by Lowry, Lois
“This is who I am, Matty,” she said. “It is who I have always been.”
She looked at him fondly. But her voice was firm. It was evening. The fire glowed in the fireplace and she had lit the oil lamps. Matty wished that the blind man were in the room with them, playing his instrument, because the soft, intricate chords always brought a peace to their evenings together and he wanted Kira to hear the music, to feel the comfort it brought.
He had not yet told her that she was to return with him. During their supper together, as Kira chattered about the changes in the old village, how much better things were now, he had only half listened. In his mind he had been weighing what to tell her and when and how. There was so little time; and he needed, Matty knew, to present it to her in a decisive and convincing way.
But suddenly he heard her make a casual comment about her handicap. She was describing a small tapestry she had embroidered as a wedding gift for her friend Thomas, the woodcarver, who had recently been married.
“It was all finished and rolled up, and I decorated it with flowers,” she said, “and on the morning of the wedding I set out, carrying it. But it had rained, and the path was wet, and I slipped and dropped the tapestry right into a mud puddle!” Kira laughed. “Luckily it was still early, so I came back here and was able to clean it. No one ever knew.
“My leg and stick are a nuisance when it’s wet outdoors,” she said. “My stick has never learned to navigate mud.” She reached over to the pot and began to pour more tea into their mugs.
Surprising himself, he blurted it out. “I can fix your leg.”
The room fell completely silent except for the hiss and crackle of the fire. Kira stared at Matty.
“I can,” he said after a moment. “I have a gift. Your father says that you do, too, so you’ll understand.”
“I do,” Kira agreed. “I always have. But my gift doesn’t fix twisted things.”
“I know. Your father told me yours is different.”
Kira looked down at her hands, wrapped around her mug of tea. She opened her fingers, spread her hands upon the table, and turned them over. Matty could see the slender palms and the strong fingers, calloused at their tips from the garden work, the loom, and the needles that she used for her complicated, beautiful tapestries. “Mine is in my hands,” she said softly. “It happens when I make things. My hands…”
He knew he shouldn’t interrupt. But time was so short. So he cut her off, and apologized for it. “Kira, I want you to tell me all about your gift. But later. Right now there are important things to do and decide.
“I’m going to show you something,” he told her. “Watch this. My gift is in my hands, too.”
He had not planned this. But it seemed necessary. On the table lay the sharp knife with which she had sliced bread for their supper. Matty picked it up. He leaned down, and pulled the left leg of his trousers up. Kira watched, her eyes confused. Quickly, without flinching, he punctured his own knee. Dark red blood trickled in a thin crooked line down his lower leg.
“Oh!” Kira gasped. She stared at him and held her hand to her mouth. “What…?”
Matty swallowed, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and placed both of his hands on his wounded knee. He felt it coming. He felt his veins begin to pulsate; then the vibration coursed through him, and he felt the power leave his hands and enter his wound. It lasted no more than a few seconds and ended.
He blinked, and took his hands away. They were smeared slightly with blood. The trickled line on his leg had already begun to dry there.
“Matty! Whatever are you…?” When he gestured, Kira leaned forward and looked carefully at his knee. After a moment she reached for the woven napkin on the table, dipped it into her tea, and wiped his leg with the damp cloth. The line of blood disappeared. His knee was smooth, unblemished. There was no wound at all. She looked intently at it, then bit her lip, reached out, and pulled the hem of his trouser leg down over his knee.
“I see.” It was all she said.
Matty shook himself free of the wave of fatigue it had caused. “It was a very small wound,” he explained. “I just did it to show you I could. It didn’t take much out of me. But I’ve done it with bigger things, Kira. With other creatures. With much larger wounds.”
“Humans?”
“Not yet. But I can do it. I can feel it, Kira. With a gift, you know.”
She nodded. “Yes. That’s true.” She glanced at her own hands, resting there on the table, still holding the damp cloth.
“Kira, your leg will take a great deal out of me. I’ll have to sleep, after, maybe for a whole day or even longer. And I don’t have much time.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Time for what?”
“I’ll explain. But for now, I think we should start. If I do it right away, I can sleep completely through the night and almost all of the morning. You can use that time to become accustomed to being whole…”
“I am whole,” she said defiantly.
“I meant to having two strong legs. You’ll be amazed at how it feels, at how much more easily you can move around. But it will take a little while to adjust to it.”
She stared at him. She looked down at her twisted leg.
“Why don’t you lie down over there on the couch? I’ll pull this chair over and sit beside you.” Matty began kneading his hands in preparation. He took several deep breaths and felt energized. He could tell that his full strength was back. The knee wound had been such a small thing, really.
He rose, lifted his wooden chair, and moved it over beside the couch where he had napped that afternoon. He arranged the cushions so that she would be comfortable. Behind him he heard Kira rise from her chair as well, lift her stick from where it leaned against the table, and walk across the room. To his surprise, when he turned, he saw that she had taken the mugs to the sink and was beginning to wash them, as if it were an ordinary evening.
“Kira?”
She looked over at him. She frowned slightly. Then she said no.
