Sam didn’t get much sleep that night. Oh, he was comfortable enough. The bivvy was plenty proof against the cold now that he was dry. He didn’t even need a fire, really. Wasn’t like he had anything to cook or any coffee he was willing to brew this early into the game. He’d brought all of eight ounces, and that had to last.

It wasn’t fear of predators that kept him up, although they were a concern. He’d been up and down the beach a couple of times and hadn’t seen a single track but his own. He’d heard the occasional bird off in the distance, but that had been about it.

No, what kept him up was that he’d landed in a pretty bad spot for the purposes of his journey west. There wasn’t much game for a day’s journey at least, and no real guarantee even then. Not even any decent raw material to build anything to help him along. Damn near not enough to keep a fire going. He’d been hoping for a drop off closer to some nice thick stands of trees, at least.

He lay there trying to figure out which way to go, but it wasn’t really a choice. Not initially, at least. He couldn’t go north, east or south without a boat. He was on a cape. That left west, and southwest.

With access to some proper trees, he might have chanced building a dugout and trying to navigate up or down the coast to better climes, but he wasn’t seeing anything large enough to float him, let alone him and the pack.

The idea of ditching the majority of his gear was grating, and he was busting his brain trying to figure a way around it. For all the seeming frivolousness of the loadout he’d insisted on, he had a use for pretty much every piece, for all that the use for some of the items might be in his mind and in his mind only.

He drifted off to the sound of the surf in the distance, still without an answer.

Morning dawned cloudy, a cutting wind racing across the beach. His ankle, in spite of the wrapping, felt hot, tight, and tender. He wasn’t walking on it today. Maybe not tomorrow. On the plus side, he wouldn’t be burning many calories either. On the down side, if the weather decided to really gear up, he wasn’t entirely sure he was far enough inland to be safe. He was a good ten feet higher than sea level, but he’d found some of his driftwood pretty far inland.

So he huddled in the bivvy and worried, burning through the battery of the primary tablet, ostensibly working on potential routes. In reality he was wallowing in melancholy and scrolling through family albums. Mostly of him and Meg. She’d have loved this journey. Real wilderness girl, his Meg. Probably the only reason she’d stayed with him all those years.

Towards afternoon, disgusted with himself, he did some actual research and hit upon some good news. Turns out Massachusetts was named after a tribe of indians called the Massachusett, or some variety of spellings thereof.

Apparently, according to the data gathered by one of his contestants, they’d lived in this area specifically for a couple of thousand years. Which meant that they were somewhere not too far off this very minute.

Not much was known of them by modern man. The oldest records that meant anything went back only to the first European explorers. And, happy day, that news was that they’d been friendly and willing to trade.

He was still trying to twist around and pat himself on the back over how this revelation had turned his poor landing into a fortuitous one when he remembered that those friendly Massachusett wouldn’t be born for another nine hundred years. Anybody living in the area now would be an unknown commodity.

According to the research, though, January would find them wintering inland. He’d have some time, then. March, maybe. Of course, the fact that they’d be inland hunting was sort of a hint about how much food was out here on this point of hard rock and seaweed. Not a lot, he’d guess.

Day three dawned bright and calm, the wind having died down in the night. The ankle, while still tender, looked and felt much better. He decided that, while discretion was all well and good, it might be time for valor to make a cameo appearance.

To that end, he had the contents of the pack spread out before him, all separated out nicely into their well-defined categories. He was going to make a run inland, but he wasn’t about to do it with the whole mess at once. The lion’s share would stay right here until he found someplace worthy of lugging it to.

He’d be taking the base pack and frame, hydration, pioneering tools, the aid bag, and the bivvy in case he got caught short and needed to spend the night elsewhere. He’d hobble inland and see if he could find a better place to set up his base camp. Not too far from the sea, but not on top of it, either. Someplace with trees worthy of the name. Game would be nice too, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath.

He built up a tripod of driftwood and lashed it together up out on the point, running the alien flag pole up through the middle. From the flag, he drew a compass azimuth back to the hollow.

