She reached the waterfall as twilight ebbed toward night, and she set camp on the slope just above the cascade, and placed sleeping Scruff on a low branch of a sapling at hand. As she settled in for the night, she looked with curious eyes at the cataract; even this close, in the light of the stars, it seemed as if the water came out from nowhere at the very edge of the linn, though the silvery mist above may have obscured its source.
As Camille prepared to go to sleep, of a sudden she remembered the stave; she lit her small lantern and examined the hairline crack. I don’t remember it reaching this far, and I surely did nought to cause it to lengthen, for it has been affixed to my rucksack all day, but for the gentle trip down from the ridge above.
Sighing, Camille started to lay the staff aside, but then, though she knew what she would find, she counted the blossoms remaining, starting with the one awither and progressing to the one atop. One hundred yet linger, though the bottom flower is nigh perished. Two hundred sixty-six days agone, a scant one hundred left. A year and a day and the whole of a moon beyond, that’s all she said I would have. And I have squandered—No, Camille, not squandered. Used. I have used two hundred sixty-six days in all to reach this place. Even so, am I any closer whatsoever to finding my beloved Alain?
Camille blew out the lantern and capped the wick to keep the oil within the reservoir no matter the lamp’s orientation, then placed it near at hand.
Silently, the stars wheeled in the sky as Camille was lulled asleep by the shsshing fall, for here at the linn and perhaps nowhere else could the passage of time be heard.
28
Future
In the nascent light of the very next dawn, Camille was awakened by the sound of weeping, and she sat up to see a silver-haired maiden sitting at an apparently empty loom in the hovering mist at the precipice of the falls. “Woe betide the world,” the demoiselle wailed. “Oh, woe betide the world.”
And Camille saw squatting under the loom a shaggy little man, or creature, covered in long, unruly hair—Much like the being I saw in Les Îles, but this one is much uglier and certainly hairier. And he gibbered and ran his hands along the cloth beam, then scuttled to the linn and made motions of throwing, as if somehow dragging unseen fabric from the bar to hurl it over the edge of the falls.
At the maiden’s side a golden spinning wheel stood silent on the flat stone of the dry streambed along which water should have coursed to supply the cascade, yet nought flowed at all, though the cataract itself sprang from nowhere to thunder down into the river below.
Casting aside her blanket, Camille sprang to her feet and cried out, “Ma’amselle, Ma’amselle, what is amiss?”
The maiden turned, anguish in her gaze, and—Oh, my!—her eyes were like unto silver. “I have lost the end of my thread, and if I do not find it quickly, what is to be will not transpire, and time itself will be broken.”
What? How can that be?
With tears brimming, the maiden mutely appealed for help, and even though Camille could see nought whatsoever on either the loom or the spinning wheel, she rushed down to aid. As she reached the demoiselle’s side, Camille said, “Where did you last have it?—The thread, I mean.”
“On the tapestry,” cried the maiden, gesturing at the loom.
Camille frowned—“What tapestry?”—but reached out and gasped in startlement, for her touch told her that indeed there was fabric on the loom, yet it could not be seen.
In the dim light of the new morn, carefully, slowly, Camille ran her fingers lightly over the nonvisible cloth, searching by feel for the end of a misplaced thread, her un-aiding gaze lost in the moment, alighting on runes carved in the breastbeam, runes which spelled out the name Skuld.
“I cannot find it here,” said Camille.
“Oh, but it must be there,” wailed the maiden. “I had it not a moment ago.”
“There is another place to search,” said Camille, and she scrambled ’neath the rig and ran her fingers along the underside of the fabric, and the ugly little man gibbered at her, his breath foul, his eyes glaring as he motioned for her to move aside so that he could continue with his arcane rite.
Yet Camille did not yield as she felt all along the bottom, and, in spite of the hairy man’s angry jabber, she thought she could hear the sound of one or mayhap two other looms weaving nearby—the clack of shuttle and the slap and thud of treadle and batten—and though Camille glanced this way and that, she saw them not.
