With difficulty she read a few sentences.
"This day the third in the month of Orbuary I did feed the gods, more than forty of them in the morning and twenty after eating. I am so weak I can hardly hold this pen."
"What does it mean?" asked Dawvys.
"I don't know." She flipped a page. "This day did hunt the fox, he being a strong untiring trapper who was found with forbidden ale cached in his house, and chased him over eight mile before he went to earth in a spinney, where the dogs found him and tore him to bits. Afterwards did feed nine gods, who have drained me so I cannot see but in a fog," she read aloud.
"That's your father speaking," whispered Dawvys, "He hunted a trapper last month."
"But how is it down here, if it was Ewyo? The books were made many years before my grandfather was born. No one makes books now. The art is lost."
"Nevertheless, I think Ewyo made this one himself. Unless it's a prophecy of the gods." He turned the book over. "What does it say on the outside?"
She read it with cold grue inching up her back. "Ewyo of Dolfya, His Ledger and Record Book."
"Then he did make it."
"How? How could he? The art is lost!"