Ink on vellum. The bark of hawthorn branches processed with wine and iron salts to make the ink. The flesh of a calf, cleaned and bleached and stretched and scraped, to make the vellum. All to form words, which were nothing more than metaphors agreed upon to contain and convey truth. Such were the elements, mundane and intellectual, of the volume before him. Yet, brought together in this particular form to convey these particular truths, they became something far greater. They became sacred. Imbued with Edan’s truth.
