Chapter Three

Indian Stories


Indians.  There hadnít been any massacres in Brandon since 1775, when it was the northern frontier of the New England settlements.  His cousins, George and Aaron Robbins had been savagely murdered by a war party of over one hundred Indians on what was now the main street of the village.  Virgil couldnít help but look for their blood whenever he walked down that street.  Indians had massacred his great grandmother Sarah Day Gunn. His great grandfather, the celebrated explorer and author, Jonathan Carver, had barely escaped the infamous massacre at Fort William Henry during the French and Indian War.  Jonathan and Abigail Robbins Carverís daughters all married enterprising men and they, along with the Robbins, were among the first to challenge the dangers of pioneering and build the town where he was to be born. 

Moses had told him these stories many times. He was keenly aware that Indians had played an important part in his family's history.  But somehow, when Moses was next to him, he was safe. No Indian would dare come near this hero of the Rebellion.

A tug on his line distracted Virgil.  Moses pulled in a fat little pumpkinseed sunfish and put it on a stringer. "He'll make a nice dinner, won't he?Ē said Moses.  Virgil struggled with a fresh worm and cast his line back in the water, then lay back in the grass alongside Moses.

"This must be what it's like in Heaven," said Moses.

It was a peaceful time.  The meadow grass swayed gracefully, rippling in rhythm with the warm summer breeze.  But it was the sun that made everything seem so alive to the boy, so full of color, intense color.  The trees, the grass, the water, the flowers, were all so vibrant.  The marshes were sunburned brown with cattails and afire with purple loosestrife.  Even the fragrances, the wild roses and the subtle sting of mint, the honeysuckle cascading over woodrows, cloying the air with its sweet bouquet, seemed to have color.  The smells of summer filled his senses.  The air sang summer's song. It was a day that would live forever in the memory of his soul, the treasury of summer's songs.

In the eternalness of youth this day was an endless song of summer.

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