Then, because he hadn’t been trusting in decades, he spent some time getting multiple fixes on it from different angles and directions. Places seldom looked the same from two different directions, and the silver pennant might blow away or be found by somebody stubbornly not where they were supposed to be. He’d hate to lose everything because he couldn’t remember which hollow he’d left it in.

With a last, long look at his grand plan, he took up the staff, now wearing a steel spear head that he had only a vague idea of how to use, and started hobbling inland.

The compass told him he was heading due west. The ground was level and rocky, muddled up with clumps of beachgrass nearly waist high. He moved slowly, using the spear staff as a crutch. It was ill-suited to the task.

He started running into scattered trees after about a mile. Jack pines mixed with oaks of some sort and the occasional birch, mostly, overgrown with scrub. The map showed a couple of streams, and he struck one at about a mile-and-a-half. It was frozen, but not through. Better yet, there was no salt scum along the bank, which meant that it was probably fresh, although the fact that he was seventy or eighty feet above sea level should have told him that.

He sat himself down beside the strip of ice and had himself a think, laying aside his spear staff and taking up a pine branch he’d picked up on his way. About four feet long and three quarters to an inch thick, it had a nice fork right at the end.

He let his mind work as he trimmed the suckers off the branch and smoothed and flattened the inside of the fork as best he could with one of his multitools.

It was still reasonably flat here, but he was far enough inland that he should be safe from the worst of the sea weather. There were trees with which he could build shelter. What there didn’t appear to be was game, which he needed. Oh, there were probably voles and squirrels burrowed into the ground, and somebody had copied a link about something called a heath hen that was rumored to reside along the shores, but he wasn’t about to be making anything with tanned squirrel hides or chicken feathers, and he had some things to make before he began his trek in earnest.

Of course, the further inland he moved, the more he’d be encroaching on any natives who already lived here. That, he didn’t want to do. Or did he?

He paused, the knife held to the wood of the pine branch. His original plan had been to set up a temporary camp wherever he landed and spend the winter building and laying in supplies for the trip. He’d expected to be forced to make the first quarter of his journey alone. The discovery that there were an Algonquin people in the immediate area might well have rendered that plan moot.

What would happen if he ventured inland a bit and found one of their villages? The notes in the research claimed that February was a lean time for them. That might well be true, hunting with spears. What if he could find a bunch and make their February considerably less lean? Would that give him the foothold he was looking for?

He resumed running the blade along the surface of the wood, shaping it carefully, his mind working. No, he decided. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to meet with the natives. He had some considerable studying to do first. Which meant moving off the beach.

He spent the rest of the afternoon hobbling around on his new crutch, favoring the bad ankle while he decided whether he wanted to use this area or head up or downstream. This particular spot was too flat, he decided. The map showed a decent sized pond to the north a mile or so. That would at least be a steady supply of fresh water.

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Or he could head south, towards what would someday become Gloucester. But every foot he stepped in that direction put him closer to premature contact with the locals.

North, he decided. The map showed a rise of land to the northwest of the pond that might give him a bit of shelter from the wind. Maybe if the ground wasn’t too hard, he could gouge out a hollow and wall it off. He took off upstream.

By the end of the fourth day, Sam had found himself a hollow on the northwest end of the lake, a couple of hundred feet from the shoreline, and begun building a rudimentary camp.

The first step was to build a shelter. This he accomplished by building up walls of brush and deadfalls close up against a largish vertical slab of rock, which would serve as the rear wall. He built up the framework for a roof, laying longer branches across the top, and piling smaller twigs and leaves across them, and eventually dirt over the top of that.

The floor, he kept bare aside from the strip along one side where he’d lain his ground cloth and set up his bivvy. The ground here wasn’t ideal, so he’d just scraped a patch clean for the fire circle. But the slab of rock would absorb and reflect the heat, and thus make it a bit more comfortable.

The door was a woven patchwork of bushy pine branches chopped clear of the local trees. It looked like ass, but he didn’t care. It was temporary, and it would keep most of the weather out. So long as he didn’t let his fire get too frisky and burn the whole thing down around him, he should be just fine. It would be a little smokey inside, but the loose structure should allow the majority of that smoke to vent out along the rock face and up into the trees above, hopefully dissipating it before it became a long line in the sky pointing down at him.

