"Were I in my village tonight, I would hear the wind moving through the trees. I think maybe I might hear also a child laugh somewhere within a neighbor's lodge. Here I hear music coming from the large stone house, but I do not hear the wind working its way through these trees. Torches and candles burn everywhere as if to turn night into day, but your people do not gather around the flames. Your fires are only lit to provide light, and the brightness of this light drives away the peoples' view of the stars from your night sky. Then while I wonder at why you would do this, you shoot make-believe stars and thunder up into the sky. When I breathe I cannot smell the earth of your land. All this is so, so different for me."
"Did my father run along the pathway leading north from our village? Did he search for sign possibly left by my moccasins as I passed that way? It has been so long, so long. What has he told my mother that could comfort her in her agony and worry? Do my parents hear me when the wind blows and the trees sway? Do they look in the new fallen snow for my footprints?"
Richard Brian Clark is a lover of American History. To Richard, much like an artist wielding a brush, the pages of a novel are a blank canvas awaiting the awakening of his imagination to deliver the finished story. Abenaki Autumn is the first in a series of recent pursuits, with work progressing quickly on the follow-up.