The Egg is a short tale written by Andy Weir. It has been went into two kinds of Anglish.
Thiss wending is written with marks uf Erly New Inglish speechcraft, sum Anglish and speechly spelling, and no leanwurds or sway frum Oald Northish. Went bi Arcthunder.
Thu wert on thi way home when thu swelted.
It was a wain misfall. Nuthing that markwurthy, but dedly nuntheless. Thu left behinde a wife and twoo children. It was a smartless deth. The sickwain toolers fanded hir best to redd thee, but too no speed. Thi body was so utterly shattered that thu wert better off, trow me.
And that's when thu met me.
"What… what befell?" Thu asked. "Whare am I?"
"Thu swelted," I sed straiht-forwardly. No ord in grinding wurds.
"Thare was a… a loadwain, and it was sliding…"
"Yup," I sed.
"I… I swelted?"
"Yup. But don't feel bad abute it. Evryone swelts," I sed.
Thu looked abute. Thare was nuthingness. Nauht but thee and me. "What is thiss sted?" Thu asked. "Is thiss the afterlife?"
"More or less," I sed.
"Art thu God?" Thu asked.
"Yup," I anqueathed. "I'm God."
"My kids… my wife," thu sed.
"What abute hem?"
"Will hi be alriht?"
"That's what I like to see," I sed. "Thu riht ago swelted and thi main recking is for thi kin. That's a good thing riht thare."
Thu looked at me, besmitten. To thee, I didn't look lich God. I but looked lich sum man. Or maybe a wooman. Sum unsuttel alderdom anlikeness, maybe. More uf a speechcraft lorehuce teacher than the almihty.
"Don't wurry," I sed. "Hi'll be alriht. Thi kids will mun thee as flawless in evry way. Hi doen't hav time too grow irked towards thee. Thi wife will weep on the uteside, but will be dernly soothed. To be fair, yewr wedlock was falling asunder. If it's eny frover, she'll feel full gilty for feeling soothed."
"O," thu sed. "So what befalls nu? Doo I go too hevven or hell or sumthing?"
"Niether," I sed. "Thu'lt be edfleshhamed."
"Ah," thu sed. "So the Hindoos wer riht,"
"All troths sind riht in hir own way," I sed. "Wak with me."
Thu followed along as we strode throoh the nuthingness. "Whare sind we goïng?"
Nowhare sundrily, I sed. "It's swell to wak while we tak, is all."
"So what's the ord, then?" Thu asked. "When I yet edborn, I'll be but a markless stonebred, riht? A baby. So all mi undergoïngs and evrything I did in thiss life woen't due."
"Not so!" I sed. "Thu hast within thee all the knoledge and undergoïngs uf all thi foregon lives. Thu nauht but doen't mun hem riht nu."
I stopped wakking and took thee by the showlders. "Thi sowl is more thromly, sheen, and entish than thu canst evver fathom. A mennish minde can only inhold a slivver uf what thu art. It's lich sticking thi finger in a glass uf watter to see if it's hot or coald. Thu put a tieny deal uf thieself intoo the hoalder, and when thu bring'st it back ute, thu hast yained all the undergoïngs it had."
"Thu hast ben in a man for the last eiht-and-forty years, so thu hast not streched ute yet and felt the rest uf thi entish cwickness. If we hung ute here for long enuff, thu'd start munning evrything. But thare's no ord in dooing that between each life."
"Hu meny times hav I ben edfleshhamed, then?"
"O lots. Lots and lots. And intoo lots uf sundry lives." I sed. "Thiss time abute, thu'lt be a Chinish churl girl in 540 A.D."
"Bide, what?" Thu stammered. "Thu'rt sending me back in time?"
"Well, I gess. Time, as thu knowest, only stands in thi all-shaft. Things sind sundry whence I cum."
"Whence thu cummest?" Thu sed.
"O wissly," I reched. "I cum frum sumwhare. Sumwhare elce. And thare sind uthers lich me. I know thu'lt will to know what it's lich thare, but trewthfully, thu woodn't understand."
"O," thu sed, a little dune. "But bide. If I yet edfleshhamed to uther steds in time, I cood hav met mieself at sum ord."
"Wissly. Befalls all the time. And with boath lives only aware uf hir own lifespan, thu don't even know it's befalling."
"So what's the ord uf it all?"
"Ernestly?" I asked. "Ernestly? Thu'rt asking me for the meaning uf life? Isn't that a littel setthotly?"
