Speaker 1: Now one of your pudding. I got a string going
Speaker 1: on here, something just because my dog. Something killed your dog.
Speaker 1: My dog. We're flying through the air over the tree.
Speaker 1: I don't know how it did it, Okay, Damn, I'm
Speaker 1: really confused. All I saw was my dog coming over
Speaker 1: the fence and he was dead. And once you hit
Speaker 1: the ground like, I didn't see any cars. All I
Speaker 1: saw was my dog coming over the fence. Sat, what
Speaker 1: are you putting? We got some wonder or something crawling
Speaker 1: around out here? Did you see what it was? Or
Speaker 1: was it was? Standing enough? I'm out here looking through
Speaker 1: the window now and I don't see anything. I don't
Speaker 1: want to go outside, Jesus, Quice, you better hello. Hit
Speaker 1: thebody out here, Quen, I'm out there. I thought of
Speaker 1: a bet about Tech forty nine. I don't know. Easy
Speaker 1: him out there. Yeah, I'm walking right head June twentieth
Speaker 1: through twenty eighth, seventeen ninety nine. The night of June
Speaker 1: twentieth will haunt me until I die and perhaps beyond.
Speaker 1: Jim's mental state had been deteriorating for weeks. The confrontation
Speaker 1: with the aggressive mail had broken something in him, and
Speaker 1: while he functioned well enough during the day. The nights
Speaker 1: were another matter. He drank. We all knew it. He'd
Speaker 1: found a way to distill some of our grain supplies
Speaker 1: into a rough whiskey, and he'd been consuming it in
Speaker 1: quantities that would have killed a lesser man. His eyes
Speaker 1: were red rimmed, his hands unsteady, his temper frayed to
Speaker 1: the breaking point. I should have taken him off watch rotation.
Speaker 1: I should have confined him to his bedroll and kept
Speaker 1: him away from his rifle. I should have done one
Speaker 1: hundred things differently, But I didn't. And so on the
Speaker 1: night of June twentieth, Jim McAllister was on watch when
Speaker 1: one of the creatures appeared at the edge of our firelight.
Speaker 1: I didn't see what happened next. None of us did.
Speaker 1: We were asleep, trusting our lives to a man who
Speaker 1: had lost the ability to trust anything. What I do
Speaker 1: know is this, The crack of a rifle shot tore
Speaker 1: through the darkness like the end of the world. I
Speaker 1: was on my feet before the echo faded, my own
Speaker 1: weapon in hand, searching for the threat. The others scrambled
Speaker 1: up around me, voices raised in confusion and fear, and
Speaker 1: then we heard it. A scream, not human, not a
Speaker 1: sound that any earthly throat should be capable of producing.
Speaker 1: It was rage and pain and something else, something that
Speaker 1: I can only describe as betrayal. The creature had been shot.
Speaker 1: Crashing sounds erupted in the underbrush, something large and wounded,
Speaker 1: fleeing into the night, leaving a trail of destruction in
Speaker 1: its wake. Jim outed, what the hell have you done?
Speaker 1: He stood by the fire, his rifle still raised, his
Speaker 1: eyes wild and unfocused. It was coming for us, he said.
Speaker 1: His voice was slurred, distant, coming to kill us. I
Speaker 1: saw it, I saw the words died in his throat
Speaker 1: as the forest came alive around us. The knocking started
Speaker 1: within minutes, not the measured rhythm we'd grown accustomed to,
Speaker 1: but rapid, frantic, like a thousand hammers striking in unison.
Speaker 1: It came from every direction, building in intensity, until the
Speaker 1: sound became physical, a vibration that reached into our chest
Speaker 1: and squeezed our hearts. Then the howls began, multiple voices, dozens,
Speaker 1: perhaps layering on each other, harmonizing in ways that shouldn't
Speaker 1: be possible. The sound wasn't just loud, It was invasive,
Speaker 1: reaching into the primal parts of our brains and triggering
Speaker 1: responses we couldn't control. Will Harper began to scream. Solomon
Speaker 1: had to knock him unconscious to silence him. Josiah fell
Speaker 1: to his knees, his prayers reduced to incomprehensible babbling. Even
Speaker 1: Sam steady Sam, who had faced these creatures before, went
Speaker 1: pale and reached for his knife. The assault began moments later.
Speaker 1: Rocks crashed into our camp, thrown with force and accuracy
Speaker 1: that spoke of intelligence and rage. Branches torn from trees
Speaker 1: came hurtling out of the darkness, heavy enough to shatter bone.
Speaker 1: One struck Thomas in the head, and he went down
Speaker 1: in a spray of blood. The horses broke free. We
Speaker 1: tied them securely, but their terror gave them strength beyond
Speaker 1: anything rope could contain. They fled into the darkness, screaming
Speaker 1: in that horrible way that horses scream when they know
Speaker 1: death is close. Henri ran after them, brave, foolish Henery.
Speaker 1: He was gone for nearly an hour while the rest
Speaker 1: of us huddled in the center of camp, weapons pointed
Speaker 1: at a darkness that seemed to press in from every side.
Speaker 1: When he came back. His face was white as bone.
Speaker 1: They let me go, he whispered. They were all around me.
Speaker 1: I could feel them, hear them breathing, but they didn't
Speaker 1: touch me. They just let me walk back. The horses
Speaker 1: most scattered, some he swallowed hard. Some didn't scatter. We
Speaker 1: didn't ask for details. The siege continued through the night.
