59 lines
3.3 KiB
Plaintext
59 lines
3.3 KiB
Plaintext
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Interior spaces have their seasons, too. In winter, the library is
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warm, but the windowpanes are cold. On Christmas morning, he sat
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for awhile alone, looking out at the bare trees, tapping his fingers
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on the small pile of newly-unwrapped books sitting on the dark
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oak table.
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[In this space, there is a symbol that reminds you,
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naggingly, of something, just outside the boundaries
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of memory.]
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Sewn into the binding of an old dog-eared copy of Cattel's "Memoirs of
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an Asp," we found a yellowed envelope of fine thin paper. Across the
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front of the envelope, a few words in blue ink in a dense, cramped hand,
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spread into illegibility by time. The gum having dried and turned to
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dust, the brittle flap opened easily. Inside, on dry, split paper, in
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the same hand, but barely legible, we finally found some answers to the
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questions that have perplexed us, and many others, since that first
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rainy April so long ago.
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In the library, we found certain descriptions of herrings and rice.
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Inherited objects surrounded us, perhaps intent upon walling us in.
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Finally, in an old parchment hastily concealed behind a sofa-cushion,
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we found the map. Before we had time to do more than glance at it,
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verify the handwriting, recognize the sinuousities of territory, a
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loud clanging from the kitchen drew us, clanking and lumbering, down
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the stairs (tucking the map inside our shirts for safekeeping).
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There in the kitchen, amidst savory smells of meat and spices cooking,
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copper-bottomed pans, sauces simmering over the blue-and-yellow fire,
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the occasional icy draft sliding out of the single-paned windows and
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crossing the floor low to warm itself in the hearth, still holding
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the gong-beater in one firm, long-fingered hand, haloed by the fine
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floating red-blonde hair that reaches well past her waist, the Vesta
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smiled at us, who stood wide-eyed, piled up to a sudden stop in the
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kitchen doorway, craning around each other to see in, not speaking
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yet in the first instant of surprise.
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Outside, the highland winter, not uncommon cold, but the snowiest
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in years, blew around the house, grounds, hills, frozen duck-wallows,
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bare moonlit trees, in the form of light, dry powder-snow. Our
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reconnaisance, circling languidly high up in the chilly air, chuckled
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no doubt to itself, probably imagining our surprise at the kitchener's
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unheralded appearance, reconnaisance recognizing and allowing to pass
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without our knowing this not-inimicable force.
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The Vesta's smile, there in the firelit kitchen of the lonely old
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house, isolated in the winter highlands, held the same sort of amusement
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we have just attributed to our circling reconnaisance. Surprise, we later
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thought, back in more familiar quarters, and even there that night, eating
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the Vesta's rich wine-and-venison soup, adds savor to hot meals, especially
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those taken in old houses in winter.
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The next week, after resolving a quite unconnected puzzle, we set
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out to follow the map.
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[ ]
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