Post by C. Carlüs Xheraltescù on Jan 16, 2012 15:07:54 GMT -6
Just thought I'd share the one contribution I made to our provincial culture over in the Republic (other than continuing the running joke about eating cats). Please feel free to comment. Some errors may have slipped through the net, but don't feel obliged to point them out! 
The weather was not favourable for the fishermen of Cézembre. Rain beat heavily down on the temporary metal roofing of their simplistic abodes like a persistent beating of a drum. Only a fool would venture out in this horrific weather; as if to affirm the judgement of the islanders, a lightning bolt cut through the dull sky, accompanied by the rumble of displeased clouds. A simply dressed man heaved himself out of his chair and made his way over to the corner of his home; he reached into the alcove with a lit match, taking care to place it centrally. The fire grew slowly, and when he was finally satisfied with its size he retreated back into his chair, and was content.
It wasn’t long before he noticed a flicker blemishing the dull, grey monotony of the horizon; this was unexpected. Unprepared to disturb the comfortable position in which his aching back was finally satisfied with, he did not leave his chair. Instead, he carelessly tapped the surface of the adjacent table, searching for his aging binoculars. The binoculars had belonged to his father and his grandfather before him; consequently one lens had cracked, rendering it useful only as an unorthodoxly shaped telescope. Through the binoculars he saw the familiar shape of an allied ship fighting desperately with the ferocious sea. Momentarily, he wore an expression of puzzlement at the novel sight until his gaze fell upon the ship’s flag. Though it was difficult to make out its details, the man had seen the flag many times before and had recognised it immediately. Almost in anticipation of an unforeseen occurrence, he lifted his frame from his old oak chair and grabbed his boots.
A cumbersome, heavy and not entirely unexpected knock on the door stole the wiry haired man’s attention. He opened the door, revealing a worried young woman who appeared to be soaked through. “Th...Th...There’s a ship getting close to the island! I...” she broke off in order to catch her breath. “It’s all right, I’ve already seen it. Why don’t you come in, you look a little wet from the rain.” the man replied. Reluctantly, the small woman agreed to the man’s hospitable offer; her dark, dripping hair clung to her face and she tried to wipe it out of her eyes as the man kindly offered her a seat by the fire. “They’re friends, don’t you worry. I’ll head on down to the harbour to greet them. You stay here and get warm; help yourself to some tea, I’d be no gentleman if I sent you on your way in this weather!” He smiled; an expression irregular to his serious and worn face, yet seemingly fitting his perceivably content personality. “I may be some time.” He announced as he opened the door to the pouring rain once more. The woman smiled shyly and nodded.
As he arrived at the dock, the rain finally stopped falling. The ship was nearing the dock now, but the man anticipated it would take the unfamiliar sailors a great deal longer to dock than any experienced Cézembrean so he sat down at the edge of the pier. To his left rested a fishing rod belonging to one of the older islanders who no longer ventured out to sea, so, in order to pass the time he cast the line out to sea and watched the weight bob in an unconcerned fashion.
By the time the boat had arrived, the fisherman’s hat had dried considerably. He reeled the line in and set it down on the wooden pier; he picked his hat up from his side and placed it firmly on his head. When the first of the boat’s passengers stepped off the boat, the fisherman climbed to his feet and wandered over towards the approaching well-dressed gentleman. The man, whom the fisherman did not recognise, did not greet the unshaven islander; he said quite simply: “Take me to whomever you call master, peasant.” The fisherman knew who this man represented, and also knew with whom he wished to speak. “But sir, I...” The fisherman was brutally cut off by a heavy-handed slap to the face, and fell to the ground. By now, the ship’s crew and passengers had left their boat and had joined the gathering crowd of islanders. The local spectators did not understand what was happening, and anger was beginning to burn like a fire in their hearts.
“I did not ask for you to speak, peasant. I do not serve your master; I serve my own on the mainland. I will not speak to the likes of you.” He began kicking the fisherman who had made no attempt to get up from the floor, and with each kick his doom came ever closer. It did not take long at all before the crowd broke – their anger was unleashed on the ship’s crew and passengers. When the well-dressed mainlander saw the surging crowd, he fled towards the boat along with his crew with fear quite clearly in their eyes. When the crowd had reached the end of the pier and were preparing to board the foreign ship, a single voice could be heard above every other cry of anger.