Speaker 1: They could have come in. We all knew it. There
Speaker 1: was nothing stopping them. Our weapons were useless against their
Speaker 1: speed and strength, and they outnumbered us by factors we
Speaker 1: couldn't calculate. But they didn't come in. They stayed at
Speaker 1: the perimeter, making their presence felt in every possible way
Speaker 1: short of direct assault. Heavy breathing, close enough that we
Speaker 1: could feel the heat of their exhalation on our skin.
Speaker 1: Shadows moving just beyond the firelight, shapes too large and
Speaker 1: too wrong to look at directly, faces appearing for split
Speaker 1: seconds in the darkness, there and gone before we could
Speaker 1: be sure what we'd seen. They were demonstrating, showing us
Speaker 1: exactly what they could do if they chose, making it
Speaker 1: absolutely clear that we lived because they permitted it. And
Speaker 1: underneath it all a single sound, repeated over and over,
Speaker 1: a mournful cry, not rage, not threat, grief. The creature
Speaker 1: Jim had shot was dead or dying, and its family
Speaker 1: was mourning it. We had killed one of them, and
Speaker 1: the price for that killing was yet to be determined.
Speaker 1: Dawn came. Eventually, the sounds faded as the sky lightened,
Speaker 1: the howls giving way to silence, the knocking diminishing until
Speaker 1: it was just a memory. We emerged from our huddle
Speaker 1: to survey the damage. The camp was destroyed, equipment, smashed, supplies, scattered, blood,
Speaker 1: trail leading from the perimeter into the forest. Jim's shot
Speaker 1: had found its mark, and whatever he'd hit had bled
Speaker 1: heavily before escaping. Seven horses returned over the following hours,
Speaker 1: wandering back in ones and twos. The rest were gone,
Speaker 1: whether dead or simply scattered too far to find. Thomas's
Speaker 1: head injury was serious, but not fatal. Solomon stitched it closed,
Speaker 1: while Thomas gritted his teeth and refused to cry out.
Speaker 1: Will Harper remained unconscious until mid morning, and when he
Speaker 1: woke something had changed in his eyes. He looked at
Speaker 1: each of us in turn, then looked at the forest
Speaker 1: and began to laugh. They're angry, he said, so angry,
Speaker 1: can't you feel it? None of us answered. Jim sat
Speaker 1: apart from the group, his rifle across his knees, his
Speaker 1: face blank. When I approached him, he looked up at
Speaker 1: me with eyes that held nothing. It was coming for us,
Speaker 1: he said again. I saw it in the firelight, coming
Speaker 1: to kill us. It wasn't attacking, Jim. It was just
Speaker 1: standing there like they've done every night for weeks. But
Speaker 1: it could have attacked, it could have his voice broke.
Speaker 1: Couldn't wait anymore, Captain, I couldn't just sit there waiting
Speaker 1: for them to decide to kill us. I didn't have
Speaker 1: the energy to argue. I just turned away and began
Speaker 1: assessing our situation. We were alive, barely, but we were
Speaker 1: still alive, and the creatures, the creatures were waiting to
Speaker 1: see what we would do next. We have to make
Speaker 1: this right, Sam said, appearing at my shoulder. Whatever Jim did,
Speaker 1: we have to answer for it, all of us. How
Speaker 1: I don't know. He looked at the blood trail leading
Speaker 1: into the forest. But if we don't find a way,
Speaker 1: they'll answer for us. I followed his gaze. The trail
Speaker 1: was dark and ominous, a pathway into consequences we couldn't
Speaker 1: predict one of them was dead or dying because of us,
Speaker 1: and something told me that the creature's judgment when it came,
Speaker 1: would be terrible. Indeed, Marcus's hands were trembling as he
Speaker 1: set down the journal. The narrative had taken a turn.
Speaker 1: He hadn't expected. Violence, blood, the fragile peace shattered by
Speaker 1: one man's fear and too much whiskey. He thought about
Speaker 1: Jim McAllister, the war veteran, the fierce friend, the man
Speaker 1: who'd lost everything and then lost himself. Marcus had grown
Speaker 1: to like him through Elijah's descriptions, his loyalty, his skill,
Speaker 1: his wounded courage. Now Jim had become the instrument of catastrophe,
Speaker 1: and the expedition would pay the price. Marcus looked at
Speaker 1: the stack of remaining journals. There was so much more
Speaker 1: to come. The atonement Elijah had mentioned the two deaths
Speaker 1: the outline promised. He wasn't sure he wanted to keep reading,
Speaker 1: but he picked up the journal anyway, because some truths,
Speaker 1: once started, demanded to be finished. June twenty eighth through
Speaker 1: July tenth, seventeen ninety nine, Sam insisted that we returned
Speaker 1: to the place where the shooting had occurred. That we
Speaker 1: make our atonement there where the blood had been spilled.
Speaker 1: They understand ritual, he said, they understand exchange. If we're
Speaker 1: going to have any chance of surviving this, we have
Speaker 1: to show them that we understand it too. I didn't
Speaker 1: know if he was right. I didn't know if anything
Speaker 1: we could do would matter. But I had no better ideas,
Speaker 1: and Sam had more experience with these creatures than any
Speaker 1: of us. We made the journey in silence. The forest
Speaker 1: felt different, now, hostile in a way it hadn't been before.
Speaker 1: The watching eyes were still there, but their quality had changed.
Speaker 1: They weren't evaluating us anymore. They were judging us, condemning us.
Speaker 1: We reached the side of the shooting in the late afternoon.
Speaker 1: The blood had dried to dark stains on the ground,
Speaker 1: and the underbrush was trampled and broken from the wounded
Speaker 1: creature's flight. We'll make our offering here, Sam said, each
Speaker 1: of us, something personal, something that matters. Will that be enough?
