Maybe what I need to do is to post some fiction

I don't take this lightly...

Life has been hectic since I started a full-time job. You might have forgotten about me, but I promise, I haven’t forgotten about you, or about what we started here: untangling some shining threads from the budle that is world literature.

I haven’t been able to post here regularly. But then it hit me: I’m working on a fantasy novel (more like a series of novels), and I’m in the middle of translating its first story. I foolishly wrote it in Hebrew, though the rest of what I wrote, and still writing, is in English. So why not share it here? It might help me get back into the habit of posting… and then, well, we’ll see what happens.

A few words before you dive in: this is the first of 22 stories, which I hope will eventually make up a trilogy, maybe even four books. If you’re familiar with the Tarot, you’ll already understand why there are 22 stories, and why the first is numbered 0 instead of 1. This is the tale of the Fool, the one who begins the saga.

I’d love to hear your thoughts, and hope you enjoy it. It’s quite different from the essays I usually post here.

0.

The Fool

1.

Songs… The weird songs the wind had sung to him: sweet hymns of flowers he never had the chance to smell, melodies of lands his feet had never touched... a cluster of voices and whispers that grew stronger by the minute, fusing into a symphony too wild for him, almost, on such a beautiful morning. Through his eyes the world so fresh, so green - and also purple, and red, and light green, and greenish dark, and more and more, countless shimmering shades of nearly every color possible in this vast universe, and full of life. So alive in fact that he felt he could never die here. This was the below land, the land of humans. He came from the other place, known to all creatures as the realm of "Gods Above”: the world he had escaped, if a being can even use such a serious word to describe something as simple as opening an unlocked gate and walking out. His presence here was a kind of birthday gift to himself. And though he had trouble determining his exact age, since he had never counted on something so brittle and fleeting as time, he knew that he was still very young. True, he may have lived long, but without a shadow of a doubt, he was not old. He enjoyed a long springtime.

Since he could remember anything, he remembered his heart and his soul longing to set out on the open road, to enter new cities as a mysterious stranger, as a guileless wanderer. His father had no patience for such talk. He would surely have seen this wide and open land only for what it lacked: a country without castles, devoid of monuments of splendor and grandeur, not even a single worthy spot to place a royal throne, no place to hang a shield or sharpen a sword. “A fool,” his father used to say, “is someone who finds value in valueless things.” And indeed, now that he had arrived here, he felt his foolishness was more complete. Simpler by far, delicate even, yet infinitely deeper. He—the perceptive Fool—saw what was. From his vantage point outside the center of worlds, he examined the margins of things, discovering them as new centers. Far enough from the center (this was the way his father used to speak of their home) any place can be the center, and every step along the edges is both a stepping off the map and a kind of destination. The hills and farms that stretched before him from the cliff’s edge where he stood gazing out: why should they not contain a worthy adventure? Nothing in this world was fixed and dead. Not to a powerful imagination.

He imagined he was holding, between his index finger and thumb, a white flower he had picked, when suddenly Dog—his own dog—barked. It wasn’t one of the familiar barks: not the “careful, you might fall” bark, or the “watch out, you’re straying too far”, barks our Fool had known since infancy: Dog’s owner had been an adventurer at heart. No, this was a completely different kind of bark: one of extreme curiosity—“look, there’s something worth exploring”—a rare and special bark, almost never used…

And indeed, there was something there.

Two scribbles in the distance, moving as if in a kind of dance. weren’t they? Instantly, the Fool was so taken by the sight that he felt no urge to move closer. One of them—which held the silhouette of a young man—was training the second, that of a girl, in staff combat. From what the Fool could tell, they were practicing a fire move. The scene moved the Fool deeply: a fighter and a fighter-in-the-making, sheltered in their own little world. He also noticed a third shape, even less pronounced, watching the two from afar, unseen by them. It, too, held a staff. What none of the three knew was that they were about to be ambushed. Six more scribbles, seemingly armed with swords—swords he knew well—were taking position behind the foliage, drawing closer.

Obviously, he had seen a wand with his own eyes before. But he had never trained with one. He now felt a little regret about that, as the staff appears to be a fearsome weapon. It was also longer than any sword he had encountered.

The sword-wielding attackers were divided into pairs. The Fool understood it would take precious minutes before he could reach the earth. Glad… NO! Enthusiastic, to behold the marvel unfolding before his eyes, he had already decided to save the original unsuspecting scribbles. And so he began by sending a few winged words to the third one: "Behind you. Six long-haired figures with swords."