There was no arguing with her, none at all. After a while Matty gave up the attempt.
Finally he moved his chair again so that he could sit in front of the fire. It was chilly in the evenings now, with summer ending. Forest had been downright cold at night, and he had woken in the mornings during his journey aching and chilled. It was comforting to sit here by the warm fire now.
Kira picked up a small wooden frame with a half-finished piece of embroidery stretched taut across it. She brought it to her chair, and moved a basket filled with bright threads to the floor beside her. Then she leaned her stick against the fireplace wall, sat down, and picked up the needle that was waiting, threaded with green, attached to the fabric.
“I will go with you,” she said quite suddenly in her soft voice. “But I will go as I am. With my leg. With my stick.”
Matty, puzzled, stared at her. How had she known, before he asked it, what he was planning to ask of her?
“I was going to explain,” he said after a long moment. “I was going to persuade you. How…?”
“I started to tell you earlier,” she said, “about my gift. What my hands do. Move your chair closer and I’ll show you now.”
He did so, pulling the crude wooden chair near to where she was. She tilted the embroidery frame so that he could see. Like the colorful tapestry on the wall of the blind man’s house, this was a landscape. The stitches were tiny and complicated, and each section a subtle variation in color, so that deep green moved gradually into a slightly lighter shade, and then again lighter, until at the edges it was a pale yellow. The colors combined to form an exquisite pattern of trees, with the tiniest of individual leaves outlined in countless numbers.
“It’s Forest,” Matty said, recognizing it.
Kira nodded. “Look beyond it,” she said, and extended her finger to point to a section in the upper right, where Forest opened and tiny houses were patterned around curved paths.
He thought he could almost ma
ke out the house he shared with the blind man, though it was infinitely small on the fabric.
“Village,” he said, examining with awe the meticulousness of her craft.
“I embroider this scene again and again,” Kira said, “and sometimes—not always—my hands begin to move in ways I don’t understand. The threads seem to take on a power of their own.”
He leaned closer to look more carefully at the embroidery. It was astounding, the detail of it, how tiny it was.
“Matty?” she said. “I’ve never done this with anyone watching. But I can feel it in my hands right now. Watch.”
He peered intently as her right hand picked up the needle threaded with green. She inserted it into the fabric at an unfinished place near the edge of Forest. Suddenly both of her hands began to vibrate slightly. They shimmered. He had seen this once before, on the day that Leader stood at the window, gathered himself, and saw beyond.
He looked up at her face and saw that her eyes were closed. But her hands were moving very quickly now. They reached into the basket again and again, changed threads in a motion so fast he could barely follow it, and the needle entered the cloth, and entered the cloth, and entered the cloth.
Time seemed to stop. The fire continued to crackle and sputter. Frolic sighed in his sleep at the edge of the hearth. Matty sat speechless, watching the shimmering hands dart; hours and days and weeks seemed to go by, yet oddly, only a blink, an instant, of time passed. Today and tomorrow and yesterday were all spun together and held in those hands that moved and moved and moved, yet her eyes were closed, and the fire still flickered and the dog still slept.
Then it ended.
Kira opened her eyes, sat up straighter, and stretched her shoulders. “It tires me,” she explained, though he already knew it.
“Look now,” she said. “Quickly, because it will fade.”
He leaned forward and saw that now, in the embroidered scene, at the bottom, two tiny people were entering Forest. He recognized one as himself, backpack on his back; he could even see, amazingly, the torn place on the sleeve of his jacket. Behind him, meticulously stitched in shades of brown, was Frolic, his tail high. And beside Frolic he saw Kira, her blue dress, her stick wedged under her arm, her dark hair tied back.
The top edge of the embroidery had changed as well. Now, beside the house he had recognized as his, he could see the blind man standing. His posture was that of someone waiting for something.
And suddenly Matty could see, too, crowds of people at the edge of Village. They were dragging huge logs. Someone—it looked like Mentor—was giving directions. They were preparing to build a wall.
Matty sat back. He blinked, astounded, then leaned forward to look at it again. He realized he wanted to search the scene for a glimpse of Jean. But now the details were gone. He could still see the colored stitches, but it was a simple—exquisitely beautiful, but simple—landscape again. For a moment he saw the people, flat now, with no detail, but then they faded abruptly and were gone.
Kira set the embroidery frame down on the floor and rose from her chair. “We must leave in the morning,” she said. “I’ll prepare food.”
Matty was still stunned by what he had just seen. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“Do you understand what happened when you stabbed your knee with that knife and then closed and cured the wound with your hands?”
“No,” he admitted. “I don’t. It’s my gift. That’s all.”
“Well,” Kira said matter-of-factly, “this is mine. My hands create a picture of the future. Yesterday morning I held that same fabric and saw you come out of Forest. In the afternoon I opened the door and there you were.”
She chuckled. “I hadn’t seen Frolic, though. He was a nice surprise.” The dog awoke and looked up at the sound of his name. He came to her to be patted.
“While you napped,” she went on, “I stitched again and saw Father waiting for me. That was just this afternoon. Now they have started to move the logs into place for the wall. And—did you notice the change in Forest, Matty?”