Speaker 1: I don't know, but it's all we have. We gathered
Speaker 1: our offerings in silncellance. Thomas gave his surgical instruments, the
Speaker 1: ones that had belonged to his mentor that he'd carried
Speaker 1: through thirty years of practice. His hand shook as he
Speaker 1: laid them on the ground. Josiah gave his wife's bible,
Speaker 1: the one he'd carried since her death, the one that
Speaker 1: had sustained his faith, and then watched it crumble. Tears
Speaker 1: streamed down his face as he placed it beside Thomas's instruments.
Speaker 1: Henry gave his survival knife, the blade that had saved
Speaker 1: his life more times than he could count, fifteen years
Speaker 1: of wilderness travel, condensed into a single piece of steel.
Speaker 1: Solomon gave his carved figures, the wooden sculptures he'd been
Speaker 1: making since we entered this territory, Humans and creatures standing
Speaker 1: side by side, his grandmother's stories made tangible. Will Harper
Speaker 1: barely Lucid gave a sketch, the best he'd ever done,
Speaker 1: he said, A portrait of the juvenile that had befriended Zeke,
Speaker 1: rendered with a tenderness that made my heart Acheke gave
Speaker 1: the pressed flower he'd been keeping in his journal, a
Speaker 1: gift from his creature friend, now returned to the forest.
Speaker 1: I gave my commission papers from the Continental Army. Everything
Speaker 1: I'd been, everything I'd fought for, condensed into a single
Speaker 1: document and Jim. Jim walked forward slowly, his face a
Speaker 1: mask of grief and shame. In his hands, he held
Speaker 1: his father's dirk, the only link he had left to
Speaker 1: the family the war had taken from him. I'm sorry,
Speaker 1: he said, his voice breaking. I was afraid. I've been
Speaker 1: afraid since the war, and I couldn't. I couldn't. He
Speaker 1: couldn't finish. He just placed the dirt with the other
Speaker 1: offerings and stepped back, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Speaker 1: We retreated to the edge of the clearing and waited.
Speaker 1: The first night, nothing happened. We sat around a fire
Speaker 1: that seemed too small, watching the darkness, listening for any
Speaker 1: sound that might tell us whether our atonement had been accepted. Silent,
Speaker 1: complete silence. The second night, we heard movement shapes in
Speaker 1: the darkness, circling our camp, examining the offering pile from
Speaker 1: a distance, but they didn't approach. They didn't interact, They
Speaker 1: just watched. The third night they came. There were three
Speaker 1: of them. They emerged from the forest just after midnight,
Speaker 1: moving slowly deliberately. Their eyes reflected our firelight like lanterns.
Speaker 1: I recognized the gray elder the one who had made
Speaker 1: first contact at the stream. He walked at the front,
Speaker 1: his scarred face unreadable, and behind him, limping heavily favoring
Speaker 1: his left leg. The wounded creature Jim shot had found
Speaker 1: its mark, but it hadn't been fatal. The creature was alive, injured,
Speaker 1: clearly in pain, but alive. My breath caught in my throat.
Speaker 1: They approached the offering pile and stopped. The Gray Elder
Speaker 1: examined each item, carefully, picking them up, turning them over
Speaker 1: in his enormous hands. He spent the longest time with
Speaker 1: Jim's dirk, holding it up to the moonlight, studying the blade.
Speaker 1: Then he looked at us. At Jim, Jim stood frozen,
Speaker 1: his face pale, his hands trembling at his sides. But
Speaker 1: he didn't run, didn't reach for his weapon. He just
Speaker 1: stood there, waiting for whatever judgment the creatures had decided
Speaker 1: to render. The Gray Elder walked toward him, Each step
Speaker 1: seemed to take an eternity. The creature was massive, easily
Speaker 1: seven feet tall, with shoulders that could have blocked out
Speaker 1: the moon. Its face was a mask of shadows, only
Speaker 1: those ancient eyes visible in the darkness. It stopped in
Speaker 1: front of Jim, close enough to touch, close enough to
Speaker 1: kill with a single sweep of those enormous hands. Jim
Speaker 1: didn't move, didn't speak, just stood there, tears streaming down
Speaker 1: his face, waiting and stay tuned for more sasquatch ott
Speaker 1: to see. We'll be right back after these messages. The
Speaker 1: gray Elder reached out one massive hand descended towards Jim's shoulder.
Speaker 1: My finger tightened on my rifle, every instinct screaming at
Speaker 1: me to intervene. But the hand didn't strike. It simply
Speaker 1: rested a weight on Jim's shoulder, heavy and warm and
Speaker 1: somehow gentle. I'm sorry, Jim whispered, I was afraid. I'm
Speaker 1: so sorry. The creature made a sound, low rumbling, almost
Speaker 1: like a sigh. Then it squeezed Jim's shoulder once and
Speaker 1: stepped back. It walked to the offering pile, selected Jim's dirk,
Speaker 1: and turned back to face us. It held up the blade,
Speaker 1: not threateningly, but deliberately, making sure we all saw what
Speaker 1: it was doing. Then it carved something into a nearby tree,
Speaker 1: a symbol an open hand, gift for gift, offering for offering,
Speaker 1: exchange for EXE. The other creatures took the rest of
Speaker 1: our offerings. We watched them examine each item, handling them
Speaker 1: with what seemed almost like reverence, And then in the
Speaker 1: place where our things had been, they left something new,
Speaker 1: a single object, gleaming in the firelight. A stone knife,
Speaker 1: beautifully crafted, the edge sharp enough to shave, with cymbols
Speaker 1: carved along the handle that matched the ones on my pendant.
