Spindlefish and Stars

by Christiane M. Andrews

  “He would do the same for me.” Clo thought of how her father had kept his suffering—his daily pain, his loss of talent—hidden from her. “He has done the same for me. And he won’t lose me. He’ll keep his memories of me.” She hesitated, suddenly unsure. “Or I think… he might keep them. And if you help me, I won’t lose him, not completely. I—we—can find him again. We can try, at least.”

  Cary started to shake his head, but Clo interrupted. “Cary, please. Listen. I’m not sure I will want to return to the world if I can’t remember. I won’t have a reason to. You’ll need to remind me why I should. You’ll need to remind me that I have a father I love. That there is a kind boy with a cauliflower nose who lifted him out of the pig straw. That the world has darkness and light. But right now, he’s suffering. Dying. If I do nothing, he will die.”

  “You’ll have your memories—”

  “I’d rather have him.”

  “But you won’t! You won’t even know him—”

  “Cary. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you do whatever you could to save…” Clo trailed off. “You did. Your father. You put on wings for him. You flew for him. You tried to save someone you loved.”

  Cary stared at the tapestry. “I don’t remember my father. I don’t remember making a choice to save him. I don’t remember… if I… if I loved him,” he said quietly. “But I know I would help someone I… cared for.” He raised his eyes to meet Clo’s. “I would try to keep someone I cared for safe.”

  “Please.” Clo fastened her eyes on Cary’s. “Please help me.”

  The two stood in silence. Finally Cary, pushing a damp curl from his brow, cleared his throat. It was a minute before he found his voice. “Wh-what can I do?”

  CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND

  IN WHICH A THREAD IS UNWOUND

  WHATEVER HAPPENS, YOU MUSTN’T STOP. PROMISE, Cary. You must pull all the thread out of the tapestry—whatever happens.”

  Cary’s mouth had drawn itself into a tight line, but he nodded. “Promise,” he said. He took the bobbin from Clo. “I just pull?”

  “All of it. No matter what.”

  He held the line lightly in his fingertips. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Clo thought back to the icy uncoiling she had felt before. She shivered. “It’s not exactly pain. It’s… it’s something else.” She gestured at the spool, motioning for him to begin pulling. “Please, Cary.”

  Eyes questioning, he tightened the slack of the line. “Are you sure?”

  Clo forced herself to nod. “Now. All of it.”

  Cary pulled gently, uncertainly, but, as before, the thread came away from the weaving easily.

  Clo felt again an unraveling, an unwinding happening deep within her. Her limbs began to feel distant, too far to reach. She swayed, staggered.

  “Are you all right?”

  Clo struggled to form the words to answer. “K-keep… k-keep. Keep pulling.”

  “I’m hurting you.”

  She forced herself to shake her head. “N-no.” A numbness, a cold finger, pressed into her consciousness. She felt it at the base of her skull, scraping at the matter between her ears.

  “Clo—”

  “Keep p-pulling. Y-you must. M-must not st-stop. You pro—… p-promised.”

  Memories flashed and faded as Cary pulled away her thread: she understood them, then only the absence of them, the impression where they had once been. Trampled grass.

  She tried to hold on to the sensation of early morning, the smell of pines. The idea of walls, field, forest. Stone and dew. Bread. Turnips. Table. Hearth. Sunlight. Starlight.

  Her father—she tried her hardest to hold on to him. She saw herself as a child, toddling at his heels. Pulling at his arm while he tried to work. Carried on his shoulders through the busy streets of town. She knew him—the shape of his hands, the unsteadiness of his step; the sound of his laugh, of his grumbling—then these memories too began to peel away. Looking for them, she found only their shadows.

  The cold finger scraped a deeper hollow. “N-no…”

  “Clo?”

  “Prom—… promised,” she tried to say, though she could not be certain whether her mouth had moved or whether any sound had come from it. Somewhere, far below her, Clo felt what had been her legs give way. She felt the firmness of the floor, then felt it dissolving beneath her.

  “Clo!” she heard again, faint, an echo.

  She was in darkness. She clung to the word father. At the last, she had the sensation of arms around her, of rocking, of a fragment of song; then even this was gone, and the word was emptied. She tried to form its sound—a hollow box.

  “Clo!” The darkness pressed and distorted the name. Guh-loh.

  “I—” she tried to say, but the word I, too, had been scraped clean. She felt its shell, its brittle edges, around her.

  “Clo?”

  She could not move out of the hollow form of I.

  “Clo?” The word could not reach her.

  Guh-loh.

  Guhl.

  Guhl—y.

  Something thudded against the shell that was her I.

  It knocked, once, twice; it slipped under her.

  “Girly.” She felt herself lifted on a wooden slab. Perhaps she was the wooden slab. “Girly, once again, yer no full passage.” The darkness grunted, and she found herself tossed onto something solid. “Ye ought t’ know better. Ought t’ know not t’ go beyond.”

  There was a rocking. A steady wet sound. Sloshing.

  “Ah—girly. ’S good thing I was out here.”

  More sloshing.

  “Y’know, you might open yer eyes.”

  Darkness.

