He had hoped to never see this world again. He knew it would be like this – it would make him want to shut his eyes for all it's brutal, savage loveliness, all the memories knitted up into the soil, the very air itself, that poignant darkness in between the trees. And now it's eaten up his daughter. His Meg.
John Smith is running frantically through the town – and someone says they saw her, hours ago, disappearing into the trees – and into the forest her runs, for all the sun is screaming scarlet across the sky, and melting into night, for all there are wolves, bears, teeth between the trees he does not think will remember how he once walked her, a with a woman who wore feathers about her neck, and leaves in her hair –
There. Between the shadows. A head of gold, a lilting laugh – his Meg and someone else but he does not consider them, races to her, takes her in his arms and wants to shout but –
Can't.
Don't ever scare me like that again.
Dad, it's fine.
Someone could have hurt you.
No one hurt me. see – I made a friend – Dad, meet Thomas. The boy extends his hand to be shaken.
A friend?
A friend, Dad.
John looks the young man in the eyes. He stares back.
You look Indian.
My mother is, sir.
Your mother – what is her name? He is surprised at how forcefully he asks the words. And even more surprised at the relief which flood into his heart, to learn his mother's name is Rebecca. A taken name, of course, but he cannot imagine the woman he once knew surrendering her name so easily, accepting baptism, allowing herself to be twisted into another culture's narrative. No. that woman, he thinks, as he snatches back his gun and glares at his guiltily blushing daughter, was wild as the wind, and far more free. The type of girl who dove off waterfalls for fun, and claimed to listen to the mountains themselves.
He does not know what he would do, if he saw that woman.
Does not know if he could bear it.