by Ninie Hammon
Malachi had no idea what to do, no idea how to call Sam back from whatever reality had prompted her to cover her mouth in shocked terror and cry out that “the Indians are coming.”
He exchanged a look with Charlie, then he called Sam’s name firmly, with authority. “Sam!”
She ignored them both, continued to stare out at something in front of her they couldn’t see, her red hair fairly glowing in the sparkling light.
Malachi had never felt so helpless and vulnerable, certainly not when he was a soldier. As Charlie drove along the winding mountain roads on their way to Fearsome Hollow, he had been unable to do as he had done the dozens of other times when he had willingly walked into harm’s way, knowing he could be dead in seconds.
As a Marine, he’d learned to blank out everything but the immediate, didn’t allow his mind to venture out there beyond right here, right now. The rifle in his hand. His buddies beside him. The enemy beyond.
But he couldn’t do it now, had somehow lost control. His emotions were as tangled up as Christmas lights, twisted and tied into knots by one staggering revelation after another.
His mother intended to kill Charlie.
His sister was dead.
Rusty … was his son.
That was the hardest. The one that totally knocked the wind out of him. The blow that sent him to his knees.
Rusty Sheridan was Malachi’s son!
How had he not … why couldn’t he see … why didn’t Sam …?
He had no answers to those questions, but the answers didn’t matter anyway. The truth of it was all that mattered. He had a twelve-year-old son! A fine boy. Sam had done such a good job.
Sam.
Yeah … Sam.
The beautiful red-haired woman who had shouldered the whole burden of parenthood — walked the floor with a crying baby, sent a six-year-old off to his first day of school, encouraged him and disciplined him and prayed over him … all by herself.
Well, no more!
He would not let Sam carry the whole load alone anymore. He would …
Yeah, would what?
Rusty was unconscious, might never wake up.
And Malachi — the father to the rescue on a white horse … well, he might not live to see another sunrise.
Putting his hands on Sam’s shoulders, he shook her, called out, “Sam, what’s wrong?”
But instead of pulling Sam back into his reality, grabbing her seemed to draw Malachi toward hers. Toward somebody’s.
Sparkling light. Snapping and popping and a “fried circuit” sensation welled up around Malachi and blotted out the rest of the world. He had time to wonder if perhaps sparklers now outlined his body as they outlined Sam’s, and then Fearsome Hollow blinked out of existence. Malachi tried to struggle against the sensation, but it was as inexorable as a wave washing out to sea.
He blinked and opened his eyes … somewhere else. Someone else.
Gabriel Dunn is chopping wood when he hears the voices. He stops, ax held high, then slowly lowers it to the ground and listens. He can tell by the tone that something is wrong, but it could be something no more threatening than a skunk wandering into town, which is what had set all the girls squealing three days go.
But he supposed it could be …
Indians.
Maybe …
Gabe’s gut yanks into knot. Not because he is afraid, though he is afraid. But because he can feel his resentment leak back into him and he has worked so hard to get rid of it. Has prayed and asked for forgiveness. Has pleaded with God to take the rebellious spirit out of him. His father, an elder in the Society of Friends, had warned him, said a spirit like that was telling God, “I’m in charge, butt out. I will do it MY way.”
That was a grievous sin, the sin of Adam.
“When you question the beliefs of the elders, you’re questioning God,” his father had said. “You’re telling God that you know better how to run the universe than he does.”
Gabe had been properly rebuked, knew his father was right.
And yet, he can’t silence the voice in his heart that tells him to fight back. That he has a right, an obligation to take up arms to protect the weak from harm.
The voice could not be silenced, awakened by the news the travelers from Boonesborough had brought in the early spring. They’d described in graphic detail — that the women and children were not allowed to hear — how the Cherokee had attacked their settlement.
Gabe couldn’t get the images out of his mind, of savages whooping and hollering, riding through the village, killing the livestock, animals and people alike. He’d believed the men who had driven the savages away were courageous, but when he said so his father had scoffed.
They weren’t brave, his father had told him sternly. They were sinful.
It was a sin to take the life of another. The Bible couldn’t have been more clear about that. Thou Shalt Not Kill. A simple command that meant exactly what it said.
“But Pa, what if they’re trying to kill …?”
His father hadn’t even allowed him to finish, had slapped him hard across the mouth and called his words blasphemy.
Gabe had repented, of course. Had confessed his sin of rebelliousness and worked hard to win again God’s favor.
But still … sometimes when he lies in bed at night, imagining the scene the battle the men had described, he feels an involuntary swell of admiration in his chest. The men had risked their own lives to save their families, had protected the women and children who were defenseless.
“Gabe! Where are you, boy?”
His father is calling to him from the trail that leads from the village into the woods where he sent Gabe with his ax as soon as it was light outside.
“Here, Pa.” Gabe drops the ax and goes running through the trees to the trail, where his father is racing toward him, leading a group of children. The children are quiet, not squealing in fear. They’ve been told to be quiet and they are obedient.
Gabe’s father’s eyes are huge.
“It’s Indians, boy,” he says, his voice tightly controlled. “Jeremiah saw them from the ridge. Cherokee, he thinks, not Choctaw. A raiding party headed this way.”
