CHAPTER 51
26 October, 1856
He listened to the howling wind outside, knowing
that it was bringing with it many inches of snow that would be
covering the entrance to the shelter. But it was a warm shelter, so
much better than the hastily erected lean-tos down the hillside in
the clearing. A good place from which to do work.
Yes.
A good place to become something more. He looked
around at the tools hanging from lumber nail hooks; sharp tools,
unused for many decades. On the floor beneath them nestled an
ancient-looking flintlock weapon, from another time, perhaps even a
previous century - no good to anyone now. The tools, however, he
could use.
You are strong.
The voice inside him made him shiver with
delight.
I hope so.
He looked down at the canvas sack of bones; daring
to pull open the threaded mouth of the bag, he glimpsed the small
cluster of dark-coloured, almost black bones inside.
You came to me.
Yes. I chose you. The other was wicked.
Preston.
You are a good man.
I try so hard to be.
He resumed his work with the sharp tools - the dry
brittle scrape of metal on dry bone. Rasp . . . rasp . . .
rasp.
You will help me?
I will.
We can help each other, can’t we?
Yes.
He resumed his work, shards of bone gathering on
the dry earth floor at his feet - his work at becoming.