Of a sudden—“I have it!” cried Camille, grasping the dangling, unseen thread ’tween forefinger and thumb.
“Clever girl,” said the maiden, smiling, a bit sly it seemed. “Do not let go of it, please.” She took up a very-fine-toothed, golden carding comb hanging from the distaff of the golden wheel. “I need to start spinning a new thread from the Mists of Time.”
Camille’s eyes widened in amaze as the demoiselle reached up with the comb and teased a wisp out from the shimmering vapor. Somehow she managed to grasp the tenuous strand itself, and she fed the hazy filament through the eye in the golden spindle tip and over a hook on the flyer arm, and then down and ’round the spool. Then she gave the wheel a sharp whirl, and lo! it continued to spin, though no one pressed the treadle. And gleaming vapor was pulled down from the mist and twisted into a glassy thread that vanished even as it was spun. Long moments it turned, yet of a sudden the spinning wheel stopped, and the maiden plucked the bobbin loose and mounted it to the shuttle. Even as she did so, another bobbin abruptly appeared on the spinning wheel, no hand setting it there, and again the wheel began to whirl, as if that new spool were right then being wound with invisible thread. The maiden paid it no heed, as she fetched the end of the new-spun, unseen thread from the bobbin on the shuttle in hand, and she took from Camille’s fingers the end of the invisible thread of the cloth on the loom.
As Camille scrambled out from under the rig to sit on the dry stone just back from the linn and watch, the maiden tied the new thread to the old—or so did it seem she was doing from the movement of her fingers—and she placed the shuttle in the loom shuttle race and then sat down; and the moment she did, the loom of itself began furiously weaving.
The hairy creature under the loom gnashed his teeth, and cursed in a tongue Camille did not know, and vanished.
“Who was that, and what was he doing?” asked Camille.
“That was Uncertainty, enemy of the future, an agent of Chaos who would have all things return to the formless, disorderly state whence both Faery and the mortal world came.”
“Why was he—?”
“Hush, child,” said the demoiselle, her argent eyes staring into the silvery vapor, her gaze intent. “Let me weave that which I see in the Mists of Time; when I catch up, we will talk. Break your fast while you wait.”
Suddenly, before Camille appeared utensils and a fine porcelain plate laden with food, but food not quite like any she had ever seen, familiar and yet not, as if it had come from a different time. Yet though the meal was cold, the aroma was appealing, and so she ate: the bread the whitest and lightest she could imagine, the meat well spiced and tender, the strange red and orange fruit tangy and tart, the greens crisp, and the deep, deep brown confection so sweet, so marvelous, it brought tears to her eyes.
Even as Camille ate, she watched the wheel and loom in amazement, as many new-wound bobbins flew from the spinning wheel to the warp beam, to somehow keep the warp threads replenished, while other bobbins mounted themselves on shuttles to wait their turn at the weft.
Just as Camille finished her breakfast—the utensils and plate to vanish—the silver-haired maiden smiled, for the loom had slowed to a moderate pace, the spinning wheel turning in synchronization, twisting time’s thread out from the hovering mist, full-wound bobbins and shuttles replacing empty ones.
“Ma’amselle, I am Camille.”
“And I am Skuld,” replied the maiden, not taking her gaze from the mist.
“A strange name, that,” said Camille.
“Pe
rhaps no stranger than Camille,” replied Skuld, smiling. “Mine is a very ancient name.”
“Is your loom ancient as well? I ask, because I saw the word Skuld carved thereon.”
The maiden smiled again. “The loom and I are both quite antiquated, primeval in fact.”
Camille looked at the demoiselle. “You do not appear antiquated. In fact, were I to guess, I would say you are no older than I am, mayhap even younger.”
“Oh, la, child, believe me, I am eld beyond counting.”
“If true,” said Camille, “then perhaps you are one of three I have come to see: one of three sisters that Raseri said might be found along the shores of Time’s River.”