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he wiggled one pink tongue out to taste the wind. Indeed, it would agree to guide him downward. Then he took a light step beyond the edge of the cliff, maneuvering the flaps of his shirt like wings upon the generous wind, so he might land more gently on the ground. Inside him echoed an old warning, something his friend Mori had said long before this journey began: "Do not use your powers in the presence of the people of the Lands Below." Yet the very possibility of friction ignited something pleasant inside him.

Directing himself towards a good spot to land on, the Fool never took his eyes off the unfolding contest. The young man was urging the girl to flee (the Fool read his lips). “I’ll hold them off,” he told her. “If you run, they’ll be forced to retreat.” Reluctantly, she obeyed her older brother (the resemblance was too striking) and fled with only the one soldier chasing after her, leaving the two young men armed with wands to face five sword-wielding warriors. Right then and there, descending to the sweet and warm earth, The Fool had to make a decision. Not surprising himself, he chose the more heroic path: to save one girl rather than two young men. He had seen enough battles in his life—too many—to know that the soldier chasing after her would soon catch her if he didn’t intervene. And that she would survive only if he helped. So, even as he steered his descent earthward, he put valor and strength into the heart of the young warrior. Though her pursuer was older, larger, and far more experienced, she turned and stood her ground. By the time The Fool reached her, she had held her own. Deflecting her chaser’s blows, striking his left leg once, slowing him down, and his right arm second, nearly knocking the sword from his hand. The Fool landed, thanking the wind for the gift it had given him, and turned to call for the attention of the other two.

It was no easy task to get it, as the two were locked in fierce combat. He had no time to dwell on it, for Dog arrived mere seconds after him, lunged at the pursuer, and tore his sword arm from its frame. With strength and determination, he brought the man to the ground. The young warrior-maid, brimming with her own borrowed might and courage — and above all, a great reserve of self-determination, it seemed — quickly shook off her surprise and raised her wand to strike Dog.

“Stop!” the Fool shouted. She hadn’t seen him until that moment. Without pausing to question the stranger who had appeared before her, she leapt toward the sword lying on the ground, spun it lightly in the air for a brief moment as if trying to weigh it, and hurled the pointy end at him with tremendous speed. He dodged just in time, but, embarrassingly, he realized just how close it had been.

“I hope you won’t do that again,” he said in a voice that was more resolute than threatening. But her eyes betrayed the truth: his words will not reach her. She would keep pressing the attack until one of them was defeated. How Curious... He had never imbued valor and strength upon a mortal before. He had seen such things happen in a tourney, but never by his own doing. What emerged wasn’t necessarily to his liking, perhaps, but watching it unfold... that was something.

As the Fool dogged the blows of the girl’s wand, he turned a question over in his mind: what was to be done? He didn’t want to hurt her. He had come down to earth in order to save her. Yet, he had to admit to himself that in some elusive and unexpected way, a not intentionally cruel way, this was also his fault. As he kept stepping away from her swift attacks, a sharp and terrifying vision flashed before his eyes: a torchlit amphitheater, crowds of thousands screaming and cheering, and the girl standing at the center of the arena, locked in fierce combat with an enemy twice her size.

He didn’t like that vision: the vivid girl who stands before him now cutting with a sharp-pointed sword and being cut in turn.

The blood of warriors always runs red. And sooner or later, even the mightiest ones lose. Their knees collapse, darkness cover their eyes, and they sink to the ground without a sound.

Mori never let him follow their shades when they left their bodies, no matter how much he begged and pleaded.

Suddenly, from what felt like far away, the words battle spirit reached his ears. And just like that, he knew what he had to do. Just before slipping away one final time, he saw it—a thin flame quivering beneath the skin of his attacker. In the split second between one strike and the next, he clapped his hands near her abdomen. The force of the wind he summoned flung her a dozen feet back. She landed hard on her back, gasping for air. “This is supposed to free you,” the Fool said softly.

Now, as the young fighter struggled to catch her breath, the Fool turned to face her attacker. The man’s blood was surging out of him in terrible red gushes. Because of the sun’s angle in the heavens, it appeared almost purple in color. It was a sight that gave the Fool pause for a moment. He could never get used to that awful color.

The man didn’t seem so young. Not like the girl he was chasing, or even her older brother who had trained her—their likeness was too obvious to ignore. The attacker had white hair at his temples. His eyes stared at the Fool in unending shock, and when he saw Dog it was as if his heart seemed to fill with dread. The one thing he managed to say before collapsing was, “The Son.”

2.

