by Adara Quick
Spinner Niamh looked up from a large wooden loom at the center of the room. There she was working on a large tapestry in twenty shades of green. “Ah, Siobhan,” said the Spinner. “I see you’ve brought your youngest one. I have your ritual jumper over here.” She stood up slowly, stretching out her back before taking a step. She walked with a hunch, no doubt created from a lifetime of bending over threadwork.
Mother and daughter followed her to a room at the back of the workspace. This new room was filled with nothing but winter-white yarn. The Spinner moved slowly toward the room’s worktable; her joints feeling the burden of her 34 years.
The apprentice rushed forward. “Here, Niamh. Let me. You sit.”
The Spinner replied stubbornly, “Yes. Yes. Why do you have to fuss so?”
The apprentice smiled indulgently and helped the Spinner into her chair before the worktable. Then the young apprentice said to Siobhan, “She is even more infirm than her years suggest. But that is because you won’t see the doctors, isn’t that right, Niamh?”
Turning to Breck, the Spinner said, “The doctors will take away my ability to See. Ignore that one. She is only trying to get me in trouble. Now, Breck. Do you see this chair? In it, I have knitted patterns to bring over 100 people to their descent and beyond to Tír na nÓg. But I won’t be around to make yours. My saddest day was when I had to start on my own. So much work unfinished.”
The apprentice went to the table and began to unfold Siobhan’s ritual jumper. The Callaghan family pattern was a basic seed stitch until you reached a large center knot at the center of the chest. It was beautiful, but Siobhan couldn’t bring herself to touch it. Breck reached out to it instead, running her fingers along the intricate knot at the center.
The Spinner said, “You see its beauty, pretty one. Let me show you the Book of Patterns. Sit on the edge of my chair if you can.”
Breck gasped with excitement; there was only one book allowed in the city and it belonged to the Spinners. She eased herself gently onto the Spinner’s chair and tried to ignore the woman’s smell. From the shelf behind the chair, the Spinner pulled out a large square object and placed it into her hands. It was covered on both sides with soft green cloth, and seams were sewn into one side to hold the whole thing together. The Spinner reached forward and pulled away the section of cloth that covered one side. Underneath was a picture.
The apprentice said, “Spinner, no!” But Niamh waved her aside.
Breck stared at the picture. It was a miniature landscape scene of fluffy white animals on green land bounded by stone fences. An earthen covered hut was on the highest hillside. The sky was thread stitched over paint in a light, cobalt-blue silk, and it even shimmered in the low light.
Breck said, “This is a picture. But it doesn’t move like the pictures in dreams.”
Spinner Niamh ran her fingers across the green hills and stonework fences on the cover of the book. “Once there was a place like this. A place that moved all of the time. Because it was real and alive. And because the things that lived fulfilled their own purpose, a purpose that no one had to set for them. This land was filled with growing things, and a tiny spark of magic in each one helped it to find its way. The old country, it was called. And there were other creatures. Special creatures that were made entirely of magic. The banshee and the pooka were two of the fae that hid in the hills. Look close. Do you see any of them?”
Breck looked hard but she couldn’t see anything. “Are you making up a story, Spinner Niamh?”
Then the apprentice interjected, “Yes, Breck, she is. There was no land like this. Spinner, show her the patterns or I will take the book away. And you won’t find it as easily as last time.”
The Spinner shot her a hard look but began turning the pages for Breck. The book was filled with knitting pattern after knitting pattern, all alphabetized by family name. She turned to the fibrous pages to the “C” section, and Breck saw the Callaghan knot.
“There we are, mother,” Breck said. She turned to look at the eyes of the Spinner, one white from a cataract and the other a blinding blue. “Spinner Niamh,” she began timidly. “Do you think you could tell me my future?”
The aging woman chuckled with a deep phlegmy laugh. “I can try, dear. Doesn’t everyone want to know their destiny? What is your question?”
“I want to know...I want to know if the city can love me. Like they love the Dream Match girls.”
Siobhan drew in a breath and murmured, “No, Breck.”
But the Spinner didn’t notice. She said, “It always comes down to love of some sort. But first, I need to find out more about you.”
Breck slid herself back onto the floor, and the Spinner plucked one curling auburn hair from her head. She asked, “What do you look at my hair for, Spinner?”
The woman said, “Oh, I search out the life force of someone in how the hair turns in the light, its color, and its texture. Then I think deeply on that person, pondering her life and what it will hold. There are as many futures as there are choices in the world. Out of all of those possible futures, I have to see the one where magic is the strongest. Many futures, but only one true path. Yes.”
The Spinner closed her eyes and began to rock slightly back and forth in her chair, holding Breck’s hair lightly in one hand. With eyes closed, she began to hum the notes of an old folk tune; the words of which had been long forgotten. Breck shifted her weight from one foot to the other and clasped her hands.
Then, in an instant, the old woman sat up straight, as stiff as the back of the chair in which she sat. Her eyes fluttered beneath closed lids and she tilted her head back toward the ceiling. Niamh began speaking in a clear, lilting voice, as if the last 20 years had dropped from her body.
