The Beast

The virgin forests the Pennsylvania frontier softly swayed in the breeze. The light buzz of insects and song of birds only was silenced only by the limited passing of man. Not many people remaining along the border between the Pennsylvania Colony and New France. For two months now, something had been attacking settlers, English and French, what or whoever it was had no distinction between the two warring powers. Some English settlers blame local native but several villages in the area lay abandoned. What ever it was, it had a fondness for attacking women, ripping their throats out and then eating some of the internal organs. Any men it killed, it simply ripping them apart and scattered the pieces around in a small area.

However, reports have been pouring in, from the few survivors or the people that find the unlucky soul that got attacked of a huge beast, covered in reddish hair and with a horrendous stench hanging about it. As more and more reports of missing settlers or bodies pour into English and French authorities, action is demanded. Both the governor of Pennsylvania and the Police Chief-director of Louisiana placed a bounty for the head of this beast. They also arranged for patrols of made up of local militia and soldiers, to keep an eye on things, encase this was just some Indian trick.

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Young Molly Stark clutched her shawl around her shoulders tightly, despite the warm air of the late spring. The birds sung in the trees, crying out in their joy of chicks growing in the shell. It should have been a happy and light hearted time for the sixteen year old lass but the tales of the beast had been told so many times in her home, that she was loathed in leaving the safe walls. In fact, she never would have gone outside but for the fact that her papa was on a trip to Philadelphia, to meet with some bankers and her mother was bed bound with a child due soon.

She stooped from time to time, collecting ripening berries in a small basket. A feeling of general dread was slowly growing strong and making the girl want to run back home and cower beneath a blanket. Then, the stench of rotten meat assaulted her nose and a low growl teased her ears.

Swallowing and biting her lower lip in fear, Molly Stark slowly turned. Not twenty feet behind was a sight that caused the girl to pale in fear. A massive wolf-like beast stood on the path behind her, covered in thick, red-brown fur. It’s mouth was filled with long, sharp teeth and it’s yellow eyes looked at her with hunger or was it cruelty?

Slowly the beast crept forwards, the panicking girl could see long, sharp claws scratching the ground. At least, she tore herself from the beast gaze and screamed. She could swear that the beast smiled as she did. Yanking up her skirt, Molly turned and fled down the path, racing towards the Starks closest neighbor, her legs pumping with a speed born of fear. The beast’s heavy footfalls grew closer and closer behind her. Soon she could feel the hot, putrid breath on the back of her legs.

With luck or the beast’s playing with her, Molly burst from the woods, into Farmer Wickliff’s pasture. As she raced across green fields towards the rough farm house, the back of her left leg burned with a sharp pain, as the beast took a swipe at her legs, raking the back of her left leg. She collapsed onto the sweet smelling grass. The beast placed on paw on her back, pushing her young body into the earth and keeping her from trying to wiggle away. It's hot and rancid breath seemed to pour over the back of her neck, as a little drool dripped down in globs over her smooth skin and into her rich brown hair.

As the end drew near for the young colonial woman, it would seem that she would need an act of God to save her and one seemed to appear. One of Wickliff’s two oxen, a big black Gloucester bull, with his horns filled down, bellowed and charged at the beast, head lowered. If Molly had her wits about her, she might have wondered why a normally docile ox was attacking such a beast but the thought didn’t resister.

The charging bull caught the right side of the large beast with his blunt horns and tossed it away. Landing on it’s feet, the beast issued a challenging snarl and disappeared into the woods. The big ox stood over the bleeding girl, until Bill Wickliff, the farmer’s unmarried son, came to see what had upset the farm’s animals.

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Ross Barr leaned back in his chair, a long stemmed pipe between his teeth, tobacco smoke curling around his head. He, like many in the Backwoodsmen tavern, was heading out in the morning for the Pennsylvania border, only a few hours travel away. He had come down from Vermont, here his kin lived around the British military post of Fort Drummer, drawn by both the tales of the beast and the bounty being offered for it’s head.





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Louis Gondan snorted, blowing water from his mouth and nose.

"Damn you, Ferrigon!" He bellowed, "The next time you splash me I'll shove that paddle of yours so far up your ass that it'll tickle your throat."

"Pardon, mon Sergeant," the private replied from his place in the bow of the canoe. Louis, scowling, sat back, resting against the stern of the boat.

They were going too far to the right. With a mumbled curse Louis sank his paddle deep into the swirling water of the Allegheny River, trying to bring the canoe about. Slowly, slowly the bows turned away from the river's south bank. It turned, turned, kept turning, and now they were going too far to the left. Cursing heartily now, Louis switched sides and dug his paddle into the water, starting the process all over again. They'd been zigzagging like this for days down the river.

