outtake from novel...

As for my father, Ian Hughes, the progenitor of this story, its main confessor, and where he ended up or might still be—and where Linus Grey aka American Crow might reside now, if he ever existed in the first place—that I leave up to you to figure out. I can tell you briefly what went into my decisions in organizing and designing the contents of the box into the manuscript that lies now so placidly in your hands, disguised thinly as a novel. How, in hopes of providing a basic map of the territory (if not an actual path to follow), I have left as many blazes along the way. You should at least be able to follow our trusty Narrator on his journey, for his trail is relatively fresh. Be patient. Though it takes him a while to get going, when he does get moving, I assure you, you’ll be hard pressed to keep up. I wish you could hear for yourself his strange, melodious voice that starts every story he tells—and he tells a good many—in a syrupy jazz crooner voice but ends jumbled and confused, the last words and syllables strangled and garbled in his quavering mouth. The man who crosses the threshold of the tale is not always the man who stumbles out.