"Excuse me, Iogan?" The brunette's head whipped around, fists balled.
"Mr. Kepler! Nice to see you. What do you wish of me?" Iogan had idolized me for many years, pouring over my books and theories.
"As you know, I am Johannes Kepler."
"I know who you are! I have ideas, like you did. You're the man that succeeded with his theories. I can't believe that father would try to get me to give up on my projects." Iogan was getting upset again at the mention of his father, features slowly contorting into upset.
"I'm afraid I have to agree with him. Few ideas have merit, and mine was one of the lucky ones. I don't want someone so young and full of life to become filled with regret when they fail. You not should continue your studies, go and make something useful out of yourself." Iogan visibly relaxed, a small smile on his face.
"Well, perhaps I will consider it." Satisfied with my deed, I noticed how happy he was with his wife. I had once been like that. When I die, make sure the children are taken care of.” It was 1611 my first wife, Barbara Kepler, was on her death bed. She had become very sick.
“I will make sure of it.”
She had died only hours later, with me holding her hand at her bedside, I can still hear her voice as we said our goodbyes. Two years after her death, however, I remarried to a woman named Susan Reuttinger. She remains my wife, but is currently visiting family in the country. Shortly after our marriage, my mother had been accused of witchcraft. A particularly paranoid man had stormed into her shop and started screaming at her about witchcraft, then proceeded to pull her out into the street and accuse her publicly. She was put on trial and I defended her in 1617, but nonetheless she was thrown in prison. Finally, she was released in 1621.
“Johannes, I knew I would get out. That accursed man thinks that anything to do with common medicine is witchcraft!”
One year later, however, she was gone, She had died due to both disease and old age, no herb nor healer could defend against age. The smell of the many herbs we tried still lingers fresh, but to no avail. I pulled myself from the flashback, too painful to think of, only to begin another train of thought.
“I told you fellows he was talented! He’s got a true knack for mathematics and things like that!” My Grandfather, Melchior Guldenmann, had always been proud of the ability I had once had in math and science, he would often show off my talent to travelers that were staying at his inn. They would write out complicated mathematical formulas, and I would solve them within minutes. I remember hearing the impressed shouts of the travelers, smelling the alcohol and baked goods fill the small inn and feeling the triumph as I threw down the quill and gleefully shouted “Finished!”. The memory faded as quickly as it had came, and I found myself walking down a dark, lonely street. It was getting late, but I decided to keep on walking through the familiar town, soon making my way past a Latin elementary school. Quite like the ones I went to…
“Johannes! What is Latin for dog?” the sharp voice of my elementary teacher rang through my ears. It was the year 1578, in Leonburg and I was seven years old at the time.
"Canis, sir.” I had always enjoyed Latin, although not nearly as much as I used to enjoy science or math. The language had stuck with me, even today, I could still speak it.
“Very good, Johannes! See, unlike you, Gerlach, Johannes is actually paying attention!”
Pulling myself out of it, I looked up and realized that I had walked right back to my home. The next morn, I noticed a painting of one of my daughters, Margareta on the floor. Picking it up, I mused to myself about what she had said to me the last time we had seen each other.
“Father, I know you don’t want me to leave, but I must be getting back to my own family. I am a wife and mother now.” She had been visiting me last month, her husband watching her children.
“I know, Margareta, I just wish for you to stay. But I know you cannot, you have a beautiful family waiting for you at home. Farewell, my daughter.”
“Think of me when you look at the stars, for I will be gazing upon the same ones. This shall not be the last time we see one another. Goodbye, Father.” She did not know about the mistakes the stars brought back to me, she saw in them only beauty.
That was the last time I had seen my eldest. I could still picture her smile, the fondness in her eyes as she spoke of her family, I could still smell her perfume. She had grown into a lovely adult, quite like my other daughters, Cordola and Susanna. As had my sons, Ludwig, Sebald, Friedrich, Hildebert, Heinrich, and Fridmar. Hanging the picture back on the wall, I smiled at the memory. Perhaps I should write a letter to all of them. After all, it had been at least five years since I had spoken to them, and Hildebert and myself had ended on unhappy terms.
