Chapter 1

"Where's what?" she asked, "Lansing? Middle of the state. Where did you go to school?"

"Middle of what state?"

"Michigan," she said.

"Where is that?" I was truly mystified.

"Northern Central United States," she was beginning to act like I might be odd. "Looks like a mitten ... left hand mitten." She held up her hand with the palm towards her.

"Oh ... Detroit, New France," I said, but I pronounced Detroit, Deh twah.

"Detroit is here," she pointed below her thumb, "Lansing is here." And she pointed to the middle of the back of her hand.

"Never heard of the place," I said.

"You're not from here, are you," she said ... not a question ... a statement.

"I thought I was..."

The Powers that Be dropped in on the Austins. The Princessapality was just getting off the ground ... so to speak ... still putting up with nearly nightly incursions by people belonging to organizations that don't exist and can't operate in the United States if they did ... exist.

You know ... something I never considered ... the United States never acknowledged the Island as a Nation State ... but had no problems sending men from departments that were not allowed to operate in country. Wouldn't that, in itself, be de-facto recognition? Just an aside by the author.

"Where is she?" Six asked.

"Who?" David asked.

"Wendy," Six said.

Wendy and Too tootled their fingers.

"Not you two ... Wendy ... the other Wendy," said Four. "We fixed her watch and sent her on her way," He grinned.

"Well, we did alter her age to be a closer fit with her fella," said One.

"Where is Seven?" Too asked.

"Yeah," said Wendy, "Isn't she supposed to be in charge?"

"She stepped in it and the All-Mother turned her into an aquatic quadruped," said Two.

"This gets more complicated every time someone turns around," said David.

"Stop turning," croaked Seven ... splashing in her bucket.

David stood in a circle of light. The small dappled shaft from the gap in the trees made the place in the first growth forest almost a sacred place. The feeling of watching made his spine crawl and his skin jump. The watcher had set a wary watch ... more of curiosity than of intent. The smell from the first growth pines was heady with the smell of dust, fallen pine needles and the green of the October still clinging needles but the slight small smell of the watcher wove in and out of the main piney scent.

A girl ... perhaps ... close to being a woman but still a girl. Rather than seek her out and the worry that concentrated effort would cause her, he continued across the needle floor. The pine needles were so thick and dense that his leather clad feet were soundless as he moved.

The thonged shirt and leather leggings swayed silently as he moved. The fifty three caliber flintlock rifle was cradled in his arms just so. Easily swung from side to side so as not to touch a branch or trunk, he continued to observe the slopes of the valley for any slight out of place sound or movement.

The first growth ... the huge trees ... three hundred feet tall had kept the valley floor free of secondary growth. Ahead the valley made a slight climb and turn to the left. The deer were on the other side of that turn ... they were there every fall. He primed the pan of the self-made lock and checked the jaw screw for tightness as the top gripped the leather clad flint he had chipped at home before starting on his annual hunt. He closed the frizzen on the powder primed pan and set the cock at half cock.

David had built the rifle. The maple stock came from a tree he and his dad had chopped, split and air-dried when he was ten. The board was drying twelve years in the shop joists when David had started this project.

Cartridge rifles were no fun. The animal had no chance...

When the 300 Win Mag had blown the windshield out of the family Buick while using the hood for a rest, David decided that smaller was better ... a sporterised Springfield 30-06 came next. Then a 308 ... after that a 243 Mossberg ... each rifle did the job ... one shot and it was over. The deer had no chance. Meat for the winter, certainly. But the sporting chance wasn't there.

David had a fly-swatter with a hole in the middle ... the sporting chance.

He fished with barbless hooks ... the sporting chance.

He tried the latest in compound bows ... but the lessons learned in bushcraft made the arrow worse than the 243 Mossberg. Classic bows ... nope.

The local legislature decided to open an early season for blackpowder. David bought a so called Hawken ... and the assorted paraphernalia necessary to shoot. Percussion caps, pillow ticking for patches, the correct size lead balls. A bag, a horn, 3fffg powder by DuPont, nipple picks ... it didn't seem to make any difference ... one shot and haul the deer out of the woods.