The moon was a cold, silver coin over the Greenbrier, casting a skeletal glow on the clearing. Inside the hollow sycamore, Stephen Sewell was huddled in his furs when the sound first broke the silence: a low, rhythmic scratching against the oak door of the cabin fifty yards away.
Then came the huff of a heavy chest—a sound too deep for a dog.
Sewell crept to the opening of his tree, his hand finding the cold barrel of his long rifle. In the moonlight, he saw the silhouette. It was a "cloud-walker," a mountain lion of immense size, its tail twitching like a heavy rope as it tested the seam of Jacob Marlin’s door.
The Warning
Sewell hesitated. He could stay silent. He could let the "Papist" Marlin handle his own troubles. But the Internal Conflict flared—the memory of Marlin sharing his last bit of salt three months ago gnawed at him.
"Jacob!" Sewell’s voice cracked the frost, a jagged whisper across the snow. "The door, Jacob! Above the latch!"
The scratching stopped. The great cat turned its head, eyes flashing like emerald embers toward the tree.
Inside the cabin, a heavy bar thudded into place. A second later, the small shutter of the cabin’s loft window swung open. Marlin’s rifle barrel poked out, glinting.
"I see him, Stephen," Marlin called back. The use of his first name—not just a 'Good Morning'—felt like a Turning Point in the frozen air.
The Stand
The cat lunged, not at the door, but upward toward the window. Marlin fired. The roar of the black powder filled the valley, a flash of orange lighting up the clearing. The cat fell back, yowling, but it wasn't dead. It landed on its feet, spinning toward the tree—toward the man with the single-shot rifle who was now out in the open.
Sewell fired. His ball caught the beast in the shoulder, slowing its charge.
"Inside, you fool!" Marlin screamed. He didn't mean the tree. He was standing in his doorway now, his silhouette framed by the warm, golden light of the hearth. "Stephen, get to the cabin!"
Sewell ran. His moccasins slipped on the icy mast, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He scrambled across the threshold, and Marlin slammed the door, dropping the bar just as a heavy weight slammed against the wood from the outside.
The Near-Reconciliation
For the first time in months, they were in the same room. The Atmosphere was thick with the scent of sulfur, woodsmoke, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline.
They stood panting, facing each other in the firelight. The Diction of their silence had changed; it was no longer cold, but vibrating with a shared survival.
"You missed the vitals," Marlin panted, leaning his rifle against the table. "Though I reckon your aim was true enough to save your scalp."
Sewell wiped the frost from his beard, looking at the familiar surroundings—the table they had built together, the shelf where the KJV Bible sat. "And you gave it a haircut, Jacob. A bit higher and you'd have taken the roof off."
A small, weary smile touched Marlin’s lips. He reached for a stone jug of cider near the fire. "It’s warm. And the floor is dry."
Sewell looked at the jug, then at the door where the cat was now dragging itself away into the dark. The Theme of their shared humanity was right there, hanging in the air like the smoke. For a second, the baptismal font seemed very far away, and the warmth of the fire very close.
"It is a good floor," Sewell whispered. He reached out, his hand inches from the cup Marlin was offering.
Then his eyes drifted to the Bible on the shelf. The Symbol of their schism. He thought of the words he had yelled in the snow. If he took the cup, was he taking the doctrine? If he stayed the night, was he surrendering his conscience?
The Relapse
The tension snapped back. Sewell’s hand dropped. His face hardened, the Flaw of his pride reasserting its grip.
"The beast is gone," Sewell said, his voice returning to its raspy, distant tone.
"Stephen, don't be a martyr to a hollow log," Marlin pleaded, the Empathy in his voice genuine. "It’s four below zero."
Sewell picked up his rifle and cracked the door just an inch to check the clearing. "I’ve a fire in the tree, Jacob. And a man must be careful where he lays his head. If a man’s foundation is shaky, his whole house is a ruin."
Marlin’s face fell, the weary lines returning. "It’s just water, Stephen. It’s just a sign."