“Stop!” it bellowed. “This is not how we behave! We do not treat our guests like this, regardless of the ugly mannerisms and prejudices they hold.” Each head turned toward the fisherman who had, amidst the chaos, climbed to his feet once more. “You should know” he continued “that I am the one the people of this island look to for leadership, but I need no grandiose titles, no dramatic entrances nor ridiculous costumes in order to prove that. I vow to you, Talossan brother, that no harm will come to you or your crew whilst you are on this island – but know that your prejudice and pretences towards those you deem beneath you will place you socially lower than the very seagulls we cohabit this island with until you can prove to us that you are better. Until then...” The fisherman concluded with a slight tip of his hat, turned and then walked slowly back to his abode.
The well-dressed man pushed through the crowd and ran towards the shabby fisherman; the fisherman turned and then smiled at the hat that the man had just thrown to the floor. “Please” the man said “I’m so sorry! I did not know... If I’d have known, I...” The man broke off and into tears. “I’ve been disgraced...” he muttered. The fisherman smiled, but did not vocally reply.
“It would have made no difference if you had known” the fisherman began. “It is what you assumed which showed your true character. You are no better than anyone else... I know that I’m no better than anyone else, and so I don’t pretend to be.”
“Let me stay here... let me try to change myself so that I can represent the unassuming qualities you and your people do.” The well-dressed man was on his knees now.
“They are not my people, brother, but they are my family. Love the people of your province as if every one of them were your own brother or sister. Alas, you cannot stay here – you do not belong here. However, you will always be welcome here as long as you follow that principle which our island represents. Now, dry your eyes and return to your province. Oh, and before I forget...” The fisherman stopped briefly and walked further along the pier towards the boat. His hand entered the water for a moment, and then emerged once more holding the largest fish that the well-dressed man had ever seen. The fisherman walked over to the well-dressed man and unloaded the large fish into his arms. “...give this to the one you call “master”, won’t you?” he chortled jovially and winked. The well-dressed man smiled and took the fish aboard the ship, thanking the fisherman enthusiastically.
“I’ll be sure to return!” the well-dressed man exclaimed joyously as the ship left the dock. True to his word, the man returned every year after that and was welcomed by the islanders as a long lost brother. He treated others as he wished to be treated, but did not, much to the islanders' amazement, gain an appetite for pickled herring.
The Fisherman
by C. Carlüs Xheráltsëfiglheu
-written in preparation for St. Brendan's Day, 2011-
by C. Carlüs Xheráltsëfiglheu
-written in preparation for St. Brendan's Day, 2011-
The weather was not favourable for the fishermen of Cézembre. Rain beat heavily down on the temporary metal roofing of their simplistic abodes like a persistent beating of a drum. Only a fool would venture out in this horrific weather; as if to affirm the judgement of the islanders, a lightning bolt cut through the dull sky, accompanied by the rumble of displeased clouds. A simply dressed man heaved himself out of his chair and made his way over to the corner of his home; he reached into the alcove with a lit match, taking care to place it centrally. The fire grew slowly, and when he was finally satisfied with its size he retreated back into his chair, and was content.
It wasn’t long before he noticed a flicker blemishing the dull, grey monotony of the horizon; this was unexpected. Unprepared to disturb the comfortable position in which his aching back was finally satisfied with, he did not leave his chair. Instead, he carelessly tapped the surface of the adjacent table, searching for his aging binoculars. The binoculars had belonged to his father and his grandfather before him; consequently one lens had cracked, rendering it useful only as an unorthodoxly shaped telescope. Through the binoculars he saw the familiar shape of an allied ship fighting desperately with the ferocious sea. Momentarily, he wore an expression of puzzlement at the novel sight until his gaze fell upon the ship’s flag. Though it was difficult to make out its details, the man had seen the flag many times before and had recognised it immediately. Almost in anticipation of an unforeseen occurrence, he lifted his frame from his old oak chair and grabbed his boots.
A cumbersome, heavy and not entirely unexpected knock on the door stole the wiry haired man’s attention. He opened the door, revealing a worried young woman who appeared to be soaked through. “Th...Th...There’s a ship getting close to the island! I...” she broke off in order to catch her breath. “It’s all right, I’ve already seen it. Why don’t you come in, you look a little wet from the rain.” the man replied. Reluctantly, the small woman agreed to the man’s hospitable offer; her dark, dripping hair clung to her face and she tried to wipe it out of her eyes as the man kindly offered her a seat by the fire. “They’re friends, don’t you worry. I’ll head on down to the harbour to greet them. You stay here and get warm; help yourself to some tea, I’d be no gentleman if I sent you on your way in this weather!” He smiled; an expression irregular to his serious and worn face, yet seemingly fitting his perceivably content personality. “I may be some time.” He announced as he opened the door to the pouring rain once more. The woman smiled shyly and nodded.
