The Girl Who Cried Flowers and Other Tales

by Jane Yolen

  At first it was easy enough. She lived simply in a simple town, where little happened to change a day but a birth or a death that was always expected. And Vera awaited each event at the appointed bedside and, in this way, was always the first to know.

  But as with many wishes of the heart, hers grew from a wish to a desire, from a desire to an obsession. And soon, knowing the simple futures of the simple people in that simple town was not enough for her.

  “I wish to know what tomorrow holds for everyone,” said Vera. “For every man and woman in our country. For every man and woman in our world.”

  “It is not good, this thing you wish,” said her father.

  But Vera did not listen. Instead she said, “I wish to know which king will fall and what the battle, which queen will die and what the cause. I want to know how many mothers will cry for babies lost and how many wives will weep for husbands slain.”

  And when she heard this, Vera’s mother made the sign against the Evil One, for it was said in their simple town that the future was the Devil s dream.

  But Vera only laughed and said loudly, “And for that, I want to know what the Evil One himself is doing with his tomorrow.”

  Since the Evil One himself could not have missed her speech, the people of the town visited the Mayor and asked him to send Vera away.

  The Mayor took Vera and her mother and father, and they sought out the old man who lived in the mountain who would answer one question a year. And they asked him what to do about Vera.

  The old man who lived in the mountain, who ate the seeds that flowers dropped and the berries that God wrought, and who knew all about yesterdays and cared little about tomorrow, said, “She must be apprenticed to the Weaver.”

  “A weaver!” said the Mayor and Vera’s father and her mother all at once. They thought surely that the old man who lived in the mountain had at last gone mad.

  But the old man shook his head. “Not a weaver, but the Weaver, the Weaver of tomorrow. She weaves with a golden thread and finishes each piece with a needle so fine that each minute of the unfolding day is woven into her work. They say that once every hundred years there is need for an apprentice, and it is just that many years since one has been found.”

  “Where does one find this Weaver?” asked the Mayor.

  “Ah, that I cannot say,” said the old man who lived in the mountain, “for I have answered one question already.” And he went back to his cave and rolled a stone across the entrance, a stone small enough to let the animals in but large enough to keep the townspeople out.

  “Never mind,” said Vera. “I would be apprenticed to this Weaver. And not even the Devil himself can keep me from finding her.”

  And so saying, she left the simple town with nothing but the clothes upon her back. She wandered until the hills got no higher but the valleys got deeper. She searched from one cold moon until the next. And at last, without warning. she came upon a cave where an old woman in black stood waiting.

  “You took the Devil’s own time coming,” said the old woman.

  “It was not his time at all,” declared Vera.

  “Oh, but it was,” said the old woman, as she led the girl into the cave.

  And what a wondrous place the cave was. On one wall hung

  skeins of yarn of rainbow colors. On the other walls were tapestries of delicate design. In the center of the cave where a single shaft of sunlight fell was the loom of polished ebony, higher than a man and three times as broad, with a shuttle that hew like a captive black bird through the golden threads of the warp.

  For a year and a day, Vera stayed in the cave apprenticed to the Weaver. She learned which threads wove the future of kings and princes and which of peasants and slaves. She was first to know in which kingdoms the sun would set and which kingdoms would be gone before the sun rose again. And though she was not yet allowed to weave, she watched the black loom where each minute of the day took shape, and learned how, once it had been woven, no power could change its course. Not an emperor, not a slave, not the Weaver herself. And she was taught to finish the work with a golden thread and a needle so fine that no one could tell where one day ended and the next began. And for a year she was happy.

  But finally the day dawned when Vera was to start her second year with the Weaver. It began as usual. Vera rose and set the fire. Then she removed the tapestry of yesterday from the loom and brushed it outside until the golden threads mirrored the morning sun. She hung it on a silver hook that was by the entrance to the cave. Finally she returned to the loom which waited mutely for the golden warp to be strung.

  And each thread that Vera pulled tight sang like the string of a harp. When she was through. Vera set the pot on the fire and woke the old woman to begin the weaving.

  The old woman creaked and muttered as she stretched herself up. But Vera paid her no heed. Instead, she went to the Wall of Skeins and picked at random the colors to he woven. And each thread was a life.

  “Slowly, slowly,” the old Weaver had cautioned when Vera first learned to choose the threads. “At the end of each thread is the end of a heartbeat; the last of each color is the last of a world.” But Vera could not learn to choose slowly, carefully. Instead she plucked and picked like a gay bird in the seed.

  “And so it was with me,” said the old Weaver with a sigh. “And so it was at first with me.”

  Now a year had passed, and the old woman kept her counsel to herself as Vera’s fingers danced through the threads. Now she went creaking and muttering to the loom and began to weave. And now Vera turned her back to the growing cloth that told the future and took the pot from the fire to make their meal. But as soon as that was done, she would hurry back to watch the growing work, for she never wearied of watching the minutes take shape on the ebony loom.

  Only this day, as her back was turned, the old woman uttered a cry. It was like a sudden sharp pain. And the silence after it was like the release from pain altogether.

