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The wind has existed forever. It has seen much in this country of dreams and soap ads, old horrors and bloodshed. It has played mute witness to its burning witches, and has walked along a Trail of Tears; it has seen the slave ships release their human cargo, blinking and afraid, into the ports, their only possession a grief they can never lose.
It has carried shouts of love, and it has dried tears to salt tracks on more faces than it can number.
If the wind were a sentinel, it would send up the alarm. It would cry out a warning of terrors to come. But it is only the wind, and it knows well that no one listens to its cries.
“How do you invent a religion?” Evie asked.
Will looked over the top of his spectacles. “You say, ‘God told me the following,’ and then wait for people to sign up.”
“It isn’t your fault. There’s nothing more terrifying than the absoluteness of one who believes he’s right,”
“When the world moves forward too fast for some people, they try to pull us all back with their fear,”
Just a bunch of chess pieces moved about by unseen hands in a universe bored with itself.
