. “Sorry.” His voice was flat and insincere.

“Sorry.”

Steph’s arm retreated from his waist and they both stood staring at each other. It was quiet, a pregnant pause as everyone waited to see what would happen next.

Jack didn’t wait for the others to speak.

He turned his back, took Mary’s hand in his, and made the trek back home.

April 7, 1709

It was warm and humid outside, which Jack thinks might have been his saving grace. Rain pelted down on him like the bullets of a gun, thoroughly soaking him.

His hair stuck to his forehead and dripped into his eyes, forcing him to keep his gaze down to not be blinded. The white sleeves of his shirt clung to his skin and rubbed up his arms. He let out another shiver.

The trees above him shook with the wind as it whispered in his ear. He pulled his vest closer around his sides. He caught sight of his fingernails and grimaced; Mother would want to cut them soon. They were dark and hard at the tips with dirt in the beds. But they would always be better than his feet, which Father always joked were permanently darkened from his time in the woods.

Mud caked his toes and the rain beat down harder. He wished the forest fae would guide him back home, but he had no faith.

He sniffled and rubbed the snot from his nose.

Another shiver. Another sniffle.

He made it home all wet.

September 19, 1710

Jack never thought he’d hear a guttural scream again after Mary’s birth all those autumns passed.

He remembered how he raced through the forest as fast as a sprinting rabbit, all the horrible possibilities flying through his head. How it invoked fear in him that made him want to run the other way, but pushed him forward as well.

This felt much the same, but different.

Mary looked at the door in fear and worry as he tried to distract her. Steph and Jill sat further away, still concerned but more composed.

“Is Auntie dying?” Mary asked quietly.

“No,” Jack consoled, rubbing a hand down her back gently.

“Jackson!” He heard Father shout from inside the room. “Get in here!”

The girls looked at him worriedly as he pulled to his feet and threw open the door. He felt the breath inside him freeze. His aunt was lying on the bed in the center, towels laid around her with a thick sheen of sweat on her skin. The doc was there; the midwife, too. His uncle and his father positioned themselves on either side.

It was the blood that he was focused on, though.

It covered the sheets and towels in smears, all over the midwife’s and doc’s hands as well. If Jack hadn’t been told what was happening earlier, he would have thought they were killing her.

“Jack, I need ya to fetch more water,” Father breathed. “Ya hear?”

His feet were stuck.

So much blood.

Something in his stomach lurched to the side. He was afraid; why was he so afraid? He’s seen blood before.

He felt small again.

There were leaves beneath his feet, cold and damp like the air. His father was calling his name, pulling his attention away from the blood once more.

“Jackson!” He shouted. “The water! Now!”

He grabbed the pale and scurried from the room.

He had a healthy baby cousin an hour later.

The fear hadn’t left.

December 28, 1710

“Are you sure this is safe?” Mary asked doubtfully as he tossed a stone onto the ice. It chipped the top but didn’t crack. The sun had been hiding behind clouds all day, but it didn’t hurt to check.

“Of course,” Jack laughed. He took a few hesitant steps out before waving a hand to the girl still on the edge of the pond.

Still wary, she carefully toed onto the ice with shaky legs, imbalanced and wobbling like a baby deer. She’s worn skates before, but it always took a few minutes for her to get used to them.

He slid out to grab the rock on graceful feet. He’d never had trouble on ice, something that he found others envied him for. Long and confident strokes carried him onward with barely a stumble. Snow covered the ground in blankets of white that trailed up trees and across branches. Animals that hadn’t settled down for the winter scurried in the treetops amidst the quiet stillness.

So far, Jack and Mary were the loudest things in the forest.

His sister inched forward as if she were tip-toeing with her arms stretched out for balance. “What if I fall?” She frowned.

“You always ask that every year, and what do I always say?”

“That I should pick myself up and laugh it off?” She asked.

“Exactly. There’s always a choice when we fall: to stay there and accept that you’ve been beaten, or get back up and try again.” He tried to mimic his mother’s tone when she taught him lessons. The wisdom she always seemed to carry with her no matter the situation was something he hoped to gain when he was older.

“What if I don’t wanna get up?” Mary asked.

“Then your big brother will come over and help you,” Jack smiled, reaching a hand out for her. She stared at it for a moment, contemplative, but eventually placed her palm on his. He steadied her as he drew her closer to the center of the pond, and they skated slowly around.

When they started to pick up the pace, Mary laughed and Jack’s heart warmed.

He doesn’t think he could ever be cold with her in his arms.

March 21, 1711

Whenever Jack thought about death, he thought about dank air, wet leaves, and gray clouds. It felt fitting, in a way, that the world should reflect such a bleak thing. The loss of life, however important in the grand cycle of nature that kept the balance of Earth, was depressing.

He knew now, at an age much older, the necessity of death and rebirth. All things must die so they can be reborn or replaced. The flourishing of the grass for the food of the deer for the game of the wolf for the fertilizer of the grass; a never-ending cycle.

But this felt wrong.

It felt wrong how the sun was shining and how the birds were chirping. There was not a cloud in the sky that could project how he felt.

The unpolished wood felt rough in his hands, and the risk of a splinter was higher the harder he gripped the handle. He chose not to focus on the unfamiliar way his clothes dragged across his skin. Mother had made it for him to wear during formal events, but he’d never worn them until now. He chose not to focus on the way Mary wasn’t crying; how she looked around at all the adults with close-knitted brows and a confused frown. He chose not to focus on how Mother was quietly sobbing into a handkerchief to keep her tears off the sleeves of her black dress; dignified tears. Her shawl was wrapped around her hair as if she were cold, but the evening sun was warm.

Most of all, he chose not to focus on the weight inside the wooden box.

It was too sunny.

He watched that box get lowered into the ground by ropes and tethers with thinly glazed eyes. What a sad thing, he thought, to be buried in good weather.

He tossed a handful of dirt into the hole like everyone else and stood blankly in the crowd as everyone began to give condolences.

“You’re the man of the house now, son,” He heard someone say. “Yous gots to look after your mother and sister.”

“Take care of your mother. She’s gonna need some help now,” Someone else said.

It was all the same words on repeat.

Jack fiddled with the hem of his sleeve to stop himself from snapping at people. His eyes were painfully dry.

Mary kept tugging on Mother’s skirt to ask why she was crying, and eventually their aunt swooped in to grab the girl’s hand and walk her away, his baby cousin in the other arm. He could faintly hear Mary ask where Papa was, and his aunt’s teary reply that Papa wasn’t coming back.

Genevieve was talking to him with sweet condolences, but Jack couldn’t really hear her anymore. He turned around and walked away. Past gravestones, old and new, withered and clean, he stormed from the town cemetery and into the forest.

He doesn’t know how far he walked, just that the wind was pushing at his back and twigs snapped beneath his feet. He was getting dirt and mud on his only pair of nice shoes, but that only made him dig his toes even more. He found a creek with stepping stones that he hopped across. The wet rocks and shallow shore splashed cold water on the fabric of his stockings and breeches, and he kicked the water more.

Jack wished that he was crying. He wished that his tears flowed freely now that he was away from all those people. He wished he could express the swirling storm in his chest.

He found the lake after a few more minutes and stopped when the loose sand sank under him. The water lapped at the shore gently like the ocean waves that his father used to talk about when he spoke of first coming to the colonies. He imagined that it was the great sea that was before him, treacherous waters with untold stories, and a whole other world on the other side. A world his parents had abandoned.

He wished he could hear more about it.

Sand flew and speckled the water after he gave a hard kick. The toe of his shoe was ruined, but he gave another good kick. He picked up a nearby stone and chucked it out as far as he could. “Curse you. Curse you!” He cried loudly into the empty air. “Curse you all! Be damned for eternity for all I care!”

The alien world on the other side said nothing, but he continued still. Another rock found its way into his hand and he threw it farther than the first.

“Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”

He pictured his father’s face next to him, taking in his rumpled clothes and tousled hair, his shaking arms and heaving chest, and shaking his head sadly. He cursed that too.

The sand welcomed him as he fell on his haunches and hugged his wet knees.

It was too warm.

A soft huff from behind stole his attention, and he almost expected someone to have followed him. Yellow eyes peered steadily at him from the trees, shrouded in shadows. A beast of dark fur stood warily at the treeline on shifting paws.

Jack sprang to his feet and backed away. The wolf only watched him.

His heart beat loudly in his ears and every nerve in his body lit up. He wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t move. The snapping jaws of death stood before him.

He braced himself for the beast’s charge, fangs sinking into his soft skin, claws ripping him apart in time with a vicious maw, but it never came.

The beast blinked, swung its tail, and walked away.

Jack watched it disappear into the woods behind greenery and trees, expecting it to turn around and change its mind. It didn’t.

Several minutes went by and the wolf never returned.

He cursed it as well.

July 8, 1711

The kids sat near the fire hand-in-hand. The youngest was curled up in Jill’s arms, wailing loudly as the girl tried to soothe him. Despite the fire, there was a chill in the room that was accompanied by a tense atmosphere.

Wind and rain rattled the windows and shutters. The flickering candlelight that lit the other side of the room provided little comfort for the ones already terrified.

He stood by the glass, peering carefully out into the black with strained eyes. Every so often, he scanned around the room to assess everyone’s condition and assure himself that they were all still there. A flash in the dark would light up the walls with white before disappearing in a blink. The following rumble sent whimpers from the toddlers, and Baby Noah cried louder.

Mary stood at his side silently, a brave face on even as she gripped his sleeve shakily. She didn’t speak, and neither did he, but her forced calmness kept some of the others from screaming.

If Mary Overland wasn’t scared, why should there be reason to fear?

Eventually, as the blaze of the fire began to die and their wood ran low, Jack shuffled the children into a corner of the room. Blankets were passed out quickly, and he returned to his silent vigil at the window.

Steph and Jill sat at the front of the huddle, their backs pressing the younger ones against the wall with them as a barrier. Mary didn’t move to join them.

Something was outside.

He didn’t know what, but it sent blood pumping through his veins as he gripped the steel barrel tighter. The adults had been speaking about it in hushed tones, trying not to have listeners, but he’d eavesdropped anyway.

A boy went missing yesterday.

It wasn’t someone he knew personally, but the mother had gone hysterical through the village about how her son was gone.

All the adults had gathered the kids together and went on a search party through the forest. It started raining soon after that. The sun had sunk beneath the canopy of the horizon and painted twilight colors on the small town until the sky was black and moonless.

Someone had placed a long rifle in his hands and told him to do what he had to if necessary. 

Water streamed down the glass like forest trails and racing rabbits that gleamed off the candlelight. Every flash of movement outside had his arms tensing tightly and his shoulders drawing up like a bowstring. The wind seemed to play tricks on his ears, whispering in voices he knew but couldn’t place.

The hazy recollection of familiarity was eerie when mixed with the quiet cadence of noise behind him.

Another bolt of lightning and a round of paranoid gasps and he took another glance. Mary was staring out the window too, her gaze raptured on a far point.

Straining his eyes further, holding his breath, he peered into the void.

Small, creeping, and flickering minutely, a glowing point. It swung out of view and back dimly, but steadily grew closer. And through the darkness, the light formed an outline of a person. People.

More lights joined (lanterns, he realized) and flooded into the village square.

The adults were back.

Mrs. Jane and her husband came through the door, soaked and muddy. Their shawls and boots were drenched but their eyes were light. They scooped up their children with great hugs and thanked Jack, Jill, and Steph for their caretaking. The gun was handed off into larger hands, and with it, Jack’s unease.

Mother came in, too. She wore a relieved smile as she walked Jack and Mary home. His aunt and uncle took his cousins and the family bid goodnight.

“Poor dear got spooked by a wolf’s howl while playing in the woods,” Mother chuckled, wrapping a shawl around Mary’s small head. The rain was calming. “He was hiding under a fallen tree when we found him. It reminded me of you, Jack.”

“Did the wolf hurt him, Mama?”

“Not at all, my love. It was too far away to be considered a threat; but even then, wolves are generally shy creatures.” Mother bent down and scooped Mary up.

“How can they be shy? They’re vicious,” Jack mumbled tonelessly.

“Viscous? Maybe some. But isn’t that like people? Not every person is the same. Everyone has different temperaments and such, but you wouldn’t call every human evil. Wolves in general are afraid of us. They wouldn’t hurt someone unless they felt threatened; they hunt for survival,” She explained.

“But they eat our livestock,” Jack said.

“For food, dear. They need to eat too. It just means we need to be more cautious with our animals.”

“How do you know so much about wolves, Mama?” Mary asked.

Mother’s smile became more fond. “Because I read and I listen. The more you know, the better you can prepare.”

“But how’d you know it wasn’t some sort of spirit? You always say not to talk to strangers in the woods.”

“Oh, my darling. It’s always best to be as open-minded as you are factual. It’s as I said, the more you know, the better prepared that you will be.”

As Jack settled beneath the blankets that night, Mary held securely in his arms and her soft breathing next to his ear, he tried to listen.

He held his breath and listened for the howling wolf’s call.

He heard nothing.

November 23, 1711

Noah clapped his small pudgy hands together in childish delight as Mary laughed. “Jack! Get down from there!”

Jack grinned as he fell backward in the branch, his legs hooked around and his arms spread wide. The faces of his cousins and little sister grinned back at him upside down. His shirt rode up slightly but was too tight to come to his chest. He needed new clothes.

The dirt and tear of working had worn down the fabric of his trousers, the legs now held together with twine. He had been picking up small chores to do around the village to help Mother, but now he had free time.

Blood rushed to his head and he grabbed the branch to swing himself the rest of the way down, landing nimbly on dead wet leaves. His hand touched Jill’s and he laughed. “Tag! You’re it!”

Jill huffed indignantly as they all started running. “Hey! I wasn’t ready, that’s not fair!”

Jack leaped behind a tree before Jill could tag him and she changed targets to go after Steph, who was running as best she could in her dress. Both girls had their blonde hair pulled up in braids with brightly colored ribbons that bounced against their backs. Mary screeched as Jill’s hand pushed her arm and darted back. “Tag!”

Mary evaluated her targets before going for the easiest one.

Noah was waddling on short stubby legs as he tried to keep up, and Mary bopped the top of his sandy brown hair. The boy squealed with displeasure and started running after her, the others slowing their pace to play more fairly.

Jack let himself get tagged before sprinting after Steph.

“Jack!” Steph cried as she began to run anew, her pace picking up to keep herself away from him.

“I’m gonna get you!”

She tried to lunge out of reach but caught her ankle on a branch and flew forward. Attempting to stop abruptly, he fell over her and they tumbled. “Jack! You ruined my dress!” Steph glared as she sat up.

“If you’re worried about getting dirty then why are you out here?” Jill walked over.

“To babysit you four. Lord knows you could cause a stampede if you tried, left alone.”

“Whoever said I had to try?” Jack laughed as he stood and offered a hand.

Steph huffed and took it, letting herself be pulled up before smoothing down her dress. “And don’t I know it.”

“Does this mean the game is over?” Mary asked.

“This one, yeah. Steph lost. I won. The usual. Do you want to play hopscotch now?” Jack asked.

Mary groaned. “But we play hopscotch every day! And you always cheat!”

“There is no cheating! Only… improvised ways of playing.”

“Cheating,” Steph simplified.

“Our resident trickster,” Jill ruffled his hair roughly. “Let’s just hope no one teaches him poker.”

A loud call drew their eyes to Jack’s house, his mother standing on the steps with her hands cupped around her mouth. “It’s time for supper!”

