Parents: The Beastly Fisherman
A raft. A raft is what you would build if you were stranded on a deserted island with only your burning desire for civilization to keep you company. You would build a raft if you needed to cross a stream and couldn’t risk going under the water. A raft you’ll build if you had a boy who wanted to be a sailor and you were teaching him basic ship making. That was not why Dorus built the raft. He didn’t build the raft for any of those reasons. He wasn’t on a deserted island though he did feel alone. He didn’t need to cross a stream thought there were some waters he dared not tread. He didn’t show anyone the woodwork though the illusionist, Torin, regarded him with some interest.
“No grave, then,” Torin said, casually, from the rock where he sat looking over a twig with his one good hand.
“No grave,” Dorus responded with a voice that sounded more gravelly than usual, tired and haggard.
“You don’t know where they are?”
Dorus pulled on the rope, tightening the knot and then tying another one for good measure. “Mom gone before I could remember. Think she died at childbirth but father wouldn’t talk about it. He was lost at sea, a terrible storm, while I had only 15 winters to me.”
“So, no grave.” Torin repeated.
“No grave.” Dorus acknowledged, a little more solemnly. He walked over to the pile of unused timber, next to the rock Torin sat on, and dug his four burly arms underneath them. Crouching, he lifted them with one heave and carried them over to the raft where he laid them down as carefully as he could. He pushed the raft forward, then, not all the way, only enough for the gentle caresses of the eastern sea to lick the edges of the dried logs.
“Do you have–” He started to ask as he turned around be he needn’t have asked. Though they had no more then a pouch of water and some stale bread between them, when Dorus looked back at Torin, the twig was already kindled with a small flame. Torin smiled a wry little smile. The kind someone uses after they had been through so much pain and torture and they were only now remembering, relearning, what it was like to smile again.
Dorus took the twig with a slight nod, the only gesture of gratitude, approval or regard he could make without twisting his already unnatural features into something that would scar a child for life. And with it, he lit the pyre. It took a while for the flames to catch hold and Dorus worked to the best of his dexterity under gusts of sea breeze to help the fire grow. When the branches and twigs and excess logs held a fire that will not wink out due to slight winds of sprinkles of sea water, Dorus pushed the wooden contraption into the waves.
They both sat there, on the beach, and watched the remembrance fire being carried off into the distance, becoming ever tinier on the horizon. Dorus sat, cross-legged, with his monstrous arms resting on his legs. Torin, with out his twig now, was etching patterns in the sand with his fingers.
“Torin…”
“Hmmph?”
“Do you visit your parents?”
“I Don’t know where that is.”
“No grave?”
“Nothing.”
Posted in From the Writing Desk by Eran with 4 comments.
נאה נאה.
לא ברור בסיפור מאיפה הוא שאב את ההשראה לבנות רפסודה אבל אפשר להגיד שרפסודה זו סירה של עניים :)
נכון, לא ברור. לא הכל אני מגלה מיד. אבל בעיקרון, אני רואה את צורת הזיכרון/קבורה הזאת לא רק כצורת הקבורה של עניים או נודדים אלא בעיקר של ימאים.
אז יהיה המשך?
אני לא יודע אם לדורוס יהיה סיפור רציני מעבר לזה שכבר כתבתי. כי בניגוד לאחרים, הוא היה חלק ממשחק מאוד רציני וקיבל הרבה הרבה פיתוח.