"Mr. Kepler! Nice to see you. What do you wish of me?" Iogan had idolized me for many years, pouring over my books and theories.
"As you know, I am Johannes Kepler."
"I know who you are! I have ideas, like you did. You're the man that succeeded with his theories. I can't believe that father would try to get me to give up on my projects." Iogan was getting upset again at the mention of his father, features slowly contorting into upset.
"I'm afraid I have to agree with him. Few ideas have merit, and mine was one of the lucky ones. I don't want someone so young and full of life to become filled with regret when they fail. You not should continue your studies, go and make something useful out of yourself." Iogan visibly relaxed, a small smile on his face.
"Well, perhaps I will consider it." Satisfied with my deed, I noticed how happy he was with his wife. I had once been like that. When I die, make sure the children are taken care of.” It was 1611 my first wife, Barbara Kepler, was on her death bed. She had become very sick.
“I will make sure of it.”
She had died only hours later, with me holding her hand at her bedside, I can still hear her voice as we said our goodbyes. Two years after her death, however, I remarried to a woman named Susan Reuttinger. She remains my wife, but is currently visiting family in the country. Shortly after our marriage, my mother had been accused of witchcraft. A particularly paranoid man had stormed into her shop and started screaming at her about witchcraft, then proceeded to pull her out into the street and accuse her publicly. She was put on trial and I defended her in 1617, but nonetheless she was thrown in prison. Finally, she was released in 1621.
“Johannes, I knew I would get out. That accursed man thinks that anything to do with common medicine is witchcraft!”
One year later, however, she was gone, She had died due to both disease and old age, no herb nor healer could defend against age. The smell of the many herbs we tried still lingers fresh, but to no avail. I pulled myself from the flashback, too painful to think of, only to begin another train of thought.
“I told you fellows he was talented! He’s got a true knack for mathematics and things like that!” My Grandfather, Melchior Guldenmann, had always been proud of the ability I had once had in math and science, he would often show off my talent to travelers that were staying at his inn. They would write out complicated mathematical formulas, and I would solve them within minutes. I remember hearing the impressed shouts of the travelers, smelling the alcohol and baked goods fill the small inn and feeling the triumph as I threw down the quill and gleefully shouted “Finished!”. The memory faded as quickly as it had came, and I found myself walking down a dark, lonely street. It was getting late, but I decided to keep on walking through the familiar town, soon making my way past a Latin elementary school. Quite like the ones I went to…
“Johannes! What is Latin for dog?” the sharp voice of my elementary teacher rang through my ears. It was the year 1578, in Leonburg and I was seven years old at the time.
"Canis, sir.” I had always enjoyed Latin, although not nearly as much as I used to enjoy science or math. The language had stuck with me, even today, I could still speak it.
“Very good, Johannes! See, unlike you, Gerlach, Johannes is actually paying attention!”
Pulling myself out of it, I looked up and realized that I had walked right back to my home. The next morn, I noticed a painting of one of my daughters, Margareta on the floor. Picking it up, I mused to myself about what she had said to me the last time we had seen each other.
“Father, I know you don’t want me to leave, but I must be getting back to my own family. I am a wife and mother now.” She had been visiting me last month, her husband watching her children.
“I know, Margareta, I just wish for you to stay. But I know you cannot, you have a beautiful family waiting for you at home. Farewell, my daughter.”
“Think of me when you look at the stars, for I will be gazing upon the same ones. This shall not be the last time we see one another. Goodbye, Father.” She did not know about the mistakes the stars brought back to me, she saw in them only beauty.
That was the last time I had seen my eldest. I could still picture her smile, the fondness in her eyes as she spoke of her family, I could still smell her perfume. She had grown into a lovely adult, quite like my other daughters, Cordola and Susanna. As had my sons, Ludwig, Sebald, Friedrich, Hildebert, Heinrich, and Fridmar. Hanging the picture back on the wall, I smiled at the memory. Perhaps I should write a letter to all of them. After all, it had been at least five years since I had spoken to them, and Hildebert and myself had ended on unhappy terms.