Making their way inside, Mother ushered them over to the water basin to scrub their hands and faces. She untied her flour-covered apron and hung it up in the kitchen, grabbing a cloth to wet and scrub the dirt from Noah’s chubby cheeks while his aunt fussed over Steph’s hair.

His uncle sat at the right, next to the far end of the table, and his aunt sat down beside him. Food was laid out on the scuffed dark wood, on either too-small or too-large plates.

A hot and steaming turkey, ornate with glaze and garnished with parsley, was placed as the centerpiece, surrounded by corn and potatoes. Casseroles and beans were spiced and covered in breadcrumbs, fresh out of their small fire oven.

Jack’s mouth watered and he swallowed hungrily. He took his seat next to Mother, who sat at the head of the table, and Mary sat down next to him. Jill and Steph sat across from their parents and Noah.

Everyone pointedly ignored the empty seat on Mother’s other side.

They said their grace and began to eat. Mary rambled about their game outside, not heading to their mother’s chiding on eating with her mouth open. She’d long since given up on teaching Jack not to scarf down his food like a rabid dog, but Mary was still young.

Jack worked on his meal slowly, uncharacteristically quiet. It was one of the rare moments where he just let himself be.

His family was all smiling and happy. The food on the table had been saved and cooked all week in preparation for this day. Mother had worked her ass off and it showed. He doesn’t think he could manage the proper words to show how much he appreciated her.

The light had finally started returning to her tired eyes. He could tell she missed Father, but she still smiled.

“Are you alright, hun?” Mother’s hand rested on his. She looked concerned.

Jack smiled, just like she did only moments before, and said, “Perfect.”

April 10, 1712

The sheep corralled into the pen slowly, the stragglers being the most stubborn, but eventually, Jack was able to close the wooden gate and latch it.

Herding the sheep wasn’t a job he necessarily hated. It was just taxing.

“Jack!” He heard Mary cry as she raced towards him with a wide grin.

He bent down to catch her, the girl throwing herself into his arms, and lifted her onto his side. “What is it, May?”

“I lost my last tooth!” She held it in front of him, opening her mouth to show him the missing space.

“Look at you! Such a big girl, now. I’m sure the tooth fairy is going to miss you.” Jack settled her on his hip, silently noting how much harder it was getting to hold her there.

“Not too much, I hope,” Mary said.

Later that night, after Jack told her story after story, he pushed the tooth under her pillow and gently kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, my little snowflake. Sweet dreams.”

The door shut quietly behind him and he followed the soft light of the fire into their quant parlor. He found Mother in her rocking chair by the hearth, a content smile on her face as she patched the latest hole on Jack’s vest.

He sat down on the floor at her feet, letting the sounds of the crackling flame and her idle humming wash over him.

“You ought to be in bed, Jackson,” She broke the silence after a few minutes. “You have a long day ahead of yourself tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jack mumbled into his crossed arms, pulling his knees closer.

Mother chuckled wearily, reaching down to stroke back his unruly hair. “I know it’s a job you’re not fond of, but do try to think about the end picture, dear?”

“I still find it gruesome,” Jack said.

“It is,” She agreed. “But all living things need to eat. Now, off to bed.”

June 2, 1712

Nicholas eyed him from across the dirt path, Alex standing not far behind him, glancing between them nervously.

He hadn’t really spoken to them in full in four years, always looking to avoid them when he could, and it wasn’t a habit he was willing to break. It wasn’t that he hated either one of them, the contrary, actually, but he could never find the right words to say.

On the other hand, Jack just had no idea what the other boys thought of him. They used to get into so much mischief together, and while he still pulled pranks and had his little games, he didn’t get into the same trouble as he used to. He didn’t steal or cheat anymore. But did Nicholas and Alex still think of him like that?

Jack sighed and turned away, hoping he could continue down the road unbothered. The sheep at his side let out a baa as he tugged the lead.

The small cart attached to the wagon’s harness was loaded with grains and salt, and Jack could see at a short glance how beat up it was.

He could feel the boys’ eyes on his neck and frowned.

And just his luck, the wheel of his cart chose that moment to come loose. He watched with dismay as the contents came loose across the ground, his sheep struggling with the new imbalance.

Mumbling words that would have Mother smacking him upside the head, Jack bent down to soothe the animal and collect his groceries.

“Hey,” He heard someone call behind him.

Jack cringed and twisted around.

Nicholas stood before him, staring down at him blankly.

“Hey,” Jack responded slowly.

A few moments more of silence had Jack curling inward awkwardly. He was about to ask what the boy wanted when he moved to bend down next to him, picking up the wheel and reattaching it to the cart. “Alex, do you still have that piece of leftover twine?”

Alex, who had been hovering behind them, perked up and reached into the pockets of his trousers, pulling out a thin and worn rope. He crouched between them and tied the wheel back on where Nicholas held it. After it was secure, they started gathering the spilled contents. The stringy white bags of grain were restacked and the pouches of salt were regathered.

They didn’t leave much room for Jack to help, leaving him standing aside dumbly as they tied everything back down.

When they finished, Nicholas held his gaze evenly.

“Thanks…” Jack said.

And without a word or gesture of acknowledgment, the boy turned heel and walked away. Alex gave him a small wave before following.

Watching them leave, he stroked his sheep absently. And he smiled.

He supposed… maybe things weren’t as bad as he had feared.

August 17, 1712

His chest rose and fell slowly as he breathed silently from his mouth. Birds chirped above him, blissfully unaware of his presence.

The ground wasn’t necessarily wet, but it wasn’t dry either. Twigs dug into his forearms and thighs, but he made no move to get comfortable.

A rabbit was slowly stepping into the clearing, and Jack tensed. From beneath a brush, he peered out, hoping the winds wouldn’t change.

Jack gripped the hilt of his knife skillfully.

The rabbit took a few more hesitant steps. It could tell something wasn’t right but wasn’t suspicious enough to run.

Its ears twitched.

Just a little more…

It sniffed the air, catching the scent of clover and flowers.

A few more steps.

A small nibble.

Its foot inched further and the snare caught.

Feeling the tightening around its leg, the rabbit jumped and tried to flee, only drawing it tighter. It scampered around the clearing, ripping at its foot in a desperate attempt to escape. The harder it fought, the harsher the hold. The trap bent and shook with the weight, but held firm.

Jack pulled himself from his hiding spot with a groan. His back and knees cracked as the joints settled.

The rabbit hissed and whimpered in fear. An animal in a corner, knowing death was steadily approaching. Blood began to wet the coil as it continued to struggle.

If he were younger, he would have frozen up in fear himself. He would have stared down at the trapped and growling creature, not knowing what to do. He might have even left it there. But he wasn’t five years old anymore.

He sighed sadly as he reached forward, grabbing the poor thing by the back of its neck and sliding his blade across its throat. It let out a mangled and wet cry before falling silent. He made quick work of sliding the snare off its leg and tying it to his small pack.

Jack didn’t have to be here for the snare to go off, but he’d been encouraged to supervise and end the game’s life quickly so it doesn’t starve or get stolen. He pushed away the face of the man that had taught him that. It was a thought for later. Right now, he had more traps to check.

The snare was reset, and Jack trudged through the woods. His bare feet quietly walked along the length of a fallen tree, toes curling around the log for impeccable balance. He could barely feel the rocks and wood beneath his hardened soles now.

Idly, he wiped the flat ends of his knife against his pants, listening to the forest singing around him. Jack could almost imagine the twinkle of a bell, but he steadily paid it no mind.

The tricks of the forest spirits were less intimidating now, for he was one of the wild things. And wild things were not as naive.

A few more of his snares had been sprung, a squirrel and a fox. Another had been triggered but was found empty. Whatever had been trapped was smart enough to escape. He killed the squirrel the same as the rabbit, swiftly and cleanly. The fox was trickier.

He didn’t want to kill it, much less bring it home as game. 

It snarled at him with needle-like fangs, snapping jaws as it struggled against the cord around its neck.

