Summer 1835 – Fleeing Before the Hounds

We smelled them before we heard them. The air filled with scents of almost lemon, almost molasses, almost honeysuckle. Behind the almost smells was an odor of bitterness that had no similarity to anything I knew.

I held still, careful not to move the branches to which I clung. I saw a movement on the ground, a shifting of something moving through the fog.