The fog has rolled in and covered the world this morning making me feel like the world is still tucked up into bed. It’s kind of nice to feel like I managed to get up before the world was ready to rise. Especially since it is usually the other way around. So I’m getting a jump start on my day and letting the outside shake off its sleep a little later. Timer set? All right, let’s do fifteen.
I find it kind of fun that I ended with some nefarious thoughts for my character. And as I am now wondering what he plans to do next, I might have to revisit him at some point. which is kind of nice.
Tuesday, October 20th: This is an amazing document.
This is an amazing document,” he said. He looked up and smiled ruefully at his companion, knowing it was the mother of all understatements. The document before him was beyond amazing. It was one of those rare finds people, especially archivists and linguists dream of coming across.
The document, a thick pile of pages, made thicker by archival pages placed between each individual page of the document and then put between two non-acid binders to protect the edges was found buried in a section of the archives that bore no relation to it. On the cover was a label ‘letters, unknown writer.’ If the label had a date it was smeared beyond recognition.
He was certain tests would be able to give him a clue. He knew the paper and ink would be tested to determine its authenticity and that even the language itself would be broken down to learn if it was correct for what would have to be the time period, given the document’s contents. Understanding that it could be a clever forgery, he tried not to get to excited. It was difficult. These letters were in actuality a series of complaints.
The writer was clearly displayed on the page. He was a self-important narcissist who felt that he had been slighted. He complained, at length about everything from his situation to the everyday objects around him. He complained that in this strange new world he was forced to use local objects instead of the more familiar ones of home. He even complained of the language. In his vitriolic letter, this unknown writer made detailed comparisons between what he knew and what he was now forced to endure. He also broke local words down.
He wrote down a local word and then made a note of how it was pronounced so that his reader would hear the words the natives used. While his intent was to convey the barbarism of the locals, what he did was actually record the words and their pronunciations from a language that had been all but destroyed by the civilizing invaders. No more than a handful of words were known and the pronunciation was often more guesswork than knowledge.
Here, if this document was correct, was a treasure trove of words. And as the cranky writer noted the odd way in which the natives spoke, there was also syntax recorded along with local customs and details of everyday life. He swallowed hard, trying not to think about what this document could mean, to linguistics, to history, to his career. He would be famous. There would be books and lecture tours, he was sure of it. As long as it was authentic.
‘And,’ he thought looking up at his smiling companion, ‘as long as no one disputed the find was his alone.’ His eyes narrowed.
“Where are the others?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.
Ten til Midnight 