Forsaken - An American Sasquatch Tale Read Free Page A

woods.
    Two, she was dead.
     
    * * *
     
    She didn’t know how long she’d lain there, but early dawn hinted the night had passed. When her father finally came, he found her in the shadows of a black cherry tree, curled up on a bed of blood-soaked leaves next to Sarah’s dead, human body. Death had broken the curse. It always did.
    He touched Liberty's shoulder, tried to pull a little. Nothing moved her. He let out a deep growl and yanked her arm. She let go, kicking him in the leg on instinct. He turned and raised a fist to her. Unable to communicate in words, it was common for the Sasquatch to lash out physically, but she didn’t care. She flinched, but an image of her mother appeared in her mind, and she didn’t cower an inch.
    They stared at one another for a long moment, her pale green eyes into his dark brown, as she willed him to do it. Grief filled her, but frustration had, too. She hated him then. He’d allowed the others to mock his wife. Her mother. Hadn’t protected Sarah against the taunts and ridicule. And now he’d arrived too late and looked no different than when he showed up late for dinner. Liberty met his gaze with indifference, like he’d looked at Sarah. He lowered his hand slowly, not striking her.
    Liberty watched as her father, bending down, lifted Sarah up over his shoulder and started off. Her mother looked so small and pale, like a child. Liberty hurried to his side so she could hold Sarah’s hand, maybe offer some comfort to her in a spiritual way.
    When they reached the dugout, he lowered Sarah into it and stood still a moment, looking at his wife. Liberty studied his aura, but it remained a guarded dark gray. What did he feel? Was it pity? Relief? She didn’t believe it could be love the way he handled her like a deer carcass. Unable to bring herself to assist in the ceremony, she sat nearby and watched as her father filled in the hole.
    With every push of soil Liberty said goodbye to a memory. Push--Sarah’s laugh. The hollow thump of dirt as it landed on the body--gone was the mischief in her mother’s eyes. Another--Sarah’s hands in her hair. All the things Liberty cherished were gone, one excruciating thud at a time.
    After a while , she imagined when he could no longer see skin, her father stood, gathering bundles of twigs and in the pit they went. Boughs of pine on top of the twigs, and Sarah’s big dreams for her children were gone. As he neared the top he added large rocks, followed by a last layer of soil. In the end, the only thing left for Liberty to add were the lessons Sarah had taught her, and those she wanted to keep. Intertwined so completely within herself, burying one of those would be like gouging out an eye or cutting off a limb.
    And self-mutilation would make her unstable.
    Once he tamped the ground a few times, satisfied with his work, her father moved to the base of the hemlock tree and stripped the bark in three places. A signal to end the ceremony. Without another glance at his daughter or the grave, he started back toward Proem. She got up to trail behind, but stopped and traced the tree’s fresh wounds. No name. No heart. Just the strikes. The tree, once a symbol of safety, became Sarah Fleming’s grave marker.
     
    * * *
     
    The following weeks and months, Liberty caught snips of the colonists’ conversations. A few were affected by her loss, offered tears and wordless hugs in sympathy. Others relaxed and let down their guard, feeling somehow safer with her gone.
    But the majority agreed a mother’s instinct was a distraction. It compromised the skills needed to survive. The poor thing may have been able to bustle more effectively if she hadn’t had her daughter with her.
    She stayed until she reached the age of pardon, twenty-one, which her father granted without argument.
    And soon she saw the white auras.
     

Chapter One
     
    Present Day.
     
    The seasons in northern Pennsylvania fluctuated between raging hot and bitter cold, but the cavern