  Vera was so startled she dropped the pot, and it spilled over and sizzled the fire out. She ran to the old woman who sat staring at the growing work. There, in the gold and shimmering tapestry, the Weaver had woven her own coming death.

  There was the cave and there the dropped pot; and last the bed where, with the sun shining full on her face, the old woman would breathe no more.

  “It has come,” the old woman said to Vera, smoothing her black skirts over her knees. “The loom is yours.” She stood up fresher and younger than Vera had ever seen her, and moved with a springy joy to the bed. Then she straightened the covers and lay down, her face turned toward the entrance of the cave. A shaft of light fell on her feet and began to move, as the sun moved, slowly towards her head.

  “No.” cried Vera at the smiling woman. “I want the loom. But not this way.”

  Gently, with folded hands, the old Weaver said, “Dear child, there is no other way.”

  “Then,” said Vera slowly, knowing she lied, but lying nonetheless, “I do not want it.”

  “The time for choosing is past,” said the old Weaver. “You chose and your hands have been chosen. It is woven. It is so.”

  “And in a hundred years?” asked Vera.

  “You will be the Weaver, and some young girl will come, bright and eager, and you will know your time is near.”

  “No,” said Vera.

  “It is birth,” said the old Weaver.

  “No,” said Vera.

  “It is death,” said the old Weaver.

  A single golden thread snapped suddenly on the loom.

  Then the sun moved onto the Weaver s face and she died.

  Vera sat staring at the old woman but did not stir. And though she sat for hour upon hour, and the day grew cold, the sun did not go down. Battles raged on and on, but no one won and no one lost for nothing more had been woven.

  At last, shivering with the cold, though the sun was still high, Vera went to the loom. She saw the old woman buried and herself at work, and so she hastened to the task
s.

  And when the old woman lay under an unmarked stone in a forest full of unmarked stones, with only Vera to weep her down, Vera returned to the cave.

  Inside, the loom gleamed black, like a giant ebony cage with golden bars as thin and fine as thread. And as Vera sat down to finish the weaving, her bones felt old and she welcomed the shaft of sun as it crept across her back. She welcomed each trip of the shuttle through the warp as it ticked off the hundred years to come. And at last Vera knew all she wanted to know about the future.

  Once there was a lad who was so proud, he was determined to stare everyone in the world down.

  He began in the farmyard of his father’s house. He stared into the eyes of the chickens until the cock s feathers drooped and the hens ran cackling from his gaze.

  “What a fine eye,” thought the lad “They are all afraid of me.” And he went to stare down the cows.

  The cows turned their velvety eyes to watch the boy approach. He never turned his head but stared and stared until the herd turned away in confusion and clattered down to the meadow gate.

  “They are all afraid. See them run,” thought the lad. And he went to stare down his mother and father.

  At the table he glared at his parents until his father dropped his knife and his mother started to weep.

  “Why are you doing this?” they cried. “No good can come of such staring.”

  But the lad never said a word. He packed his handkerchief with a few provisions—a loaf of brown bread, some cheese, and a flask of ginger beer—and went out to stare down the world.

  He walked a day and a night and came at last to the walls of a great town.

  “Let me in,” he called out to the old watchman, “for I have stared down fathers and mothers. I have stared down a host of herdsmen. I have stared down strangers in a farmyard, and I can stare you down, too.”

  The watchman trembled when he heard this, but he did not let the lad come in. “Stare away,” he said in a wavery voice.

  The lad came nearer to the watchman and stared into the old man’s watery eyes. He stared steadily till the old man felt weak with hunger and faint with standing, and at last the old man glanced away.

  Without another word, the lad marched in through the gate and on into the town.

  He walked until he came to the door of the castle where two handsome soldiers in their bright red coats stood at attention and gazed into space.

  The lad looked at them and thought, “I have stared down a mighty watchman, I have stared down fathers and mothers, I have stared down a host of herdsmen, I have stared down strangers in a farmyard, and I can stare down these two.”

  The soldiers glanced the lad’s way. The lad stared back. He stared and stared until a passing fly caused one of the soldiers to sneeze.

  “That mere lad has stared you down,” whispered the other soldier to his companion, out of the side of his mouth.

  “No, he didn’t,” said the one who had looked away.

  “Yes, he did!” said the other.

  And soon they fell to fighting.

  While they were squabbling and quarreling, the lad slipped in through the door and marched till he came to a great hall. There was the king, sitting on his throne.

  The lad marched right up to the king who was sitting silent in all his majesty. He stared at the king and the king stared back.

  As the lad stared, he thought, “I have stared down quarrelsome soldiers, I have stared down a mighty watchman, I have stared down fathers, I have stared down mothers, I have stared down a host of herdsmen, I have stared down strangers in the farmyard, and I can stare you down, too.”

  As the lad stared, the king thought, “What a strange, mad lad. He must be taken away.” And he turned to speak to his councilor about the staring lad.

  “See, see,” thought the lad, “I have stared down the king himself. They are all afraid of me.”

