I shook my head to clear it of such fancies. I would begin to sort these loose sheets, starting with the ones in the worst state of repair. If Anluan had any sense, that would be where he had begun his own somewhat limited attempt to do the job, so I would perhaps find the next part of that intriguing narrative somewhere amongst these deteriorating pages. So he’d lost the use of his right hand. I pondered this, wondering whether, if I tried using my left, my writing would be even more wayward than his. I had heard that a person could learn to use the other hand just as well, given time. Perhaps Anluan had not had time. Or perhaps he had lacked the will. He’d given up trying to talk to me quickly enough.
All of the documents from the little chest seemed to be in the same writing, a bold, regular hand.The style of script was antique and the penmanship was that of a scholar. The pages were so brittle there seemed a danger they would fall apart before I could get the job done, and the ink had faded badly. Little life remained in these records.
I skimmed the pages. One or two were in Latin, but most were in Irish and dealt with nothing more nefarious than an account of the daily life of house and farm:
... a good crop of new lambs, most of the ewes have dropped a pair, some three ... weather mild, fewer losses than last year ...
... dispute with Father Aidan, who considers my area of study perilous. Nothing new in that.
Fergus got an excellent price for our calves at this year’s market.
I have a son.They tell me he is healthy, though he appears red-faced and small. I am surprised, not at his fighting spirit, but that my wife has at last proven herself useful at something.