We were in a swamp now, hiding from the English. “The hut, the hut!” he cried pointing forward, this man of blurred features. The sounds of war were close. They may have even breached the Hobomock here. Hockomock, I corrected its name, my Indian memories focusing in like the face by my side, a close associate. Oh how I yearned for peace again. Return of the old. The swamp will harbor and protect, he said. We’ll see.
Sunklands 