Nević Nenad
The Living Force
One of my humble tries of writing stories. I would like to hear what do you think. I tried to be poetic and to have some point in it. People already pointed out to me “you watch too many movies, and read too few books. Read more books”, and that it lacks more substance. Also, that it lacks at least couple hundred pages more and that looks more as a summary of a novel than a story. I do have a problem with developing the story from the idea, it’s usually too long or too short.
I must point out that I translated it to English via Chat GPT from my native language, but it is word for word translation, Ai didn’t write it. I guess this is the most “ornamental” version of English I could get, but even than it looks dry and shallow comparing to it in my language (at least to me). Google translation looks even more dry.
Enjoy (if you think it’s worth anything), and be free in criticizing it:
The man with the tattooed palms
Shadows in the Mist
The gondola slid silently through the dark waters of La Serenissima, the city veiled in the dense fog of early evening. The narrow canals twisted and turned like veins through ancient stone, carrying the gondola deeper into the city's labyrinthine heart. This was an hour suspended between night and day, where shadows danced on the water's surface, and the only sounds were the gentle lap of waves and the soft creak of the oar.
Adeo Rotgar sat at the prow, his broad shoulders hunched under the weight of a heavy black cloak. He was a man caught between worlds, his features a blend of a northerner’s ruggedness and a Mediterranean’s dark allure. His eyes, a striking shade of cold blue, pierced through the gloom, though his gaze was distant, lost in thoughts that belonged to another time and place.
His gloved hand trailed in the cold water, an idle gesture that seemed almost unconscious as he allowed the icy chill to anchor him to the present. On his finger, a silver ring glinted faintly in the dim light, the letters "FD" engraved on its surface—a subtle hint of his allegiance, though its true meaning remained hidden, just like the man himself.
Venice, with its maze of canals and ancient architecture, was a city of secrets, a place where the past lingered in every shadow. But even here, in a city steeped in mystery, Adeo felt the weight of his own secrets pressing down on him. His journey today was not merely a mission; it was personal, a quest that had consumed him for years.
Adeo’s thoughts drifted back to a distant memory, to a city far from La Serenissima — Samarkand. The image of that city rose in his mind, vivid and haunting: domes of gold and cobalt blue rising against a backdrop of endless desert, where the sands met the sky in a blur of color and light. Samarkand, ancient and wise, where time itself seemed to slow, where even wisdom did not fully comprehend its own depth.
He had been young then, eager to prove his worth to Fraternitas Doloris , the shadowy organization that had shaped his life from the shadows. Though its name was never spoken aloud, its influence was unmistakable, guiding his every action. They had sent him to Samarkand with a singular purpose — to gain the trust of the young Emir and, when the time was right, to kill him. It was a task that would test not only his skills but also his soul.
In Samarkand, Adeo had taken on the name Amin, adopting the identity of a Muslim to infiltrate the Emir’s inner circle. The transformation was not merely a matter of changing clothes or learning a new language; it was a complete immersion into a world that was as foreign as it was alluring. To earn the Emir’s trust, Adeo had to master the ways of the ancient Sufi order, to learn the intricate dance of the whirling dervishes who spun through the streets of Samarkand like spirits caught between worlds.
The dervishes were more than just a spectacle; they were the embodiment of the city’s soul, their movements a reflection of the spiritual truths that lay hidden beneath the surface of everyday life. To become one of them, to move with the same grace and precision, required a deep understanding of the delicate balance between body and spirit. For months, Adeo studied their ways, pushing his body and mind to the limit, until he could move with the same ethereal grace that had entranced the Emir.
The challenge was immense, but Adeo’s determination was greater. His sharp mind and relentless drive enabled him to adapt, to blend into this world so completely that even the Emir came to see him as a brother. It was a testament to Adeo’s intelligence and ability to adapt, but it also blurred the lines between his true self and the role he played. He was no longer just a man on a mission; he was Amin, the Emir’s most trusted companion.
The night he was to strike, Adeo walked alone through the streets of Samarkand, the city bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. The path to the palace was a desolate stretch of land, a barren plain that separated the city from the seat of power. As he crossed it, the old clock tower in the distance began to chime the hour, each toll echoing across the empty space like a harbinger of doom. With every ring of the bell, Adeo felt a sharp pain in his heart—a cruel reminder of the betrayal he was about to commit.
The palace loomed ahead, its golden domes shining under the moonlight, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The night was thick with tension, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine and fear. Adeo's steps echoed through the empty halls as he approached the Emir’s chambers, his resolve hardening with each passing moment.