The lake had turned out to be of decent size, ice rimed along its edge out to a couple of feet. The ice looked solid, but wasn’t anything he wanted to walk on. It remained to be seen whether there were any fish in the freezing water. One way to find out, right? He bashed in the rotting trunk of a fallen tree with the back of his hatchet, collected some grubs, and set the trotlines. He’d brought two. Maybe he’d get lucky.

For the moment, he satisfied himself with tying the clothing that had been dunked in the sea all together on a length of five-fifty, weighting it down with some rocks and tossing it in to soak for awhile. The boots weren’t as bad, and those he scrubbed at the lake’s edge, chopping out a section of ice to gain access. After a couple of rinsings, they could be hung inside. With the temperature hovering in the mid-thirties during the day and down into the low twenties at night, it was cold work, particularly with the stupid high humidity, and he was glad for the fire that was relatively easy to keep going inside the makeshift wigwam.

He was six days in on his two week supply of food by the time he’d gotten everything transferred and gotten settled, and while relocating to the lake had allowed him to restore his water supply, he was starting to grow concerned. His ankle was feeling better, though, and he thought he might venture inland in the morning to see what was what.

He was worried about leaving behind the majority of his belongings, which would become a common theme in his life into the future. If this were a fantasy novel, he could hang some sort of fetish or juju thing up and be assured that the natives would shun the joint. As it was, anything he put up was as likely to make a person curious as frightened.

There were also the raccoons. Or at least one raccoon. Little bastard would have gotten away with it if he’d have been able to figure out how to unclip the southern trotline. Sam happened upon the attempted theft in late evening, just before calling it a night. He figured one last swing around the lake, check the lines, look for tracks, and he’d be able to sleep a little better. It took two rounds of twenty-two from the Buckmark to plant the sonofabitch, but he didn’t get far. Two loud pops. Probably the first ever heard on the continent, or maybe the world.

Sam had never eaten raccoon before. Hadn’t even ever talked to anybody who’d ever eaten it. That right there should have been a clue. Nevertheless, he fished the headlamp out of one of his cargo pockets, settled it over his head, and cleaned the ‘coon right there, tossing the guts into the water. If there were fish in there, maybe that would draw them in for the hooks, which were, at this point, empty of anything but the bait.

Back at the shelter, he scraped the hide and scrubbed it in the stainless soup pot, using a bit of primitive soap made by mixing the raccoon’s little bit of excess fat with hardwood ash from the fire. He was going to start having to make real soap soon, he figured. He thought he had everything he needed to make some pine tar soap, but he’d have to go over the recipe again.

He was going to have to brain tan the thing, which usually called for de-hairing it, but he’d take the chance to keep the pelt. It would be more work, but that was okay.

He was tempted to salt the hide to give himself some time, but the only salt he’d brought had been iodized. Good for him, useless for working hides. Tomorrow, instead of going inland, he’d hike up to the seashore and start distilling some seawater.

He was yawning by the time he got around to building a simple stretching rack and stringing the hide to it with bank line, but now he’d have a few days while it dried before he’d need to do anything else with it. The brain, he wrapped in some of the salvaged shrinkwrap and set in the water at the edge of the lake, held in place by a couple of rocks. That should keep it fresh enough until he was ready to use it.

He was scrubbing the stainless pot in the lake before he remembered the nalgene gloves he’d packed. He shook his head ruefully. Well, he was going to have to wash anyway, right?

His teeth were chattering by the time he got the sixty-four ounce pot back into the shelter and beside the fire. He was pretty hungry at this point, but somehow looking at the carcass hanging over the fire wasn’t making his mouth water. Damned thing looked like a zombified rat. But it was meat, and he’d by god eat it.

Once the water in the pot had been boiling for a couple of minutes, he pulled it clear of the fire and covered it. Anything dangerous that had been living in it wasn’t anymore. Tomorrow, he’d refill all of his hydration containers, so as to have a buffer in case the untoward happened.

