The air was turning colder, sharper, with a bite that promised snow. We'd been on the trail for weeks, and the wilderness was starting to wear us down. The trees loomed taller, their branches skeletal against the gray sky, and the wind carried a restless edge that set my nerves on fire. I'm Ezekiel, thirty-one, a blacksmith by trade, and one of the guides for this ragtag caravan. I've always been the steady one, the man who fixes what's broken—whether it's a wagon wheel or a faltering spirit. But today, even I felt the weight of something I couldn't name.
We'd stopped in a clearing, the wagons circled like a fortress against the endless forest. The river crossing had gutted our supplies, and the skirmish with the Ojibwe warriors had left us shaken. Winter was coming fast, and we were still days from the lakes region where we hoped to settle. We couldn't afford to be slow, not with the sky darkening and the leaves turning crimson—a warning of the snows to come.
The caravan gathered around a sputtering fire, faces drawn and weary. Jedediah stood at the edge, his weathered face carved with lines deeper than usual, his rifle resting against his shoulder like an old friend. Thomas, the big man who led us, called us together, his voice heavy. "We're moving too slow," he said. "If we don't lighten the load, the snow'll trap us here."
Jedediah spoke up, his voice low and rough. "We ditch everything that ain't for survival. Books, tools, fancy clothes—leave 'em. Food, blankets, guns—that's what keeps us alive."
A murmur of protest rippled through the group. Mr. Henderson, a carpenter with a quick temper, stepped forward, his fists clenched. "You want us to abandon our livelihoods? My saws, my chisels—they're how I'll build a home out here!"
Mrs. Greene, the widow, clutched a bundle of sewing supplies to her chest. "My needles, my thread—that's my trade. You can't expect me to leave them to rot!"
I glanced at William, my younger friend, who stood beside Elizabeth Carter. His eyes flickered with worry, but he nodded at Henderson. "We need those tools to start over," he said. "What's the point of surviving if we've got nothing to build with?"
Jedediah's jaw tightened, his gaze sweeping the group like a hawk. "You think you'll build anything if you're dead? The wilderness don't care about your trades. It cares about your grit. We keep what we need to eat and stay warm. The rest is dead weight."
Thomas rubbed his chin, torn. "We can't carry it all, but we can't start from nothing either. Ezekiel, what do you say?"
I took a breath, feeling the weight of their eyes on me. "Jed's right—we're too heavy. But Henderson's got a point too. We lose the tools, we lose our future. Maybe we compromise. Keep one set of tools per trade, the bare minimum. Food and blankets take priority, but we don't strip ourselves bare."
The argument dragged on, voices rising over the crackle of the fire. Father Michael, our priest, stood quietly at first, his stern face softened by the firelight. Then he raised a hand, and the group fell silent. "The Lord provides for those who trust in Him," he said, his voice steady. "But we must also be wise stewards. Keep what sustains life, but do not forsake the means to build a new one. Balance is our path."
In the end, we agreed to a brutal culling. Each family sorted their goods, piling up what could be left behind. Henderson kept a single saw and hammer; Mrs. Greene chose a handful of needles and thread. I parted with half my blacksmith's tools, keeping only my smallest anvil and a few hammers, my heart heavy as I stacked the rest in a pile. We buried the excess under stones, marking the spot in case we could return. It felt like burying a piece of ourselves.
The next morning, we broke camp and resumed the journey, the wagons lighter but our spirits heavier. The forest seemed to close in tighter, the air thick with the scent of decaying leaves. Autumn was creeping in, the trees blazing red and gold, but there was no beauty in it—only a reminder of time running out. Every creak of the wagons, every snap of a branch, made my skin prickle. A sense of dread hung over us, like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
Father Michael moved among us, tireless despite the strain. He helped Mrs. Greene bind a sprained ankle, carried water for the children, and spoke quiet words of comfort to those who faltered. "The Lord is our shepherd," he told me as we walked beside my wagon, his Bible tucked under his arm. "He will guide us through this valley."
I nodded, wanting to believe him, but the unease wouldn't lift. "You ever feel like we're being watched, Father?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
He paused, his eyes searching the trees. "The wilderness is vast, Ezekiel. It tests us in ways we cannot yet understand. But faith will see us through."
His words were meant to soothe, but they didn't. The forest felt alive, its shadows too deep, its silence too heavy. I glanced at Jedediah, riding ahead, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the horizon like a man expecting death to leap from the trees. William walked nearby, talking softly with Elizabeth, their hands brushing as they passed a canteen. Their closeness was a small light in the gloom, but even that couldn't shake the growing dread.
As the sun dipped low, painting the sky blood-red, a chill settled over the caravan. The wind carried a faint sound—a rustle, like something moving just out of sight. I turned, my hand on my knife, but saw only the endless stretch of trees.
And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were not alone.