Thick air drew musk up from the river and into the magnolias, the smell of fish and slow moving water. Scents that strum a primordial chord deep within us, where instinct, the voices of our ancestors and God’s basic instructions reside. It was an easy winter rain, the pitter patter kind, which puts everyone at ease. The ancient bouquet of the river, combined with the pitter patter, was probably welcomed by those that came to the Quarter for ambiance, but not so much by the vendors in the French Market. People at ease don’t spend money urgently. Tucked away from the open air shops and laid-back shoppers, in the back of a small antique music store, a small man sorted through a large stack of wrinkled papyrus. The rigid paper was handmade from reeds in the traditional methods used by the ancients but left as sheets instead of assembled into the more traditional scroll. Contractual obligations, the nature of which the small man dealt in, had long been recorded on scrolls and still were in certain countries that romanced tradition.
