yame Read Online Free PDF

place of numerals? But then he winced at a passage that had clearly been highlighted in modern magic marker. Vandalism, he thought. A collector would howl...
    Nevertheless, he'd never seen anything like it. "Easter, I know a bit about ancient writing systems, but" —he shook his head. "I couldn't tell you in a million years what this is."
    "Oh, I know that. Grandpop said this writin' here, is writin' that existered, well, a long time before folks learnt ta write themselves."
    Westmore let the ballyhoo pass; of course, her grandfather would be given to tall tales. "What I mean is, I can't read this for you — "
    She laughed as if amused. "Oh, Westmore, no one could who don't know it! Only Grandpop could read it; but what he did, see, is he wrote down somethin' ta go along with that there page. A... tranzer-lay-shun."
    Westmore looked at her. "Really?"
    "And the way he write it is so —well there's a word fer it but I cain't remember. He write it down the way it sounds."
    "Phonetically."
    "Yeah! That's it." Now she ruffled through the bound sheets of normal paper. "He got scraps from a lotta old books'n such but that un there he always say's the most important." Her fingers isolated a sheet, but she paused and looked outward. "Manner- somethin'. Manner-skrit..."
    "Manuscript," Westmore corrected.
    "Uh-huh, and it was the-the..." She chewed her bottom lip. " Mot -ik, er, krotik, er, puh- not -ik." Her bare shoulders stumped. "Dang, I don't know the actual name he calt it."
    Westmore reached forward as if eager. "I'd like to see that phonetic translation, Easter."
    She unsnapped the metal rings and withdrew a single leaf.
    He couldn't imagine what this could be. And why would she be so intent on Westmore reading it? The tape recorder, he remembered. Something about a good-luck prayer... Only a few lines comprised the phonetic rendering. Simple. He picked up the memo-corder. "Okay, Easter. Here goes," and he pressed the record button, trained his eyes on the transcribed lines, and read aloud, "Guh'narl'ebb, druh'nug lee eye snub negg add'uk zynn...ee'uh, ee'uh, fuh'tay'gun, nem'blud duv...yog'saw'thoth..."
    He released the record button. "There ya go, Easter. Anytime you want to hear the good-luck prayer" —he pointed—"just press this bigger black button."
    Her eyes widened, fascinated, as he played the strange muttering back for her. A tear rolled down her cheek; the simple and rather absurd task left her choked up. "This means more ta me than ya can know, Westmore — " suddenly her hand was on his thigh, then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
    Fuck, Westmore thought again. Just the feel of her hand so harmlessly on his thigh made his penis cringe. "No problem at all," he said, trying to act unaffected. After I take her home...I'm jerking off. Big time. He looked at the vellum once more before he returned it to her. "This is really very interesting, Easter. If you like, I can give you the name and number of an antique book dealer. He'd probably pay a lot of money for that sheet, as well as whatever else you've got in that book."
    She looked taken aback. "Oh, but —my! I could never sell it. It's what my Grandpop left me, been in the family fer hunnerts'a years, from even before they come here."
    Westmore smiled. "Easter, you and your world are so enviable. In my world, everything's about money. People do anything for it; money's their god. That's all they live there lives for. It's so refreshing to meet someone like you; you act like you don't even care about money."
    She replaced the sheets, then put the binder back into the rucksack. "Ain't never had much use fer money. Wouldn't never wanna have ta rely on it. The more folks get ta needin' money...the less real they is."
    "Well said."
    "Among hillfolk, if anything, money's like a disease, and it's the things folks want it fer that messes 'em all up or even destroys 'em." Did she gulp? "'S'what happen ta my fine husband, Noot." She was staring out as she spoke.