A
Anonymous
Guest
אהלן, זו פעם ראשונה שאני כותב פה, וזה גם הסיפור הראשון שאני ממש כותב כסיפור. מקווה שאני עומד בכל החוקים והתקנות פה. מאוד אשמח לשמוע ביקורת ודעות לגבי הטקסט, אני יודע שחלקים ממנו לפחות דורשים שינוי או מרגישים קצת לא במקום, אבל עוד לא הצלחתי לפצח איך לעשות את זה אחרת. התחלתי לכתוב את זה כרקע לדמות שאני משחק כרגע, אבל אני מרגיש שיש לזה ערך בפני עצמו, מאוד אשמח לקבל משוב ודעות. תודה! אה, ומקווה שזה סבבה שכתבתי באנגלית...
A quite story
Around the village he was known as 'the boy of a million questions', his dad mostly moaning and shaking his head in response. Rimor understood him most times, but such simple answers were never satisfying. When he was especially interested in something and wouldn't let go, his dad would pull out his old tarot deck, and they would play. it seemed like his father was immensely capable at bringing these cards to life, he had a way of opening the cards that told his son marvelous stories. Most of his childhood was filled with the the art of a worn tarot deck explaining the world, his own imagination filling the gaps, and his father's eyes lighting when he gave the right interpretation to his series of pictures. Every question was a puzzle, all the answers were riddles.
Still, as the boy grew, his questions growing more specific and harder to answer, it dawned on the old man, His small piece of paradise was fading. Soon he will have to find others, who would give his son what he could not.
Moris, that was the name the villagers gave him, Asgard knows why, perhaps he reminded them of someone they once knew. They had no way of knowing his true name when he came from the horizon, just him and his child on a small fishing boat. And had no way to ask, him being mute and them being illiterate, presuming that so is he. It was alright by him, he wished himself forgotten anyway.
But this boy, his boy, was no fisherman. even now at the age of five his mind is swirling with possibilities. And he spoke. For all of his dad's quietness he made up a thousand folds. The villagers were quite surprised when the son of a mute man just started talking. Living alone in their hut, he should have been the last boy to speak, but he wasn't. Even when he was alone he would count fishes in the sea and tell tales of seagulls to the waves, he'd sings of stars to the winds, and collects stones with funny colors in the morning, to see what they look like comes night - his father listened, he wasn't deaf. It was just hard to speak without a tongue.
No, the child was an explorer, he would not rob him of this. He named him Rimor in his heart, and decided his son will read. That way he could tell him his name, hoping his bright son would figure out one day that there was also more to his old man. Maybe he will then think of his old hut. Maybe he'll remember tarot.
Getting the boy to the temple wasn't easy for an old fisherman with no tongue. But in the end, Gretza - the blacksmith's wife understood what all those hand gestures and moaning were about, and agreed to take the boy with her on Sunday to church. He had never gone before, never seen anywhere besides their small village and his dad's old hut. When he saw the white temple in the sunlight, its bells calling for prayer, people from all over the isle coming in their finest, the boys already rapid mouth seemed to quadruple its pace. Gretza was an elderly lady, with a cool temper. she had tried at first to answer the boy. But it seemed every answer only gave rise to three more questions, and she had her own bickering young to look after. So she promised the boy, when we'll arrive at the temple you may speak to the priest, he will surely answer any question you can think of.
By the end of that day, it seemed every rubbed man in the temple has been drained of all his words. The boy was an unstoppable force of wonder. It was like a bubble of quietness was lifted from him, like he was trying to make up for all his years in silence. When it was time to go, much later than she originally intended, Gretza was approached by the head priest. It was an unpredictable honer, seeing as she was fully accepting to be kicked out by the weary monks. He was asking about the fisherman's son, and she was embarrassed to say that she, and in fact no one, knew his name. It took some explaining, about his mute father and so on, that seemed to bother the old cleric, but nonetheless he asked her if she could bring the boy again next week, for he very much wanted to speak with him some more.
And so it was that Rimor became a regular at the saint George temple. His father didn't seemed surprised when Gretza told him of the events of that fateful day, maybe he was deaf after all she thought.
Rimors tales were different his father noticed. Every week he would go and come back with more. He still counted the fishes, he still talked to the wind, but his stories were fuller now. Had new words, new ideas, new insights. They were full of tales of heroes, of Azlan's laws, of his justice. His father was proud - he knew it would be so, he didn't mind. His father was sad. He hardly asked him much anymore. They almost never needed tarot.
It was a special day indeed that Sunday when Rimor made his miracle. He had been untypically quite that day, his dad thought it started when he was counting fishes. Gretza just thought his tummy must be aching. Old Kerbon noticed the child was so out of his normal frenzy of questions, he decided maybe it was time for something else besides oral learning. He picked the boy up and showed him his daily work, translating ancient Greek scripture to modern. He started reading to the boy, pointing at the letters and pronouncing each sound, hoping maybe the boy would start to pickup on reading. He was very much surprised when the boy continued on his own. He was choking when he kept reading the text after his translation ended, from the original text laying open next to it.
That day Rimor stayed at temple, Kerbon insisted the boy was blessed, touched by the gods. He would remain here in their house and be properly educated, and the boy's father was free to come visit him here. It was only a few hours travelling after all, and surely his father would be proud to have his son - a mere fisherman's boy - adopted by the church. When Gretza told old Moris the joyous news he wept - wept and smiled.
Living at the temple was all young Rimor had ever hoped for, by the end of the first month he had fully mastered reading, and his writing was coming nicely. The books were full of answers, and like always brought even more questions. But he did missed fishing, he missed the sea, he missed his dad, at least he still had stars. After the first week his dad came to see him. he was happy, he proudly read to him from different books, and told him he now has a name! his name is 'Anagnostis'. that's what the priests called him. His father seemed delighted at his reading, but troubled by the name. He lent to kiss him. Then old Kerbon entered and asked to speak at father. It was the last time he saw him.