When the moment came, there was no hesitation. Adeo seized the Emir, his friend, and threw him from the palace walls, watching as the young man’s body plummeted to the stones below. But as the life drained from the Emir’s eyes, another figure emerged from the shadows — a man with broad shoulders, cloaked in black. His face was a mask of dread, his eyes filled with an unreadable darkness. But it was his hands that Adeo would remember most — his palms, covered in strange, intricate tattoos that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
They fought, a brutal clash of steel and fury, but the man overpowered him, throwing Adeo from the very walls where he had committed his treachery. He survived the fall, barely, and was found by Ali, a fellow agent of the Fraternis Doloris in Samarkand. But from that night onward, Adeo was haunted by the man with the tattooed palms. The symbols etched into the man’s skin were seared into Adeo’s memory, a riddle that consumed his thoughts, a mystery that gnawed at his soul.
The man’s face was terrifying enough, but it was those hands — those cursed hands that tormented Adeo’s every waking moment. The tattoos were not just symbols; they were a puzzle, an enigma that defied all explanation. In that brief moment of contact, as he was thrown from the palace walls, Adeo had seen something in those markings, something ancient, something dark, something that spoke to the deepest fears of his soul.
Since that night, Adeo's life had become a relentless pursuit, a never-ending quest to find the man with the tattooed palms. Every mission he undertook, every journey he embarked upon, was driven by the need to unravel the mystery of those symbols. He scoured the world, consulted scholars and mystics, delved into forbidden texts, and searched the darkest corners of the Vatican's vast library, but nothing brought him closer to understanding the riddle that had become the torment of his soul.
In the dead of night, when the world was quiet and sleep eluded him, Adeo would find himself staring at his own hands, imagining those cursed symbols burned into his skin. The man with the tattooed palms was not just an adversary; he was a specter that haunted Adeo’s every thought, a ghost that whispered in his ear, urging him to continue the search, to uncover the truth that had been hidden from him.
Into the Depths
The cold water brushing against Adeo’s fingers brought him back from his reverie. The biting chill of the lagoon was a stark contrast to the haunting memories that had filled his mind. He looked up from his hand, now slightly numb, to see the gondola edging closer to its destination.
The dark, brooding waters of the canal gave way to a narrow, shadowed entrance, the mouth of an old, forgotten waterway that led into the Jewish ghetto. The mist hung thick around them, cloaking the world in an eerie silence. The Venetian lanterns, dim and flickering, barely penetrated the fog, casting long, wavering shadows on the water.
As the gondola neared the Jewish ghetto, the fog grew denser, swirling around him like the ghosts of the past, closing in on all sides. The canals narrowed, the buildings looming overhead with an almost oppressive weight, their facades like the silent faces of ancient guardians. Ahead, a dim light flickered at the entrance to the ghetto, where the old Sephard, Ben Emet, was supposed to be waiting. But as the gondola slowed to a stop, Adeo saw only a shadow at the end of the dark canal, a figure barely discernible through the mist.
The gondola bumped gently against the dock, the tension in the air tightening like a noose around Adeo’s neck. He stood slowly, the boat swaying.
As he disembarked, his cloak billowing around him likes the darkness that enveloped the ghetto. The mist clung to him, damp and cold, as if trying to pull him back into the shadows from which he had emerged. Adeo's eyes, bright and piercing, scanned the murky surroundings, seeking any sign of the old man who might hold the key to his quest.
The figure at the end of the canal remained motionless, its features obscured by the shifting fog. Adeo moved forward with deliberate steps, his senses heightened, every sound amplified in the thick silence. His boots echoed softly against the cobblestones, the sound swallowed quickly by the dense fog.
As he drew nearer, the shadow grew more defined. Adeo's mind raced with questions and uncertainties. Would Ben Emet reveal what he knew? Or had his search led him to another dead end? The enigmatic old man was said to possess knowledge beyond the ordinary, and Adeo had come to believe that Ben Emet might be the only one who could help him decipher the symbols on the mysterious man’s palms.
The old man finally stirred, his form emerging from the fog with a slow, deliberate movement. Ben's face was lined with age, his eyes sharp and knowing despite the years that had worn away at him. He held a lantern, its light casting a feeble glow that barely cut through the mist.
"Signore Rotgar," Ben Emet's voice rasped, roughened by time but tinged with a subtle undertone of recognition. "I have been expecting you."
Adeo's gaze hardened. "Do you know why I am here?"