He shook his head. “I was looking at the people.”
“Forest is thickening. So we must hurry, Matty.”
Odd. It was the same thing that Leader had seen. “Kira?” Matty asked.
“Yes?” She was taking food from a cupboard.
“Did you see a young man with blue eyes? About your age? We call him Leader.”
She stood still for a moment, thinking. A strand of dark hair fell across her face, and she brushed it back with her hand. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said. “But I felt him.”
15
They woke early. The sun was just rising, and through the window Matty could see that the gardens were bathed in amber light. Thick around a tall trellis, a vine that had been simply green when he arrived the day before was now profuse with opened blue and white morning glories. Beyond the trellis, on tall stalks, tiny aster blossoms, deep pink with golden centers, trembled in the dawn breeze.
He felt her presence, suddenly, and turned to see Kira standing behind him, looking out.
“It will be hard for you to leave this,” he said.
But she smiled and shook her head. “It’s time. I always knew the time would come. I told my father that long ago.”
“He says you’ll have a garden there. He wanted me to tell you that.”
She nodded. “Eat quickly, Matty, and we’ll go. I’ve fed Frolic already.”
***
“Do you need help?” Matty asked, his mouth full of the sweet muffin she had given him, as he watched her arrange a wrapped bundle on her back, crisscrossing the straps that held it around her chest. “What’s in it?”
“No, I can do it just fine. It’s my frame and some needles and thread.”
“Kira, the journey’s hard and long. There won’t be time to sit and sew.” Then Matty fell quiet. Of course she needed this. It was the way her gift came.
She had put food inside Matty’s pack as well as in his rolled blanket. It was heavier than it had been coming, for there were two of them now. But Matty felt strong. He was almost relieved that she had not allowed him to mend her leg, for it would have weakened him badly, cost them perhaps several days as he rested from it, and sent them out less prepared and more vulnerable.
He could see, too, that she was accustomed to her stick and twisted leg. A lifetime of walking in that way had made it, as she had pointed out, part of her. It was who she was. To become a fast-striding Kira with two straight legs would have been to become a different person. This was not a journey Matty could undertake with a stranger.
“Frolic, if you were a little bigger and less frisky, I would strap a pack to your back,” Kira said, laughing, to the eager puppy, who stood beside the door with his tail churning in the air. He could tell they were leaving. He was not going to be left behind.
Soon they were loaded with everything they had packed so carefully the night before.
“We’re ready, then,” Kira announced, and Matty nodded in agreement. From the open doorway, with Frolic already outside sniffing the earth, they looked back to the large room that had been Kira’s home since she had been a young girl. She was leaving the loom, the baskets of yarn and thread, the dried herbs on the rafters, the wall-hangings, the earthen mugs and plates made for her by the village potter, and a handsome wooden tray that had been a gift long ago from her friend Thomas, who had carved it with intertwined, complicated designs. From hooks along the wall hung her clothes, things she had made, some of them skirts and jackets rich with embroidered and appliqued designs. Today she was wearing her simple blue dress and a heavy knitted sweater with buttons made from small flat stones.
She closed the door on all of it. “Come, Frolic,” Matty called, unnecessarily. The dog scampered to them and raised his leg one last time against the doorsill, saying, in his way, “I have been here.”
Then Matty moved toward the place where the path entered Forest. Kira, leaning on her stick, fol
lowed him, and Frolic, ears up, came behind.
***
“You know,” Kira said, “I’ve walked the forest path between this cottage and the center of my village so many times.” Then she laughed. “Well, of course you know that, Matty. You did it with me when you were a little boy.”
“I did. Again and again.”
“But I have never once entered Forest. There was no need, of course. And it always seemed frightening somehow.”
They had barely entered, and behind them the light of the clearing still showed, and a corner of Kira’s little house. But ahead, Matty could see, the path was oddly dark. He didn’t remember it being so dark.
“Are you frightened now?” he asked her.
“Oh, no, not with you. You know Forest so well.”
“That’s true. I do.” It was true, but even as he said it, Matty felt a sense of discomfort, though he hid it from Kira. The path ahead did not seem to be as familiar as it had always been. He could tell that it was the same path—the turnings were the same; as he led her around the next one, the clearing behind them was no longer visible—but things that had seemed easy and accustomed no longer did. Now everything felt a little different: slightly darker, and decidedly hostile.
But he said nothing. He led the way, and Kira, strong despite her handicap, trudged after him.
***
“They have entered.”
Leader turned from the window. He had stood there for a long moment, intent, focused, while beside him the blind man waited. They had been doing this for several days.
Leader sat to rest. He breathed hard. He was accustomed to this, the way his body temporarily lost its vigor and needed to restore itself after he had looked beyond.
The blind man gave a sigh that was clearly one of relief. “So she came with him.”
Leader nodded, still not ready to talk.
“I worried that she wouldn’t. It meant leaving so much behind. But Matty convinced her. Good for him.”
Leader stretched, and sipped from the glass of water on his desk. Then he was able to speak. “She didn’t need convincing. She could tell that it was time. She has that gift.”
