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.
Preston.
You are a good man.
I try so hard to be.