  “Here.” A poking, two fingers. “They’re here. Try here.” Again, a poking. Two pokings. “Open those.”

  A line of glowing pebbles.

  “That’s it. Give it some time.”

  The sloshing started again. A regular knocking—wood rolling against wood.

  “I found someone out here fer you. Not ready fer my boat jus’ yet, but think you were lookin’ fer ’em. Last saw ’em round about—” A grunt. “Round about here.” The pebbles opened. “Hallloooo! Hallloooo! Hallllooo there!”

  Silence.

  “Be back soon, I imagine. You might wait fer ’em.”

  Silence.

  “Ah, girly. Ye have t’ get out. I can’t stay with you. Here—” Something gripped her. Moved her. “Sit here.” A push. “’S safe here.”

  The pebbles had a sad mouth around them.

  “That’s good. Wait here fer ’em.”

  A splashing.

  “Good luck t’ you, girly.”

  Splashing. Splashing.

  Splashing.

  Silence.

  Something firm was beneath her. And a smell—air that carried the scent of open space. And dappled light.

  She waited for a long time in the air of light and space.

  She tried to use her eyes, the places where the pebble mouth had poked. Patches of bright and dark.

  Gradually, the looking gave the patches form. Color. A bright speck was moving across something wide and dark and tall. A bright green speck. She watched it proceed across the dark expanse. She touched the dark thing: it was rough, uneven. Barklike.

  A beetle was climbing a tree trunk.

  She watched its progress, and in the watching, in her focus on this tiny thing, more objects took shape around her.

  The tree—she was sitting beneath it. Its branches hung over her, sharp needles casting sharp shadows. The sharpness was a prickling in her mouth—the word pine.

  All around her was empty space, as though she—and the tree—were on an island. The empty space had the quality of a field, though it was not a field. It shimmered with waves green and gold.

  She sat for a long time, her back against the trunk, watching the shimmering waves.

  Out of the shimmering, little by little, she became aware of a darker smudge. It, too, shimmered—a silver smear—but it m
oved forward, crossing the expanse, and grew slowly into a shape, thin, ovoid, that took on a form with arms and legs.

  It walked with steady steps across the expanse—long, even strides—and the silver smudge resolved itself into a man. He was smiling, his cheeks flushed with health, and hailing her with a wave.

  “Hullooo!” he called.

  When he reached her, he sat down, placing a pack beside him on the ground. “Hello,” he said again.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “I am so glad to see you.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. I’ve been alone here for so long.”

  “Ah.”

  “Have you been here long?” he asked after a pause.

  “No… I don’t think so. I can’t really remember.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m… not sure.”

  “I’ve been dreaming,” the man said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Strange dreams. Wonderful dreams. But sad dreams, too.”

  “Sad?”

  “I dreamed I had a wife. And a daughter. But I don’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “I lost them.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I miss them. Even though they were a dream, I miss them. I loved them. They were…” He hesitated. “You look like her—my daughter. Perhaps you are part of my dream?”

  “No… I don’t think I am. I think I came here on a boat.” She squinted at the man. His eyes were kind, his hair just tinged with silver. “You look like a father,” she said. “Like you could be a father.”

  “Thank you. I’m not sure—in my dream—I’m not sure I was a good one.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  “How can you know?”

  “I…” She shook her head. “I just feel it. When I saw you walking, just now, I felt that you seemed like a father a daughter would be happy to see. And…” She paused, considering. “And that you would have something good to eat with you.”

  “I do! I do!” the man exclaimed. “Pastries. My pockets always seem to be full of them.” He held up a bun studded with fruit and sparkling with sugar. “Would you like one?”

  “Y-yes,” she said, but when she went to take the sweet, she found her hands already full.

  “What do you have there?” the man asked.

  “I…” She held up her hands. They were tangled with thread, the soft fiber draped in messy coils over her fingers and wrists and arms. “Thread?”

  “Lovely,” said the man. He lifted a strand between his fingers. “Just beautiful. Look at the colors.”

  She examined it. The thread’s colors shifted and swam, turned from dark to light to dark again. Had she ever seen anything more wondrous? She did not think so. But the man looked like he might need it.

  “Would you like it?” she asked the man.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

  “No, please,” she said. “I’d like to give it to you. A trade for the pastry.”

  “No, no.” He laughed. “A stale little bun that came out of my pocket… that I… well, I think I might have taken it, stolen it even… certainly isn’t a fair trade for that remarkable thread. But… I could… oh, yes! Here!” He unbundled his pack. “I have just the thing.” He removed and unrolled a canvas, spreading it across their laps.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “How… wonderful…”

  “I am rather proud of it.” The man smiled. “It’s a dream I had. An unusual dream, different than my others, but I had to paint it.”

  She gazed at the painting. A boy was falling from the sky into froth-tinged waves. He had wings—and the feathers of the wings had come free and drifted everywhere in the air around him.

  “It’s not finished yet,” the man added regretfully. “I couldn’t decide how the boy should look.” He pointed to the painting. Though the wings had been painted in exquisite detail so that even the downy lines of the feathers seemed to breathe, the boy’s own features were smudged. “I had dreamed he had red hair… and a… bit of a funny nose, but that didn’t seem right.”