Speaker 1: The gray elder looked at us one final time, then
Speaker 1: he turned and walked back into the forest, the wounded
Speaker 1: creature limping behind him. They were gone. We stood in
Speaker 1: silence for a long time, none of us willing to
Speaker 1: be the first to move. Finally, Sam walked to the
Speaker 1: rock and picked up the stone knife. He turned it
Speaker 1: over in his hands, examining the craftsmanship forgiveness. I asked,
Speaker 1: Maybe he looked at me and there was something in
Speaker 1: his eyes that I couldn't quite read. Or maybe just acknowledgment.
Speaker 1: They understand that Jim was afraid. That fear makes people
Speaker 1: do terrible things. They've seen it before, they'll see it again.
Speaker 1: But they're not going to kill us, not for this.
Speaker 1: He handed me the knife. But Captain, this is a
Speaker 1: second chance. There won't be a third I took the
Speaker 1: knife and felt its weight in my hand, A gift
Speaker 1: from creatures that could have destroyed us, a symbol of mercy,
Speaker 1: from beings that owed us nothing. The siege was over,
Speaker 1: but the expedition was changed forever. And as we gathered
Speaker 1: our remaining supplies and prepared to press on, I knew
Speaker 1: that whatever came next would test us in ways we
Speaker 1: couldn't imagine. We had been forgiven. Now we had to
Speaker 1: prove ourselves worthy of that forgiveness. Marcus looked up from
Speaker 1: the journal. The fire had burned down to coals, and
Speaker 1: the cabin was cold. Outside, the first hints of dawn
Speaker 1: were coloring the sky, painting the mountains in shades of
Speaker 1: gray and gold. He'd been reading for hours. Day he'd
Speaker 1: lost track, but he was starting to understand his ancestor
Speaker 1: had been given something precious in that wilderness. Not just
Speaker 1: knowledge of the creature's existence, but an understanding of what
Speaker 1: they were. Intelligent beings, ancient watchers, something that existed alongside
Speaker 1: humanity but apart from it, and that understanding came with responsibility.
Speaker 1: The creatures had shown mercy, they'd forgiven a transgression that
Speaker 1: could have ended the entire expedition, but they'd also made
Speaker 1: clear that mercy had limits. Marcus thought about his father,
Speaker 1: all those years of watching the mountains, all those years
Speaker 1: of carrying a secret that no one would believe. Had
Speaker 1: his father been given a similar chance, a moment of
Speaker 1: mercy that he'd spent his life trying to be worthy
Speaker 1: of the journals would tell him. Eventually. There were still
Speaker 1: so many pages to read, but for now, Marcus needed sleep,
Speaker 1: needed food, needed a few hours away from his ancestory's
Speaker 1: voice and the weight of two centuries of secrets. He
Speaker 1: closed the journal and said it carefully aside. Then he
Speaker 1: walked to the window and looked out at the mountains,
Speaker 1: watching the sun rise over peaks that had witnessed things
Speaker 1: no human should know about. Somewhere out there, they were watching, too,
Speaker 1: They were always watching. July tenth through twentieth, seventeen ninety nine.
Speaker 1: We could not continue as we were. That much was
Speaker 1: clear to everyone. Seven horses remained of the fifteen we'd
Speaker 1: started with. Our equipment lay in ruins, specimen jars, shattered
Speaker 1: notebooks scattered, Thomas's precious camera apparatus smashed beyond repair. Will
Speaker 1: Harper could barely walk without assistance. His mind fractured by horrors.
Speaker 1: None of us could fully comprehend. Jim was improving, but fragile.
Speaker 1: The creature's touch on his shoulder had done something to him,
Speaker 1: healed something or broken something further, and none of us
Speaker 1: knew which our supplies would last part perhaps another month
Speaker 1: if we were careful. Winter was still months away, but
Speaker 1: in these mountains the weather could turn deadly without warning.
Speaker 1: We had traveled far beyond any territory known to white men,
Speaker 1: and the journey back would be arduous, even under the
Speaker 1: best circumstances. And through it all the creatures watched, always watching.
Speaker 1: We need to decide, I said on the morning of
Speaker 1: July tenth, gathering the men around our meager fire. We
Speaker 1: cannot stay here indefinitely. We cannot press forward without resupply.
Speaker 1: We must choose our path. The debate that followed lasted
Speaker 1: most of the day. Thomas argued for a complete withdrawal.
Speaker 1: We have documentation, he said, gesturing at the notebooks he'd
Speaker 1: managed to salvage. We have observations, sketches, physical evidence. It's
Speaker 1: enough to prove the creatures exist, enough to change everything
Speaker 1: we thought we knew about the natural world. It's not
Speaker 1: enough Sam said quietly, not nearly enough. Two men nearly
Speaker 1: died in the sea, each will may never fully recover.
Speaker 1: How much more are you willing to sacrifice for this
Speaker 1: expedition as much as it takes. Sam's voice was flat certain.
Speaker 1: I didn't walk two hundred miles to turn back now.
Speaker 1: I didn't spend twenty years waiting for this moment just
Speaker 1: to leave before I understood what I came to understand,
Speaker 1: and what is that? What understanding could possibly be worth
Speaker 1: dying for. Sam didn't answer. He just looked at the
Speaker 1: forest around us, at the shapes that moved in the shadows,
Speaker 1: and shook his head. Zeke surprised me by speaking next,
Speaker 1: my nephew, who had seemed so young and eager when
Speaker 1: we departed. Richmond had aged a decade in the months since.