"Well it's a fair frain," thu throohstood.
I looked thee in the iye. "The meaning uf life, the rode I made thiss hole all-shaft, is for thee too ripen."
"Thu meanest mankinde? Thu wilt uss too ripen?"
"No, only thu. I made thiss hole all-shaft for thee. With each new life thu grow and ripen and becum a greiter and greiter minde."
"Only me? What abute evryone elce?"
"Thare is no one elce," I sed. "In thiss all-shaft, thare's only thee and me."
Thu stared emptily at me. "But all the foalks on Erth..."
"All thee. Sundry akennings uf thee.
"Bide. I'm evryone!?"
"Nu thu'rt yetting it," I sed, with a herrying slap on the back.
"I'm evry mennish being hoo evver livved?"
"Or hoo will evver liv, yes."
"I'm Abraham Lincoln?"
"And thu'rt John Wilkes Booth, too," I eked.
"I'm Hitler?" Thu sed, agast.
"And thu'rt the thuesand-thuesands he killed."
"And thu'rt evryone hoo followed him."
Thu went speechless.
"Evry time thu unfairly wraked someone," I sed, "thu wert unfairly wraking thieself. Evry deed uf kindness thu hast dun, thu hast dun to thieself. Evry gleeful and sad brihtom evver undergon bi eny man was, or will be, undergon bi thee."
Thu thoht for a long time.
"Whi?" Thu asked me. "Whi doo all thiss?"
"Forthat sumday, thu wilt becum lich me. Since that's what thu art. Thu'rt one uf mi kinde. Thu'rt mi childe."
"Whoa," thu sed, in unbeleef. "Thu meanest I'm a god?"
"No. Not yet. Thu'rt a tuder. Thu'rt still growing. Once thu hast livved evry mennish life throoh-ute all time, thu wilt hav grown enufh to be born."
"So the hole all-shaft," thu sed, "it's but..."
"An ey." I anqueathed. "Nu it's time for thu too wey on to thi next life."
And I sent thee on thi way.
Frith's (TimeMaster) Wending
Ðis is an Anglish tungwending of "The Egg" by Andy Weir. Ðe writ has sum marks of Erly New Inglish speeckraft, along wið marks of Anglish (Frið, not Hurlebatte) stafing and speecly stafing. Tungwent by TimeMaster (staddeled off Arkðunder owing to TM standing strongly gain no-Norse Anglish (sunderly "ey", as ðis word is far too short), "thou" (also, ðis word shuld be moast likely be stafed "ðu", not "ðue", as it wuld be a swið mene word like "we"), and sum bits of Hurlebatte's stafings that uðers need to be liking less).
Yu wer on yure way home when yu died.
It was a wain mishappening. Noðing overly markworðy, but dedly noneðeless. Yu left behind a wife and two cildren. It was a smartless deð. Ðe spring-up helemen fanded ðeir best to red yu, but for noðing. Yure body was so utterly shattered ðat yu wer better off, trust me.
And ðat's when yu met me.
"What… what happened?" yu asked. "Where am I?"
"Yu died," I said streht-forwardly. No ord in grinding words.
"Ðere was a… a loadwain, and it was sliding..."
"Yup," I said.
"I... I died?"
"Yup. But don't feel bad abute it. Eferyone dies," I said.
Yu looked abute. Ðere was noðingness. Naht but yu and me. "What is ðis sted?" yu asked. "Is ðis ðe afterlife?"
"More or less," I said.
"Are yu God?" yu asked.
"Yup," I answered. "I'm God."
"My kids... my wife," yu said.
"What abute ðem?"
"Wil ðey be alriht?"
"Ðat's what I like to see," I said. "Yu nu died and yure main rekking is for yure kin. Ðat's good stuff riht ðere."
Yu looked at me, smitten. To yu, I didn't look like God. I but looked like sum man. Or maybe a woman. Sum unsuttel alderdom shaping, maybe. More of a speeckraft lorehuse tecer ðan ðe almihty.
"Don't wurry," I said. "They'l be alriht. Yure kids wil mun yu as flawless in efery way. Ðey didn't haf time to grow irked towards yu. Yure wife wil weep on ðe uteside, but wil be dernly freed. To be fair, yure wedlok was falling asunder. If it's eny frufer, she'l feel swið gilty for feeling freed."
"Oh," yu said. "So what happens nu? Do I go to hefen or hel or sumðing?"
