Chapter 49
Michael was cooking biscuits when a yawning Ceinwen joined him by the campfire.
“Hey, sleepyhead. I didn’t hear you stir all night,” he said.
“I slept soundly despite my dreams. They were weird.”
“I had the same problem,” Michael poured her some coffee. Just then, they heard a bone-chilling scream far in the distance. They couldn’t tell which direction it came from, or if it was human, bird, or animal.
They remained still, but the sound didn’t come again.
“This really is the forest primeval,” Ceinwen said.
“Ah, yes, ‘Evangeline,’” Michael said. “It was a favorite of my mother’s:
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight…”
“Yes. A sad poem, that one is. It’s as if Longfellow kn
