Vivian Amberville - The Weaver of Odds

by Louise Blackwick

  A strange vigour filled the air; a verve which seemed to stir and bubble every time she had a thought. Strangely enough, Vivian felt pictures now shouldered an extra dimension of taste – or was it that distances veered unnoticed depth? It was like walking halfway submerged in salt water. The further she journeyed, the deeper she sunk.

  The very flesh on her bones ached, tormented by an unseen fire, and yet never had she felt more alive.

  I’m here. I’m really here.

  The more she accepted the absurdity of it all, the more awake she became. An unprecedented feeling of empowerment overhauled her; a feeling she often associated with flying dreams. The strange new world was a blank canvas, ready to break through the veil of reality. Vivian failed to explain the sentiment, but she sensed she could create anything here.

  Suddenly, she felt Kaap’s small claws pierce into her shoulder and his small and ethereal voice flooded her mind.

  ‘Kaap feel presence of several minds. Someone coming!’

  Before she could even formulate a thought, the Hole-in-the-Wall had morphed into a Hole-in-the-Ground, in which Vivian was once again rushed to take refuge.

  As large as a room this time, the ground opening had high walls made of pressed volcanic soil and retained a see-through ceiling. To her surprise, Vivian found an earth-dried table and what looked like a hasty attempt at a terracotta chair. It was a clear upgrade in comfort from the claustrophobia she had experienced in the tree hollow.

  Sounds of approaching people upset the silence. Remembering Kaap’s warning about humans being unnatural to Ærria, Vivian tried to soundlessly indicate Kaap to close down the ceiling.

  ‘Vivian no worry,’ she heard Kaap’s reassuring voice. ‘All they see is empty stretch of sand. Vivian see them, but they see Vivian not.’

  The roused voices drew near enough to reveal the presence of two women. They were speaking in the same incomprehensible Alarian language the man beyond the veil had used. Kaap had told her the primary language of the Alariankind was called Æurlek, and that its countless dialects were found in large supply across Ærria. It was the same language that regularly haunted Vivian’s dreams.

  Expecting more monstrosities, Vivian was surprised to see these unexpected women could have easily passed for humans. The difference, she thought, was in their eyes, which gleamed in a cold, metallic light.

  One was tall and lean, with long black hair, intricately braided into a crown shape. The second woman was short and rosy-cheeked, wearing clothes that strongly reminded Vivian of milkmaids. Either the language around these parts sounded very aggressive, or the women were arguing.

  Vivian whispered in the softest voice she could muster. ‘Are they Alarian women?’

  ‘They are,’ she heard Kaap’s voice booming in her ears. She gave a sudden jolt, fearing of being discovered. The pair did not seem to have heard Kaap’s loud comment and continued their enraged fight as though they were alone.

  Reading into her fear, Kaap comforted Vivian. ‘Vivian not worry. They hear Kaap not. Kaap courses through Vivian’s mind alone.’

  ‘Can you make out what they’re saying?’

  ‘Tall one carrying shagash ,’ began Kaap, his voice echoing inside Vivian’s head, ‘her name Daimey .’

  Vivian fought the impulse of telling Kaap to keep his voice down until she remembered she alone could hear him. Apparently, telepathic communication did not include whispering.

  The woman Kaap mentioned carried a peculiarly-shaped bow and wore a long black tunic festooned in gold. From the hole in the ground, Vivian noticed the woman’s eyes were surrounded by an unusually dense layer of eyelashes, and that they were a distinct violet colour. They also seemed to glow in the dark somehow, sizzling and alive like two burning fireflies.

  Vivian had never seen a woman quite like that. She was the exact opposite of a Tuuk’tan. Her unearthly beauty nearly took the air out of the place.

  ‘Daimey vin Gar greater born,’ said Kaap, predicting Vivian’s thoughts. ‘Daimey vin Gar no want marriage so Daimey vin Gar run away. The other chambermaid. The other try bring Daimey vin Gar back to the palace.’

  Their incensed voices slowly grew to a dull hum and got swallowed by the distance.

  ‘Reckon we’ve lost them. You can let me out now.’ she urged.

  Vivian’s festered leg was so useless Kaap had to create steps to help her out of the Hole-in-the-Ground. Panting and sweating, Vivian sat on the warm sand, Kaap in her arms.