“Two stars burning bright
Sisters shining through the night
One will stay and one will go
Shadow covers those who know.
One turns dark, the other light
One eats the moon with all its might
A war will come and it will show
The dreams that punish those made low.”
The Spinner then fell silent and her body began to shake as if in seizure. Breck backed away quickly, pressing herself into the table. The apprentice and Siobhan darted forward to the Spinner, trying to hold her upper body still as the shaking became worse.
Siobhan looked in the eyes of the apprentice and said, “Her weaver must be malfunctioning!”
The apprentice ignored her and snapped at Breck in clipped words. “What have you done?”
Breck exclaimed, “I didn’t do anything!”
The apprentice said, “Take your garment and go, Siobhan. Go! Get out already!”
Stricken, Siobhan grabbed her knitted jumper in one hand and Breck’s hand with the other. Together, they ran from the Spinners, only slowing as they reached the lift and hit the call button.
Breathing heavily, Breck asked, “Ma, what was that? What happened back there?”
“Breck,” Siobhan said, “I want you to forget everything that woman said.”
“But Ma, who is the star shining bright?”
Siobhan said, “Breck! Listen to me. Forget everything, do you hear? Your life may someday depend on it.”
Breck nodded, but she knew there was no way that she could stop thinking about what had just happened. The words of the Spinner would weigh on her mind until she found some sense in them.
They came for him early in the morning. Flynn heard gruff men’s voices and roused himself from a sleepless night. He pulled his sore body to a sitting position as the Medical Director and his two assistants approached his cell. Odran was dressed in his usual lab coat, and his men were dressed in shorter white jackets.
Stopping in front of the barrier, the scientist examined Flynn closely. “Waking up from a restful sleep? I think not,” he said slyly. “No sleeping without the Protocol to put you under, yes? Our brilliant founder saw to that centuries ago.”
Flynn walked
over to the barrier and said, “Yeah, well. I’ll be sure to look him up in Tír na nÓg to say thanks.”
The Director said, “That you may. And soon, I hear. Now stand away from the barrier, lad. We have tests to complete today.”
Flynn looked him in the eyes, crossed his arms, and just stood there.
“Very well,” said Odran. “Computer. Sequentially reduce size of quarantine area. Execute.”
The electrostatic barrier began to glow on all four walls in Flynn’s cell. He took a step back from the Director and the barrier winked out, appearing a half second later and one foot closer on all sides.
Flynn shouted, “Are you trying to cut me in half?”
The Director just shrugged. The barrier winked out again and Flynn backed up even more. This time it reappeared even closer on all sides. Half a minute later, Flynn was standing in a two-foot-square area at the center of his cell. He balled his fists up at his sides and glared at Odran.
The Director motioned to his two assistants. “Go get him and strap him down on the exam table.” The two burly assistants smiled wickedly and started towards Flynn.
Flynn put his fists up and launched a punch as soon as the barrier was down. But what the assistants lacked between the ears was made up for in muscle and sinew. The one on the left dodged Flynn’s punch while the other one came up from behind. He threw his arms around Flynn’s chest, pinning his arms and hoisting him up. Flynn tried to kick out with his feet, but the other assistant quickly grabbed his legs.
Letting out a growl, Flynn said, “Blast it! Let go of me, you morons.”
Ignoring Flynn’s protests, they carried him like a rolled carpet over to the exam table. Flynn kept struggling while the two brutes strapped him down, fastening straps around his wrists, ankles, and neck. When he was secure, Odran came closer, wheeling over his prize piece of medical tech that would evaluate Flynn’s symptoms. It was shaped like a blinking half-donut with a hole in the center where Flynn’s body would slide through.
The Director positioned the device over Flynn’s head and then reached for a syringe to draw his blood. He said, “First, I’m taking your blood for the genetic defect panel.” Odran selected the fattest needle in his red kit and screwed it onto the syringe.
Flynn grimaced as the needle punched through a vein in his arm and sucked out his blood.
“So many medical advances,” said Odran, holding the filled syringe up to the light. “But there’s still no substitute for fresh blood.”
Flynn grunted and looked the other way.
“Next we’re going to put the medical scanner to work.” Odran snapped his fingers and one assistant stepped forward with a plastic cup of viscous white liquid. The burly man held the cup up to Flynn’s lips while the other one pulled his head back, ensuring that Flynn would drink. Flynn opened his mouth and slurped the liquid, pretending to comply. Once the cup was empty, he spat it out into the Director’s face. The white liquid congealed on the end of his nose and looked quite disgusting.
Odran gave no response, but closed his eyes and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wiped his face and finally said, “We have other methods. This can be as difficult as you like.” He snapped again and the other assistant came forward with a flexible plastic tube. Flynn struggled again, but together the assistants stuffed the tube down his throat. One minute later, Flynn’s stomach was full of the white liquid. He coughed and sputtered as they drew out the tube.
The Director brought up the controls on the medical scanner and activated the machine. The multi-colored lights along the edges blinked faster and the machine hummed slightly as it took Flynn’s readings. Odran read the scan results aloud. “Let’s see, Flynn. You show tissue breakdown in the skin, hair, joints, and heart. Cause? Hmm. Immune markers are dangerously high. And there we have it. Your body is attacking itself, and the decay of ageing is the result. Excellent.”