Speaker 1: His face was thinner, his eyes harder, and when he
Speaker 1: spoke there was steel in his voice that hadn't been
Speaker 1: there before. I'm not leaving, he said, the young one,
Speaker 1: My friend, It's still out there. I can feel it
Speaker 1: watching me. There's something that wants me to understand, something
Speaker 1: it's been trying to show owe me. I need to
Speaker 1: know what that is. It's not your friend, Zeke, Thomas
Speaker 1: said gently, It's an animal. A highly intelligent animal, yes,
Speaker 1: but an animal. Nonetheless, it doesn't have friends. It has prey,
Speaker 1: and it has competitors, and it has whatever we are
Speaker 1: to it, curiosity perhaps, or territory markers. You don't know that.
Speaker 1: I don't know anything anymore. That's rather the point. In
Speaker 1: the end, we reached a compromise that satisfied no one,
Speaker 1: but seemed the only viable path forward. The expedition would split. Thomas, Will, Henry,
Speaker 1: and Josiah would return east, carrying the journals written so far,
Speaker 1: the specimens Thomas had preserved, the sketches Will had made
Speaker 1: before his breakdown. They would resupply, rest, and wait at
Speaker 1: a rendezvous point on Ree would designate a spot in
Speaker 1: Shawnee Territory where we had cased supplies on our outward journey.
Speaker 1: The rest of us, myself, Sam, Jim, Solomon, and Zeke
Speaker 1: would press on deeper into the creature's territory, toward whatever
Speaker 1: lay beyond these mountains, whatever it was the creatures seemed
Speaker 1: to be guiding us toward. We would reunite in the
Speaker 1: spring God, willing share what we had learned, decide together
Speaker 1: what to do with our knowledge. If we survived. The
Speaker 1: preparations took three days. We redistributed supplies, giving the returning
Speaker 1: party enough to make the journey safely, while keeping enough
Speaker 1: for ourselves to continue. Thomas protested vigorously. He wanted to
Speaker 1: leave us more certain we would need it, but I
Speaker 1: overruled him. If something happens to us, the journals must survive,
Speaker 1: I said, That's all that matters now. Everything we've seen,
Speaker 1: everything we've documented, it cannot be lost. Do you understand?
Speaker 1: Thomas nodded slowly. His face was gray with exhaustion and
Speaker 1: something else, grief, perhaps for the scientist fix certainty that
Speaker 1: had died somewhere in these mountains. I understand, Captain. I'll
Speaker 1: guard them with my life. See that you do. And
Speaker 1: Thomas I hesitated, uncertain how to say what needed to
Speaker 1: be said. If we don't return, the journals must be hidden,
Speaker 1: not published, not shared with anyone who might use them
Speaker 1: to find this place. The creatures have shown us mercy.
Speaker 1: I won't repay that mercy by leading hunters to their
Speaker 1: doorstep hidden. But the scientific value is nothing compared to
Speaker 1: what would happen if the wrong people learned about this.
Speaker 1: Imagine it Thomas. An army of settlers armed to the
Speaker 1: teeth invading this valley, hunters seeking trophies, scientists wanting specimens.
Speaker 1: How long would the creatures survive? How long before this
Speaker 1: place became a slaughter house? Thomas was silent for a
Speaker 1: long moment. Then he nodded again, more firmly, this time.
Speaker 1: I understand hidden until humanity ready, if it's ever ready.
Speaker 1: The morning of departure was clear and cold, the sky
Speaker 1: a deep blue, unmarked by clouds. The creatures were visible
Speaker 1: on the ridgeline above our camp, five or six of them,
Speaker 1: their shapes dark against the pale sky, watching as always.
Speaker 1: The farewells were brief but heavy with emotion. Aunt Re
Speaker 1: embraced me, his usual charming smile nowhere to be seen.
Speaker 1: If you survived this, Captain, i'll see you in the spring.
Speaker 1: If not, he shrugged, a gesture that somehow conveyed both
Speaker 1: fatalism and hope. Then I'll drink to your memory until
Speaker 1: I join you. Josiah took my hands in his. The
Speaker 1: former reverend had found something in these mountains, not the
Speaker 1: faith he'd lost, but perhaps something to replace it, a
Speaker 1: sense of purpose, or at least of acceptance. God go
Speaker 1: with you, he said, Whatever God watches over places like this.
Speaker 1: Thomas shook my hand formally, the scientist maintaining his composure
Speaker 1: even now, but his eyes were wet when he turned away.
Speaker 1: Will Harper didn't speak, he hadn't spoken coherently in days,
Speaker 1: But as anri led him toward the waiting horses, he
Speaker 1: turned and looked at me, really looked, with eyes that
Speaker 1: seemed to see things the rest of us couldn't. They're beautiful,
Speaker 1: he whispered, Don't you see They're so beautiful. Then he
Speaker 1: was gone, are guiding him down the trail, and the
Speaker 1: Eastern party was disappearing into the forest. We watched until
Speaker 1: they were out of sight. Then we turned west toward
Speaker 1: the deeper mountains, toward whatever waited in the wilderness beyond.
Speaker 1: Five men, now alone in territory that had already claimed
Speaker 1: our horses and nearly claimed our lives. The creature still
Speaker 1: watching from the ridge line. Whatever comes next, Sam said,
Speaker 1: his voice quiet but steady. We face it together, or
Speaker 1: we die together. Solomon added, those are the only options now.
Speaker 1: I touched the pendant at my chest, warm as always,
Speaker 1: pulsing with that strange heartbeat I'd grown accustomed to and
Speaker 1: led my men into the unknown. Marcus closed the journal
Speaker 1: and stood up from the chair. His legs ached from
Speaker 1: sitting too long, his eyes burned from reading by firelight.