“Rider? Is he well?” Those were the first words the girl managed to get out once her breathing steadied. A young looking man she didn’t recognize smiled at her. “Rider, huh?” he said. “A strong name. Pleasant-sounding. I wonder what you meant by giving it to him.” What you meants? She wasn’t sure what he was getting at, and honestly, she was too occupied with trying to get back on her feet. It was like she was trying to remember something crucial while a quickening sense of danger hurried her to her feet. “Here, let me help you up,” he said, offering his hand. Everything looked and felt like a blur at that moment. She grabbed his hand and stood, still shaky on her feet. His clothes were… otherworldly, as if someone not from around here tried to dress like he is. Some of the colors she’d never seen together on fabric before. It was like the forest was stitched into his outfit, green leaves that rustled softly when he moved. Yellow circles shimmered on his shirt like little suns, but it was the red inside them—a play of shine and shade like that of flaming stars—that pulled her inward.

Looking back at her, the man said: “Rider… That’s your brother, isn’t it? You only just left him. He’s probably still fighting.”

With those words she snapped fully awake, struggling to her feet.

Rider and I were ambushed. Aleister was with him.

Her wand in hand again, she raced back to the spot where they’d split up. The man bleeding nearby did not concern her. my attacker; did I really hurt him that badly? And for the strange man following her? she’d deal with him soon enough.

Before she could even reach the spot where the Swords had ambushed them, a white creature — no bigger than a cat — flew ahead of them and stopped, barking excitedly.

Pamela froze. For a second, she thought it might be part of the Swords’ trap: a trained animal sent to catch her? The thought seemed absurd. It angered her. She almost lashed out on the small creature before remembering: this was the beast that brought down my attacker. Was it on her side? Everything was still so unfocused.

When they finally reached the clearing where she and Rider used to train, she scanned the area.

“They couldn’t have gone far. Not enough time’s passed,” said the stranger. He stood with his back to her, as if trying to figure out which way Rider had gone. Why is he helping me? Is this a trap?

“Who are you?” she demanded before she struck his back with swift force, sure it would knock him down to the ground.

3.

Were the Fool, in that very moment, asked to describe the pain spreading across his back, he would have called it dull. It was there, had a being no doubt, but felt like it came from a great distance, getting diluted on the way here. The pain insisted on being acknowledged, yet it wasn’t strong enough to dominate. “Who are you?” the girl thundered.

There was still valor and strength in her voice. Where did that fierce emotion come from? I thought she’d lost it all when the air was knocked out of her.

He meant to answer her. A reply he was still struggling to shape into human speech, with all those unnatural syllables and stumbling sounds, when the Dog leapt on her. Only her wand stood between Dog’s monstrous jaws—and they were monstrous—and her head. In the few seconds he loomed over her, before the Fool cried out in alarm, “Dog! Down!” and the beast withdrew, the air filled with the stench of blood seeping from the creature’s mouth. The Fool understood that without her wand, she would have been finished.

She struggled to steady her breathing. The Fool reached out a hand to help her up, but the girl pushed it away. She slid herself back from him while still lying on her back.

"Please. I want to help you," said the Fool, surprised to hear the alarm still ringing in his voice.

“You’re one of them.”

“Dog is with me. And he’s the one who saved you.”

“He also nearly killed me just now.”

“A simple misunderstanding. He didn’t mean to. He’s very protective of me.”

At that moment, something the Fool hadn’t expected happened. The girl burst into sobs. Had he done it wrong? Had he imbued her with too much strength and then taken it all away at once? There was a fierce anger in her crying. He thought about trying to cast calm on her, but worried it might prove to be one intervention too many. He sat down beside her on the ground, keeping measured distance. He tried to imagine what she was going through. The river flowing beside them did so with indifferent determination. As if humans didn’t pay it enough attention. Possibly... he didn’t really know them. Insects passing by buzzed lazily, including a few beautiful bright-green flies. The sunlight felt warm and pleasant on his skin. No. He needed to focus.

Despite his mother’s enduring state, he had no brothers or sisters to imagine caring for. He remembered the mortals he had seen cut down and die before his eyes—“cut down” was a word his father used. The crowd’s delight never interested him as much as the fear or perplexity on the faces of those about to die. He tried to think back on times when he himself felt fear but found it challenging.

“Maybe you should get up. Dog and I will help you find your brother.”

“And then what?” she replied, calmer now. “We’ll fight them all?”

He wanted to say he would be glad to help her with that, but Mori’s warning was too strong. Instead, he said, “If you fight them like you fought that man, we have a good chance.”

Again, an unexpected reaction: laughter. He had caused it. And it wasn’t mocking or dismissive—none of that, which he disliked. It was a surprised laughter. An embarrassed laugh. A wonderful one.