The crazed wild look in its eyes screamed of danger. 

Still, Jack slowly set down his pack and inched forward. Wet leaves stained in blood stuck to the bottoms of his feet, but he kept his gaze solely on the animal before him. No animal as untamed as this one should be confined.

It backed away with a ferocious growl.

“It’s okay, buddy. You’re okay.” He whispered carefully.

The line pulled taut as it tried leaving the small radius it was trapped in. Jack bent down with his hands in the open, just by the stick pole.

And just as his knife snapped through the wire, it lunged at him. Teeth sunk into the soft flesh of his forearm, locking in tightly as Jack screamed.

He tried pulling his limb away and felt the fangs ripping his skin and muscles further. Jack cried out, “Stop! Let go!” As if the animal would understand. He could feel his skin stretching like white-hot fire. Blood sprayed the fox’s muzzle and the ground, further ruining his shirt as red blossomed.

Jack rammed the butt of his knife against the fox’s eye, blood dripping down its face, and didn't feel it loosen.

It swung its head back and forth like a dog ripping up a chew toy, and a scream slipped out his throat.

He slipped onto his back with the fox crouched on top of him. Its feral snarl echoed in his head as he felt its claws dig into his chest. Again he slammed the hilt of his knife against its muzzle, staring up into furious green eyes. Once. Twice. Three times.

Rolling onto his side with the momentum of the fourth, the fox’s claws dislodged. He gave another strong hit to its head before kicking the underside of the animal.

Fangs ripped off his flesh with a new spray of red.

And without so much as a growl of farewell, the fox darted away into the bushes.

Jack laid on his side with his bleeding arm cradled to his chest, panting quickly as he stared after it. Adrenalin kept his muscles taut, his heart beating fiercely in his ribcage as if it were trying to escape.

When he finally felt that the fox wasn’t going to turn back, he sat up and breathed deeply.

“You’re welcome!” He shouted angrily.

His arm leaked sluggishly from thin puncture wounds, but the blood was so thick and dark that it was hard to see the wound itself.

Now that he was calmed down, he could feel more intrinsically how torn it was, and he held his hand tightly over where it hurt the most. Scowling and in pain, he shouldered his pack on and started trekking home.

The forest had grown quiet and still in the wake of all the noise. All the animals had their ears perked, standing as frozen as possible while they assessed the danger. The hunter was leaving the woods, they heard, listening to the muffled sound of feet hitting the soft ground. And they all breathed a sigh of relief.

But the wind, however, rustled the treetops.

Leaves drifted down around him as the breeze blew through his hair. It pushed him forward gently. Not enough to knock him over, but guide him.

When he finally broke the treeline, Mary looked up from her place in the garden, flower crowns weaved in her lap. She smiled happily before her gaze narrowed on his arm, and her face went pale. “Jack!” She screamed.

The girl rushed to meet him halfway. “What happened?! Mama!”

Her tiny hands gripped his soiled shirt to drag him inside the parlor. Mother was sitting in her chair knitting, but turned to face them as they came through the door. Her hand flew to her mouth with a gasp. “Jackson!” She rushed to her feet and took him in her arms.

“It’s fine! It was just a fox,” Jack tried soothing her as she pulled him to a stool.

“May, get some towels and a pail of water. There are bandages in my room.” Mary ran off to get the pail from the well without another word.

“Mother, it’s fine. It looks worse than it is.” Mother began to peel back his shredded sleeve. Most of the bleeding had stopped, but it still dribbled with blood.

“Hush you. Tell me what happened.”

Hissing as she prodded the wounds, Jack spoke. “A fox got caught in a snare. It bit me after I set it loose.”

His mother cooed. “What kindness my boy has. You’re so empathetic.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders in lack of a response. Mary waddled back inside with a heavy pail and set it down next to Mamma, then returned seconds later from the kitchen with a rag. Immediately, the woman set to wiping the gore away.

Blood stained the cloth and dyed the water red, but she continued to dab at his arm until it was clean, mumbling soft apologies at his little twitches and gasps.

She took the roll of bandages from Mary and wrapped his forearm tightly.

“We’ll see how it is later tonight. I’ll have May get some more supplies in town from the doc. If it gets worse, we’ll have him take a look. Until then, no work or play for now. Go to your room. Get some rest.” She smoothed back his dirty fringe to place a delicate kiss on his forehead. “My sweet boy. You’ve done more than enough work for today.”

In his room, laying on his rickety bed with his patched blanket, Jack stared out the open window as the thin white curtains billowed. They reminded him of the cheesecloth that he and Mother would use to make nut milk in the summer when he was little.

A gentle breeze caressed his cheeks, carrying the whispers of the forest with it. If he tried hard enough, he could almost imagine words, too quiet and jumbled to make out, gracing his ears.

He could hear Mary laugh as she played in the garden.

October 27, 1712

Jack was startled awake when a heavy lump of scrawny limbs and screeching little girl landed on his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs.

“Jack! Jack! Jack! Guess what day it is!” Mary shook his shoulder forcefully. He groaned and forced his face into his pillow. “Come on, guess what day it is!”

“The day I get smothered to death by my little sister?” His voice was muffled by his blankets.

A high-pitched groan and Mary was tugging his arm out from his cocoon. “No! Really guess,” She begged.

Of course, he didn’t need to guess. He already knew.

“Your birthday?”

Mary squealed in delight. “Yes! Yes! It's my birthday! That means you have to do everything I say!”

Jack peeked up to meet her eyes, her hair already brushed and tied back with the red ribbon that Mother had given to her for Christmas last year. It had been one of the most extravagant gifts they got that year. Mary kept it in her bottom drawer, carefully folded for special occasions and church visits on Easter.

He reached up drowsily and ruffled her neat hair, dodging her swipes and ignoring her indignant screech. “The last time I did everything you said, Old Man Tom was chasing us out of his barn with a pitchfork, swearing that he’d sic his dog on us.”

“But that was so much fun! Fine, I promise we won’t do anything against the rules.” Mary frowned.

“Who said I was against breaking the rules? I’m only against anything that has to do with that crazy old oaf,” Jack yawned sleepily, letting her pull him up. “Alright, do you want your present now or after supper?”

Mary jumped to her feet, still on his bed, though thankfully without her shoes on. “Now! Now!” She draped herself over his back, arms wrapped around his neck.

Jack laughed and stood up off the bed, dragging her with him as she let out another shriek in his ear. He hiked her legs up to pull through his arms, being mindful of her dress. “Then you’re going to need to be really tall, May. I don’t know if you can reach that high.”

“I can! I can! I can!”

“Then reach up to my shelf and grab that box, would you?” Jack leaned her towards the wall over his wardrobe.

Pushing against his shoulders, she stretched her arm and fingered the parcel off of the closet. She took hold and Jack crouched down for her to slide off his back. Smoothing down her dress, she sat back down on the bed next to him.

It wasn’t a fancy box; brown with autumn leaves and stars scribbled on the top. Mary ran her palm over the paper, feeling the rough coarseness of the parchment.

He watched nervously as she carefully tore the wrapping off and lifted the lid.

A small intake of breath was the only audible reaction from his sister as she stared into the box. Jack struggled not to fiddle with the hangnails on his fingers. Mary, her wild-child energy tampered, slowly lifted her hand inside and pulled a slightly rusted chain necklace. A blue jay feather swung on the bottom, white, black, and blue stripes on one side, and gray with frosted white on the other.

He had saved small earnings from odd jobs in the village to pay for the chain after finding the feather. After cleaning it and making it look pretty, Mother had helped him attach it to the necklace.

It reminded him of May, in a way; how the colors faded and jumped; how the blue was the same shade of the cornflowers she would weave into flower crowns and curved around the middle like a hook.

Mary clipped it around her neck, pulling her hair through before feeling the feather with her fingers. “Pretty,” She whispered, and something in Jack settled with relief.

Wrapping her in his arms, he pulled her closer, settling his chin on her head. Every day he was grateful for this; for her. They might not have had much, but they had each other, and that was enough. It was enough for him.

To be able to wake up to his baby sister’s bottomless joy and light, his mother’s endless patience and wisdom. To help provide for their little broken home and fill the missing hole of his father as best he could by making sure they had a reason to smile.

His heart was full and his mind content.

Hesitantly breaking the tender moment, Jack smiled. “Do you wanna play a game?”

Mary dragged him around for the entire day. They played hopscotch in the garden, shawls and capes wrapped around their shoulders, and played pretend in the forest. Jack would pretend to be a scary monster that terrorized the little village girl, and then, as per request, he would pretend to be the brave hero that saved her.

Mother called them in for lunch at one point, honey milk, and tarts for a very special day, and they were right back outside.

His sister was too big now to ride on the backs of the sheep, but Jack hooked up the cart (making sure it was stable, first) and rode her around their property.

“I want to pet the horses,” Mary said.

“But we don’t have any horses,” Jack quirked a brow. At Mary’s silence, he glanced over his shoulder and was met with a pleading face. “No.”

“Please!?”

“I already said no,” Jack said.

“What about a peek? Surely a peek wouldn’t hurt!” She cried.

“You see horses all the time, May. They’re not rare, or anything.”

“But it’s not the same! And besides, Bella loves me!”

“Bella?” He turned back around.

“The horse. She’s a brown spotted mare and she adores me!” Mary smiled up at him, playing with her necklace.

“And who does Bella belong to, hmm? Jack questioned as he scratched behind his sheep’s ear, getting a pleased baa in response. “It wouldn’t happen to be the only farmer in Burgess that has horses, would it?”

Mary giggled and tugged his sleeve. “Oh, please, Jack? Please?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said jokingly. “The old man wouldn’t like it.”

“But it’s my birthday! Please, Jack? For my birthday?” She pouted.

Jack hummed, lips pursed. Surely just taking a look from the edge of the property wouldn’t hurt, would it? And despite how it seemed, it wasn’t like Old Man Tom was omniscient. If they didn’t linger, he would never know.

Besides, Jack wasn’t six anymore. That loon of a farmer couldn’t pick him up and shake him again.

“Fine,” He conceded, smiling at Mary’s instant cheer of triumph. “But we shouldn’t stay more than a few minutes.”

Mary’s grin lasted the entire walk there, her hand resting in his as she chirped on about Bella the horse and their make-believe adventures. Jack listened silently from beside her, swinging their arms as he breathed in the crisp Autumn air. Leaves of red and yellow blanketed the ground beneath them, and covered the tops of trees like a wet forest fire, reminding him of a memory of a memory.

The woods burning, but still chilly.

The wind blowing, but no smoke.

The scream of pain, but no death.

The memory of one of the scariest and happiest days of his life, worried for the well-being of his mother, not understanding why his father had looked so excited, and finally meeting her. Being filled with dreams of showing her how the forest burned in Autumn.

A memory of a memory.

He squeezed Mary’s hand gently, feeling its softness, uncalloused and smooth.

When they made it to the outskirts of Old Man Tom’s property, Jack pulled his sister towards the trees, leading her around back until they were in clear view of the pasture.

Two horses were out grazing, and Jack could tell immediately who Bella was supposed to be as she fed happily on the grass next to a handsome white stallion. How tragic, Jack thought to himself, to be tamed.

Mary gasped in delight, eyes bright. She tugged her hand out of Jack’s and started making her way over.

“May!” Jack called.

“It’s fine,” She replied over her shoulder.

“You said only a peek,” He reminded, but she was already in front of the horse, petting the length of its neck.

“I wanted to say hello.”

Jack groaned internally, a frown pulling at his lips. He strode forward to stand behind her, the horse sniffing his hair before snorting. “We shouldn’t be here,” He said. “I only agreed to stay at the edge.”

Mary ignored him in favor of stroking the stallion’s mane.

He scanned the view of the barn across the lawn and the house not far away from it. The sound of pigs and goats called from inside. A lone cow watched them in the pasture next to this one, separated by a fence. He could pinpoint the areas of grass that had been overgrazed, upturned dirt that clung to the bottoms of Jack’s feet.

The plot reserved for crops was already harvested, leaving the normal coverage of corn stocks open.

Biting his lip nervously, he tried to make out signs of the old man’s presence. Mary seemed unaware as she rambled about wanting to ride a horse one day.

This was his fault, really. He should have known that she’d push for more; he’d practically taught her that. And how could he ever say no to her when she was his world?

And just his luck, Old Man Tom chose that moment to emerge from his house.

Jack tensed as the man laid eyes on them, and he could see his surprise narrow into anger. “You damn brats!” He cried.

Mary startled and hid behind Jack, her tiny fingers gripping the hem of his cloak as she peeked out. Jack backed up a few steps, about to ready himself to drag his sister back to the cover of the trees, before the old man was upon them.

“What have I told you about trespassin’!? You good for nothing wretch of a boy!” Two large hands fisted around his shirt and shook him.

His head flung back and forth, making him feel disoriented and confused as his brains were scrambled. He instinctively grabbed the man’s wrists to stabilize himself.

Distantly, he heard Mary shout as he was shaken silly.

“You learn nothin’! I oughta teach you brats a lesson about respect!” Jack got enough bearings to meet Old Man Tom’s eyes dizzily. They were furiously dark with rage, his jaw clenched enough that he could almost hear it creaking. Jack was held close enough that he could trace the creases where time folded his skin.

Spittle sprayed on his cheeks and rancid breath invaded his nose. He towered over Jack angrily. He set his jaw tightly to keep himself from hitting the man back. Instead, he roughly pulled out of his grasp.

He fixed his shirt before placing a hand comfortingly on Mary’s shoulder. “We’re very sorry for intruding,” Jack said as civilly as he could. “My sister only wanted to see the horses for her birthday. We’ll leave now.”

Directing Mary to walk in front of him, he walked them away.

“I shoulda known that Emily woulda failed raisin’ kids by her lonesome! She barely had a handle on you two when she had Lewis around! Shows ya women are hopeless. Now daddy’s gone and they go buck-wild!” Jack’s hand tightened.

“You get too riled up, son.”

Mary tried turning around, but Jack kept her going straight.

“Hey!” The old man cried. He felt the back of his cloak get snatched. “Look at me when I’m speakin’ you little bastard! I ain’t done!”

Jack looked up through the fringe of his tousled hair, grit his teeth, and pushed Old Man Tom by the chest.

He was about to throw a fist, but Mary grabbed his arm, tensed, and still lifted. “Jack! Stop it!” Her big eyes were round and wet with unshed tears, glassy and glistening in the evening sun. She was biting her bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

She looked scared, Jack realized.

Mary was looking up at him with a pinched brow and teary eyes; scared.

His arm fell to his side. “I’m sorry, May,” Jack whispered. “We’ll leave now.”

Without turning, he walked Mary back into the forest, away from Old Man Tom and the horses. She didn’t say anything else, but the way she held his hand close to her chest and leaned into his side told him enough. She was sorry.

November 22, 1712

“Happy Birthday, Jack!” Multiple voices chorused around him. Mother gathered him up in her arms tightly, peppering his cheek with kisses and warmth.

“Oh! My baby boy, he’s all big now!” She cooed in his ear.

Sunlight filtered through the closed windows, lanterns lit to light up the spaces that couldn’t be reached. A small muffin sat on the table, his small family filling up the seats with fond smiles. He let his mother drag him to a chair.

His aunt and uncle gave him a kiss and a pat on the shoulder respectively. Jill and Steph had grown into maturity, each giving him polite hugs and happy wishes.

Jack smiled through their small celebration of him, letting Mary throw a flower crown on his head and Noah climb on his shoulders. He wondered if it snowed enough last night to make snow angels.