Ben Emet nodded his expression unreadable. "Yes, I know why you seek me. The man you are looking for — his symbols are ancient . . . and their meaning is hidden in the depths of time. But to understand them, you must first understand the shadows they cast."
The fog seemed to thicken, the air growing colder as if the weight of Ben’s words was tangible. Adeo stepped closer, his breath visible in the chill. "Then tell me what you know. I have come too far to turn back now."
Ben Emet's eyes narrowed as he studied Adeo, a flicker of something—perhaps pity or caution—crossing his face. "Very well. But know this: seeking the truth can sometimes be more perilous than the ignorance you leave behind."
With that, Ben Emet turned and led Adeo deeper into the ghetto, the path illuminated only by the dim light of the lantern. The ancient streets seemed to close in around them, as if the very city was watching, waiting for what was to come next.
Ben Emet led Adeo through the labyrinthine streets of the ghetto, his lantern casting flickering shadows on the cobblestones. They moved with purpose, the fog swirling around them like a living shroud. The narrow alleyways seemed to close in, each turn more confining than the last, until they reached a stone passage that appeared ancient even by Venetian standards.
The passage was dimly lit by the lantern's weak glow, and its walls were rough-hewn, worn smooth by centuries of wear. Adeo could feel the weight of the stone above them, the sense of history pressing down with each step. As they walked, the air grew cooler and heavier, an oppressive stillness settling in. The passage seemed to lead downward, each step echoing off the stone walls in a hollow, unsettling cadence.
Ben Emet paused at a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands, its surface scarred and weathered by time. With a creak that seemed louder than it should be in the oppressive silence, Ben pushed the door open, revealing a steep, narrow staircase descending into the darkness below.
Adeo hesitated for a moment, a twinge of unease creeping into his thoughts. The idea of a cellar so deep within Venice, a city built on marshland, seemed almost inconceivable. How could such a place exist? The foundations of the city were notoriously unstable, and the thought of a hidden depth beneath the labyrinth of canals and buildings unsettled him.
As Adeo took in the scene, he was struck by a peculiar sensation — a sense of familiarity that was both comforting and disconcerting. The shop seemed oddly known to him, as if he had been here before, despite this being his first visit. The arrangement of items on the shelves, the scent of old parchment and incense, and even the dim light of the candles all evoked a deep, instinctive recognition. It was as though the place held memories that transcended the ordinary boundaries of time and space, a hidden sanctuary that resonated with the echoes of his own past
Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the shop itself was a curious sight, even in the misty gloom of the ghetto. A place of learning and wisdom, perhaps, but one devoid of the customary signs of faith. Adeo found it strange, almost unsettling. The place was filled with books and scrolls, ancient tomes that seemed to hold the weight of centuries within their bindings, yet there was not a single religious symbol in sight. Not even a Menorah, that most fundamental emblem of the Jewish faith, could be found.
Adeo could not help but feel that this absence was not a mere oversight. It was deliberate, purposeful, a statement of some kind, though what it declared was shrouded in ambiguity.
Ben Emet moved with a practiced ease, lighting additional candles that cast a warm, flickering light across the room. The cellar was a curious place, its ambiance almost otherworldly. Despite its apparent disarray, there was a sense of purpose in the chaos, a reflection of the old man's intricate knowledge and the secrets he guarded.
Adeo’s earlier apprehension mingled with a renewed sense of intrigue and an inexplicable connection to the space. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had stepped into a realm where the boundaries of reality and myth blurred, and where the answers he sought might finally be within reach.
The evening stretched long in the dim light of Ben Emet’s shop. The shadows from the flickering candles stretched and swayed, casting strange shapes against the walls, as if the room itself were alive, breathing with Adeo’s uncertainty. Adeo sat across from Ben at a cluttered wooden table, old manuscripts and scrolls scattered between them like forgotten memories.
Lantern closest to Ben flickered faintly, the strongest source of light in the oppressive dimness. His eyes were sharp but calm, as if he understood far more than he let on. Adeo watched him carefully, searching for the answers in the lines of the old man’s face. But it was as if Ben was not merely holding the answers, but part of the question itself.
"You’ve come a long way, Signore Rotgar," Ben said softly, his voice slow, deliberate. "But the path is never straight."
Adeo’s head felt heavy, as if the fog of the Venetian streets had seeped into the shop, clouding his thoughts. His gaze fell upon his own hands—steady, gloved, and unremarkable. For a moment, a strange chill ran through him, as if something just beyond his reach waited to be uncovered.
“I’ve come for the truth,” Adeo replied, though even as he said the words, his voice seemed distant, as though it came from somewhere else. “The man with the tattooed palms... the symbols.”
