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mother knows they’re coming, too. She lays my father’s frock on the ground and pushes Mary down onto it and begins covering her with laurel.
    â€œMother,” I say, turning to hand her branches, “should I make for the fort?”
    She doesn’t stop burying Mary to answer.
    â€œMother,” I repeat, but I’m interrupted by the shouts of men.
    Mary whimpers.
    â€œDon’t worry, Mary, they won’t find us. Close up your ears with your fingers and talk to Father,” I tell her.
    There was a time when we didn’t fear Indians. But since four of the six nations of the Iroquois joined the British, they’ve become a vicious enemy. Last October’s raid taught us this. On a beautiful fall day, with the sky the color of blue iris and the leaves of the beeches a brighter orange than the tip of a well-tended fire, they whipped through our neighboring settlement, burning everything in sight and murdering anyone who got in the way.
    Their cries grow louder. My mother grabs my arm, and the two of us huddle down with Mary in between, covering ourselves with the remaining branches. Just before I bury myself in laurel, I see them come out of the woods north of the cabin. At first my eyes just catch movement through the trees. But then I see the red of war paint.
    The whooping and hollering flattens my body against the earth. I can feel Mary shaking. I move closer to her. The smell of burning wood settles into the ditch with us. I know that it’s my home that’s burning. One Indian in particular shrieks above the rest. It sounds as if he’s standing ten yards from us. Mary’s body shakes even harder and I’m afraid it will rustle the branches. I move my hand over the dirt slowly to find hers. She grabs my hand. Her nails dig into my skin. I can feel her fear. I can smell it.
    â€œMary.” I say it so softly it comes out like a puff of air. “Mary, put your nose down to Father’s frock. Can you smell him? He’s here with us. They’ll leave soon. It won’t be long.”
    Mary begins to sob. I can’t actually hear her crying, but can feel it. I know that movement well. For weeks after Fatherdied, she would come to my bed at night, like when we were small, and slide in next to me. Clutching at my nightclothes, she’d cry silently so that my mother wouldn’t wake. Her body rocking back and forth without making a single sound.
    There is a loud clap and the three of us jump in unison under our branches. The Indians roar with glee. The roof of our cabin has collapsed. I hear a single voice. He barks out orders in English to search for our animals. I’d released the cows and pigs this morning to forage.
    â€œMother, I must run to alert others,” I whisper. She doesn’t say a word, even though I know she heard me. “Mother,” I repeat, “they’re busy gathering the animals. At least allow me to warn the Van Ettens.” The Van Ettens are our closest neighbors, living just northwest of us. South of the Van Ettens, and directly west of our farm, are the Van Fleets, who live halfway between us and Van Auken’s Fort.
    â€œYou know I can make it in less time than it will take them to find the pigs.”
    She says nothing, although she has spoken … silently.
    I can hear the cows bellowing, complaining loudly about having to move in the midday heat. It sounds like many of the men have gone on ahead, leaving a few behind to drive the beasts. Mary’s breathing slows. She thinks we’re out of danger; they’re leaving. But I want to be sure. We’re safe here, and I feel we should not come out of our hole for quite a long time. Maybe even wait for early evening.
    Mary interrupts my thoughts. “They’re leaving, Noah,” she whispers.
    â€œBe still, Mary,” I squeeze her hand and she relaxes a little.
    I settle more comfortably onto the dirt and stare off through the branches at the