The Professor ran his fingers gently over the ancient parchment, feeling the shadowed crackle of fragility eggshell-like beneath the smoothness. Black ink, now faded brown, swirled in several hands across the pages, the runes strange and graceful, yet holding no mysteries from the old man. He had pried the secrets of the long-dead tongues from the pages of the scarlet-bound volume many years ago, and those secrets had been remarkable indeed - tales of deeds and journeys unforgivably lost to the annals of men.
His own journey was nearing an end now, he knew, but just once more, he wished to look upon the dear old book before he locked it away again for the discovery of some later age. Suddenly, he stopped, his hands faltering in their pace through the leaves. There had been an interruption, subtle but true, in the flow of the pages, and with melancholy nostalgia suddenly sparked again to keen curiosity, he turned carefully back, running his thumb down the rum of each page, seeking the irregularity that had flickered beneath his fingertips.
It took near an hour to find again, two thin, crumble-edged pages stuck so old and fast together that they seemed as one. With trembling hands, the Professor slid the thin blade of his pen-knife along the edge, and the two pages cracked apart, releasing the scent of years.
His eyes poured over the firm, flowing, familiar hand, drinking in the dry delight of what looked to be a gardener's planting schedule spread before him. And here, another little treasure presented as if in reward of his faith...a scrap of paper tucked in near the spine. On one side, a clumsy and unknown script scrawled out something that appeared to be a debtor's note for a singularly large number of candles purchased by one "F.B." but on the other, that well-beloved hand again, marking out what seemed to be a fragment of a familiar traveling song.
Too far afield my path did roam,
Too far to yet wind fully home,
And now my hand grows ever frail,
A'stretching toward the Sea to sail,
Although my heart may ever wait,
Behind the gentle garden gate.
Ill and hunger, shadow, care,
I shall spare! I shall spare!
To song and story, life and memory,
And now to Sea! And now to Sea!
The Professor's hand tightened on the paper, noting the strange, round stains, like watermarks, that peppered the edges here and again. He had seen those at places in the story as well, they had long ceased to bother him, but here...for some strange reason, he felt a strong urge to burn the paper, to bury it, to do something to keep it... "To keep it safe, keep it secret."
A bittersweet smile on his lips, he tucked the paper back between the pages of peonies and blackberries and closed the book.
His own journey was nearing an end now, he knew, but just once more, he wished to look upon the dear old book before he locked it away again for the discovery of some later age. Suddenly, he stopped, his hands faltering in their pace through the leaves. There had been an interruption, subtle but true, in the flow of the pages, and with melancholy nostalgia suddenly sparked again to keen curiosity, he turned carefully back, running his thumb down the rum of each page, seeking the irregularity that had flickered beneath his fingertips.
It took near an hour to find again, two thin, crumble-edged pages stuck so old and fast together that they seemed as one. With trembling hands, the Professor slid the thin blade of his pen-knife along the edge, and the two pages cracked apart, releasing the scent of years.
His eyes poured over the firm, flowing, familiar hand, drinking in the dry delight of what looked to be a gardener's planting schedule spread before him. And here, another little treasure presented as if in reward of his faith...a scrap of paper tucked in near the spine. On one side, a clumsy and unknown script scrawled out something that appeared to be a debtor's note for a singularly large number of candles purchased by one "F.B." but on the other, that well-beloved hand again, marking out what seemed to be a fragment of a familiar traveling song.
Too far afield my path did roam,
Too far to yet wind fully home,
And now my hand grows ever frail,
A'stretching toward the Sea to sail,
Although my heart may ever wait,
Behind the gentle garden gate.
Ill and hunger, shadow, care,
I shall spare! I shall spare!
To song and story, life and memory,
And now to Sea! And now to Sea!
The Professor's hand tightened on the paper, noting the strange, round stains, like watermarks, that peppered the edges here and again. He had seen those at places in the story as well, they had long ceased to bother him, but here...for some strange reason, he felt a strong urge to burn the paper, to bury it, to do something to keep it... "To keep it safe, keep it secret."
A bittersweet smile on his lips, he tucked the paper back between the pages of peonies and blackberries and closed the book.