“Lavender's my favorite scent, after White-Out and bacon rind. I sat down on the steps, not sure where to go next. A July afternoon yawned. Mirage puddles'd shimmered on the Welland road as I rode here. I could've gone to sleep on the baked doorstep. Little naked ants.””
“It's scented! Your wedding invitations are scented?""It's meant to be lavender.""No, Dex - it's money. It smells of money.””
“He is there, seated on a hillock, elbows on his knees, scratching his chin with thin, claw-like fingers. His face is hooked and gnarled like the tree branches, but as white as the moon beneath his tatterdemalion cloak and ragged hood. It is as though he has been carved from pale, young wood and clothed in the oldest night there ever was, as though he has grown there, like a living statue, his eyes shining like fireflies framed against the blackness of the hour of the wolf. He looks simultaneously ancient and yet vital and full of life. He speaks of spring and autumn, of new growth and burnt death, like the unholy progeny of the summer and winter solstices made some kind of flesh. He is the turning of the seasons, his scent is musk and soil and sweet lavender.””
David Lavender was an influential American historian and writer, renowned for his extensive chronicling of the American West. Over his prolific career, he authored more than 40 books, which included t...