Later that night the most amazing thing had happened. In his cloak Rimor found a note 'not Anagnostis, Rimor', and within that an old pack of tarot.
A quite story
Around the village he was known as 'the boy of a million questions', his dad mostly moaning and shaking his head in response. Rimor understood him most times, but such simple answers were never satisfying. When he was especially interested in something and wouldn't let go, his dad would pull out his old tarot deck, and they would play. it seemed like his father was immensely capable at bringing these cards to life, he had a way of opening the cards that told his son marvelous stories. Most of his childhood was filled with the the art of a worn tarot deck explaining the world, his own imagination filling the gaps, and his father's eyes lighting when he gave the right interpretation to his series of pictures. Every question was a puzzle, all the answers were riddles.
Still, as the boy grew, his questions growing more specific and harder to answer, it dawned on the old man, His small piece of paradise was fading. Soon he will have to find others, who would give his son what he could not.
Moris, that was the name the villagers gave him, Asgard knows why, perhaps he reminded them of someone they once knew. They had no way of knowing his true name when he came from the horizon, just him and his child on a small fishing boat. And had no way to ask, him being mute and them being illiterate, presuming that so is he. It was alright by him, he wished himself forgotten anyway.
But this boy, his boy, was no fisherman. even now at the age of five his mind is swirling with possibilities. And he spoke. For all of his dad's quietness he made up a thousand folds. The villagers were quite surprised when the son of a mute man just started talking. Living alone in their hut, he should have been the last boy to speak, but he wasn't. Even when he was alone he would count fishes in the sea and tell tales of seagulls to the waves, he'd sings of stars to the winds, and collects stones with funny colors in the morning, to see what they look like comes night - his father listened, he wasn't deaf. It was just hard to speak without a tongue.
No, the child was an explorer, he would not rob him of this. He named him Rimor in his heart, and decided his son will read. That way he could tell him his name, hoping his bright son would figure out one day that there was also more to his old man. Maybe he will then think of his old hut. Maybe he'll remember tarot.
Getting the boy to the temple wasn't easy for an old fisherman with no tongue. But in the end, Gretza - the blacksmith's wife understood what all those hand gestures and moaning were about, and agreed to take the boy with her on Sunday to church. He had never gone before, never seen anywhere besides their small village and his dad's old hut. When he saw the white temple in the sunlight, its bells calling for prayer, people from all over the isle coming in their finest, the boys already rapid mouth seemed to quadruple its pace. Gretza was an elderly lady, with a cool temper. she had tried at first to answer the boy. But it seemed every answer only gave rise to three more questions, and she had her own bickering young to look after. So she promised the boy, when we'll arrive at the temple you may speak to the priest, he will surely answer any question you can think of.
By the end of that day, it seemed every rubbed man in the temple has been drained of all his words. The boy was an unstoppable force of wonder. It was like a bubble of quietness was lifted from him, like he was trying to make up for all his years in silence. When it was time to go, much later than she originally intended, Gretza was approached by the head priest. It was an unpredictable honer, seeing as she was fully accepting to be kicked out by the weary monks. He was asking about the fisherman's son, and she was embarrassed to say that she, and in fact no one, knew his name. It took some explaining, about his mute father and so on, that seemed to bother the old cleric, but nonetheless he asked her if she could bring the boy again next week, for he very much wanted to speak with him some more.
And so it was that Rimor became a regular at the saint George temple. His father didn't seemed surprised when Gretza told him of the events of that fateful day, maybe he was deaf after all she thought.
Rimors tales were different his father noticed. Every week he would go and come back with more. He still counted the fishes, he still talked to the wind, but his stories were fuller now. Had new words, new ideas, new insights. They were full of tales of heroes, of Azlan's laws, of his justice. His father was proud - he knew it would be so, he didn't mind. His father was sad. He hardly asked him much anymore. They almost never needed tarot.
It was a special day indeed that Sunday when Rimor made his miracle. He had been untypically quite that day, his dad thought it started when he was counting fishes. Gretza just thought his tummy must be aching. Old Kerbon noticed the child was so out of his normal frenzy of questions, he decided maybe it was time for something else besides oral learning. He picked the boy up and showed him his daily work, translating ancient Greek scripture to modern. He started reading to the boy, pointing at the letters and pronouncing each sound, hoping maybe the boy would start to pickup on reading. He was very much surprised when the boy continued on his own. He was choking when he kept reading the text after his translation ended, from the original text laying open next to it.
That day Rimor stayed at temple, Kerbon insisted the boy was blessed, touched by the gods. He would remain here in their house and be properly educated, and the boy's father was free to come visit him here. It was only a few hours travelling after all, and surely his father would be proud to have his son - a mere fisherman's boy - adopted by the church. When Gretza told old Moris the joyous news he wept - wept and smiled.
Living at the temple was all young Rimor had ever hoped for, by the end of the first month he had fully mastered reading, and his writing was coming nicely. The books were full of answers, and like always brought even more questions. But he did missed fishing, he missed the sea, he missed his dad, at least he still had stars. After the first week his dad came to see him. he was happy, he proudly read to him from different books, and told him he now has a name! his name is 'Anagnostis'. that's what the priests called him. His father seemed delighted at his reading, but troubled by the name. He lent to kiss him. Then old Kerbon entered and asked to speak at father. It was the last time he saw him.
Later that night the most amazing thing had happened. In his cloak Rimor found a note 'not Anagnostis, Rimor', and within that an old pack of tarot.
