A/N: Sorry for the delay, next chapter's here. I hope you enjoy.
It was late evening when we came across the ravine. I was familiar with the area, there were fish in the creek that wended through the bottom. And, if my memory served me, a cave of sorts. Of course it had been many summers since I had last been in the area. It could have caved in or have become be the den of some wild creature. That was a risk I had had to take in coming here. As a child I had explored all I came across—the trees, the rocks, the animals, the dirt, the water, everything. The trees were different than I remembered—smaller, taller, more overgrown—one was fallen, but it mattered not—I knew the way. Conscious of Cora stumbling loudly behind me, I slipped down and found myself at once in the water. The cold was distant for a moment as my buckskin leggings protected me, and then the ice-like water seeped through. I began wading upstream. Behind me I heard a shriek, I turned; Cora had lost her balance and was half sliding, half running down the steep incline. I grabbed at her as she passed me and she splashed to a halt. "Watch out." I exclaimed, holding her shoulders. "Come."
She was suddenly very near, too near, and I released her and waded through the shallow water. This is not how I remember it. The tall rock… overhanging moss….
Coming to the rock, which was far smaller than I remembered, I pulled away the curtain of moss and fern and allowed myself a tight smile. It is still here, and as yet, uninhabited. Smaller than I remember… no, I was smaller, now I am grown. Then I saw it. The small child-bow, the flint knife, the feathers, the play fire, the fishing nets made by my father for me….
I closed my eyes briefly against the memories associated with the objects and then hauled myself up and in. The ceiling was low, but there was room for three men to sleep shoulder to shoulder or two with space between. Unslinging my packs and 'Killdeer' and shoving them in before me, I crawled in to the back of the burrow and sat up slowly. My head only just brushed against the damp dirt ceiling. Suddenly the dim light was blocked. My eyes immediately began making up for the change of illumination.
[What is this place?] a soft, curious voice asked.
I started and glanced over my shoulder. Cora had stuck her head into the entrance, blocking out the evening light, but my surprise stemmed from her speaking at all—she had ignored me all day.
[It is a place to rest. A place I once knew. It is safe.] I assured her, wondering if I was forgiven for the misunderstanding of the night before. A sudden thought struck me. Would she be comfortable with me taking my rest?
Her silhouette nodded and she crawled in after me. [You should sleep, you cannot expect to be able to keep awake another night. If we are as safe as you say, sleep,] she declared, leaving no room for argument.
I opened my mouth, then I closed it once more. She was right, six days without rest was pushing the limits of my endurance. If I was not careful I could become sick, sluggish, weak…. I needed sleep. Well, my earlier worry is put to rest. Without answering, I position the leather letter case as a pillow and lay myself down, my face to the nearest wall, and closed my eyes.
Cora muttered something in a strange language under her breath, and then as I drifted off amid the music of the gurgling creek, I relaxed fort the first time in many days.
I open my eyes lazily, taking in a deep breath of fresh air as I do so. I stare up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves. The dapped green effect has always served to cause wonder to me, especially when the wind stirs the branches and the shadows flit here and there. I grin, roll onto my stomach, and creep down the incline carefully. The creek glistens like burnished steel in the summer sun, it reflects the images of the trees, the sky, the bank—but all are warped. I lean out farther and see my own face, framed by the blue sky. I grin at myself and then commence to twist my features into expressions at which Hawkeye always laughs—his real laugh, not his silent one. A fish darts by and my attention is diverted. It has a dark olive green background with light wavy markings on the back, and red spots on the sides. Its lower fins are striking, with bright white edging separated from the mostly red fin by a black line.
I lean over farther… minutes pass… another swims over, but stops just out of my reach. I stretch out my hands and will the fish closer… it doesn't move. So I plunge my hands in the water wait. The sun sets and with it goes the warmth and all light. The dirt of the bank becomes frozen beneath me, the water becomes like liquid ice, but still I wait for the shimmering trout. The moon rises and I can once more see the fish, still swaying just out of my grasp. My hands seem larger—stronger, scarred deeply, darker even—my arms are longer—to fit my hands— and yet I cannot reach the fish. The moon is overhead now and the trout begins to move. Slowly… slowly it comes to me… and I grasp it with my bare hands.
The chance is instant. One moment I an holding a wriggling fish, the nest my my fingers are wrapped around my father's neck. But that is not all, the creek has become still as glass and as hot as fire. My lower half—the part of me on the bank—is frozen stiff, my arms—the part of me in the water–are burning. Fire licks my hands, my father's face morphs in pain, he is slowly burning alive.
"Father!"
My eyes catch each little detail—the strange way his hunting-shirt burns, the blood wreathing his face, his scalp-less head, the…—tears pour down my cheeks and splash into the still water, causing strange ripples across the surface of the image. He continues to burn before my eyes, and try as I might, I cannot drag him through the window. I cannot pull him through the water. I cannot release his neck, nor pull him close, I cannot even join him in death.
And then he is but a trout—a trout with a dark olive green background with light wavy markings on its back, which look much like the markings a worm makes in the mud, or on a pice of wood under the bark, and red spots on its sides; its lower fins are mostly red, but have bright white edging separated by a black line from the rest—and I release it in horror. The fish darts away and I am left, cold, on the bank.
"Father…" I whisper as the tears drip into the water. The dream faded, and I slept peacefully once more.