Speaker 1: His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten and
Speaker 1: how long he couldn't remember. The cabin was cold, the
Speaker 1: fire had burned down to embers while he read, and
Speaker 1: the October night had settled in with a chill that
Speaker 1: seeped through the old walls. He added more wood to
Speaker 1: the fire, watching the flames catch and grow, then went
Speaker 1: to the kitchen to find something to eat. His father's
Speaker 1: pantry was well stocked, as everything in this cabin was
Speaker 1: well maintained. Canned goods, dried fruit, coffee, and whiskey, the
Speaker 1: supplies of a man who expected to be alone for
Speaker 1: long stretches of time. Marcus opened a can of soup
Speaker 1: and ate it cold, too impaindat to wait for it
Speaker 1: to heat. His mind was still in seventeen ninety nine,
Speaker 1: still following five men into the wilderness, still wondering which
Speaker 1: of them would survive what was coming. He knew some
Speaker 1: of them didn't survive. The outline in his father's notes
Speaker 1: made that clear. Two deaths described in horrifying detail. The
Speaker 1: thought of reading those passages made his stomach clinch, but
Speaker 1: he knew he would read them anyway. He had to know,
Speaker 1: had to understand, had to carry this burden as his
Speaker 1: father had carried it before him. He went back to
Speaker 1: the chair and picked up the next journal. July twentieth
Speaker 1: through August fifteenth, seventeen ninety nine. The forest transformed around
Speaker 1: us as we traveled west. I have seen ancient places before,
Speaker 1: the ruins of settlements abandoned during the war, churches built
Speaker 1: before the first English colonists arrived, even once a stone
Speaker 1: circle in the Virginia Highlands that my Lenape guides claimed
Speaker 1: predated their own people's arrival on this continent. None of
Speaker 1: it prepared me for what we found in the deep country.
Speaker 1: The trees here were older than old, their trunks stretched
Speaker 1: wider than houses, their bark cracked and weathered by millennia
Speaker 1: of growth. The canopy above formed a continuous ceiling that
Speaker 1: blocked all but scattered fragments of light, creating a perpetual
Speaker 1: twilight that made it impossible to judge the hour. Moss
Speaker 1: and liken covered every surface in shades of green and gray,
Speaker 1: and the silence. God. The silence had a weight to it,
Speaker 1: a physical presence that pressed against the ears and filled
Speaker 1: the spaces between heartbeats. No human had ever walked here.
Speaker 1: I was certain of that. No axe had ever fallen
Speaker 1: on these trees, No fire had ever cleared these underbrush,
Speaker 1: No trail had ever been cut through this endless green darkness.
Speaker 1: We were walking into prehistory, and we were not alone.
Speaker 1: The creatures no longer hid from us. They walked beside
Speaker 1: us openly, now assive shapes, moving between the ancient trees
Speaker 1: with a grace that defied their size. And stay tuned
Speaker 1: for more sasquatch ott to see. We'll be right back
Speaker 1: after these messages. Sometimes they were ahead of us, sometimes behind,
Speaker 1: sometimes flanking us on either side, always visible, always watching.
Speaker 1: I counted at least a dozen different individuals over the
Speaker 1: first week of travel. The scarred elder appeared frequently, his
Speaker 1: gray hair distinctive even at a distance. Several younger males
Speaker 1: displayed occasionally chest beating, screaming, charging displays that stopped just
Speaker 1: short of actual contact. Females with young stayed further back,
Speaker 1: visible only as shadows among the greater shadows, and the
Speaker 1: juvenile that had befriended. Zeke appeared every few days, approaching
Speaker 1: my nephew with what I could only describe as eagerness.
Speaker 1: They would stand together for long minutes, these two young
Speaker 1: beings from utterly different worlds, examining each other with a
Speaker 1: mutual fascination that troubled me deeply. It's teaching me, Zeke said.
Speaker 1: After one of these encounters. His face held that strange
Speaker 1: expression he'd been wearing more and more often, part wonder,
Speaker 1: part fear, part something else I couldn't name. Showing me
Speaker 1: how to see the forest, how to read the signs,
Speaker 1: what signs everything, The way the light falls, the direction
Speaker 1: of the moss growth, the sounds that aren't sounds, vibrations
Speaker 1: in the ground, patterns in the silence. It's like learning
Speaker 1: a new language, except it's not a language. It's something
Speaker 1: older than language. I didn't know what to make of that,
Speaker 1: neither did anyone else. We fell into a routine of sorts,
Speaker 1: walking by day, following trails that seemed to appear just
Speaker 1: when we needed them, camping by dusk, and clearings that
Speaker 1: were always somehow present, somehow perfectly suited to our needs.
Speaker 1: Leaving offerings each night, food, small tools, bright objects that
Speaker 1: were always taken by mourning, finding gifts in their place.
Speaker 1: Herbs with medicinal properties, stone tools of remarkable craftsmanship, once
Speaker 1: a bundle of dried meat that sustained us for three days.
Speaker 1: The exchange continued, gift for gift, presence for presents, a
Speaker 1: fragile equilibrium that could shatter at any moment, but the
Speaker 1: danger never diminished. The creatures reminded us of it regularly,
Speaker 1: threat displays when we moved in directions they didn't want
Speaker 1: us to go, Screams and charges that stopped just feet away,
Speaker 1: close enough to feel the heat of their breath. The
Speaker 1: howls at night, still coming every few days, still reaching
Speaker 1: into our skulls and touching something primal. We were being tolerated,
Speaker 1: not welcomed, not accepted. One misstep, one wrong move, and
Speaker 1: that tolerance would end. Physical hardships accumulated. The terrain was
Speaker 1: brutal ravines that required hours to cross, cliffs that had
Speaker 1: to be climbed with ropes. We didn't have enough of
Speaker 1: rivers that ran too fast and too cold for safe fording.