  And without a word, he marched out the door and into the courtyard, through the courtyard and out into the town square.

  “Hear ye, hear ye,” he shouted to the crowd that quickly gathered. “I am the lad who stared everyone down. I have stared down the king of kings, I have stared down quarrelsome soldiers, I have stared down a mighty watchman, I have stared down fathers, I have stared down mothers, I have stared down a host of herdsmen, I have stared down strangers in the farmyard. I have stared everyone down. There is no one greater than I.”

  The crowd oohed and the crowd aahed, and the crowd made a thousand obeisances. Except for one old man who had seen everything and believed nothing.

  “No good will come of all this staring,” said the old man.

  The lad merely stared at the old man and laughed. “And I can stare you down, too,” he said.

  “I am sure you can,” said the old man. “But staring down an old man is no problem at all for a lad who has stared everyone down.”

  The lad looked uneasy for the first time.

  Then the old man pointed to the sun that glowered like a red eye in the sky. “But if you can stare that down,” he said, “I will believe your boast.”

  “Done,” said the proud lad, and he turned his face to the sky.

  All that day the lad stared at the sun. And as he stared, the sun seemed to grow and change and blossom. He stared until the sun had burned its image into his eyes.

  And when at last night came, the sun went down. Yet still the boy kept staring.

  The crowd shouted, “He has done it. He has done it. He has stared the sun down, too.”

  Even the old man nodded his head at the marvel and turned to shake the lad’s hand.

  But the proud lad thrust the hand aside.

  “Quiet, you fools. Quiet. Can’t you see the sun? It is shining still. It shines on and on. Quiet, for I must keep on staring until I have stared it down. I am the lad who stares everyone down.”

  The sun came up again and the sun went down again, but the boy never moved. And as far as anyone knows, the proud lad is staring still.

  Once far to the North, where the world is lighted only by the softly flickering snow, a strange and beautiful child was horn.

  Her face was like crystal with the features etched in. And she was called Bianca, a name that means white, for her face was pale as snow and her hair was white as a moonbeam.

  As Bianca grew to be a young woman, she never spoke as others speak. Instead her words were formed soundlessly into tiny slivers of ice. And if a person wanted to know what she was saying, he had to pluck her sentences out of the air before they fell to the ground or were blown away by the chilling wind. Then each separate word had to be warmed by the hearthfire until at last the room was filled with the delicate sounds of Bianca’s voice. They were strange sounds and as fragile as glass.

  At first many people came to see the maiden and to catch her words. For it was said that she was not only beautiful but wise as well.

  But the paths to her hut were few. For the frost cut cruelly at every step. And it took so long to talk with Bianca that after a while, no one came to visit her at all.

  Now it happened that the king of the vast country where Bianca lived was seeking a wife who was both beautiful and wise. But when he asked his council how to find such a bride, the councilors scratched their heads and stroked their beards and managed to look full of questions and answers at the same time.

  “Can you do such a thing?” asked one. “Can you not do such a thing?” asked another. “How is it possible?” asked a third. And they spent a full day looking up to the ceiling and down to the floor and answering each question with another.

  At last the king said, “Enough of this useless noise. I will find a way and I will find a woman. And the one who will be my bride will be filled with silence and still speak more wisdom than any of you.”

  At that the councilors left off talking and began to laugh, For it was well known that wisdom was to be found in things said, not in silence. And it was also known that no one—not even the king—was as wise as the mem
bers of the king’s council.

  But the king sent his most trusted servant, a gentle old painter named Piers, to the comers of the kingdom. Piers was to talk with all the maidens of noble birth. Then he was to bring back portraits of the most beautiful of these from which the king might choose a bride.

  Piers traveled many days and weeks. He wearied himself in the great halls and draughty palaces listening to the chattering, nattering maidens who wanted to marry the king. At last, his saddlebags filled with their portraits and his mind packed with their prattle, he started for home.

  On his way home from the cold lands. Piers became lost in a fierce snowstorm. He was forced to seek shelter in a nearby hut. It was the hut where Bianca made her home.

  Piers meant to stay but a single day. But one day whitened into a second and then a third. It was soon a week that the old man had remained there, talking to Bianca and warming her few words by the fire. He never told her who he was or what his mission. If she guessed, she never said. Indeed, in not saying lay much of her wisdom.

  At last the storm subsided and Piers returned to the king’s castle. In his saddlebags he carried large portraits of the most beautiful noble maidens in the kingdom. But the old man carried on a chain around his neck a miniature portrait of Bianca. She had become like a daughter to him. The thought of her was like a calm, cool breeze in the warmer lands where he lived.

  When the day came for the king to make his choice, all of the king’s council assembled in the Great Hall. Piers drew the large portraits from his saddlebags one by one and recalled what the maidens had spoken. The king and his council looked at the pictures and heard the words. And one by one they shook their heads.

  As Piers bent to put the final portrait back into his pack, the chain with the miniature slipped out of his doublet. The king reached over and touched it. Then he held it up to the light and looked at the picture.

  “Who is this?” he asked. “And why is this portrait smaller and set apart from the rest?”