Echohawk [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONE Camp: August 1738 Jonathan Starr was watching ants. He sat on his favorite hollow log, the one by the creek, watching an army of ants march across his legs and onto the log. They marched in single file in an orderly, purposeful way. No ant tried to walk ahead of another. Groups of ants were carrying bits of leaves and debris from the forest floor over their heads and climbing the wrinkles in the coarsely woven homespun cloth of Jonathan's pants. They scrambled over his legs and down again by the hundreds, thousands, millions, or so it seemed to him. He sighed happily. There was nothing Jonathan liked better than going into deep woods alone, because there was so much to learn in the woods—about the animals and himself. He had learned that if he waited long enough, or moved quietly enough, everything in the forest came to him. Once he'd crept so close to a deer and her twin fawns that he could see the small cloud of gnats buzzing