I woke up with a monstrous headache and a terribly sore elbow. It took me some time to remember how I arrived at this moment. I slowly sat up, holding my head with my good arm, and took stock of my situation. I may have a concussion—best to move slowly. Did I fracture my elbow? It is terribly painful to move, but I can move it—probably not broken. How did I manage to injure myself? What am I doing in the middle of the forest? I was on my way to meet someone…but, who? Sara! My friend, a Catawba healer…we were going to forage for medicinals. I do not usually walk to her…my horse! I was on Juniper, I must have fallen. She must have seen a snake; I know no other cause for her to throw me from the saddle. That would also explain why she did not stay close by.

Damn! I am in the forest, alone, with no mount. Though I have traveled to Sara’s village often, nothing looked familiar…sure sign of a concussion, I suppose. It is difficult to determine direction or estimate the time of day, since the forest blocks the sun so completely. Oh, I do hope Juniper is not captured and pressed into military uses!

“Think, Abbie, damn you,” I said to the forest. I never swear in front of others, it is not ladylike, but exceptional situations call for exceptional language. It is oppressively hot, my hair around my face is plastered to my damp skin—it must be afternoon. I have half of a canteen of water—that is good. There is only fetid, still water in my immediate vicinity—best not to drink that unless I have no other choice. I have my haversack with a few supplies, but most of my vials and jars are in my saddlebag, along with my lunch.

I set out walking, slow enough to keep my head from pounding, and disturbing as little foliage as possible, lest I alert something—or someone—that might want to kill me. I wonder, which is more endangering: venomous snakes, panthers, Redcoats, or militia? I thought of the men that would often accompany Sara from the Catawba village, stalking through the forest with absolute silence. I attempt to copy their measured footfalls, the manner in which they scanned their heads side to side, looking and listening. I rarely take notice of the frogs and cicadas with their ever present din, but now I curse them for their noise, camouflaging potential threats.

With each passing hour, I grow more tired, more thirsty. My canopy is empty…can hold out a little bit longer…maybe I will find a suitable fresh water source soon. “God, can you please send me one of your glorious summer rain storms?” My clothes are drenched from sweat and mud. I must sit and rest, for just a moment. I sit upon a fallen log, my throbbing, blistered feet sending jolts of pain up through my legs. My elbow does not hurt so much as long as I keep it still. It feels so good to close my eyes, relieves the tension in my head.

Crack! The sound of thunder jolts me out of my slumber—how long have I slept, I wonder? The rain was already falling when I awoke—big, fat drops of marvelous, delicious water. I turn my face to the heavens, mouth wide open to slake my thirst. “Thank you, God!” Low, rolling thunder reverberates in my chest. Though the quandary of my thirst was solved, slogging through the mud slows my trek. Instantaneously I am blinded—a tree a hundred feet in front of me glows white hot and bursts into flames. I wondered, will I die here?