Only subscribers may read this in its entirety. What follows is a free preview, truncated midway through.April 1814 At dawn he dreamed of tiny pale men crawling like grubs under the loose scaling bark of a tree, innumerable, expendable—the english words rang in his head, scrawling over the dream a new layer of meaning, though by the time Lamochattee opened one eye he had forgotten it completely. A round black eye, smaller than his own, regarded him. Lamochattee turned and flexed the fingers of one hand against the ground, and the groundhog, dismayed by how close to him it had carelessly grazed, flopped awkwardly away to crash into cover alongside the creek.
Lamochattee laughed silently, holding the bubbles of laughter down in his belly. The spring air was full of early birdsong and the sound of the creek’s purling. Yards away on his long tether, the black horse Arrow cropped at the grass. Lamochattee rolled quietly to his feet, orienting himself to the dark trunks of oaks and poplars that filled the copse where he had slept, damp with the morning mist swirling up around them.