Speaker 1: Our food supplies dwindled despite the creature's gifts. Our clothes
Speaker 1: wore thin, our boots fell apart and had to be
Speaker 1: wrapped in scraps of leather and bark. The creatures sometimes helped.
Speaker 1: Sometimes we would find fresh kills at the edges of
Speaker 1: our camps, deer rabbits, once a young bear, placed where
Speaker 1: we would see them, but not close enough to seem
Speaker 1: threatening charity or something else. They're fattening us up, Jim
Speaker 1: said one evening, his voice holding a darkness. I didn't like.
Speaker 1: He'd been stable since the atonement, but something in him
Speaker 1: remained broken, like livestock before the slaughter. That's not what's happening,
Speaker 1: Solomon said quietly. He was carving again, his hands never
Speaker 1: steal wooden figures emerging from the rough chunks of wood
Speaker 1: he gathered each day. They're not feeding us because they
Speaker 1: want to eat us. They're feeding us because because what.
Speaker 1: Solomon was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again,
Speaker 1: his voice was barely audible. Because they want us to
Speaker 1: reach wherever we're going. They want us to see what's ahead.
Speaker 1: How do you know that. I don't know it, I
Speaker 1: feel it. He held up one of his carvings, a
Speaker 1: figure with broad shoulders and long arms, rendered in remarkable detail.
Speaker 1: My grandmother used to say, that some truths can't be spoken,
Speaker 1: They can only be felt. These creatures, they're communicating something,
Speaker 1: not in words, not even in actions, in something deeper.
Speaker 1: I thought about the pendant at my chest, the warmth
Speaker 1: of it, the pulse that matched my heart beat. Maybe
Speaker 1: Solomon was right. Maybe we were being led somewhere, drawn
Speaker 1: towards something the creatures wanted us to see. The question
Speaker 1: was what. Sam provided the answer, or at least part
Speaker 1: of it. They're not leading us, he said one night,
Speaker 1: as we huddled around a fire that seemed too small
Speaker 1: against the vast darkness. They're hurting us like cattle, like sheep,
Speaker 1: toward what. I don't know, But whatever it is, it's
Speaker 1: important to them, important enough to tolerate our presence, important
Speaker 1: enough to keep us alive. That doesn't make me feel better.
Speaker 1: It's not supposed to. Sam's weathered face was grim in
Speaker 1: the firelight. We're not guests here, Captain. We're not explorers
Speaker 1: or scientists or anything else we might want to call ourselves.
Speaker 1: We're subjects, test subjects maybe, or specimens specimens of what humanity?
Speaker 1: What else do we have that they might want to study?
Speaker 1: The Western Mountains rose before us as time wore on
Speaker 1: higher peaks than any we'd seen before, their summits lost
Speaker 1: in clouds that never seemed to lift. The trees grew larger,
Speaker 1: the canopy denser, the silence more profound, and the creatures
Speaker 1: grew more numerous. We counted twenty or thirty now different
Speaker 1: individuals from different areas, converging toward the mountains, toward whatever
Speaker 1: lay beyond. Their behavior changed as well, less aggression, less wariness,
Speaker 1: something almost like anticipation in the way they moved, the
Speaker 1: way they watched us. Something was waiting in those mountains,
Speaker 1: something we were about to find. Marcus turned the page
Speaker 1: and found a break in the narrative, a gap of
Speaker 1: several days with no entries. When the journal resumed, Elijah's
Speaker 1: handwriting had changed. It was shakier, less controlled, as if
Speaker 1: his hand had been trembling when he wrote, we have
Speaker 1: found it. God help us, we have found it. August
Speaker 1: fifteenth through thirtieth, seventeen ninety nine. Before we reached the
Speaker 1: hidden valley, we encountered the Wyandot. They found us on
Speaker 1: the edge of their territory, five white men, ragged and
Speaker 1: half starved, with a procession of creatures visible on the
Speaker 1: ridge line behind us. The wind Doot scouts didn't know
Speaker 1: what to make of us. Their confusion was written on
Speaker 1: their faces in the way they raised and lowered their weapons,
Speaker 1: uncertain whether we were threat or curiosity, or something else entirely.
Speaker 1: Solomon saved us. His knowledge of trade signs learned from
Speaker 1: contacts among the freed communities of Maryland allowed him to
Speaker 1: communicate our peaceful intentions. The scouts conferred among themselves for
Speaker 1: a long time, glancing repeatedly at the shapes on the ridge,
Speaker 1: before finally gesturing for us to follow. The Wyandot village
Speaker 1: was larger than any native settlement i'd seen, perhaps two
Speaker 1: hundred people living in longhouses arranged around a central plaza.
Speaker 1: The village showed signs of long occupation, but also signs
Speaker 1: of conflict. Burned structures that had never been rebuilt, defensive
Speaker 1: walls that seemed recent, markers for the dead that stretched
Speaker 1: in rows beyond the village edge. This was a people
Speaker 1: who had known war. They took us to their council house,
Speaker 1: a massive structure at the center of the village, and
Speaker 1: there we met she who remembers she was ancient, so
Speaker 1: old that her skin had gone thin as paper, her
Speaker 1: eyes clouded with cataracts that should have rendered her blind.
