Mista Jones's Arc

Chapter 2 of 6

Mista Jones lowered the shovel without a sound. The snap had come from the east, past the pallet of sorted stone. He could not run. He could not let a stranger find the pit. He could only make the forest swallow whoever was coming. He moved fast and low. A few paces from the quarry's edge, he tore open a soft patch of earth between two leaning roots. The hole grew deep under his hands. He lined the rim with a cracked plank of old wood, then layered moss and leaf litter across it. The trap looked like nothing. Just more forest floor. He dragged a fallen branch across the better path, nudging any walker toward his hidden pit. Then he slipped behind a hollowed stump nearby and crouched inside it. The wood smelled of rot and damp. Through a crack, he watched the trail. Boots scraped over roots. A figure came into view, hooded, scanning the trees. The stranger paused at the branch, then stepped around it, right where Mista wanted. One more step. The plank cracked. The moss folded inward. The figure dropped with a short, surprised shout and a heavy thud. Mista did not move. He listened. Cursing rose from the pit, low and angry, but the voice could not climb out. The walls were steep and the roots above only tangled tighter under grasping hands. He let out a slow breath inside the stump. The quarry was safe for now. But the voice in the hole was not a hunter's voice. It sounded young, and afraid, and it was calling for help.