Gently, almost mockingly, another canoe passed by. It was crewed entirely by natives, Honniasont Indians, whose paddles sliced through the water in strong, smooth strides. As they went by the Indians turned as stared at the occupants of Louis's canoe, their dark eyes filled with quiet amusement.

Louis shook his fist at the canoe, then sighed. "We'll be there soon," he said to person who sat in the belly of the canoe in front of him, an Indian woman. She was Alawa, his wife. "The Captain says we'll be there by tomorrow."

Alawa, who had been staring silently at the endless wall of trees along the rivers, turned her head and stared at him with her large black eyes. Louis wondered, not for the first time, what she had seen in him. She was seventeen, half his age; young and beautiful as well, with coppery skin, strong cheekbones, and shiny raven hair that fell nearly to her waist. He'd first seen her sitting across a bonfire from him, when a fiddler had played songs from home and Huron drums had turned the familiar tunes into alien melodies that both Frenchmen and Indian had danced. There was no chance that she would dance with him; Louis had never been handsome. But something, perhaps the applejack, had made him bold and so he'd sat by her side and asked her in broken Huron and French to dance. She had nodded -- yes, YES -- and they had danced together long into the night. A week later and they were married.

Now she shook her head. "No, not tomorrow," she replied in French -- Louis had proved hopeless at learning Huron -- "Today."

Louis nodded happily. "If you say, mon femme." He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then cursed because once again they going too far to the right.

***

Alawa proved correct, however, and in the late afternoon the current grew and they rounded a bend and were confronted with the confluence of the Monongahela and their own Allegheny, while sitting on a slight rise between the two rivers was Fort Duquesne. Or rather, what would be Fort Duquesne. For the moment it was little more than heaps of earth and a half-erected temporary palisade enclosing a small village of tents and rude shelters, but Louis could see the spot had been well-chosen. Fort Duquesne had promise.

It took a while for all the canoes -- there were more than twenty in total -- to be pulled ashore and unloaded, and still more time for the company to dress itself and form up into ranks. Louis himself, now wearing the thick regimental coat, stood on the end of the line, his long halberd at his shoulder.

"Companie, préparer à marcher!" Captain Jovillon called, and to the steady beat of the company drummer the small column began its short march from the riverbank into the encampment. A second, ragged column followed behind; the Indian guides and the company wives -- a motley collection of hard women and ragged children. Alawa was with them, hefting a bundle nearly as large as she and bearing it without complaint, her husband's fowling piece slung over her shoulder.

The arrival of the company was no surprise for the current inhabitants of Fort Duquesne, and people came to stand and watch as the files of freshly arrived soldiers past by. There were no smiles on the faces of the soldiers, pioneers, wives, and Indians who lined the route; just grim and tired expressions.

The French colors flew from a log planted in the center of the fort, and with a final thundering roll of the drums the column came to a halt. An officer waited for them, a young pioneer lieutenant in rain-spoiled cocked hat. He alone seemed happy to see the arrival of the company.

"Merci sont à Dieu!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms, "I am glad to see you!" His smile wavered and died. "There is much to be feared here."

Orenda watched with her dark eyes, almost searching the encampment that had once been thousands strong, contemplating. Each day, more and more of her people left. Most didn't say where, but she didn't want to know anyway. "Betrayers!", Orenda spat under her breath. Just when they needed nothing more than to bind together and hold fast to their traditions and use their numbers for protection. Orenda felt a heart-rending stab of regret when she thought of her brother. She wished fervently that she had been able to do something, ANYTHING to bring him back. Gruesome images flitted through her mind of the day she had found her brother in the forest after he didn't return from a hunt. The other men had returned and she had searched for her brother among their numbers. How had they not noticed? Nobody understood. But when Orenda had entered that clearing...

I have to stop thinking about this! But the pain was too raw. And now with men and women scattering like so much chafe in the wind, Orenda didn't know what would become of her people. She sighed deeply and stood up. She could see canoes down the river. More white men no doubt, come to try and take their land and kill their warriors. She scratched her neck and watched for a little while longer, the heat building in her chest at the injustices done. Orenda knew she was feeling too much. She needed to just let things go that weren't in her control, but she didn't know now. She bent over and picked up her bow and cleaned her knife in the river. She wrapped the deer carcase in it's skin, tying it with leather thongs and hefted it onto her back. She would stop on the way to her and her family's room in the long house to share the bounty. Most of the men were gone, at war with the Algonquin tribe further south. They were enemies because the tribe had strayed from it's honor and was actually doing business with the white man! They were killing animals needlessly and using their pelts to make trades with the white man and discarding the rest of the creature! Any normal person would burn for shame at such an atrocity. She glanced back down the river and hissed, then went her way back to the encampment, bent under the weight of the buck.

