The First Knot: A Gentle Breeze
twelve centuries earlier
“I am not the bottom sentence!” Clovis yelled from some faraway dream, carrying the bellow into his waking world with all the imperiousness of a king’s proclamation. Clovis had awakened himself before the second syllable of “bottom,” and heard himself holler “sentence!” as he was stumbling upright out of the bed of acorns within which he’d been nestled. Unnerved by the bossy nonsense of his own decree, he was rattled all the more when he found himself clutching a fistful of dry, dead leaf crumble, a handful that only the previous night had been his carefully collected and ecstatic bouquet of bejeweled oak leaves.
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