The ‘coon was sizzling now, and as ugly as it looked, it did smell good. He sat back against the rock face and watched it cook, eyes half-lidded, idly wishing he could figure out a way to catch the dripping grease. Fat was going to be at a premium going forward. Modern people were too used to it being a waste product. Historically, that hadn’t been the case.

Salt, pepper, some garlic, and the thief was starting to smell downright tasty. That’d teach it to steal from him! He moved the meat farther from the fire by a couple of inches. He wanted it to cook slowly and clear through, just in case it was occupied.

He fell asleep before the ‘coon had finished cooking.

Morning found him wishing he’d brought more spices. The dash of garlic and pepper had helped, but the raccoon was still pretty bland. But old mister ‘coon had been doing pretty well for himself, and had still had a bit of fat on him. He tasted pretty gamey, but that was okay, Sam liked his game to taste like game. He could see where some more civilized ingredients could make this quite the meal. Maybe when he got back he’d see if the locals had missed any acorns.

He ate about a quarter of the animal before setting the rest aside. Looking around, he found yet another occasion to curse the short time limit he’d been given and the strictures of carry weight. Later, once he’d begun gathering and building, he’d be in a better position, but at the moment, the only really good place to store the excess meat was in his belly, and that could get awkward.

The rest of the day, he spent at the seashore, filling and refilling the big stainless brew pot. He’d fill the two quart camp pot with seawater in the cove and cover it with a kerchief to strain the debris as he poured the five gallon container full. Then he’d clamp the lid down, open the valve he’d installed while still on the other side, and boil away the water until only the salt and minerals remained. When all that was left was salt, he’d scrape it out, stuff it into one of the two dozen ziploc bags he’d brought with him and do the whole thing over.

While he was waiting for water to boil, he spent his time carving and installing handles on the smaller tools he’d packed in. While the removal of the wooden handles had lightened his load, he did not want to repeat the previous night’s experience with the handleless fleshing knife. He’d get up every now and then and have a look around. Nothing. He was alone. Nor did he see any sign that anybody had ever been here. Had the research been wrong? Or was it simply that there wasn’t anything of particular interest up here that warranted the trip? Or maybe the folks that came up here just didn’t leave a lasting footprint.

He worked all day and into the night, filling two of the gallon ziplocs with salt and finishing the raccoon meat. Returning to his camp well after dark, he came in cautiously, listening intently for the slightest sound, even chancing a few quick scans with the PVS-18. If anybody had been here since his departure, they’d made a pretty good run at covering their tracks.

Of the forty hooks he’d left in the water, the bait was gone from three, and one held a smallish fish. He wasn’t sure offhand what the hell it was, since he was more of a shooter than a fisherman, but he cleaned it and cooked it, trying out his freshly gathered sea salt. It wasn’t awful, and he wondered if he might have a run at making some salted fish. So long as the fish cooperated at any rate.

He spent a little time on the tablet before bed, looking for the sorts of tubers or nuts that would be found around here along with the acorns and pine cones. There was little chance he’d find anything in high winter, but why waste the opportunity. He found one reference to sprouting acorns, and studied the pics to set them in his mind.

After that, half an hour of language lessons. Proto-Algonquin wasn’t likely what anybody around here spoke, and if he spoke it to anybody who’s descendants would grow up to speak Iroquois, he’d probably have a fight on his hands, but if he caught sight of any of the locals, he might be able to convey the roots of ideas at least. Give them something to work from.

As he thought about it, it occurred to him that, if he could find some paper birch or similar, he might make some sort of flash cards, always assuming he could draw well enough for the people he was trying to communicate with to figure out what the things were. There were some birch around, although not as many as he’d like. He’d add that to his already lengthy list.

The Chinese had started out making paper out of pulverized mulberry leaves, mixed with rice stalks back around — hell, they were probably doing it as he sat there. But that process took awhile. Months, he seemed to remember. He didn’t have that kind of time. At least not yet. Maybe later.

The watch had been largely silent and dark for a week now, since informing him of his miscalibration windfall — the single break coming during his cursing battle with the masked marauder. He lay awake in the dark thinking about that before drifting off to sleep. On its face, that was good news, right? Was this the sort of show they’d been hoping for? What consequences would he face once they caught on to what he was really up to?