Ben tilted his head, considering Adeo carefully, the soft light making his features almost otherworldly. He said nothing for a while, just watching, like an ancient sphinx guarding a riddle.
“The truth is not always what it appears,” Ben murmured. “Sometimes, it lies hidden in plain sight, waiting for us to see it.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly, or perhaps it was just the weight of Adeo’s exhaustion pressing down on him. He had traveled so far, searched so long. His eyelids grew heavier, the soft hum of the city’s canals now a distant murmur in his mind. The lantern flickered again, throwing strange shapes against the bookshelves — shapes that looked like hands, reaching out.
Ben’s voice was low, like a lullaby. "You already know what you seek. But knowledge comes at a cost."
Adeo blinked, his vision blurring. He reached for the cup of wine Ben had offered earlier, though its taste was bitter, strange. As he raised it to his lips, the liquid seemed thicker than it should have been, and its scent was unfamiliar.
Ben continued to speak, his words weaving through the air like threads of silk, but Adeo could no longer grasp their meaning. His body felt heavy, sinking deeper into the chair. His mind, so sharp and focused all his life, began to slip away.
"The symbols..." Adeo muttered, his hand clenching around the cup. "What do they mean?"
Ben’s voice seemed far away now. “They mean... exactly what you need them to mean, Adeo.”
The last thing Adeo saw before his vision blurred completely was Ben’s hands, folding together calmly on the table. His skin, wrinkled and pale, was unmarked—no tattoos, no symbols. But as Adeo’s gaze drifted, he saw flashes, like shadows on the wall, of dark markings swirling over his own hands.
And then everything went dark.
Golden Morning
Adeo woke to the sound of water lapping against the stone streets. The chill of the morning air bit at his skin. His body ached from the hard ground beneath him, his head pounding as if it were trying to make sense of the night before. Slowly, he pushed himself up, groaning as his muscles protested. The damp cobblestones were slick beneath him, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was.
The shop. Ben Emet. He had been there last night. He had asked...
A distant voice broke the quiet.
“Signore,” came the familiar call of the boatman, his voice rough but steady. Adeo turned his head, still heavy with sleep, and saw the gondolier standing nearby. His dark silhouette contrasted with the soft glow of dawn behind him.
“You told me to pick you up this morning, Signore,” the boatman continued, his voice carrying a note of certainty, as if these were Adeo’s own instructions, though Adeo had no recollection of them.
He blinked, his hands instinctively reaching for the cold stones beneath him as he pushed himself upright. That’s when he saw it — his palms, marked, stained with dark ink, the same intricate symbols he had been chasing, etched into his flesh. His breath caught in his throat. He stared at his hands in disbelief, the symbols seeming to pulse with life, as though they had always belonged to him.
He was the man with the tattooed palms.
His heart raced, his pulse thudding in his ears. He stumbled to his feet, confused, panicked. The markings were intricate, identical to the ones on the man he had pursued for so long. How could this be?
The realization hit him with the force of a sudden gust, and his chest tightened. He stood, unsteady at first, but the boatman was already moving toward him, offering his arm. With a quiet nod, Adeo took it, allowing himself to be guided back toward the narrow canals, his steps lighter but his mind clouded. Together, they made their way back to Ben’s shop.
“Ben!” His voice was hoarse. “Ben Emet!”
After a few agonizing moments, the door creaked open. Ben stood there, his expression calm, as if nothing had changed. He glanced at Adeo’s hands, and a faint smile touched his lips.
"Good morning, Signore Rotgar," Ben said evenly. “I see the night has left its mark on you.”
Adeo thrust his hands forward, his voice trembling. “What did you do to me?”
Ben raised an eyebrow, a bemused glint in his eyes. “I did exactly what you asked of me.”
Adeo’s mind raced. “I asked... for this?”
“You did,” Ben replied calmly. “Last night, you told me you wanted the tattoos. You were quite insistent.”
Adeo’s head spun as fragments of the evening came rushing back. His questions, the strange conversation, the bitter taste of the wine... the feeling of slipping away. But nothing about requesting the tattoos.
“I don’t remember...” Adeo began, his voice faltering.
Ben shrugged, “Perhaps some things are best forgotten. Or perhaps they were never forgotten at all, only waiting for the right moment to be seen.”
Adeo stared at his hands again, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. Had this been his fate all along? Was he always the man with the tattooed palms, chasing himself?