As he arrived at the dock, the rain finally stopped falling. The ship was nearing the dock now, but the man anticipated it would take the unfamiliar sailors a great deal longer to dock than any experienced Cézembrean so he sat down at the edge of the pier. To his left rested a fishing rod belonging to one of the older islanders who no longer ventured out to sea, so, in order to pass the time he cast the line out to sea and watched the weight bob in an unconcerned fashion.
By the time the boat had arrived, the fisherman’s hat had dried considerably. He reeled the line in and set it down on the wooden pier; he picked his hat up from his side and placed it firmly on his head. When the first of the boat’s passengers stepped off the boat, the fisherman climbed to his feet and wandered over towards the approaching well-dressed gentleman. The man, whom the fisherman did not recognise, did not greet the unshaven islander; he said quite simply: “Take me to whomever you call master, peasant.” The fisherman knew who this man represented, and also knew with whom he wished to speak. “But sir, I...” The fisherman was brutally cut off by a heavy-handed slap to the face, and fell to the ground. By now, the ship’s crew and passengers had left their boat and had joined the gathering crowd of islanders. The local spectators did not understand what was happening, and anger was beginning to burn like a fire in their hearts.
“I did not ask for you to speak, peasant. I do not serve your master; I serve my own on the mainland. I will not speak to the likes of you.” He began kicking the fisherman who had made no attempt to get up from the floor, and with each kick his doom came ever closer. It did not take long at all before the crowd broke – their anger was unleashed on the ship’s crew and passengers. When the well-dressed mainlander saw the surging crowd, he fled towards the boat along with his crew with fear quite clearly in their eyes. When the crowd had reached the end of the pier and were preparing to board the foreign ship, a single voice could be heard above every other cry of anger.
“Stop!” it bellowed. “This is not how we behave! We do not treat our guests like this, regardless of the ugly mannerisms and prejudices they hold.” Each head turned toward the fisherman who had, amidst the chaos, climbed to his feet once more. “You should know” he continued “that I am the one the people of this island look to for leadership, but I need no grandiose titles, no dramatic entrances nor ridiculous costumes in order to prove that. I vow to you, Talossan brother, that no harm will come to you or your crew whilst you are on this island – but know that your prejudice and pretences towards those you deem beneath you will place you socially lower than the very seagulls we cohabit this island with until you can prove to us that you are better. Until then...” The fisherman concluded with a slight tip of his hat, turned and then walked slowly back to his abode.
The well-dressed man pushed through the crowd and ran towards the shabby fisherman; the fisherman turned and then smiled at the hat that the man had just thrown to the floor. “Please” the man said “I’m so sorry! I did not know... If I’d have known, I...” The man broke off and into tears. “I’ve been disgraced...” he muttered. The fisherman smiled, but did not vocally reply.
“It would have made no difference if you had known” the fisherman began. “It is what you assumed which showed your true character. You are no better than anyone else... I know that I’m no better than anyone else, and so I don’t pretend to be.”
“Let me stay here... let me try to change myself so that I can represent the unassuming qualities you and your people do.” The well-dressed man was on his knees now.
“They are not my people, brother, but they are my family. Love the people of your province as if every one of them were your own brother or sister. Alas, you cannot stay here – you do not belong here. However, you will always be welcome here as long as you follow that principle which our island represents. Now, dry your eyes and return to your province. Oh, and before I forget...” The fisherman stopped briefly and walked further along the pier towards the boat. His hand entered the water for a moment, and then emerged once more holding the largest fish that the well-dressed man had ever seen. The fisherman walked over to the well-dressed man and unloaded the large fish into his arms. “...give this to the one you call “master”, won’t you?” he chortled jovially and winked. The well-dressed man smiled and took the fish aboard the ship, thanking the fisherman enthusiastically.
“I’ll be sure to return!” the well-dressed man exclaimed joyously as the ship left the dock. True to his word, the man returned every year after that and was welcomed by the islanders as a long lost brother. He treated others as he wished to be treated, but did not, much to the islanders' amazement, gain an appetite for pickled herring.
"Ceterum censeo republicam proclamandum esse."