The sun hangs lower now, and the rivers move slow but steady. Our people live with the seasons — harvesting, hunting, watching. The land is quiet — but not still.
Three days ago, a trader from the east arrived. He had little to offer — and many warnings.
He spoke of strangers unlike any we have known. Men with faces pale as river stone, wrapped in metal, riding beasts with hooves that beat the ground like drums . They come with gifts in one hand and demands in the other. They speak, but do not always listen.
Some say they crossed the great water. Others say they are spirits sent to test us. But all who’ve seen them agree: they bring weapons that crack like lightning and take what is not offered to them.
The elders have heard whispers of these men before — from cousins farther east, from trails now gone cold. Still, they’ve only been stories.
But stories do not leave tracks in our forests.
The white man heads west. And we will be watching.
To Be Continued…
