Waldo? Be shore'n ask him 'bout Crafter's basement. All kinds'a nekker-manser stuff down there, he say. Get him after he have a couple'a nips and, believe you me —he'll tell ya some things."
"I-I will," Westmore said. He felt half out-of-breath from the private glance. Were his hands still shaking? "Easter, I can't tell you how much you've helped me —
Another dismissive laugh. "I say, you act like I just tolt ya where the end'a the rainbow is. Crafter weren't nothin' but a nutty ole man — "
"This info is better than the end of a rainbow. Look, let me pay you a consulting fee — "
"Oh, you hush now, Westmore; I don't take money from friends," but just then her eyes drilled into his, and then she reached over and touched his hand. "Ya been so nice givin' me this here li'I machine but... could I ask ya to do me one more favor?"
"Name it," he said.
"See, like I just tolt ya, I cain't read, but I need someone ta read somethin' for me. I mean, I'se could get someone else ifn it's too much of a imper-zishun..."
Westmore didn't quite get it but he said, "I'll read you anything you want, Easter."
"It's, well, it's somethin' special, 'n'fact it's what I need this li'l recorder for in the first place. I got these words I need ya ta read, but I need ya ta read 'em out loud" —she touched the memo-coder again—"into this."
Westmore shrugged. "I'd be happy to. But...what is it, exactly?"
"Oh, I guess you could call it a prayer, like, a good-luck prayer."
"Fine. I'll do it right now if you like."
Her lips thinned. "I thank it'd be a sight better if ya do it someplace more private, like maybe in yer car..."
***
From the old rucksack, Easter produced an equally old cloth-covered binder whose tarnished rings secured typical lined paper filled with scrawl. "This were Grandpop Orne's special book." she informed him from the passenger seat. Westmore's eyes flicked from the book to her bosom, the book to her thighs settled in the seat, the book to her radiant white legs. Even the barely perceptible veins in her thighs he found exotic and attractive. Fuck, came the abrupt thought. He could only hope she hadn't noticed the arousal in his pants. The woman seemed rapt on the book, bearing that constant gentle smile; Westmore thought of a mother flipping through a photo album of her babies.
He'd turned the car on at once, to run the a/c, and when he did so, he took a stray glance at the dashboard and saw that the sizeable blue-bottle fly that had been buzzing around earlier now lay dead. No doubt, the heat had killed it. Good riddance...
"Grandpop Orne were such a fine man. I just miss him so..."
Westmore noticed some loose and oddly hued sheets beneath those bound. "What are," he began but then she pulled one out.
"This is it here," she said. "Be careful now."
Holy smokes, he thought, knowing immediately by its look and feel what it was. "Easter, this is parchment or maybe even vellum."
"Huh?"
"It's got to be very old. This is what they used for paper before paper was invented. It's actually animal skin shaved and cured a special way."
"Oh, I know it's old. It come from way back my side'a the family. Them sheets come from Europe; my Grandpop's rellertives're actually part'a the first colony ta come here, someplace called...somethin' Choo-sit's bay." She winced. "Well, I cain't remember it all."
But Westmore remained fixed on that first sheet of vellum. Nothing at all semblant of an alphabet could be found on the cramped lines of whatever ink its author had access to. The gradients in each stroke told him that a stylus rather than a primal pen had been used Just...a bunch of odd characters, like pictographs and logograms. Interspersed within were other, stranger characters —wedgelike but not cuneiformic— that seemed more like geometric diagrams. Each diagram had been inscribed with great precision, and each angle of each wedge was unequal in a manner he felt sure was deliberate. Anti-epicyclic, he thought. Angles in
"I-I will," Westmore said. He felt half out-of-breath from the private glance. Were his hands still shaking? "Easter, I can't tell you how much you've helped me —
Another dismissive laugh. "I say, you act like I just tolt ya where the end'a the rainbow is. Crafter weren't nothin' but a nutty ole man — "
"This info is better than the end of a rainbow. Look, let me pay you a consulting fee — "
"Oh, you hush now, Westmore; I don't take money from friends," but just then her eyes drilled into his, and then she reached over and touched his hand. "Ya been so nice givin' me this here li'I machine but... could I ask ya to do me one more favor?"
"Name it," he said.
"See, like I just tolt ya, I cain't read, but I need someone ta read somethin' for me. I mean, I'se could get someone else ifn it's too much of a imper-zishun..."
Westmore didn't quite get it but he said, "I'll read you anything you want, Easter."
"It's, well, it's somethin' special, 'n'fact it's what I need this li'l recorder for in the first place. I got these words I need ya ta read, but I need ya ta read 'em out loud" —she touched the memo-coder again—"into this."
Westmore shrugged. "I'd be happy to. But...what is it, exactly?"
"Oh, I guess you could call it a prayer, like, a good-luck prayer."
"Fine. I'll do it right now if you like."
Her lips thinned. "I thank it'd be a sight better if ya do it someplace more private, like maybe in yer car..."
***
From the old rucksack, Easter produced an equally old cloth-covered binder whose tarnished rings secured typical lined paper filled with scrawl. "This were Grandpop Orne's special book." she informed him from the passenger seat. Westmore's eyes flicked from the book to her bosom, the book to her thighs settled in the seat, the book to her radiant white legs. Even the barely perceptible veins in her thighs he found exotic and attractive. Fuck, came the abrupt thought. He could only hope she hadn't noticed the arousal in his pants. The woman seemed rapt on the book, bearing that constant gentle smile; Westmore thought of a mother flipping through a photo album of her babies.
He'd turned the car on at once, to run the a/c, and when he did so, he took a stray glance at the dashboard and saw that the sizeable blue-bottle fly that had been buzzing around earlier now lay dead. No doubt, the heat had killed it. Good riddance...
"Grandpop Orne were such a fine man. I just miss him so..."
Westmore noticed some loose and oddly hued sheets beneath those bound. "What are," he began but then she pulled one out.
"This is it here," she said. "Be careful now."
Holy smokes, he thought, knowing immediately by its look and feel what it was. "Easter, this is parchment or maybe even vellum."
"Huh?"
"It's got to be very old. This is what they used for paper before paper was invented. It's actually animal skin shaved and cured a special way."
"Oh, I know it's old. It come from way back my side'a the family. Them sheets come from Europe; my Grandpop's rellertives're actually part'a the first colony ta come here, someplace called...somethin' Choo-sit's bay." She winced. "Well, I cain't remember it all."
But Westmore remained fixed on that first sheet of vellum. Nothing at all semblant of an alphabet could be found on the cramped lines of whatever ink its author had access to. The gradients in each stroke told him that a stylus rather than a primal pen had been used Just...a bunch of odd characters, like pictographs and logograms. Interspersed within were other, stranger characters —wedgelike but not cuneiformic— that seemed more like geometric diagrams. Each diagram had been inscribed with great precision, and each angle of each wedge was unequal in a manner he felt sure was deliberate. Anti-epicyclic, he thought. Angles in
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