Me and Chulainn, We Got This
Posted on Sat Jan 25th, 2025 @ 7:20am by
677 words; about a 3 minute read
Mission:
Settling In
Location: Stratton Homestead, 5 Miles Outside Stevens Point, WI
Timeline: MD0017 - 9:00 p.m.
The hilltop, positioned above the homestead site, had been his first choice. Not quite practical but now, perfect to his needs. Water nearby and a tent, with a wood-burning stove inside, a cot with sheets, a heavy sleeping bag, and pillows, and a footlocker that held his personal possessions. Outside, a fire ring with a raised grate where he could make coffee in the morning, a pile of wood chopped and ready to go, and an old wooden bench. He had weapons, never went anywhere without them, and enough ammo to not be worried. He had an axe, newly sharpened, and his combat knife and of course, bear spray.
The catalog of his possessions now that he'd given up the main cabin and resolved to start over up here. But they were just things and they didn't matter not now. Not since the letter. That was pretty much burned into his brain and just last night, he'd burned it in fact. Alonzo was gone though it was anyone's guess whether that was permanent or temporary and Ethan, loyal and devoted to the man who had helped him, had gone with him.
He'd been alone before and while this felt different, raw and painful, it was manageable. He knew how to do this. He did. Get up early, every day, and work till dark. In this case, that meant helping with construction, cutting down trees and preparing the logs they would need for the cabins. Saving the smaller branches for the fires.
He stopped for water or an occasional bite to eat but mostly, he worked and it felt good to be making a difference, to have a plan and a goal again. And so, Hale Stratton had the routine, the pattern, that consumed his days. And when it got dark, when the homestead was settled down, and he'd taking his last check of the perimeter, he retreated to his tent on the hilltop.
Tonight, he was sitting on the old wooden bench, the one he'd made by hand when he'd gotten snowed in that one time, drinking a cup of tea and watching the flames undulate in the chill evening breeze. It was getting colder now in the evenings. Not winter yet but that first nip of autumn slid through the homestead making fire necessary for more than cooking food. He sat on the bench, his long legs stretched out and let the peace of his place work his magic.
He closed his eyes and listened to the night sounds around him. The murmur of voices below, the sound of water tumbling over rocks, wind moving through the trees, the sounds of small animals moving around. He was, truth be told, reestablishing his boundaries. He'd been stupid. Not any more. He wasn't a child and his life had taught him everything he needed to know about discipline, about honor, and about controlling one's emotions.
While he worked, he checked in with people, answered questions, and asked even more. Up here in the new home he'd established for himself, he rediscovered how easy it was to be alone. When the fire had died down, he went inside the tent, pulling off his boots inside the entrance, and got the fire going in the stove. He stripped off his outer wear, found something more comfortable to wear, and climbed into the cot, burying himself in the sleeping bag. An upended crate beside the bed held a lantern that gave out enough light for him to read.
That was a luxury. Reading. And he had books. The footlocker had been positioned at the head of the cot, and he lay so that he could watch the entrance to the tent while he read a book about Cu Chulainn. And after that, was one called 'The Táin Bó Cuailnge.' He didn't need electronics. Never had. The quiet of nature, a good book, and a warm fire. Peace that could surround him and help restore what had been taken. Broken. Sundered.
A Post by
Hale Stratton
Leader, Wisconsin Survivors
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