Penned in precise and evenly lined sentences, a blank page near the middle of a slightly scuffed, top-grain leather journal is newly inscribed. If one were to flip past the filled pages to the very beginning, one would find the first page titled with: Bernie Tweed, Bree-land followed by a series of odd symbols.
1 Lithe
Home, Bree-land
√ Make list of needed larder supplies for the next trip up to Bree.
• Meeting with mason later about bricking up that busted window.
≡ Finally got myself to ride on out to Sanders’ place for a talking-to. Hadn’t been out that way in an age and it’s surely gone to pot real fast. Weeds higher than my knee and I could tell there weren’t no tending of his brewery in a while for I seen a hornet’s nest building over the door to it.
Knocked on the door and his wife answered, cradling a new wee babe in her arms. Didn’t even know she were with another chitlin. She smiled and looked happy to see me; felt real bad bout that for she had no idea why I were there and I wanted not to tell her. Luckily Sanders followed her up real fast and said he’d take a walk with me. He were drunk again and greasy as can be. Fell off the wagon. Not good.
A ways from his house and out of earshot of his wife, he understood right quick why I were there and started off with all the usual excuses which I kindly listened too before I grabbed him hard by the shoulders and reminded him of the deal and more importantly, the consequences. He nodded and teared up, sniffling. Drunk fool. But promised he’d get on making it right the next day and that things were tough right now with the newly babe arrived.
Last chance he has, and I mean it this time. Getting real tired of this foolery. Needs to stop kicking his troubles into the long grass.