Would Jill and Steph still want to have a snowball fight? Did they think they were too old for that now? How tragic it must be to grow up…

Do you lose all that makes you wild, untamed, and insane? All the magic that makes the world tinted with the light of the moon and the colors of Mother Nature, is it lost forever once you cross the invisible gate into adulthood?

He’d seen it with Nicholas and Alex, too. He’d seen the lost gleam of innocence in their eyes. Nicholas – who had asked him to call him Nick, last they had met – was now a young man of few opinions and even fewer words.

Alex had shot up a few inches, and now towered over all of them, but you wouldn’t be able to tell with how low he slouched over. He carried the same anxious energy but was soft-spoken and polite enough to come off as just careful.

He remembered how loud they used to be, only a handful of years that meant so much in their short lives. He remembered how they used to shout over the fields, “You better run, Overland! Or I’ll snowball your ass!” He remembered their laughter, being free, now reserved and light. What had happened to make them this way?

Would that happen to him, too?

How much time did he have to run through the forest like one of its creatures? Or climb trees to the tallest branch to see the rest of the world? Or live every experience as if it were the first? Or not have the weight of responsibility to cloud his imagination with logic?

He was fifteen now. How much longer did he have?

Jack would just have to live every day like it was his last, wouldn’t he? Hopefully, he could take Mary and Noah out into the garden today. They could climb his favorite elm and pretend they were sea captains. His cloak could be their sail.

“Jack!” Mary tugged his arm, and he looked down at her questioningly.

“Yes?” He asked patiently.

“We called your name three times. What were you thinking about?” She tilted her head.

“Do you wanna play later?”

Mary’s grin was her only reply.

“Play later,” Mother chided, setting down a cup of honey milk. “We’re celebrating.”

Tomorrow was feast day, so not many treats were given on Jack’s birthday, but a single pastry and a cup of milk were all he needed. His stomach could wait.

After lunch was a game of tag, which Noah obviously won, and after that was a game of hopscotch. It led them to the treetops somehow, and they spent a good while just watching the world pass by as if they were passengers on a starship.

It was an uneventful and short birthday, it turned out, but it was good nonetheless.

December 1, 1712

Whatever he had come into the forest for wasn’t worth it anymore.

His boots sunk into the knee-high snow, dragging him down and numbing his feet. Opening his eyes was becoming increasingly taxing as he was pretty sure his eyelashes were icing over. It’s not like it would matter, really. The snowfall was so thick, he could barely see one meter ahead.

He wrapped his arms tighter around his sides, hiding his hands in his cloak. His pack hung heavily from his shoulder, and even though there was hardly anything inside, its weight seemed to build with every step.

Jack longed to be home with his mother and sister, curled up in front of the furnace with quilts as he nursed a hot mug of tea in his palms. The soft cadence of Mother’s knitting sticks clicked against each other as she hummed an absentminded tune beneath her breath. Mary would snuggle into his lap as she rattled on about adventures and magic, and he would hold her close as they kept each other warm. The fire would crackle and pop, the embers floating up into the air through their tiny chimney, burning bright and hot.

They would talk about the upcoming holiday and how they were going to decorate the parlor and help in the village bakery for free cookies. Mother would patiently ask if they had written any letters to Saint Nick. They weren’t the only ones in Burgess that celebrated Christmas; almost the entire village did, but they were one of the few families that held any traditions with Santa Claus.

Jack and Mary would string up holly and ivy, and would drag in the best fir tree they could find. Candlesticks would light up the branches and soft pine needles would fall to the floor. Their house would smell like milk and sugar and fresh stew.

They would talk about what kind of trinkets they wanted. Mary would probably ask for more ribbons and stockings.

Jack would smile when asked what he wished for, telling her that she should wait and hopefully find out.

A harsh blow of wind pushed him forward into the snow, and Jack scrambled in the dark to refind his bearings.

Shadows loomed over him in the form of trees. He could faintly hear the rustle of the canopy above him, whispering what were either warnings or threats.

It almost felt warmer here on the ground, letting the clumps and flurries fall over him. It was so much warmer where the icy wind only brushed over him.

His ears had long ago stopped burning and his fingertips were blue in the dull light of the crescent moon. He took another sniffle, shakily trying to wipe his nose off the dripping snot. He dared not lick his lips. Jack feared they were as blue as his fingertips.

It wasn’t fair!

How was he supposed to know there would be a storm? It almost seemed to fall on top of him. This wasn’t worth the skipped stones. It wasn’t worth it at all.

Jack collapsed into the snowbank, finally letting his limbs go numb as the cold hugged him. He warmed himself with thoughts of home and Christmas. Parties and dancing. Songs and drinking. He pictured his uncle dragging Mother into carols and liquor. Mary was still dressed from the church service, her hair neatly braided and pulled up as she swung around to the music.

He thought of his sister and all her mannerisms. From the way snorted when she laughed to the way she picked at her dress skirt when nervous. He thought of the way she would cling to his shirt when she was frightened but had a steady expression in the face of those that looked up to her. He wondered if that was from his influence.

Mary was at home, most likely asleep. She would be clinging to her blankets, only to kick them off in her sleep. He thought of the way she kneaded her hair and ran her fingers through the strands, looking up at him pleadingly when she asked if he could brush it for her when Mother was busy. She would hand him the brush, only to frown and tell him to clean his hands first to rid them of the almost permanent dirt stains.

He thought about her frustration when she fell for his tricks; how, when Jack fooled her with a white lie or strung her along for a harmless prank, she would clench her fists and hold her breath until she was pink; how if he took it too far she would tear up but never cry. It always served to make him feel more guilty when she refused to cry.

Other girls her age sobbed into their mother’s skirts, but not Mary Overland. Not anymore. She was a big girl and was determined to prove it. Even to her thick-skulled older brother who made stupid choices like taking a stroll through a blizzard.

Mary was a strong young girl who would grow into a strong young woman. Later in life, she would gain a sense of dignity and politeness that would come with age. She would keep her wonder and excitement, he knew, but would lose the wild and insane part of her that Jack had never lost. It would be buried inside.

How many more Christmases would she get to remain free?

His violent shivering ceased, his blue hands tucked into his chest, and smiled into the snow, watching it fall around him like glittering stars. Jack wanted to be a star.

That’s what he wanted for Christmas this year.

December 25, 1712

The soft glow of dawn shined through the frosty window panes, and the last remnants of twilight lingered stubbornly.

Winter songbirds sang in the quiet lull of the morning, reaching into his dreams and pulling him to awareness. He grasped the straggling edge of unconsciousness tightly, pulling the thick quilt further around his shoulders to keep away the chill.

Warm puffs of breath tickled his neck, a head pressed up against his chest with his arm holding her close. Mary was sleeping in his room.

Her arms snaked around his waist like a corset, and her messy hair itched against his cheek.

It had been freezing last night. No wind had howled against their cabin walls, but the creeping draft of snow on his thinly covered limbs had made his teeth chatter. Sometime between his fitful rest and listless awareness, his sister had slipped into his room with her blankets to share their body heat.

Ever since that night, Mary was scared to let him so much as be even slightly cold. Someone had found him in the storm and carried him home, leaving him on the doorstep before retreating into the forest. Mother had fussed for a week straight, rambling about woodland spirits and debts until he proved he could move around without pain. They thanked his mysterious savior every night at supper grace.

But now May was all the more insistent that they sleep in the same bed.

Mourning his loss of sleep, Jack opened his eyes and yawned, petting Mary’s hair away from his face as she slept on.

Her mouth was slightly open and her expression was relaxed, the slightest upturn of her lips speaking of a pleasant dream. He smiled down at her fondly. What a perfect start to a morning, he thought.

But it couldn’t last forever. Today was an extraordinary day, after all.

“May,” He whispered, shaking her arm gently. “You gotta wake up.”

She groaned slightly, trying to roll over but failing in his hold.