Gabe has never felt fear before like he feels now.
“Take these to the cave. Hide them there.”
“What are you—?”
“We’re going to speak to them. Extend to them the hand of friendship and God’s love.”
“But what if they don’t—?”
His father shoots him a look that silences him instantly.
“Take the little ones and go.”
He reaches out and grips Gabe’s arm.
“You’re the oldest. You’re in charge of the safety of all the children. Hide them and look after them. See that they come to no harm.”
His father turns and runs back down the trail toward the village and Gabe looks into the terrified eyes of the village children.
The Campbells — Silas, who’s nine, is holding Leah in his arms. She’s a chubby little girl of eighteen months and an armful for her skinny oldest brother. David Campbell, seven, has hold of Silas’s shirt tail, just holding it.
There are the Biddle twins that Gabe can never tell apart, the three Whitts — Ruth Ann’s red hair flaming between her blond brother and sister, and the Southwicks. Even at two, Esther Southwick is smaller than Leah Campbell, and her brother Ezra, eleven, is carrying her piggyback, while their other two brothers hold hands behind them. The two Lancaster girls, Sarah and Naomi, and Lydia Mullins, holding her baby brother Matthew on her hip, bouncing him up and down, to keep him from crying.
Behind them all is Daniel, Gabe’s little brother. Gabe knows the nine-year-old moved to the back to be sure nobody was left behind. Danny’s like that. He’s genuinely … good, in ways Gabe could never hope to be.
They all look to Gabe. He is the oldest, though only fourteen, and he will lead them. They all know what they are to do. They’ve been shown the cave where they are to ta
ke shelter if there is danger, but it is up to Gabe to be certain they get there safely and to stand watch over them until the danger has passed.
He can hear more shouting from the village, women, some of them screaming, and he turns toward the mountain.
“This way! Come on!” He gestures and takes off running through the trees, guiding the group of children running through the trees behind him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Charlie stared at Sam as she stood frozen in terror, her hands clamped over her mouth. Light sparked all around her, pinpricks with sharp edges that felt like they were slicing into Charlie’s corneas.
Malachi called Sam’s name but she didn’t respond. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Sam, what’s wrong?”
He instantly let go of her, almost like he’d been shocked, and Charlie thought he was getting ready to slap her cheek to snap her out of it.
He didn’t, though, just stood with his hands limp at his sides and the same sparkler light that had appeared around Sam appeared around Malachi.
Charlie reached out to him, grabbed his arm — her mind trailing along a heartbeat behind the knee-jerk movement, warning her, “Don’t touch him!”
Too late.
It’s dark. Sarah Elizabeth Lancaster has never been as scared as she is right now, not even when she saw the rattlesnake on the trail and thought it was going to bite Ben, and she’d turned and run all the way home screaming.
Not when she heard the bear growling in the trees and her father had grabbed her by the arm and flung her behind him, standing tall in front of the creature, his arms extended, shouting, with nothing more to fight with than the branch he’d picked up off the ground.
Pa had backed away slowly, shoving Sarah behind him. And later he’d yelled at her for putting herself in danger like that. Any fool knew you never ever got between a mother bear and its cubs. But Sarah hadn’t seen the cubs until it was too late, and she’d had to get Naomi out of there.
Naomi never looked where she was going, humming to herself as she picked blackberries, never gave a thought to danger. Sarah was only ten and Naomi was eleven, but in every way that mattered Sarah was the big sister.
Naomi clung to her now, trembling and sniffling, and Sarah knows she has to be brave. But …
Indians.
The very word makes her want to throw up. Huddling together in the darkness of the cave with the other children, she struggles not to cry. Naomi is crying, softly, they all have to be quiet and Sarah shushes her, but she won’t stop.
“Shut your mouth,” Ezra Southwick whispers at Naomi fiercely, getting right in her face. Sarah wants to smack him, but the boy is right. They have to be quiet.
Even with the crying and sniffling that’s all around them, they can hear what’s going on outside. A sudden whoop seems so close, like the monster is right there in the cave with them, that they all gasp, choke off screams.
The be-quiet part — they all have to obey because if anybody breaks down, they all will break down and even though she is sure the Indians couldn’t possibly hear the sounds of Naomi’s muffled sobbing, they would hear it if all the children let go. So they huddle together, all of them quiet, trembling in the dark.
The cave is not totally black. There are cracks in the stone walls, and the rock that covers the entrance doesn’t seal it. Light shines in all around, and as her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, she can make out the shadowed faces of the others.
David and Silas Campbell are by the door. David has his ear to the crack, listening. Sarah doesn’t want to hear any better, what she and the others can hear without effort is so horrifying she might wet herself. Somebody already has. She can smell it, hopes it isn’t Naomi.
They all can hear, but they can’t respond. Can’t give in to the terror in their chests that makes it hard to draw breath.
Wild cries! Screeching, monstrous whoops and yells. They sound so evil and vicious, full of hatred. Wild animals, snarling just out there beyond the cave.
