Good morning. It is the first Monday after the time change so I am feeling like I was robbed by the time thief. It happens every year. I think it was worse this year because I forgot that the time change was happening until Saturday night. So it took me completely off guard this year. Still time thief aside, the day has begun Shall we kick off with our morning writing prompt? Excellent, let’s go.
Not bad. Not great either. I finally started to get a feel for the story towards the end. And then the timer went off. I like the thought of an unknown language and a book celebrating it. I just have to figure out what to do with it.
Monday, March 14th: The book had a page marked with a red ribbon.
The book had a page marked with a red ribbon. The ribbon trailed out of the end like a long lolling tongue. I doubted the ribbon was originally intended as a book mark. It had the length of something that would be used to tie hair back instead.
The book was placed on a stand and the ribbon swayed in the air currents of the room, the movement making it more tongue like. Curious to see what the ribbon marked I walked over.
The book was heavy and thick. It was easily four inches thick. The leather covering was well cared for, oiled and supple as though new, even though I could tell it was an older volume. The pages had been gilded on the ends at one point and the sin filtered through the windows still picked out some glimmers. For the most part though, time and use had dulled the shine.
The cover was plain brown leather which struck me as odd. A volume such as this looked as though it required some ornamentation to it. It was weighty, substantial, at least in scale. That alone should have made its creator at the very least emboss the leather of the cover.
It hadn’t. There were no tool marks, not even a pressed decoration at the corner. Likewise there were no markings on the spine of the book. Nothing to let anyone know what information it contained. Looking around the library, I saw many old volumes and folios each with decorative elements that would make them almost artistic creations in and of themselves, beyond the information their insides held. Yet none of them had been given such pride of place. None of them were placed on the stand in the center of the room. I carefully lifted the cover and opened the book. There was a cover page. There were five words that wound no doubt let the reader know what the book contained in it’s pages.
The language however was foreign to me. I frowned. I liked to think of myself as fairly good with languages. I was fluent in several and could read at least a dozen more. While I knew there were many languages that I was unfamiliar with, in general I knew enough to place the unknown language into some category.
With this book I couldn’t. None of the words on the title page were in any way familiar. There were no root words that might lead me to a language group. Figuring the title page didn’t contain enough words to provide an acceptable sample I turned the page. Each page after the title page was covered with words. They were carefully scripted, the black ink used only slightly faded with time, I let my eyes scan the page, looking for the familiar.
Nothing jumped out at me. This language was like none I had ever seen before. Carefully I turned the pages. I recognized nothing. I tried to think of the lettering styles I had seen, perhaps pairing the formation of the letters to a time period or region even if the language remained a mystery. They were as unknown as the writing itself.
Ten til Midnight 