The Wall
The wall of trophies delineates our claim. A powerful defense, for our enemy is primitive and superstitious. It is a fortnight since their last attack. They are growing weaker because God in his grace has brought upon them a plague. But the sickness does not touch us. We now walk unmolested in their village, gathering whatever we need for sustenance, as well as the trophies, and gold.
Last week, in one of their outlying huts, we came upon a child, male, about four years old (it is difficult to estimate; they are naturally stunted.) He was clinging to the diseased body of a female adult, perhaps his mother. We harvested the adult head for the trophy wall, but nothing else, since the hut was poor, and foul with plague.
It was I who thought to collect the child, a novelty (their young were the first to succumb to the sickness.) He is agile and clever as a monkey and will provide amusement for my little daughter, Abigail, whose only playmate, her brother, did not survive the winter. Already she has taught him a dozen words in our tongue. "Wall! Wall!" he cries, and she claps her hands in childish delight.