Ben’s voice broke the silence once more, soft, almost amused. “In the end, the truth reveals itself in unexpected ways. But you already knew that Adeo, didn’t you?”
The boat, with the tall grey boatman and the old man shrouded in a black cloak, slid silently into the golden mist of the morning.
I must point out that I translated it to English via Chat GPT from my native language, but it is word for word translation, Ai didn’t write it. I guess this is the most “ornamental” version of English I could get, but even than it looks dry and shallow comparing to it in my language (at least to me). Google translation looks even more dry.
Enjoy (if you think it’s worth anything), and be free in criticizing it:
The man with the tattooed palms
Shadows in the Mist
The gondola slid silently through the dark waters of La Serenissima, the city veiled in the dense fog of early evening. The narrow canals twisted and turned like veins through ancient stone, carrying the gondola deeper into the city's labyrinthine heart. This was an hour suspended between night and day, where shadows danced on the water's surface, and the only sounds were the gentle lap of waves and the soft creak of the oar.
Adeo Rotgar sat at the prow, his broad shoulders hunched under the weight of a heavy black cloak. He was a man caught between worlds, his features a blend of a northerner’s ruggedness and a Mediterranean’s dark allure. His eyes, a striking shade of cold blue, pierced through the gloom, though his gaze was distant, lost in thoughts that belonged to another time and place.
His gloved hand trailed in the cold water, an idle gesture that seemed almost unconscious as he allowed the icy chill to anchor him to the present. On his finger, a silver ring glinted faintly in the dim light, the letters "FD" engraved on its surface—a subtle hint of his allegiance, though its true meaning remained hidden, just like the man himself.
Venice, with its maze of canals and ancient architecture, was a city of secrets, a place where the past lingered in every shadow. But even here, in a city steeped in mystery, Adeo felt the weight of his own secrets pressing down on him. His journey today was not merely a mission; it was personal, a quest that had consumed him for years.
Adeo’s thoughts drifted back to a distant memory, to a city far from La Serenissima — Samarkand. The image of that city rose in his mind, vivid and haunting: domes of gold and cobalt blue rising against a backdrop of endless desert, where the sands met the sky in a blur of color and light. Samarkand, ancient and wise, where time itself seemed to slow, where even wisdom did not fully comprehend its own depth.
He had been young then, eager to prove his worth to Fraternitas Doloris , the shadowy organization that had shaped his life from the shadows. Though its name was never spoken aloud, its influence was unmistakable, guiding his every action. They had sent him to Samarkand with a singular purpose — to gain the trust of the young Emir and, when the time was right, to kill him. It was a task that would test not only his skills but also his soul.
In Samarkand, Adeo had taken on the name Amin, adopting the identity of a Muslim to infiltrate the Emir’s inner circle. The transformation was not merely a matter of changing clothes or learning a new language; it was a complete immersion into a world that was as foreign as it was alluring. To earn the Emir’s trust, Adeo had to master the ways of the ancient Sufi order, to learn the intricate dance of the whirling dervishes who spun through the streets of Samarkand like spirits caught between worlds.
The dervishes were more than just a spectacle; they were the embodiment of the city’s soul, their movements a reflection of the spiritual truths that lay hidden beneath the surface of everyday life. To become one of them, to move with the same grace and precision, required a deep understanding of the delicate balance between body and spirit. For months, Adeo studied their ways, pushing his body and mind to the limit, until he could move with the same ethereal grace that had entranced the Emir.
The challenge was immense, but Adeo’s determination was greater. His sharp mind and relentless drive enabled him to adapt, to blend into this world so completely that even the Emir came to see him as a brother. It was a testament to Adeo’s intelligence and ability to adapt, but it also blurred the lines between his true self and the role he played. He was no longer just a man on a mission; he was Amin, the Emir’s most trusted companion.
The night he was to strike, Adeo walked alone through the streets of Samarkand, the city bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. The path to the palace was a desolate stretch of land, a barren plain that separated the city from the seat of power. As he crossed it, the old clock tower in the distance began to chime the hour, each toll echoing across the empty space like a harbinger of doom. With every ring of the bell, Adeo felt a sharp pain in his heart—a cruel reminder of the betrayal he was about to commit.
The palace loomed ahead, its golden domes shining under the moonlight, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The night was thick with tension, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine and fear. Adeo's steps echoed through the empty halls as he approached the Emir’s chambers, his resolve hardening with each passing moment.