“Raseri the Drake?”
“Aye, he brought me here.”
“Ah, then it did come to pass, just as I wove.”
“Just as you wove?”
Skuld gestured at the loom and said, “In the tapestry of time.”
“Ma’amselle,” said Camille, “a tapestry it may be, yet I cannot see that which you weave.”
“I know, child, for the future is hidden from most mortal eyes . . . from most immortals, too.”
Camille nodded. “Indeed, Lady Skuld. Still, that’s not why I am here. I need your—”
“I know why you have come, Camille. Did I not say that I wove it into the tapestry?”
“Yes, but—”
“Humor me, Camille, for it is not oft I have visitors. I will in good measure deal with your question. But ere then, I ask, what do you know of time?”
Camille took a deep breath, then exhaled and said, “All I know of time is that it flows from the past through the present to the future.”
Skuld laughed. “Ah, but that is just backwards.”
“Backwards?”
Skuld pointed at the silvery vapor. “These are the Mists of Time; here is where all things begin, a future flowing toward the present, to wash over all mortal things and stream into the past. Here, child, here at the start of the River of Time is the future; it is the beginning of all things, whereas the past is the end of all, for there, at the end of time’s flow, all things come to rest, buried in antiquity.”
Camille frowned and said, “Perhaps it is all relative, depending on whether one looks at time as a flow streaming o’er the mortal world, or if one looks at it as a mortal moving forward through a flow of time.”
Skuld laughed again and said, “You are quite clever, my child,” the maiden at the loom calling Camille “child” even though Skuld herself appeared to be no older. “My sisters will delight in you.”
“Ah, then,” said Camille, her heart a bit lighter. “Raseri was right, assuming your sisters live on this river too.”
“They do,” said Skuld. “Have you any sisters?”
Camille nodded. “Five . . . and a brother as well.”
“And what do folk say of them?”
“Until of recent, very little. But now that they have wealth and a mansion, they are courted.—My sisters, that is. My brother Giles is yet too young to be sought out by prospective brides. Regardless, I believe that folk say my sisters are quite fetching . . . certainly Lord Jaufre does, the old roué.—But tell me, Lady Skuld, what do folk say of you and your sisters?”
Skuld smiled. “Many things: some curse us; some bless us; some say nought, while others make up fanciful tales. Some men have it all wrong about the three of us. They say that one of us spins the thread of a man’s life, and that one of us measures the thread, while the third one cuts the thread. But that is obviously wrong, for my sisters and I seldom interfere in the affairs of others—oh, at times we do intervene when someone fails to live up to the terms of a wager, but in the main we stay aloof. Too, occasionally when times are dire do we take a hand, but even then we follow a set of rules. Ah, but the men who say we spin and measure and cut the thread of a man’s life do have it wrong, for time and fate are continuous, flowing from the future through the present and into the past, washing over all on the way to the Sea of Oblivion.”
Camille frowned and slowly shook her head. “I yet find it difficult to comprehend the flow of time as you tell it to be.”
“Why so?”
“Well, is it not true that what a man has done affects what he will do? Do not the events of the past shape those of the future? And does that not mean that the events of the past occur before those of the future? Is not the past merely prologue for that which is to come?”
Continuing to watch the mist, Skuld said, “As you yourself pointed out, Camille, it all depends on whether one perceives the past and present and future from the standpoint of one who is moving through the wash of time, whereas my sisters and I perceive it from the point of view of the flow itself as it washes over those standing still. Hence, I weave, as do my sisters, shaping the great tapestry of time. Together we depict that which might come to be, that which is happening in the moment, and that which has gone. As for my part, the patterns I set thereon are not quite fixed, for they are mutable by those depicted. Hence, the tapestry is a living thing, and I alter what I portray even as I weave. My middle sister alters it again by what occurs, and my third sister binds it forever. Hence, in a sense, you are right: for those who stand in the flow of time, the past is prologue, even though it is gone beyond recall, though from my view the past is yet to be.”
