And On the Eighth Day
“His attention once directed at it, it ceased to be an eye and became—obviously—a knothole.
Aye, tear her tattered ensign down— “That’s enough of that nonsense!” he said firmly, sitting up. His sudden movement sent the worn clean quilt sliding to the floor—a journey of no great distance, he learned immediately, since he had been sleeping on sheepskins spread over a tick stuffed with hay and corn shucks. The smell of all three was plain. He was not in some primitive motor court after all.
And with that, he remembered.
As had happened before and was to happen again, he got up believing he was fully rested; the ache in his bones he attributed to his having slept without a mattress or bedsprings.
He automatically looked around for a shower but there was none; he saw no sign of plumbing. The crude cottage had three small rooms, sparingly equipped with furniture as primitive and unpainted as the cottage itself. But all the wood glowed with a patina that gave off a definite odor.
Write Review:
User Reviews: