I awoke from a fretful sleep with small beads of perspiration clinging to my lip. My hands trembled as I fumbled in my pocket for a smoke and lit up. Moreover, my head ached and I felt a nervous anticipation. I turned my eyes from my shaking hands and looked out the side window. The sun was high in the sky now as the landscape outside sped by in mottled blurs, there was the occasional wide spot in the road with a few buildings here and there dotting the scrubland giving proof of an existence outside the confines of this bus. I needed to stop and walk around, I needed fresh air, and I needed to forget the images that stole into my sleep. The sign a few miles back said Plainview 26 miles, Amarillo 83 miles. Two more hours I thought, just two more hours and I can get off this bus for awhile and clear my head.

I looked around and saw the old man in the seat across from me starring at me with a quizzical look.  He was holding the small book that the old black woman had given me back in Bishopville.  He grinned a little, revealing dark and missing teeth when he saw me looking at him and said, "este el tuyo"?

"What did you say", I replied. He smiled even wider and said,

 "Este libro es el tuyo "?

After hearing him ask the second time, I recognized what he was saying and that it was Spanish. I replied, "Yes, the book is mine, do you speak English"?

The look on his face changed to a more serious expression, one not befitting his gruff and worn appearance. He shot a quick glance up the aisle of the bus and then in perfect and unadulterated English said, "why of course I do, I taught it as a second language for over thirty years."

He laughed a deep throaty laugh when he saw the look of surprise on my face. He then reached into his overcoat, and produced a pint of gin and asked if I would care for a nip. When I declined the offer, he removed the cap and took a long sip. Placing the cap back on the bottle and returning it to his coat pocket, he then asked me where I found such an odd little book. I said nothing as I searched his eyes.

You know he said, that little book of yours if it is not counterfeit is quite a find, in fact if is indeed the original, it is worth more than just the money it could fetch at an antique action.

I listen without speaking as I watched his once dull eyes brighten with excitement. He spoke of a legend that surrounded this particular book and how it was thought to contain prophecies related to the end of time.  I was beginning to think this old man had lost his mind when he said something that made my heart skip a beat.

© J. Allen Wilson 2005