January 5th, 1867
Journal of Thomas Dawson.
Another day draws to a close out here at the homestead. I sit by the dying firelight, scratching these words onto paper, a feeble attempt to document our struggles in this place. The wind’s howling outside, sounding much like the wail of a lost soul, if I believed in such things. It rattles the windows we’ve painstakingly repaired, a reminder that some forces refuse to be mended.
We’ve poured sweat and blood into resurrecting this old house, patching up its wounds from years of neglect. It stands now, not proud, but perhaps a little less defeated against the encroaching wilds of Demomire. The barn’s still leaning something fierce, but it’ll hold for now.
The land, though—she’s a stubborn one. I’ve broken earth in many a place, but none so resistant as this. My hands bear the calluses of toil, yet our crops falter and wilt as if the soil itself rejects our presence here. A farmer’s worth is measured by his yield; by that account, I’m falling short.
Helen… she’s been my rock through it all. But even rocks can weather over time. I see it in her eyes—the strain of frontier life is taking its toll. We bicker over trifles: whether to mend the fence or patch the roof first, whether Elijah should be spending so much time exploring when there’s work to be done. Our voices rise louder than we intend; our silence afterward stretches longer each time.
This morning the silence at breakfast spoke volumes, and the children ate with downcast eyes. Elijah kept stealing glances my way, likely recalling the shouting that had echoed through the house last night. It was a fool’s argument, one that should have ended with a tired sigh, not with harsh words hurled like stones.
Helen had taken to sewing by the fire, mending a tear in Elijah’s shirt. It was her quiet way of saying all was not right in our world. I watched her fingers work the needle with such care, and it stoked the embers of guilt smoldering within me.
She broke our silence first, suggesting we might consider asking for help with the planting. It was a simple thing, a notion born of practicality and concern. Yet, pride’s a dangerous thing when left unchecked—it flares up like wildfire. I saw her words as doubt cast upon my ability to provide, and I let that misguided anger dictate my response.
“Why? So the whole town can see Thomas Dawson’s been bested by his own land?” My voice boomed louder than intended, echoing off the walls of our humble home.
Her hands stilled, and she looked up at me with those hazel eyes that have seen too much of my storms. “Thomas,” she said softly, “it’s no defeat to seek aid from neighbors. It’s how we build a community.”
I scoffed at her words—a man’s pride is his worst enemy—and retorted more sharply than she deserved. “We didn’t come here to lean on others. We came to stand on our own.”
The hurt that flashed across her face cut deeper than any blade ever could. She returned to her sewing without another word, leaving me to stew in my own bitter brew of shame and stubbornness.
Today passed in cold silence. I busied myself with repairs that didn’t need tending and avoided her gaze. By nightfall, I found myself alone by the hearth, penning these words while she took solace in putting the children to bed.
I look to the window, peering out at Helen’s garden. It’s a patch of tilled earth she tends to with a devotion that borders on reverence. She planted that garden with seeds of hope, hoping to bring a touch of life and color to this harsh land. Yet despite her tender care, it’s become a strange mockery of her efforts. Only the poison plants thrive here—nightshade unfurls its dark leaves like an omen, and foxglove stands tall, its bell-shaped flowers a grim reminder of nature’s cruel indifference.
I look to the shelves; Our shelves that should be brimming with the promise of winter sustenance, stand barren. I tally what remains—a sack of flour, half gone, a few jars of Helen’s preserves, and some salted meat that will not see us through the month. Coffee has become a memory, and sugar a luxury we can no longer afford.
Each morning, I stare at the dwindling supply and feel the vice of desperation tighten. The land has yielded little, and what game I manage to hunt seems to grow more elusive with each passing day. Helen tries to make do, stretching meals with more water than broth. But there’s no hiding the hunger in our children’s eyes as they push their wooden bowls forward, asking for seconds we can’t provide.
The land is turning against us as summer’s warmth fades into the chill of autumn. The days grow shorter, and the nights longer—a relentless march toward a winter I fear we’re ill-prepared to meet. Elijah asks questions I don’t have answers to. “Why won’t the corn grow tall like back home?” he inquires with an innocence that pierces me sharper than any blade.
We rationed carefully from the start—each portion measured, each scrap saved—but it wasn’t enough. The reality of our situation gnaws at me. We’ve escaped the horrors of war only to face a different kind of battle here—one against nature itself.
I’m a soldier; I’ve faced down death and come out alive. But this… this slow strangulation by an invisible foe shakes me more than any battlefield ever did. But now… now as I watch over my sleeping family, worry gnaws at my gut like a relentless pest. The rifle by my side offers cold comfort against this new adversary—hunger. It’s a foe you can’t see or fight head-on; it’s a waiting game where time is never on your side.
Our intentions were pure, yet the land responds with venom. Yet when I watch Elijah and Annie play—him with his wild tales of adventure and her following him like he hung the moon—I know there’s hope yet for us Dawsons. Elijah’s got more courage than I had at his age, and Annie… she laughs like there ain’t a shadow in this world that could touch her.
My heart swells with love for them both—two beacons of light in this sometimes too-dark world.
The night is cold, colder than any we’ve seen this season, and the fire’s warmth can’t seem to reach the chill in my bones. But it’s not the cold that troubles me most—it’s the worry for my family’s well-being that cuts through all else.
Desperation’s a familiar companion now, one that whispers of failure and hardship. It keeps me company as I toil under the relentless sun or lie awake in the dead of night, listening to the wind howl its mournful tune. Each day I rise with the sun, driven by a singular purpose—to provide for Helen and the children. My mind runs circles around the same thoughts—if only something would turn in our favor. Just one good harvest, one lucky break, one answered prayer. If fortune were to smile upon us but once, I believe we could turn this tide of misfortune that threatens to drown us.
I find myself bartering with fate—promising harder work, longer hours—anything for a sign that our fortunes will change. It pains me—the idea that I might fail them, that all my efforts could amount to naught but dust and regret. The children deserve better than this—a life where food isn’t scarce and laughter isn’t edged with unease.
Tonight I made a decision—a vow whispered into the dark as my family slept unaware. I’ll do whatever it takes to see them safe and their needs met. If pride must be swallowed or help sought from strangers who are slowly becoming neighbors… so be it.
I can bear their pity if it means food on our table and hope in Helen’s eyes once more. The notion goes against my very nature—but isn’t love about sacrifice? About putting those you cherish above your own stubborn will?
The fire crackles its agreement or perhaps its indifference—fire cares not for men’s troubles. But in its flickering light, I find resolve hardening within me like steel tempered by flame.
Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll swallow my pride and seek counsel from those who’ve tamed this land before me. Perhaps they’ll offer wisdom or aid; perhaps they’ll turn me away. But I won’t know until I try—and trying is all I have left.
So let this page bear witness—I won’t give up on us, on Demomire… on hope itself. We Dawsons are made of sterner stuff; we have weathered storms before and will again.
For Helen… for Elijah… for Annie… for their smiles and their futures—I’ll move heaven and earth if need be.
May providence look kindly upon us—and soon—for time is a luxury we can ill afford.
The fire’s about burnt down to coals now. Time to rest up for another day’s labor. Tomorrow may not bring an easier path, but we’ll walk it all the same—side by side as Dawsons always have.
Thomas Dawson
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