And the screaming. She can hear women’s voices, tries not to identify them, can’t let herself know that one of them could be her mother. All the children know the screaming women are … what? What’s happening to them? Are the Indians … hurting them? Killing them?
Her father and the other men — what’s happening to them?
All the what’s-happening questions whirling around in her mind are just Sarah’s way of trying not to know, because she does know. Of course she does.
The wild savages out there beyond the cave walls are murdering their parents. Shooting them with arrows or hacking them apart with tomahawks.
She’s crying.
She doesn’t know when she started, but as she realizes she’s crying she realizes the other children are, too. All of them. She can feel the sobbing shaking their bodies, but the sounds are muffled, every child crying in terrified silence. She wants to scream! Shriek! Run away, far, far away where … Naomi snuggles closer, muffled sobs wracking her body, and Sarah pats her back as they both continue to cry.
Malachi was not aware of himself, except as an observer. Some part of him knew he was standing with Sam and Charlie beside the Carthage Oak in Gideon, but his attention was focused on what he could see out the eyes of a little boy named Gabriel Dunn.
Gabe must trust in the elders.
Trust.
The.
Elders.
He huffs out each thought with a breath as he races toward the cave on the hillside, terrified children running as fast as they can behind him.
It’s not a big cave, maybe twenty-five feet by thirty, but the ceiling is five feet from the floor so all but the oldest of the children can stand up in it. The cave is up on the side of the mountain, can’t be seen from below, the perfect place to hide and Gabe leads his tribe of children toward it, hearing more and more horrifying sounds below as he races up the incline through the woods.
The Indians are crying out in horrible voices, savage cries that so terrify Gabe he feels like an iron band is clamped around his chest and he fears he won’t be able to keep breathing. They sound so vicious. How will his father and the elders ever convince them—?
Trust the elders!
They are being obedient to the commands of God, not lifting their hands to smite down another, and God will protect them. God will look after them. He will not let those come to harm who have obeyed his commands.
Gabe believes that. He must believe that.
Except the screaming behind. The screaming …
The stone to cover the opening of the cave leans against the rock next to the entrance. Jedediah Biddle is a stone mason and he fashioned the rock with his chisel so that it rolls easily into place to cover the cave opening. Once in place, all that must be done is toss brush on top of the rock and the entrance vanishes.
Gabe staggers the last few feet through the trees and into the brush, where a path leads through the bushes to the small bare space in front of the cave.
He turns and calls out to the first child he sees on the path.
“You first. Get in!” Elijah Southwick, who is seven years old, staggers to a stop and bursts into tears.
“Stop that!” Gabe expects his voice to sound firm and commanding, but it is shaking as vigorously as is the whole rest of his body.
“It’s dark in there.”
“No it’s not. There are cracks that let in light.”
Gabe has been in the cave several times. The whole back wall is wet, where a spring oozes down the rock face and puddles in a rivulet that flows along the base of the cave wall. Gratefully it drips back out another crack a few feet away — otherwise the whole floor of the cave would be wet.
“Go on!”
Elijah’s older brother, Ezra, puts Esther down on the ground, takes Elijah by the shoulder and shoves him toward the entrance, turns and grabs the arm of their five-year-old brother, Ezekiel, and pushes them all ahead of him into the opening, before ducking his head to follow.
Jonah Whitt, who is nine, pushes his little sisters Hannah and Ruth Ann ahead of him. Silas Campbell, also nine, is still carrying his eighteen-month-old sister, Leah, staggering under the weight. His younger brother, David, is still clinging to the tail of his shirt. The Lancaster girls, then the Biddles, then Lydia Mullins, eight, carrying her six-month-old brother Matt.
Gabe looks back over his shoulder to see Danny running down the trail toward him. The freckle-faced little boy huffs out, “Nobody got left, I made sure,” before Gabe shoves him into the cave with the others.
The sounds from the village down the mountain somehow seem louder now, even though they are farther away. Indian war cries. Screaming.
It’s a massacre.
No! He won’t let himself think that, won’t.
Danny said they were all here, but Gabe stands in front of the cave and calls out quietly anyway, “Who’s missing? Anybody?”
“Where’s Hope?” Grace Biddle cries. “Where—?” Then Hope grabs her hand.
Gabe turns toward the rock and carefully rolls it into place to hide the entrance. He pulls off limbs from the nearby brush and stacks them against the rock, brushes their footprints out of the dirt in front of the cave. Its hidden perfectly. There is no indication that there’s a cave here.
Then he stands, panting. He can hear the children inside crying and he shouts at them through the crack between the stone and cave wall.
“Hush. Do you want them to hear you?”
Matt Mullins is wailing.
“Lydia, make Matt be quiet.”
“I can’t. He’s scared!”
“Shut him up!” Gabe commands. He doesn’t know what the little girl does, but the baby’s cries cut off and now there is no noise coming from the cave.
Gabe looks back down the hillside. He must hide, too, climb up into a tree, or hide inside the limbs of an oleander bush. Or between the big stones where there was a rockslide in the spring.
But he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he turns and heads back down the mountainside toward the river, the waterfall and the village. He has no clear plan in his mind, only obeys a primal instinct that compels him forward.