As Camille pondered that enigma, the shuttle slammed side to side, bearing the weft of time back and forth through the warp, the treadle setting the pace, the batten pounding the threads home, the unseen cloth growing. Finally Camille said, “I am quite amazed that you—or perhaps your splendid loom—can weave an invisible tapestry.”
Without looking away from the mist, Skuld said, “Invisible to you, perhaps, but not to me.” Then Skuld pursed her lips. “If you wish, I can make visible to your eyes the events and other such it contains—great wars to come, men flying in machines through the air, and the like—but heed: should I give you such knowledge of the future, you may bring even greater disaster to all. Even so, I will show you if you so desire.”
Hearking back to her discussion with Alain concerning predestination versus free will, and about knowing the future, Camille said, “No, Ma’amselle, I’d rather not see. Still, I would like to know if I will succeed.”
Skuld raised an eyebrow. “If I say yes, will you try less hard? If I say no, will you abandon your search?”
Camille shook her head. “No, for you yourself said that what you weave is mutable, hence, even though I might welcome the knowledge, still I or others might make it change. And so, whether the answer is yea or nay, I would go on, either to preserve the yes, or to alter the no.”
“You are wiser than your years, Camille,” said Skuld.
“Oh, I think not, Lady Skuld, for if I were, I would not now be searching for a place east of the sun and west of the moon. And that is why I came, to ask where such a place does lie, for at that place is my Alain, or so I have been told.”
Skuld said, “You need ask my middle sister, for, from your point of view, she is much older than I, while I think of her as being much younger, given how differently you and I perceive the flow of time to be.”
“But haven’t you already woven into your tapestry the place I seek?”
“Mayhap, Camille. Even so, you still must ask my sister.”
“Where can I find this sister?”
Yet weaving, Skuld said, “My sisters and I are bound by a rule: no answers of significance or gifts of worth can we give to anyone without first a service of value being rendered to us—which, in my case, you have certainly done— but even then we must ask a riddle and have it correctly answered. Hence, resolve me this: from that which is yet to come, unto the singular now, what am I?”
Camille glanced down through the growing dawnlight at the River of Time and said, “You are the Future.”
“Indeed,” said Skuld, “and a gift from and for the future you shall have.” She tilted her head toward the turning spinning wheel. “Take my fines
t golden carding comb and keep good care of it; hold on to it to the very end, for then it might do you some good.”
“But, Lady Skuld,” protested Camille, “Should the thread snap again, time itself will be broken have you not the comb to tease out a new thread from the mist above.”
Skuld shook her head. “I have another, my child, though not fashioned of gold; hence, you must take this one, else Faery itself might fall, for there is one who will pollute the River of Time even more than the one I now place on my tapestry.”
Camille looked at the loom where the invisible depiction grew. “You now weave someone evil?”
“Aye, a monstrous man yet to be; one who will reach out his arms to take in the masses and clutch them unto his breast; one who will do a little three-step jig dance of victory; one who will start a dreadful holocaust. Regardless, Camille, you must take the carding comb, else one will come and destroy Faery itself by polluting beyond all recovery the very River of Time.”
Camille sighed, yet did as she was bade and took up the golden carding comb. “Again I ask, Lady Skuld, your middle sister, where can I find her?”
With a flick of her eyes, Skuld glanced at the horizon, bright with the oncoming sun. And with her right hand she gestured downstream and intoned:“As grain is to stones that roll and grind,
Moments are crunched in the weft of time,
Seek the like and my sister you’ll find.”
Again Skuld glanced at the bright horizon, and she said, “And this I will tell you as well: leave not the banks of time’s flow, else surely you will lose the stream.”
And in that very moment the limb of the sun edged over the rim of the world, and so vanished Skuld and loom and spinning wheel all, and day came on the land.
And Camille heard Scruff instantly chirping, for he would have millet seed.
29
Present
Once Upon a Winter's Night Page 31