"It’s the Truth, Jacob," Sewell replied. He stepped out into the cold, the door clicking shut behind him.
A moment later, through the logs, the familiar routine returned.
"Good night, Jacob," Sewell called from the dark.
"Good night, Stephen," came the muffled reply.
The reconciliation had lasted exactly three minutes. The wilderness was silent once more.
Would you like me to write a scene depicting Sewell's final departure from the sycamore, or perhaps a scene from many years later when Jacob Marlin reflects on his old friend?
The spring of 1752 arrived with a deceptive softness, the snow melting into the Greenbrier until the river ran high and tea-colored with mountain silt. For Stephen Sewell, the thaw brought more than just mud; it brought a claustrophobia of the soul. The cabin was too close, the "Good Mornings" too heavy, and the sight of Jacob Marlin turning the earth for a garden felt like a tether he wasn't ready to wear.
Here is the scene of the final departure.
The Great Divide
The sun had not yet cleared the ridges when Sewell began to pack. It was a meager task. A man who lives in a tree does not accumulate the weight of the world. He rolled his moth-eaten blankets, checked the priming on his rifle, and tucked his small tin of salt into his pouch.
He stood inside the sycamore one last time, his hand brushing the smooth, inner bark where his own shoulders had worn the wood slick over the winter. This tree had been his sanctuary and his prison—a Symbol of a conscience that refused to bend.
The Confrontation
As he stepped out into the damp morning air, the cabin door creaked. Jacob Marlin was there, a wooden bucket in his hand, his feet bare in the early grass. He stopped, his gaze falling on the bedroll strapped to Sewell’s back.
The Atmosphere shifted instantly. The "Good Morning" went unsaid, replaced by the heavy realization that the Duration of their strange experiment had reached its limit.
"The ground is just now softening, Stephen," Marlin said, his voice devoid of its usual grit. "The trout are running thick. There’s no need for a man to be on the move."
"The air is crowded, Jacob," Sewell replied, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. He looked past the cabin, toward the blue-mist peaks to the west. "A man starts to smell his own thoughts when he stays in one place too long."
The Final Theological Salvo
Marlin set the bucket down. He walked to the edge of the clearing, stopping at the invisible line that had separated them all winter. "It’s the mountain, isn't it? You’re heading for the high ridges where the Word can’t reach you."
"I’m heading where the Word is between me and the Almighty, without a middleman or a font to muddy the waters," Sewell retorted, his Voice sharpening with the old fire. "I’d rather be lost in the woods than found in a lie."
Marlin shook his head, a look of profound Empathy—or perhaps pity—crossing his face. "You’re a man who would burn his own house down just to prove he doesn't need a roof. I’ll keep the fire going, Stephen. In case the wind turns cold."
"Don't waste the wood, Jacob."
The Departure
Sewell turned his back. It was a Turning Point from which there would be no return. He began to walk, his stride lengthening as he hit the deer path that led away from Knapps Creek.
He didn't look back at the cabin, nor at the hollow sycamore that had been his home. He was heading toward what the maps would later call Sewell Mountain—a place of total Isolation where his name would eventually be carved into the history of the state, not in stone, but in the very dirt where he would eventually fall to a Shawnee party.
Marlin stood in the clearing until the sound of Sewell’s footsteps was swallowed by the rush of the river. He looked at the empty tree, then at his sturdy cabin.
"Good luck, Stephen," Marlin whispered into the wind.
There was no reply. For the first time in three years, the only voice Jacob Marlin heard was his own.
The End of an Era
This departure marks the official "birth" of Marlinton as a single-family settlement and the beginning of the legend of Sewell Mountain.
How would you like to conclude this narrative journey?
The Historical Epilogue: A short piece on how General Lewis returned years later to find the fate of both men.
The Legend's Legacy: Write a modern-day "news story" for The Pocahontas Times reflecting on these two founders.
The "Sewell Mountain" Finale: A scene depicting Sewell’s final days in the high wilderness.
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