They walked side by side with Indians, following the river, and stopping at holes in the ground.
“Here,” said the native and sat down to talk. Here was where someone had lived, where something had happened, where history’d been made. And here; he stopped again. And here; another told the tale of another hole. The walk from lobstered harbor to village was a walk through history. Empty plains were homes of the brave; empty hills their throne.
“Where are they gone?”
“They died. Caught by the plague.”
Life hung by a thread and holes in the ground told its shade.