When the moment came, there was no hesitation. Adeo seized the Emir, his friend, and threw him from the palace walls, watching as the young man’s body plummeted to the stones below. But as the life drained from the Emir’s eyes, another figure emerged from the shadows — a man with broad shoulders, cloaked in black. His face was a mask of dread, his eyes filled with an unreadable darkness. But it was his hands that Adeo would remember most — his palms, covered in strange, intricate tattoos that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
They fought, a brutal clash of steel and fury, but the man overpowered him, throwing Adeo from the very walls where he had committed his treachery. He survived the fall, barely, and was found by Ali, a fellow agent of the Fraternis Doloris in Samarkand. But from that night onward, Adeo was haunted by the man with the tattooed palms. The symbols etched into the man’s skin were seared into Adeo’s memory, a riddle that consumed his thoughts, a mystery that gnawed at his soul.
The man’s face was terrifying enough, but it was those hands — those cursed hands that tormented Adeo’s every waking moment. The tattoos were not just symbols; they were a puzzle, an enigma that defied all explanation. In that brief moment of contact, as he was thrown from the palace walls, Adeo had seen something in those markings, something ancient, something dark, something that spoke to the deepest fears of his soul.
Since that night, Adeo's life had become a relentless pursuit, a never-ending quest to find the man with the tattooed palms. Every mission he undertook, every journey he embarked upon, was driven by the need to unravel the mystery of those symbols. He scoured the world, consulted scholars and mystics, delved into forbidden texts, and searched the darkest corners of the Vatican's vast library, but nothing brought him closer to understanding the riddle that had become the torment of his soul.
In the dead of night, when the world was quiet and sleep eluded him, Adeo would find himself staring at his own hands, imagining those cursed symbols burned into his skin. The man with the tattooed palms was not just an adversary; he was a specter that haunted Adeo’s every thought, a ghost that whispered in his ear, urging him to continue the search, to uncover the truth that had been hidden from him.
Into the Depths
The cold water brushing against Adeo’s fingers brought him back from his reverie. The biting chill of the lagoon was a stark contrast to the haunting memories that had filled his mind. He looked up from his hand, now slightly numb, to see the gondola edging closer to its destination.
The dark, brooding waters of the canal gave way to a narrow, shadowed entrance, the mouth of an old, forgotten waterway that led into the Jewish ghetto. The mist hung thick around them, cloaking the world in an eerie silence. The Venetian lanterns, dim and flickering, barely penetrated the fog, casting long, wavering shadows on the water.
As the gondola neared the Jewish ghetto, the fog grew denser, swirling around him like the ghosts of the past, closing in on all sides. The canals narrowed, the buildings looming overhead with an almost oppressive weight, their facades like the silent faces of ancient guardians. Ahead, a dim light flickered at the entrance to the ghetto, where the old Sephard, Ben Emet, was supposed to be waiting. But as the gondola slowed to a stop, Adeo saw only a shadow at the end of the dark canal, a figure barely discernible through the mist.
The gondola bumped gently against the dock, the tension in the air tightening like a noose around Adeo’s neck. He stood slowly, the boat swaying.
As he disembarked, his cloak billowing around him likes the darkness that enveloped the ghetto. The mist clung to him, damp and cold, as if trying to pull him back into the shadows from which he had emerged. Adeo's eyes, bright and piercing, scanned the murky surroundings, seeking any sign of the old man who might hold the key to his quest.
The figure at the end of the canal remained motionless, its features obscured by the shifting fog. Adeo moved forward with deliberate steps, his senses heightened, every sound amplified in the thick silence. His boots echoed softly against the cobblestones, the sound swallowed quickly by the dense fog.
As he drew nearer, the shadow grew more defined. Adeo's mind raced with questions and uncertainties. Would Ben Emet reveal what he knew? Or had his search led him to another dead end? The enigmatic old man was said to possess knowledge beyond the ordinary, and Adeo had come to believe that Ben Emet might be the only one who could help him decipher the symbols on the mysterious man’s palms.
The old man finally stirred, his form emerging from the fog with a slow, deliberate movement. Ben's face was lined with age, his eyes sharp and knowing despite the years that had worn away at him. He held a lantern, its light casting a feeble glow that barely cut through the mist.
"Signore Rotgar," Ben Emet's voice rasped, roughened by time but tinged with a subtle undertone of recognition. "I have been expecting you."
Adeo's gaze hardened. "Do you know why I am here?"
Ben Emet nodded his expression unreadable. "Yes, I know why you seek me. The man you are looking for — his symbols are ancient . . . and their meaning is hidden in the depths of time. But to understand them, you must first understand the shadows they cast."