"Neiðer," I said. "Yu'l be born eft."
"Ah," yu said. "So ðe Hindoos wer riht,"
"All faiðs ar riht in ðeir own wey," I said. "Walk wið me."
Yu followed along as we strode ðruh ðe noðingness. "Where ar we going?"
Nowhere sundrily, I said. "It's but sweet to walk while we talk, is al."
"So what's ðe ord, ðen?" yu asked. "When I get born eft, I'l be but a bare stone, riht? A baby. So al my frood and eferyðing I did in ðis life won't mean enyðing."
"Not so!" I said. "Yu haf wiðin yu al ðe knowledg and undergoings of al ðe foregoen lifes. Yu naht but don't mun ðem riht nu."
I stopped walking and took yu by ðe sholders. "Yure soul is more ðromly, sheen, and entish ðan yu kan sooðly faðom. A mennish mind kan onely hold in a slifer of what yu ar. It's like stikking yure finger in a glass of watter to see if it's hot or kold. Yu put a tiny dele of yureself into ðe holder, and when yu bring it bak ute, yu haf wun al ðe undergoings it had."
"Yu haf been in a man for ðe last fourty-eht yeres, so yu haf not strecced ute yet and felt ðe rest of yure entish awareness. If we hung ute here for long enuff, yu'd start munning eferyðing. But ðere's no ord in doing ðat between ece life."
"Hu meny times haf I been born eft, ðen?"
"Oh lots. Lots and lots. And into lots of sundry lifes." I said. "Ðis time abute, yu'l be a Cinish curl girl in 540 A.D."
"Bide, what?" yu stammered. "yu'r sending me bak in time?"
"Wel, I gess ofersooðly. Time, as yu know, onely stands in yure alworld. Ðings ar sundry where I kum from."
"Where do yu kum from?" yu said.
"Oh wiss," I unfolded. "I kum from sumwhere. Sumwhere else. And ðere ar uðers like me. I know yu'l want to know what it's like ðere, but treuðfully, yu wuldn't understand."
"Oh," yu said, a littel dune. "But bide. If I yet born eft to uðer steds in time, I kood haf doen ðings wið myself at sum ord."
"Wissly. Happens al ðe time. And wið boðe lifes onely aware of ðeir own lifespan, yu don't efen know it's happening."
"So what's ðe ord of it al?"
"Ernestly?" I asked. "Ernestly? Yu'r asking me for ðe mening of life? Isn't ðat a littel setðohtly?"
"Wel, it's a fair frain," yu blofe ðruh.
I looked yu in de iye. "Ðe mening of life, ðe grunds I made ðis hole alwurld, is for yu to ripen."
"Yu mene mankind? Yu want us to ripen?"
"No, onely yu. I made ðis hole alwurld for yu. Wið ece new life yu grow and ripen and bekum a bigger and greter being."
"Onely me? What abute eferyone else?"
"Ðere is no one else," I said. "In ðis alwurld, ðere's onely yu and me."
Yu stared emptily at me. "But al ðe folks on Erð..."
"Al yu. Sundry birðings of yu.
"Bide. I'm eferyone!?"
"Nu yu'r getting it," I said, wið a herrying slap on ðe bak.
"I'm efery man ho efer liffed?"
"Or ho wil efer lif, yes."
"I'm Abraham Linkoln?"
"And yu'r John Wilkes Booð, too," I eked.
"I'm Hitler?" yu said, agast.
"And yu'r ðe twofold ðusands he killed."
"And yu'r eferyone ho followed him."
Yu fell speecless.
"Efery time yu blooted someone," I said, "yu wer blooting yureself. Efery deed of kindness yu haf doen, yu haf doen to yureself. Efery happy and sad brihtom efer undergoen by eny man was, or wil be, undergoen by yu."
Yu ðoht for a long time.
"Why?" yu asked me. "Why do al ðis?"
"Sið sum day, yu wil bekum like me. Sið ðat's what yu ar. Yu'r one of my kind. Yu'r my cild."
"Whoe," yu said, in unbeleef. "Yu mene I'm a god?"
"No. Not yet. Yu'r an unborn. Yu'r stil growing. Onse yu haf liffed efery man's life ðruhute al time, yu wil haf grown enuff to be born."
"So ðe hole alwurld," yu said, "it's but..."
"An egg." I answered. "Nu it's time for yu to go on to yure next life."
And I sent yu on yure wey.