Chapter eight – December 25, 1777

The men rarely leave their fire. It burns hot and bright and hurts my eyes, but I can hear their stories and talkings from here, wrapped up in my stolen blankets and wearing patched, shabby clothes sewn together from two or three other sets. It gives me something to do besides just sitting by the river and shivering. I can’t go anywhere until it gets warmer and here I have a steady supply of cows and dogs.

There is a lot of dispute over me. They bring in priests and religious officials to perform rituals over the garrison, hoping it will drive me away. It doesn’t, I’m as mortal as they are. Some say they should leave, there have even been deserters. I’ve watched them go.

Still, “something” keeps killing their livestock and it makes them nervous, especially after the stunt I pulled with the caravan. I have never attacked one of them before, but they are still afraid of me, terrified that I might slaughter them all in their sleep.

There is dispute over Carla as well. They think that a female, and one so young, has no business being at a wartime (and they are at war) garrison, because she might get hurt. Her father, her companion on the trip, however, thinks that she is no better at a village, apparently with some stranger because he is her only family, if the redcoats ransack it than if she were here, surrounded by walls and men with weapons. Apparently, he wants her be a strong woman, and thinks this experience will help her. She’s learning medicine here, helping some of the soldiers. I’ve even seen her helping to butcher cattle, much to the surprise of the soldiers.

Tonight there seems to be some sort of celebration. The garrison is decorated with spiny, green plants with red berries, green, needled trees stand in the center, decorated by shiny things and nuts and fluffed-up plant seeds strung on strings. There is singing and dancing, the soldiers are getting a little tipsy, and the smell of food is getting stronger and better, making me hunger for something more than black-burned cow and stolen or foraged plants.

In my spot in the trees, I can see Carla dancing with her doll, spinning in circles as white, fluffy snow drifts down from Heaven. She sings to herself softly, a song for the holiday, I think.

I shiver in my tree, my antennae pressed against my face for warmth, my long ears tucked under my light, stringy hair. Everything I have, blankets and clothes, are wrapped around my slender body, struggling for warmth. I think I’ll have to return to the stream and build a fire and huddle next to it, keeping my eyes closed. I can’t sit here and shiver all night like I did in the earlier months.

With tremors quaking my body, I climb out of the tree, the tight, leather foot-wrappings squeezing my toes together and providing little, if any, comfort, except to keep my feet off the frosted forest floor. I can see my breath when I breathe, I can’t feel my fingertips or the tips of my toes or ears.

My teeth chatter. No birds or insects sing in the woods. It’s cold here, and I don’t know how long it will stay that way. The stars are bright, the moon is shining.

Pretty…

It’s very distracting.

I gather up my blankets and start the walk back to my little haven. A fire will hurt my eyes, but the warmth will feel good.

After I walk out of sight of the garrison, I hear a twig snap. My ears prick up and my blood runs hot. My voice catches in my throat and I wonder, “Is it tonight?”

I turn my head to the sound of the noise and see a woman. She isn’t like Clara, her skin and hair are both very dark, like Cornstalk and his son, and she’s watching me with a reverent, respectful expression.

“Hello, Thunderbeing,” she says.

I grin, my long fangs showing in the moonlight.

“I am no thunderbeing,” I tell her.

“I will admit, sir, that I have never seen a Thunderbeing myself, but what else could you be?” she asks, leaning against a tree shyly.

“No idea,” I answer, bitterness tingeing my voice and tears tingeing my eyes. “Not one of you, that’s for sure.”

“No sir,” she smiles, stepping away from the tree, still with the respectful aura she carries. “I think you're a thunderbeing, a winged man who lives in the sky and controls thunder and lightening.”

I start, my eyes flickering. My hearts skip several beats and for a moment—just for a moment—my paralyzed wing muscles under the growing veil of silk move.

“My wings have been cut!” I shout, trying to keep my voice calm so I don’t frighten her when the noise already seems to bring her discomfort. “How can you tell I have them?”

The silk cocoon forming on my back would look like a blanket or part of my shirt to her, right?

She smiles, “Eyes don’t always see everything. Sometimes you see things with your heart.”

I survey her up and down, looking her over carefully. She’s stronger-built than Clara, with dusky red skin and long, long black hair.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Grenadier Squaw, sister of Chief Cornstalk.”

My eyes widen a little, but I try not to make the glow too bright. She’s Cornstalk’s sister? And she still lingers by the garrison…?

“I am sorry about your brother’s death,” I say, closing my eyes. “But why do you stay so close to his murderers?”

Grenadier Squaw shrugs, “They believe what they believe…I can’t fault them for that. A lot of things the white men do, they do out of fear, but you can’t change a man’s heart, only his mind.”

“Besides,” she says, “if I don’t keep messages running between our people, who will?”

I suppose that’s true. If she were to abandon the garrison, things could get worse for her people. The armed men, the minutemen, might be too afraid to hunt me down, but the red people are familiar. They know the limits of the red people.

“You're kind are not afraid of me,” I tell Grenadier Squaw, cocking my head to one side. “Why?”

She shrugs again, “No one but the guilty has anything to fear from Thunderbeing.”

She seems so certain that I am this Thunderbeing. She doesn’t seem to think there are any other things I could be…

I smile gently at her and ask, “What is Thunderbeing?”

“Don’t you know what you are, sir? Thunderbeing is a winged man who controls thunder and lightening. He lives in the sky and sometimes takes a fancy to human women. To see a Thunderbeing is to become a holy man, and Thunderbeings are born when holy men enter trances and grow wings.”

She fingers one of her black braids, hanging over her shoulder, and asks, “Sir, when you entered your trance and, left your body, and grew your cut wings, did you lose your memory?”

What answer can I give? How can I tell her how I lost my memory, if I do not remember losing it, or even having it?

A/N:

They mentioned Thunderbeings on the Animal X episode with winged creatures, including the Mothman. They said that a holy man who goes into a trance becomes a thunderbeing, but online I found nothing about this, just a few legends posted by people who couldn’t type about a winged man who lived in the skies and controlled thunder and lightening.