Harbinger (31 page)

AUTHOR’S NOTE

When I first imagined this story, the character of Faye and the landscape of coastal Maine came to me hand in hand. They are both isolated and stark, and both a bit outside of time. But when I went poking around in the prehistory of Maine, looking for an ancient culture that Faye could be connected to, I was stunned by what I found.

The Red Paint People (named for the red ochre they used in their burial rituals) are a people outside of time as well. They lived around five thousand years ago, but their culture was much more developed than that of anyone else around them. They carved elaborate symbols into their daggers, built seaworthy boats for hunting swordfish, and created sophisticated tools for hunting. But the most extraordinary thing is the way they buried their dead. In ritualized, ordered cemeteries. Excavated graves have held intricate bone daggers, decorated pendants, and carved stone animals. To me these artifacts hint at a fierce people who treasured beauty and held a deep belief in the mystical.

I became obsessed. What had happened to make
these
people so different from anyone who came before them or anyone who came after? And the
after
is the strangest part. Because a little less than four thousand years ago, the Red Paint People suddenly vanished. No more graves. Or carvings. Or tools.

The title of a paper written in 1930 wryly sums up the situation. “The Lost Red Paint People of Maine: A few things we think we know about them and more that we know we don’t.” With very few clues about what happened to these incredible people, all kinds of theories have popped up. Were they really Celts visiting from across the ocean? (They weren’t.) Did a great tidal wave wipe them out? (It probably didn’t.) But the point is, no one knows. So my mind started spinning a story and
Harbinger
was born.

And though my interpretation of the Red Paint People is fantastical and takes obvious liberties, it is rooted in a place of fact. Amidst the debates of archaeologists, wild theories, and tantalizing evidence,
Harbinger
seeks to give answers where there are no others to be found.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A story is a scary endeavor. For a long time it’s just you and your dogs and your computer. And no one has to know if your characters aren’t likeable or you don’t know the ending. But the tricky part is . . . for your story to really live, you have to show it to people. If you’re lucky, there’ll be people in your life who’ll tell you which parts are good and help make them stronger. And there’ll be other people who’ll be ready to listen and applaud when you get to “The End.” And that helps make you stronger. Until finally, one incredible day, your story is strong enough to live on bookshelves, and you’re strong enough to let it. For me, that day would’ve never come without these extraordinary people . . . My fearless agent, Michael Bourret, who saw the heart of my story even when it was half the length and double the mess. You’re a Wonder.

My editor, Stacey Barney, who knew exactly where I was trying to go and drew me a map of how to get there. You pushed me to color in the edges of my world and saved me from a deep lake of dark deepness. Thank you for making this process better than I dreamed it could be.

My talented critique groups, who read so many drafts and incarnations. Lee Wind, Rita Crayon Huang, and Maya Creedman. The New Directions: Gail Israel, Talisen Winder, Jean O’Neill, and Suzanne Casamento. And my HH cohorts, Edith Cohn and Jennifer Bosworth. All of you have inspired me, pushed me forward, and kept the faith with me. And the humor.

The fantastic SCBWI community. When I started this book, I was alone. Now I look around and see a crowd of incredibly talented friends. And especially Kim Turrisi, who was looking out for me and this story before we even met.

All the people who took time to answer strangely specific and seemingly random questions. Bruce Bourque, Susan Wennrich, Ken Logan, Colin Bell, Caren Mahar, to name a few.

Bear McCreary, whose brilliant music, unbeknownst to him, beckoned me back into my world every morning.

Joni Mitchell, whose haunting songs inspired me and my characters.

My parents, who always sent me to bed with a story and would interrupt dinner to look up an interesting word. Thank you for always asking to see what I’m working on. My sister, Megan, who fought with me over the best books, sent me skull chocolates, and got excited for me every step of the way. To Dan, who first dreamed the dream and made me believe a mere mortal could even be a writer. You are filled with wonderful stories and wicked humor, even if you suck at Monopoly. And all of the Etiennes, I love being part of your family and the tenacity with which you all pursue life, your dreams, your happiness, and your egg rolls.

And, of course, Tony, for always believing, always wishing, and, without fail, always reading. You declared me a writer from day one and never, ever asked what was taking so long. Thank you for bringing my world to life with your amazing illustrations. May this be the first of a thousand projects we do together.