Speaker 1: But when she looked at us, when she looked at me,
Speaker 1: I felt the weight of her gaze as surely as
Speaker 1: I had felt the weight of the creature's stairs. She
Speaker 1: was the tribe's keeper of history, the one who remembered
Speaker 1: what others had forgotten, the one who knew the full
Speaker 1: truth of what lived in the mountains. We know what
Speaker 1: follows you, she said through translators. Her voice was surprisingly strong,
Speaker 1: carrying the authority of accumulated years. We have known them forever,
Speaker 1: the Messinguo, I said, the Chiatanka, the stone giants, different names,
Speaker 1: same creatures. You have learned something that is more than
Speaker 1: most whites achieve. She leaned forward, her milky eyes searching
Speaker 1: my face. But you do not yet understand what you
Speaker 1: have learned. Then teach us. She was silent for a
Speaker 1: long moment. The fire in the center of the council
Speaker 1: house crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
Speaker 1: We call them the big Elder Brothers, she said finally,
Speaker 1: not because they are kin to us, but because they
Speaker 1: were here before us, long before, when our ancestors first
Speaker 1: crossed into this land. So long ago, that the stories
Speaker 1: have become legends, and the legends have become myths. The
Speaker 1: elder brothers were already ancient. They watched us come, they
Speaker 1: watched us spread, they watched us grow, and they fought you. Yes,
Speaker 1: her voice dropped. The wars lasted generations. My grandmother's grandmother
Speaker 1: told stories of the long war. Villages burned in the night,
Speaker 1: warriors sent into the mountains who never returned, children stolen
Speaker 1: from their beds, bodies found in pieces or not found
Speaker 1: at all. The fire popped again, sending sparks spiraling upward
Speaker 1: toward the smoke hole in the roof. No one moved,
Speaker 1: no one spoke. We fought because we did not understand.
Speaker 1: She who remembers continued. We thought we could drive them out,
Speaker 1: claim their lands, make them submit, as we had made
Speaker 1: other people submit. We were wrong. What changed exhaustion. Both
Speaker 1: sides bled white. We could not defeat them, and they
Speaker 1: could not or would not exterminate us. So we reached
Speaker 1: an understanding, not peace. They do not know peace as
Speaker 1: we understand it. Ditunt an acknowledgment that more killing benefited
Speaker 1: no one. The boundary, Sam said quietly, the forbidden lands. Yes,
Speaker 1: we stay out of their places, they stay out of ours.
Speaker 1: The agreement has held for generations. She paused, her clouded
Speaker 1: eyes moving to the entrance of the council house, toward
Speaker 1: where the creatures waited on the ridgeline beyond the village.
Speaker 1: Until now. We didn't mean to break the agreement. Intent
Speaker 1: means nothing to the elder brothers. You crossed into their territory.
Speaker 1: You saw what should not be seen. The agreement is broken,
Speaker 1: whether you intended it or not. Then why are we
Speaker 1: still alive? She who remembers smiled. It was not a
Speaker 1: comforting expression. That is the question, isn't it. You have
Speaker 1: traveled deeper into their lands than any human in living memory.
Speaker 1: You have walked among them, eaten their food, received their gifts,
Speaker 1: and you are still alive. Why I do not know,
Speaker 1: but I can guess. She leaned forward again, her voice
Speaker 1: dropping to barely a whisper. Ahead of you lies the
Speaker 1: heart of their territory, the place where they have lived
Speaker 1: since before humans walk this land. No one who has
Speaker 1: entered that place has returned, not because they kill everyone
Speaker 1: who enters, though many have died there, but because those
Speaker 1: who enter change or disappear. We've come too far to
Speaker 1: turn back now I know I can see it in
Speaker 1: your eyes, the hunger, the need to know. She settled
Speaker 1: back into her furs, looking suddenly tired. My people had
Speaker 1: that hunger once. It nearly destroyed us. What would you
Speaker 1: have us? Do? What you will do regardless of what
Speaker 1: I say. Go forward, see what lies beyond. Learn what
Speaker 1: the Elder Brothers have been hiding from humanity since before
Speaker 1: we had a name for them. She closed her eyes,
Speaker 1: and may your gods protect you. Ours cannot help you
Speaker 1: where you're going. We left the Windott village the next morning.
Speaker 1: She who remembers, came to see us off, standing at
Speaker 1: the edge of the village with her attendants supporting her
Speaker 1: frail body. Remember, she called after us. They are not evil,
Speaker 1: They are not good. They simply are. But the world
Speaker 1: you are about to enter has no mercy. It does
Speaker 1: not care about human hopes or human fears. It cares
Speaker 1: only about who's survival, everyone's, everything's. She raised one hand
Speaker 1: in a gesture that might have been blessing or farewell.
Speaker 1: That is what you are about to learn. That is
Speaker 1: what has broken everyone who learned it before you. We
Speaker 1: walked into the mountains, the creatures flanking us on either side.
Speaker 1: Behind us, the Wyandot village disappeared into the forest. Behind us,
Speaker 1: the human world disappeared, and ahead of us, something weighted,
Speaker 1: something that would change everything. Marcus stopped reading. His hands
Speaker 1: were shaking, his heart was pounding. He could feel the
Speaker 1: narrative building towards something terrible, something that would justify all
Speaker 1: the warnings and all the fear and all the generations
Speaker 1: of silence. The creatures weren't evil, they weren't good, They
Speaker 1: simply were. But they were about to do something, or
Speaker 1: allow something to happen that would haunt Elijah Stone for
Speaker 1: the rest of his life. Marcus knew he should stop,
Speaker 1: knew he should eat, sleep, try to process what he'd
Speaker 1: already read, but he couldn't. The story was dragging him
Speaker 1: forward towards whatever weighted in the hidden valley. He turned
Speaker 1: the page di