Ross lean back in his chair, against the wall, watching the whole the a common room from his corner. A battered looking mug of ale sat on the table in front of him, next to an equally battered looking plate of now cold meat. Of course there was a mixing of farmers and other locals in that night but outnumbering them were men dressed a in a mix of European and Native clothing that looked like they would have been comfortable outside under the setting sun.

While firearms were required to be left in one's room, as was noted in a misspelled plaque, each of the rough looking men still held that dangerous gunfighter air about them. Most still kept a knife, dagger or a tomahawk at their side, save for one fellow that stood out among the crowd.

He was dressed in a powder blue waistcoat, sleeveless and reaching near to his knees. Under that was a spotless white shirt, pleated ruffles at the cuff and collar. Tight on his legs were snowily white breeches and linen stockings, with shinny black shoes on his feet. His face was round and boyish, most likely having never seen a razor nor had one used upon it. The blond hair that cover the top of his head was wavy and a mass of curls was bunched at the back. In his hand was clenched a wine goblet made of expensive glass and filled with a blood red liquid, most likely poured from the dark bottle resting on the table in front of him.

Seat at the table was a most uncomfortable looking man, dressed like the rest of the woodsmen. He was most likely a hired huntsmen and the sneer that young fop was giving him, a cur on a short leash that he was forced to use while hunting. standing near the lad was a Negro slave, dressed nicely in white and ready to carry out any order that his master gave.

Ross almost choked laughing each time his gaze fell on the pompous ass of a boy that was sitting in the middle of a den of rough men. He was hoping that he covered each one with a drink of ale, so he wasn't the one to had to teach the boy about life out here should the lad become upset over someone laughing at him and demand satisfaction. Luckily, his chance to escape that embarrassment came soon.

"What are you doin here boy" demanded a drunk man, coming to stand in Ross's line of sight at the fop's table, "This ain't no place for you. Go home and suckle on your ma's teat like all good little boys should."

The young man's face flush with anger, as he stood up and grabbed a white glove from the table. With a sound that could be heard around the room, he smack the drunk in the face with the glove with as much force as he could muster. The drunk man blink a few times, as the fop opened his mouth to issue a challenge.

The drunk didn't waste a second after that. Before the first sound could leave the boy's mouth, he swung and missed. The bottle that had been in his hand sailed through the air and smashed into the back of another man, who promptly turned around and punched the closest fellow. With in seconds, the whole tavern erupted into fights, the drunk and fop lost in the middle of the melee.

Ross wasted no time in sneaking to the stairs in the back and going up to his room to collect his personal effects. He laughed, jumping out of a window to the ground, as the sound of smashing bottles and pottery reached his ears. The head start was his on these fellows, as the Scot started walking towards the border with musket resting on his shoulder.

Orenda couldn't stand sleeping in the room anymore. She often couldn't sleep at all anymore. The sounds of people rustling and breathing began to grate on her. She sighed and sat up, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. She took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of sleep from her family members she could recognize so well, even in the dark. Privacy was unheard of in her way of life. Orenda wrapped her strong arms around her knees, bringing them in closer to her chest. She looked down at her younger sister, Inatah and fought the urge to hug her close. Inatah was just a baby, the youngest of the five children, what used to be six. Orenda should be having children by now. Her mother reminded her of this every day. She just could never force herself to marry a man she didn't love. Orenda chewed on her lip for a minute and then stood up. She crept her way out of the room and through the two conjoining rooms silently, avoiding the sleeping lumps on the ground. Once outside, she broke into a run.

Orenda looked up at the sky, up at the moon, and her spirit soared. When she reached the edge of the forest, she paused. Her heart was now pounding with fear as well as the exertion. She wanted badly to go to her favorite tree, but she knew it wasn't safe to be in the forest alone anymore. During the day she had no fear, but at night she knew things could miss her sharp eyesight. Her face knotted in a look of determination and she sprinted all the way to her spot. She leapt up the broken branch that hung down just enough for her to reach and swung herself onto its base. She reached for the next branch she knew by memory would be there and quickly slid her way up the tree until she was as high as she could go. From up here she could see the forest and the river and even inside the white man's encampment. She considered it a blight on her spectrum of view, but nothing could be done about it. At this point, Orenda felt the beast was a bigger problem than the white man. She knew what to expect of both, and both were dangerous in their own way, but the beast was the least known of the two and by far the most threatening right now. But how was she to kill it? Orenda sat and thought about it.

“I love you, he said!” The young woman spit the words out like poison and ground her dress harder against the washing board. “I’ll take care of you! I won’t let anything happen to you my arse!”

The faded blue dress caught on the edge of the board and tore as Sarah dunked the rest of the cloth into the metal tub. As vehement curses left her lips and tears flowed freely down her face, a small pair of arms wound about the young mother’s torso, a soft body pressing against her back as she knelt next to the pile of soaked dirty laundry.