  She squinted at the smudge. “Could he not be younger?”

  “Yes,” the man said, thinking and nodding. “He would need to be young… about your age… wouldn’t he? To put on wings like that.”

  “And round cheeks. It seems like he should have round cheeks.”

  “That does seem right. So young, he’d be a bit soft.”

  “And could there not be… someone on the shore who sees him fall? Who helps him?”

  “Would he survive? In my dream, he disappeared under the waves.”

  “I think he would. I feel like he would.”

  “Well,” said the man, pointing to the cliffs in the painting. “There is room here for a person who might see him.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  His gaze traveled over her. “Perhaps that person could look… a bit like you. My look-alike daughter. That would make me happy.” The man smiled, and again, he reminded her of a father a daughter would be happy to see. He began to roll the canvas. “I’ll finish this for you, and then we’ll trade. Your thread for the painting.”

  “No, no. Please, take the thread now.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Please.” She held up the handfuls of yarn. “I’ll come back for the painting.”

  The man hesitated. “You must come back. I wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Reluctantly, the man took the thread from her. He held it up, lacing his fingers through the loops, and it glimmered in the light. “It really is so beautiful,” he said. “Just… remarkable.” He shook his head. “I still don’t think I should take it. It’s too… lovely. You should not give it up. You should not be left with nothing.”

  “I want you to have it. And the painting… it is a fair trade.”

  “I don’t feel it is… and I still need to finish it. I will be leaving you empty-handed.”

  “Not empty-handed.” She gestured at his pocket. “I will still take a sweet!”

  “Of course, of course!” The man took one, two, three fruit-filled pastries from his pocket.

  She ate the first right away, taking quick bite after quick sugary bite. She smiled at the man through jammy teeth. “It’s good,” she said.

  “I’m glad you like it. In my dreams, my daughter always liked pastries.”

  She took another mouthful. Honey and berries and bread. Closing her eyes, she felt the word comfort fill her mouth.

  The man looked happy to see her happy. “You must have been hungry.”

  “Yes, I guess I was.” Thinking about it, she added, “I can’t remember the last time I ate.” Licking the fruit and honey from her fingertips, she looked around for a place to store the other two buns. She found she was wearing a smock. She slipped the pastries into one of its wide pockets.

  “Well,” said the man, standing, “I’m glad I could give you something to eat. When I see you again, I will bring more.”

  “I will look forward to that.”

  The man slung his pack over his shoulder. “Do you think this is another dream?”

  “I don’t think it is. I don’t feel like it is.”

  “You will return when the painting is finished?”

  “Yes. I promise.” She paused. “How will I find you?”

  The man glanced around at the field that was not a field, at the shimmering waves of green and gold. “Look for me under the tallest pine,” he said, and pointed to the tree she sat beneath. “In my dreams, I always met my daughter under the tallest pine.” Lifting his hand, he began to walk away. “Always,” he repeated softly, wondering at the word.

  She watched him go, his figure becoming smaller and more smeary until it disappeared into the luster of the waves.

  Once again, she was alone.

  All about her was quiet… so quiet that she could hear the beetle still clambering up the bark, the steady scratching of its inse
ct feet up and up and up into the needled branches.

  K-k-k-k-k, its feet tapped.

  Slowly, incrementally, the light around her faded. The waves of the field, growing darker, crested with silver. She watched them lift and break, lift and break and foam. The beetle continued on its path up the trunk. K-k-k-k-k.

  The noise began to bother her. She moved around the little island, circling the tree, trying to escape the sound, but the k-k-k-k followed her everywhere.

  Tentatively, she put her feet into the dark waves. They felt heavy and pulled against her, but with effort, she could walk through them. She stumbled stride by stride out into the darkness. K-k-k-k continued to echo behind her: no matter how far she walked, she could still hear the klacketing racket.

  The farther she walked, the thicker and darker the waves became: they began to pull at her knees and thighs. Each step was now a struggle; she felt a sucking pulling her down. She began to fear she might sink beneath the surface. She staggered forward, panic growing. She did not know where she was going, if there even was anyplace to go. Gasping, tripping, she looked for the tree and the little island; though she could still hear the infernal tapping, she could see no land.

  Suddenly, she felt something take her by the elbow. Beside her, a voice came out of the darkness. “He’s so loud, isn’t he?”

  She turned. The nebulous profile of a woman was beside her. “Yes,” she answered.

  Still holding her arm, the cloudlike woman gently guided her forward. With the woman’s support, it became easier to move through the waves; though still heavy and grasping, they no longer threatened to pull her under.

  “Do you know me?” the woman asked.

  She turned to examine the shadow. In the light of the waves, the woman’s hazy silhouette seemed etched with starlight. “Y-yes,” she answered, though she could not be sure. The silver light was comforting. It felt like the encircling of arms.

  “Ah. You do not.” The woman sighed. “One day, perhaps.”

  “One day?”

  The woman did not answer. “Did you see your fa—” The woman paused. “A man?”

  “Yes. He was kind. He promised me a painting.”

  The woman’s voice was shaped by smiling. “Ah. I wish I could see it. See him.”