The fog seemed to thicken, the air growing colder as if the weight of Ben’s words was tangible. Adeo stepped closer, his breath visible in the chill. "Then tell me what you know. I have come too far to turn back now."
Ben Emet's eyes narrowed as he studied Adeo, a flicker of something—perhaps pity or caution—crossing his face. "Very well. But know this: seeking the truth can sometimes be more perilous than the ignorance you leave behind."
With that, Ben Emet turned and led Adeo deeper into the ghetto, the path illuminated only by the dim light of the lantern. The ancient streets seemed to close in around them, as if the very city was watching, waiting for what was to come next.
Ben Emet led Adeo through the labyrinthine streets of the ghetto, his lantern casting flickering shadows on the cobblestones. They moved with purpose, the fog swirling around them like a living shroud. The narrow alleyways seemed to close in, each turn more confining than the last, until they reached a stone passage that appeared ancient even by Venetian standards.
The passage was dimly lit by the lantern's weak glow, and its walls were rough-hewn, worn smooth by centuries of wear. Adeo could feel the weight of the stone above them, the sense of history pressing down with each step. As they walked, the air grew cooler and heavier, an oppressive stillness settling in. The passage seemed to lead downward, each step echoing off the stone walls in a hollow, unsettling cadence.
Ben Emet paused at a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands, its surface scarred and weathered by time. With a creak that seemed louder than it should be in the oppressive silence, Ben pushed the door open, revealing a steep, narrow staircase descending into the darkness below.
Adeo hesitated for a moment, a twinge of unease creeping into his thoughts. The idea of a cellar so deep within Venice, a city built on marshland, seemed almost inconceivable. How could such a place exist? The foundations of the city were notoriously unstable, and the thought of a hidden depth beneath the labyrinth of canals and buildings unsettled him.
As Adeo took in the scene, he was struck by a peculiar sensation — a sense of familiarity that was both comforting and disconcerting. The shop seemed oddly known to him, as if he had been here before, despite this being his first visit. The arrangement of items on the shelves, the scent of old parchment and incense, and even the dim light of the candles all evoked a deep, instinctive recognition. It was as though the place held memories that transcended the ordinary boundaries of time and space, a hidden sanctuary that resonated with the echoes of his own past
Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the shop itself was a curious sight, even in the misty gloom of the ghetto. A place of learning and wisdom, perhaps, but one devoid of the customary signs of faith. Adeo found it strange, almost unsettling. The place was filled with books and scrolls, ancient tomes that seemed to hold the weight of centuries within their bindings, yet there was not a single religious symbol in sight. Not even a Menorah, that most fundamental emblem of the Jewish faith, could be found.
Adeo could not help but feel that this absence was not a mere oversight. It was deliberate, purposeful, a statement of some kind, though what it declared was shrouded in ambiguity.
Ben Emet moved with a practiced ease, lighting additional candles that cast a warm, flickering light across the room. The cellar was a curious place, its ambiance almost otherworldly. Despite its apparent disarray, there was a sense of purpose in the chaos, a reflection of the old man's intricate knowledge and the secrets he guarded.
Adeo’s earlier apprehension mingled with a renewed sense of intrigue and an inexplicable connection to the space. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had stepped into a realm where the boundaries of reality and myth blurred, and where the answers he sought might finally be within reach.
The evening stretched long in the dim light of Ben Emet’s shop. The shadows from the flickering candles stretched and swayed, casting strange shapes against the walls, as if the room itself were alive, breathing with Adeo’s uncertainty. Adeo sat across from Ben at a cluttered wooden table, old manuscripts and scrolls scattered between them like forgotten memories.
Lantern closest to Ben flickered faintly, the strongest source of light in the oppressive dimness. His eyes were sharp but calm, as if he understood far more than he let on. Adeo watched him carefully, searching for the answers in the lines of the old man’s face. But it was as if Ben was not merely holding the answers, but part of the question itself.
"You’ve come a long way, Signore Rotgar," Ben said softly, his voice slow, deliberate. "But the path is never straight."
Adeo’s head felt heavy, as if the fog of the Venetian streets had seeped into the shop, clouding his thoughts. His gaze fell upon his own hands—steady, gloved, and unremarkable. For a moment, a strange chill ran through him, as if something just beyond his reach waited to be uncovered.
“I’ve come for the truth,” Adeo replied, though even as he said the words, his voice seemed distant, as though it came from somewhere else. “The man with the tattooed palms... the symbols.”
Ben tilted his head, considering Adeo carefully, the soft light making his features almost otherworldly. He said nothing for a while, just watching, like an ancient sphinx guarding a riddle.