Flynn coughed out, “I’m not old. I’m 15; you can check my birth records!”
Again the Director ignored his protests. “Once I confirm the genetic defect with your blood, I’ll have all the evidence I need.”
Flynn pushed against the restraints and pleaded, “I can live and work until I’m 35, just like anybody else.”
The Director shut down the scanner and shook his head. “And pass along your defect to your progeny? I won’t allow it.” He turned to the assistants and said, “Toss him back in quarantine. We’re through here.” Then he checked a ticker message on his wristband and swept from the clinic.
Flynn was manhandled back to his cage and shoved to the floor. The two men backed out, and the barrier re-activated itself. Flynn lay still on the floor, waiting for the two of them to leave. Then he forced himself up on his knees and vomited until all of the thick white fluid was out of him. He wiped his face with his sleeve and pulled himself onto his metal bed.
Like he had done before, he rolled over, covered his face with an arm, and placed a holo call to Deirdre. In a few moments, they were together, in a virtual space sized for two people. Flynn imagined himself like he felt, and he felt terrible.
Deirdre blinked in shock when she saw him. She reached out as if to touch him, and then drew her hand back. “Flynn. What happened? Are you hurt? You look sick.”
“I’m sorry to call you again, Dee. I really shouldn’t have. I just...I just feel so low.” Flynn spat on the floor and coughed some more.
“Tell me. What is happening in there?”
Flynn rubbed his sleeve across his mouth. “He’s doing just what he said he’d do. Running tests till he gets his evidence. It won’t be long for me now, Dee.”
“But Flynn, what if your tests came back normal? What then?”
With downturned lips he looked at her and said, “You know they won’t.”
“But if the Ministry looked up the results in the cloud - the official record - and the results were normal. Wouldn’t they have to let you go?”
Flynn shrugged and said, “I guess so.” Then his eyes widened and he stood a little straighter. “Wait a minute, Dee. I know you. You’re working something out. I told you not to get involved.”
Deirdre raised her wristband and placed her finger on the control that would end her connection to the room. “Remember the other day when we were walking to school, and that man ran by? You told me about that dream where you were UNDER GROUND. Well, I’m going to download it.”
Flynn put together what she meant and said, “Dee, no...” But it was too late - she hit the disconnect button and was gone. Flynn kicked the wall, and it bounced under the impact like rubber. He shouted, “Blast it! Why are you so hard-headed, Deirdre Callaghan? You never listen to anyone!” He kicked the wall again, a little softer this time. “You turn everything upside down!” Then he slid to the floor and rested his head on his knees. To himself he whispered “Why do I care about you so? My impossible girl.”
Deirdre came out of the holo call knowing what she had to do. Using her earbud she logged onto the public directory in the cloud and searched for Cashel Quinn. She learned quickly that he was assigned to the night shift for wastewater treatment. He’ll be coming home just as everyone else is leaving for the day - and I know right where to find him.
In her bedroom she wrapped herself in Flynn’s cloak and gave herself a check in the mirror. She tied her hair back in a ponytail and brought the hood up over her head. Then she took the remaining loose cloth and threw it over her shoulder, obscuring her face like she had seen Flynn do a hundred times. Now she could pass for either gender, and no one would recognize her as a Callaghan. Today, I’m going to find the underground, and they’re going to help us. No matter what.
She tiptoed out of bedroom and crept to the door. Hitting the controls to open it, she peeked left and right. The hallway was empty, so she headed out, her knapsack hidden under the loose folds of grey wool. She entered the lift and stepped off on Level 25, heading for the intersection of P and Q sections. She walked casually, like a person that belonged, and
resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. Pausing at the intersection, she checked her wristband for the time. It’s 8:00, so he should be coming up here any minute.
She decided to cruise around the section in a loop, hoping to catch sight of him in the hallway on his way home. Around to the lift and back past his unit she walked, all the while putting together her plan. The Medical Director can’t schedule the descent on his own. He has to convince someone in Dream Justice. What if just as he is making his case, the data changes and says Flynn is normal? That could work, right?
On her second loop, she saw him. Cashel Quinn, the man with the ponytail, stepped off the lift. Deirdre was already behind him, so he was easy to follow. He paused for a moment at his doorway while the system confirmed his access profile. The door slid open and he stepped inside. Deirdre quickened her steps to the door and heard the click of Drone boots coming from around the corner. She slipped through and out of sight right before it closed and locked. She was in.
She stood still, her eyes adjusting to the lower light in his living room. The space was unremarkable, and was laid out like any other unit she had been in before. There was a sitting area in the main room and two doors: one for the bathroom and one for the bedroom. A few empty Nutripaks and some dirty clothes littered the room; the man was not tidy. For a moment, Deirdre’s confidence faltered. The place just looked so ordinary. What if he isn’t underground like Flynn thought?
Cashel walked out of the bathroom, saw her standing there, and stopped short. Then he threw himself into motion. Lunging for a chair on the left, he hoisted it, and prepared to throw it. “By the Minister’s moustache, what are you doing in here?”