“May,” He said a little louder.

“What?” She mumbled.

“It’s time to wake up. It’s Christmas.”

Her eyes flew open and she sprang up in a flash, elbowing Jack’s jaw in the process. He cried out painfully.

“Christmas!” She shouted as Jack rubbed his chin.

“Watch it!” Jack scowled.

She cheered happily, already out the door and in the hall, her feet cascading on the wooden floors and shaking the house.

After pulling Mother from her bed, a blanket and shawl wrapped around her arms, Jack and Mary hurried into the parlor.

Smiles stretched their faces so wide that it hurt. They crashed to the floor in front of the small fir tree, shaking some of the precariously hung candles. Mother cried, “No running in the house! And don’t you dare burn my cabin down!”

Just a small sheepish look and their excitement rushed back.

In total, there were six boxes beneath the tree, not including the two wrapped gifts set aside from Mother. There were three for each of them.

Jack ripped into the first box he could reach, tearing the top off and peering inside. Mary was already gasping and pulling out a stuffed bear toy that she cradled in her chest. A row of brightly colored ribbons was laid around her, silked and glossy like the ribbons that a noble girl would wear.

As she reached for her last box, Jack looked down at his first. There was a leather-worn book inside, blank pages, and a charcoal writing tool. On the first page was a brilliantly done drawing of a star, but it resembled more of a snowflake. Just above it was a short note. A star you already are, my boy. Craft your own. Merry Christmas!

He closed the book gently and set it aside, a warm feeling burning in his chest.

The next box was a puppet made of finely carved wood, marionette strings pulling on the arms and feet. It didn’t look like anyone he knew, and he resolved to name it later.

Jack looked to the back of the tree where the last box sat and pulled it forward to his lap. It was larger than the others. Mary scooched beside him eagerly, her present before her. “Let's open them together!”

Mother watched on silently, giving an encouraging nod.

The lids fell away easily, and Jack held up a pair of beautifully made ice skates. They were brown with delicately painted snowflakes. Long and thick dark laces tied them together neatly. His face reflected back at him in the stainless metal blades on the bottom, sharp and flawless with a serrated toe at the fronts.

He breathed airlessly in wonder, already thinking of how smooth a glide they had; how skating would be like flying.

Mary held a similar pair in her hands, red stripes down the heel, carefully avoiding the blades as she gawked at their craftsmanship. She sent him a grin so wide he was sure her face hurt. “Can we go skating today!?”

“Not today,” Mother said before he could, “Your aunt and uncle will be coming over soon with your cousins and I expect this house to be spotless.”

“We’ll go ice skating soon, May,” He promised.

Pushing the skates aside, they opened their stockings. Nuts and fruits and books and a handful of shillings that they both gawked at. They stashed their goodies in their room before tidying up the parlor.

When Jill and Steph arrived, their parents were not far behind, and Mother brought out the drinks. Plans to see the village square were tossed around, loose carols sung from quickly drunken lips. Hours passed by smoothly. A drink was pushed into his hands that he lazily sipped from, his mind feeling pleasantly buzzed.

Mary changed into one of her dresses and Jack braided her hair with a red ribbon, the bow glinting in the candlelight. They ate a feast of pork and his uncle finally declared it was time.

Soon, they were all bundled up as tightly as they could be, and walking to the town square.

Music crescendoed in the snowy sky. Young men linked arms with younger ladies as they cheered, kicking up snow with their leather boots and pouring liquor onto bonfires. Fat fluffy snowflakes fell like ash, but the adults smiled with flushed cheeks, barely feeling the cold.

The village children danced in circles, nursery songs more shouted into the air than sang. Dogs barked and yipped at the noise. Off-key howling that no one seemed to mind. Cottages were decorated with holly, youthful couples standing close beneath the mistletoe. Jack stood amidst it all, breathing in the scent of slow-cooking stew and beer, relishing in the nip on his nose, and feeling the warmth of flames at his back and wind on his face.

He humored the thought of joining one of the games of Tag before an arm slid into his. A pretty blonde pulled him into the crude dancing circle. He caught sight of Mary twirling in the yellow glow, the ends of her ribbon swirling around her head. The girl in his arms gave a loud holler to the music. Makeshift drums and flutes of wood, a trumpet sounding above them all.

It was all overwhelming in the best of ways; like a dream that he never wanted to forget.

They laughed and skipped until evening mass, the whole village crowding into the small church house. The pastor gave a small sermon, candles passed out to a few people in the pews. Jack ended up with one and held it tightly with two hands.

The pastor's words flew over him as Jack tilted the stick from side to side, watching the white wax dribble down to his palms. It was a dull kind of pain that Jack found more uncomfortable than burning. He’d felt worse pain when the fox bit him. The wax hardened on his skin and cracked away. His hands glowed in the flickering candlelight.

He held it steady after getting a hard look from his mother and watched it burn until it went out.

After church, his uncle clapped a hand on his shoulder with a large grin, head turned towards a small gathering of other men, muskets slung over their backs. “Lewis ain’t around anymore, but his boy here’s grown into a fine young man. Maybe he’ll be interested?”

“Interested in what?” Jack asked as he wiped the remaining wax from his hands.

“Fox hunting trip. Christmas tradition,” His uncle smiled.

“I don’t know, Isaac,” One of the men said doubtfully. “Lewis was a fine fellow, but he was never all that interested in huntin’ for sport.”

It was true. Father only ever hunted when they needed food and it couldn’t be bought in the market. He would do what was necessary to protect his family, but always shied away from needless killing, even when his uncle would push about pests eating livestock. “Everything’s gotta eat,” He would say. “Why hunt an animal for wanting to survive? We do the same, don’t we?”

And the sentiment had been passed down.

The fox in the woods a few months ago had been his fault. He had set that trap. And he was the one who decided to let it go. It was a wild animal working on instinct; it hadn’t known that Jack was trying to let it go.

Before his uncle could get in another protest, Jack shook his hand off of his shoulder stiffly. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather stay here if it’s all the same to you.”

His uncle met his gaze, first in surprise, then in solemn realization. He gave him a small smile and a gentle pat. “You know somethin’? Your old man gave me the same line ‘bout seven years ago, the first time I asked. I think he’d be proud of you.”

The men gathered their gear and set off into the woods without another word, leaving the boy by the front of the church as he watched, listening to the distant chorus of carols and barking dogs.

December 30, 1712

Jack pulled his cloak around him and tied it on, slinging his ice skates over his shoulder as he picked a biscuit from the tray on the table.

It was warm as it melted on his tongue, and he hummed with delight.

“Jaaack!” Mary groaned as she tugged his arm.

“Hey May, these biscuits are amazing. You should try some,” Jack smiled. Mother chuckled from the kitchen, tucking a stray brown strand back into her bonnet.

“Jack quit messing around,” She whined. “Let’s go already!”

Jack laughed but relented. “Alright alright, let’s go.”

She pulled him to the door eagerly, rushing to pull on her boots. Mother followed them out the door. “Be careful,” She advised, her hand on the doorframe.

Mary tugged his hand harder and he smiled fondly, giggling as he looked between them both. “We will.”

When they reached the pond, his sister sat down on the bank and swapped out her boots, lacing her skates. It was a messy job, but they were tight enough that she didn’t wobble when she stood up.

Jack frowned at the sky, then at the ice. The sun was warm despite the chill and had been beating down on the frozen water for most of the day. “Are you okay?” Mary asked.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine,” He picked up a stone and started tossing it out. It chipped the ice but didn’t break.

Mary started skating as the older boy laced his skates. He wanted to tell her to be more cautious but held his tongue.

When he finally stepped out, his breath was stolen. The smooth glide of the blades across the ice was just as he’d predicted; like flying. Mary went around with a smile as he chased her. His hair blew back and cold hair stung his cheeks and nose.

