The last stages of the late winter storm still surged around him at intervals, with flurries of light rain stirring the surface of the swamp water. Even the enormous tree seemed to groan as the gusts of wind struck its upper branches. It was relatively dry inside, because the tree was perched on a hummock, its roots locked deep within an ancient mound of earth that protected them from the soddenness that would not have let this species survive. Year after year over the past three hundred years, the tree’s fallen leaves and shedding limbs had added increments of humus to the ground, steadily increasing the height of its own island. These subliminal thoughts were like breathing to Ethan, who lived and worked and hunted along and within this exact same stream and swamp that formed the southern border of his own farm.

Inside, the space was not quite as large as in the two-man canvas tents—small enough to be carried in a backpack—issued to well-supplied soldiers, but the shock of Kindred’s murder and Ethan’s resulting fear of the Redcoats had made his usual preference for clean and open spaces fade into insignificance.

For some reason, he had another concern, something in his subconscious that slowly penetrated his more acute sorrow and fear. The water around him was at least five feet above that of Briar Creek at its normal stage, when its flow consisted only of that which rose from the underground aquifer through the multiple springheads that fed trickling streams that would eventually flow into the Savannah River and then the sea. Even though they could all swim for short distances, the nonaquatic wild animals had to survive these periodic floods by finding a relatively dry haven. Possums, raccoons, bobcats, and squirrels found shelter in the treetops, deer habitually bedded down in the high places, and rabbits and foxes always built their dens where they would not drown and had plenty of time to return to them as the waters rose. His list narrowed, as his eyes became more accustomed to the dim light. He could see the rough inner bark, the darkened strands of fiber that still carried moisture and nutrients from the ground to the upper limbs, all disappearing in the intense darkness above. His eyes wandered over all these surrounding walls, covered with an interlocking mass of cobwebs, seemingly impenetrable. He heard a slight movement on the floor of his sanctuary, and then a shock went through his body, his spine contorted, and he involuntarily pushed back toward the narrow opening through which he had entered. Ethan was a brave man, familiar with the wilderness and its creatures, but he was instantly injected back into one of the few recurring nightmares he had experienced since childhood. Not four feet from him was a huge cottonmouth, which he knew to be the most dangerous snake in this region—always given a wide berth if possible.