“Mom? Mom, are you…are you okay?”

Sarah’s sob was caught in her throat and she tried bravely to swallow it back down before facing her son. She bit her lip and quickly pulled his form as close to her body as she could, her bulging tummy pressing against his ribs. “I thought you were gone visiting the Millers, honey.”

“Mooom!” Tom pulled away from his mother embarrassed and glanced around the glade to make sure Sally Miller hadn’t followed him back to his family’s cabin and witnessed the sacrilegious act his mother had committed by hugging him. He was seven years old after all, by no means a baby anymore!

Thankfully Sally had, for once, minded her own business. Really, it was unfortunate that Theo Miller, his best friend, had such a creature for a sister. How annoying. She liked following them around, and talking and crying and- and now his own mother was crying.

“Mommy why were you crying?” His voice softened and Tom tried wiping her tears away from her face until he noticed he was leaving dark smudges from his dirty fingers. “Is it Davvey? Is he kicking you?”

Sarah glanced down at her swollen stomach and grimaced. “Yes.” She said simply and avoided looking into her son’s eyes. He always could tell when she was lying. “He’s been extra moody today and I’ve had trouble all day.” She stood up slowly and rested one arm on her back while keeping her other on Tom for support. “Be a good boy and add some more wood to the pit. The stew should be about ready in an hour.”

Tom nodded and walked back to their cabin behaving for all it was worth like a dutiful son following his mother’s instructions. Once inside, however, he scowled and looked out the window at the late afternoon sun and the lengthening shadows of the forest beyond.

Today was the night he would go and take revenge.

His mother couldn’t fool him, she was scared and, well, so was he, but now it was his job to take over his father’s duty of taking care of the family. He’d already bid his goodbye to Theo and asked him to comfort his mother if he wasn’t back in the morning with the pelt of the creature that had killed his father. Not that he wouldn’t be back, his father had taught him how to use a musket and Tom was sure the only reason the beast had even managed to get his Da was because he’d caught him while he was distracted skinning a deer and too far away from his firearm.

Tom glanced out the door once again and smiled when he saw his mother bent over the tub, scrubbing clothes once again. She probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone once he added a few bundles under the sheets of his bed.

By the time he finished his packing and scurried out the side window of the cabin darkness was enveloping the landscape. His mother was finishing hanging the clothes on the lines to dry overnight in the warm wind, but would still take another half hour of doing chores outside before she came in.

Tom raced into the forest and never once looked back.

"Hola miss" A spanish male says deep in breath as he looks at the beautiful woman lost in chores. "A man, just then, he run past me into the trees, I hear noises from deep inside and it is dark, I am in no fit physical shape to help him." he says yawning as his belly gives of a loud rumble. "If only I could use this place to rest for one night I could look for that man and save him from bad noises I hunt, do you know that young man dumb with fury in eyes?"

Miguel walks over to the pretty lady, "I forgot manner of mine my name is Miguel Omane and may I ask your name?" he asks as he lays his Oak Long Bow on the ground next to her and sits with a smile as he admires her hard work.

Sarah looked at the young man wearily and silently finished hanging her last sheet. It was at times like this that she missed her Thomas the most. True, she had married him not because she was in love, but she had always liked him well enough and he offered her adventure. Furthermore, he always knew what to do in situations such as this.

But now it was she, and she alone, who had to decide what to do with this stranger. The right thing would be to offer him a place for the night and a share of her family’s meal...for a small fee. She doubted, however, that he had very much money. From his name and his strange accent, Sarah could tell he was not from these parts and his talk sounded delirious... or that’s what she would like to think. For weeks now she had tried to ignore those “bad noises” he described hoping they were just a fabrication of her imagination...

“My name is Sarah Wentworth.” She said finally, “As for your passionate young man I have not seen him. I live alone with my son ... and I guess you may spend the night here since supper is almost ready and it’s already dark.” Sarah paused for just a second and patted her swollen stomach thoughtfully, “Mr. Omane I would ask that as payment you chop up more wood for us tomorrow. Would that suit you?”

"Thank you miss Wentworth, so kind of you to allow me to eat as well." Miguel says as he hugs Sarah in appreciation, "As sun rise you see wood in your beautiful garden for whole month." he continues. He walks towards his bow that he had placed on the floor just moments before "I hear voices coming from here as I walked through this forest, that man I saw before he run from where the voices come from, are you sure the senor is not living here?" Miguel turns around quickly with his bow clenched by his side, as he hear a thud to the floor behind him, it was like something had dropped. "Miss Wentworth are you ok? It looks like your eyes, they cry." he says lowering his bow in relief that everything is ok.