White lines traced the ice behind him as he spun in circles and pushed off with one foot. He threw one of his legs back and leaned forward, his sister watching his grace with awe.

Ice skating had always come naturally to him, and he’d never had trouble balancing.

He wondered how fast he could go.

Mary skated further out and Jack went after her. Marks from their fun littered the ice as time flew, their own man-made snow. The hiss of his blades scraping against the crystal water. Mary had her arms spread wide to stabilize herself, but she wasn’t without confidence.

Her strokes were shorter than his, Jack’s longer legs allowing more room to glide as he showed off.

Eventually, they ended up in the middle of the pond.

Jack knew he should have gone first when he heard a loud and terrifying pop. It silenced both their laughter. Something heavy fell in his stomach.

His sister froze like a deer, and for a moment, all he could do was stare. Just under her feet, in the very center of the pond, jagged cracks slowly moved around her. Some inched their way toward him.

She stared at the ice, her hands at her sides and shaking, before looking up.

As slowly as he could, Jack crouched down to her level, slipped his skates off, and set them aside gently. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Fear in his fingertips. Fear for her.

He could see her eyes tearing up. “It’s okay. It’s okay!” He reached a hand out for her to catch her gaze. “Don’t look down. Just, look at me.”

“Jack,” Her voice wobbled. “I’m scared!” More cracking and her legs shook.

“I know! I know,” He tried stepping forward, but he could feel the pops beneath him. He swallowed back a hiss and smiled. “But y-you’re gonna be alright. You’re not gonna fall in.” Jack said certainly, looking away and clenching his fists as he tried to think. Every muscle in his body felt taut, and his blood roared dimly. “Uh,” An idea, “we’re gonna have a little fun instead!”

“No! We’re not!” She cried.

“Would I trick you?”

“Yes! You always play tricks!”

Jack chuckled nervously, holding his arms out as he tried again to move toward her. “Well- alrigh- well, not- not this time,” He stammered, smiling again. “I promise- I promise, you’re gonna be- you’re gonna be fine. You have to believe in me.”

Mary let out an anxious breath.

Another glance at her feet and Jack grinned widely. “You wanna play a game? We’re gonna play hopscotch! Like we play every day.” Her lips upturned. “It’s as easy as one,” He stepped to the right, and the ice spread under his foot. He cringed, but then smirked, pretending to lose his balance, and flailed. “Woooah!” Mary laughed. “Two! Three!” He skipped onto safe ice, crouching down and grabbing a hooked stick. “Alright. Now it’s your turn.”

She nodded resolutely, and looked down, taking a small step in her skates. “One,” Mary gasped as more cracks formed and he held the stick out further. “That’s it, that’s it! Two,” Another step.

The cracks got larger, and the ice started to deepen. She looked up at him with her eyes blown wide.

He didn’t wait for her to take another step. He bit his lip and lunged closer, “Three!” Hooking the end of the stick around her waist and pulling her around in a circle until she was behind him, his balance gave out with momentum.

Jack felt the wood leave his hands as he was thrown to the side with a shout. He flailed for a moment until he landed on his haunches, but peered over his knees to see if she was safe.

Mary landed on solid ice, closer to the bank of the pond, on her stomach. Her long hair fell around her, and she pushed her hands under her to look through it. She smiled happily, and a breath Jack hadn’t known he’d been holding let out.

A laugh burst from his chest as they both stood up, words just on his tongue. “See! I told you!” or “I’m so proud of you!” just seconds away.

But his sister gasped, and her smile fell.

And so did the ice beneath him.

He fell backward and was plunged into the freezing dark water. Mary called his name! He tried reaching up to grasp the edge.

The water smothered him and he gasped at the shocking cold, water slipping into his mouth before he shut it tightly. He tried to force his legs to kick, or his arms to do more than sluggishly swipe, but his veins were made of ice.

If he could, he’d have started crying. But his limbs were locked in place and the surface drifted further and further away as he sank. It was right there, just out of reach. Survival was right there. If only he could get his legs to move! Every action was one of instinct and not thought.

The water in his lungs sat heavily as his chest started to burn.

He had to get to the surface. Mary was up there. Hopefully, she was getting help. 

There was a pressure building behind his eyes and in his temples. The longer he stayed under, the deeper he floated, the worse it felt. It begged him to open his mouth; to let the water in.

His head hurt. His lungs ached. He felt his stomach give a violent lurch at the lack of air.

Jack tried to stroke upward, to thrash. It was cold. It was so cold!

Fingers he couldn’t even feel anymore struggled for purchase that wasn’t there.

The burning crept into his throat and then his jaw. The panic that flooded his bones became exhaustion.

His eyelids felt heavy like the bags of grain he carried almost every day.

When he finally opened his mouth, at the very last second before his brain could explode or his chest collapsed, he felt relief. Cold water slid down his throat.

Mary was safe. Jack was so tired. And warm.

It was like an embrace, and Jack dimly remembered the same kind of warmth just weeks before.

Jack closed his eyes just as his back hit the dark bottom of the pond.

May 16, 2012

Grass curled around his toes, cold and wet from the morning dew. He could feel the sun beating down on his neck and he shivered.

Somewhere behind him, the water glimmered in the light. And he knew with certainty, having passed it thousands of times before, there would be a small pile of stones, just at the water’s edge.

The wind blew lightly against his hair, tussling it around worriedly. He didn’t bother her with a response.

Just in front of it where it used to be. Just in front of him was once a small cottage.

He could picture it in his mind; the front door with the small worn path leading up; the rickety roof and chimney; the small barn with baaing sheep. He could imagine the crop garden with growing vegetables; the dirt scratched games on the ground.

It was all gone now. Not a trace of what once was. He wondered if he could find any ribbons beneath the dirt.

Trees grew where pastures used to be. Flowers and grass covered old rotten wood. The village that used to be so small and tight, unnatural in the middle of all the wild, was now a town.

It had only been a month or two since his battle with Pitch Black, but it felt like centuries ago.

Never in his mortal life could he have anticipated what he had become. The Seasonal of Winter. The Spirit of Chaos and Wild Things. The Guardian of Fun.

Would she have been proud?

He hoped so.

A tiny weight landed on his shoulder, and the soft flutter of tiny wings went quiet. Baby Tooth squeaked with concern. Maybe he should tell Jamie about her? They looked so much alike…

Spring heat burned his head and sweat gathered on his skin. For a human, it might have been pleasant, but for Jack it was scalding. Summer was nearly upon the Northern Equator, which for him meant that it was time to go South. But he was pushing it this year, evidenced by the way the sun seemed to be pushing directly on him.

A wiser seasonal might have taken it as a sign to leave.

But Jack never had the chance to reach the age of wisdom, so he just gripped his staff tighter and kept his feet stubbornly rooted in place.

He breathed in the pollen-filled air and closed his eyes. He could pretend that the forest hadn’t changed and that the distant sound of cars didn’t yet exist; that he had a pack strapped to his back, hung with fresh meat, and a dagger in his pocket. Her laughter echoed from inside with a patient call of his name to come for supper. The sound of a nearby creek. Songbirds in the trees. Gentle sun.

Jack set his jaw and tensed, screwing his eyes tighter and extending himself. It was a power that he didn’t use often but was granted in the fact of being a spirit of nature.

His mind and consciousness sunk into the ground and the world as a whole. He could feel the squirming of worms, the crawling of insects, and the hooves of the deer. The Earth became his flesh, and every little happening was a drop of his blood.

The condensation of water seeping into the dirt. Squirrels scampering on the barks of trees. Seeds being fertilized and growing roots.

He felt it all.

He felt those roots stretching, taking the place of the ones there last year before Winter killed them off. And because of that, there was room for new life.

But no matter how deep he went into the ground, there was so sign of humans ever having lived here.

The tension in Jack’s shoulders fell as he drew back to himself with a sigh.

A tiny hand brushed his cheek sadly.

Jack let his head fall, gripping his staff as he turned, and flew away.