“The truth is not always what it appears,” Ben murmured. “Sometimes, it lies hidden in plain sight, waiting for us to see it.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly, or perhaps it was just the weight of Adeo’s exhaustion pressing down on him. He had traveled so far, searched so long. His eyelids grew heavier, the soft hum of the city’s canals now a distant murmur in his mind. The lantern flickered again, throwing strange shapes against the bookshelves — shapes that looked like hands, reaching out.
Ben’s voice was low, like a lullaby. "You already know what you seek. But knowledge comes at a cost."
Adeo blinked, his vision blurring. He reached for the cup of wine Ben had offered earlier, though its taste was bitter, strange. As he raised it to his lips, the liquid seemed thicker than it should have been, and its scent was unfamiliar.
Ben continued to speak, his words weaving through the air like threads of silk, but Adeo could no longer grasp their meaning. His body felt heavy, sinking deeper into the chair. His mind, so sharp and focused all his life, began to slip away.
"The symbols..." Adeo muttered, his hand clenching around the cup. "What do they mean?"
Ben’s voice seemed far away now. “They mean... exactly what you need them to mean, Adeo.”
The last thing Adeo saw before his vision blurred completely was Ben’s hands, folding together calmly on the table. His skin, wrinkled and pale, was unmarked—no tattoos, no symbols. But as Adeo’s gaze drifted, he saw flashes, like shadows on the wall, of dark markings swirling over his own hands.
And then everything went dark.
Golden Morning
Adeo woke to the sound of water lapping against the stone streets. The chill of the morning air bit at his skin. His body ached from the hard ground beneath him, his head pounding as if it were trying to make sense of the night before. Slowly, he pushed himself up, groaning as his muscles protested. The damp cobblestones were slick beneath him, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was.
The shop. Ben Emet. He had been there last night. He had asked...
A distant voice broke the quiet.
“Signore,” came the familiar call of the boatman, his voice rough but steady. Adeo turned his head, still heavy with sleep, and saw the gondolier standing nearby. His dark silhouette contrasted with the soft glow of dawn behind him.
“You told me to pick you up this morning, Signore,” the boatman continued, his voice carrying a note of certainty, as if these were Adeo’s own instructions, though Adeo had no recollection of them.
He blinked, his hands instinctively reaching for the cold stones beneath him as he pushed himself upright. That’s when he saw it — his palms, marked, stained with dark ink, the same intricate symbols he had been chasing, etched into his flesh. His breath caught in his throat. He stared at his hands in disbelief, the symbols seeming to pulse with life, as though they had always belonged to him.
He was the man with the tattooed palms.
His heart raced, his pulse thudding in his ears. He stumbled to his feet, confused, panicked. The markings were intricate, identical to the ones on the man he had pursued for so long. How could this be?
The realization hit him with the force of a sudden gust, and his chest tightened. He stood, unsteady at first, but the boatman was already moving toward him, offering his arm. With a quiet nod, Adeo took it, allowing himself to be guided back toward the narrow canals, his steps lighter but his mind clouded. Together, they made their way back to Ben’s shop.
“Ben!” His voice was hoarse. “Ben Emet!”
After a few agonizing moments, the door creaked open. Ben stood there, his expression calm, as if nothing had changed. He glanced at Adeo’s hands, and a faint smile touched his lips.
"Good morning, Signore Rotgar," Ben said evenly. “I see the night has left its mark on you.”
Adeo thrust his hands forward, his voice trembling. “What did you do to me?”
Ben raised an eyebrow, a bemused glint in his eyes. “I did exactly what you asked of me.”
Adeo’s mind raced. “I asked... for this?”
“You did,” Ben replied calmly. “Last night, you told me you wanted the tattoos. You were quite insistent.”
Adeo’s head spun as fragments of the evening came rushing back. His questions, the strange conversation, the bitter taste of the wine... the feeling of slipping away. But nothing about requesting the tattoos.
“I don’t remember...” Adeo began, his voice faltering.
Ben shrugged, “Perhaps some things are best forgotten. Or perhaps they were never forgotten at all, only waiting for the right moment to be seen.”
Adeo stared at his hands again, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. Had this been his fate all along? Was he always the man with the tattooed palms, chasing himself?
Ben’s voice broke the silence once more, soft, almost amused. “In the end, the truth reveals itself in unexpected ways. But you already knew that Adeo, didn’t you?”
The boat, with the tall grey boatman and the old man shrouded in a black cloak, slid silently into the golden mist of the morning.