  ‘Why didn’t we ask them for help?’

  ‘They not share our path,’ said Kaap ‘they run away from place we need getting to.’

  ‘WHAT? And we just let them go—’

  ‘Vivian must understand her path be her own and must be followed through. Vivian must reach Solidago.’

  ‘But if they knew the Weavers, we could’ve just asked—’

  ‘Vivian path lead to Solidago!’ Kaap repeated.

  A light breeze announced new movement across the volcanic desert. Before Vivian could even crane around and look for the source of the rustle, a smelly bag was shunt over her head, muffling any attempts for a scream.

  Several pairs of hands put her body in bondage, tying her up like cattle. She heard Kaap disappearing inside a bag, his panicked voice curtly reverberating inside her mind.

  ‘Kaap knew he felt more minds than the two. Recuperators!’

  What did Kaap mean by “Recuperators”? Before she could find out, her body was negligently hoisted and thrown onto a hard surface. A large hand pressed against her mouth and an acrid smell burnt into her throat and nostrils.

  The world faded away.

  When Vivian regained consciousness, she was in a shoddy wooden room whose every wall displayed a large stuffed animal. She was meaning to move when she noticed the floor had vanished.

  Vivian found herself horizontally suspended in mid-air in what appeared to be a cocoon of thin-as-hair metallic wires. Soft as silk and just as thin, the threads felt pleasantly warm to the touch. Tightly wrapped around her chest, stomach and extremities, it became futile to budge, let alone escape. With limited movement, Vivian craned around, trying to ascertain her whereabouts.

  A few dozen flaming candles filled the cottage with a lilac gleam. Strange animal furs adorned the crummy wooden floors, walls and furniture of a small ligneous room that richly smelled of faeces. At the back of her head Vivian heard footsteps.

  A large man entered the room. Just then, a leather pouch flew over the top of her immobilized head and landed in his baseball-glove sized hands. The pouch clinkered in his grip, revealing the presence of coins.

  With tingling pains in her neck, Vivian arranged her face for a better look. The fatty gave the room a toothless smile and dashed out through the backdoors. As he left, the smell of shit disappeared with him.

  ‘Twenty Æns…’ a female voice crept from behind the cocoon Vivian was wrapped in ‘…twenty crests. The price of a Shenk’s silence.’

  Vivian fidgeted a little, her eyes in search of the voice. A dark woman stepped out from behind a nearby screen. She was five feet tall, slightly portly and looked in her late fifties. There was a kind smile on her barely-wrinkled and extremely dark countenance.

  The woman continued to stare avidly at the only part of Vivian devoid of threads – her face – every now and then letting on comments.

  ‘Virshii, you look so much like us!’

  Yet Vivian couldn’t agree less. She had never encountered anyone who would differ more. Slightly plump, dark and with enchanting grey eyes—Vivian registered a rare splendour about the woman.

  Melanistic would have been a weak word to describe the lady’s dark complexion: coal skin, ebony-dark hair and eyes of such paleness, they appeared silver. Not only the woman’s skin was a perfect black, but so were her hair, nails and eyeballs.

  ‘So alike, so very alike...’ the woman kept repea
ting under her voice.

  Just like the previous Alarians, this woman’s eyes seemed unusual at best. They were like quicksilver: alive, alit, twinkling their metallic sheen in the lilac glow of the candles.

  ‘Æbekanta evade me, never thought I’d see the day,’ said the woman through a mouth little accustomed to the English language. ‘Rare and curious beings, you middlings,’ she continued, kneeling before the mid-suspended Vivian, ‘brittle as a dry twig, but as resilient as seasoned hickory.’

  Her accent was strange and reminded Vivian of how Easterners articulate in English. In spite of her heavy accent, her eloquence was beyond great.

  ‘You… you speak my language?’

  The woman’s quicksilver eyes rounded questioningly. ‘Your language?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘English, dear? What do you mean by—’

  The ebony woman continued to peer at the mid-suspended Vivian, her metallic eyes reflecting the room, until rapid comprehension rolled in.

  ‘Forgive my blindness. A hound grows accustomed to its own bark,’ she smiled. The woman drew a deep breath, as though aiming to recompose herself. ‘This will likely confuse you dear, but what I speak and what you hear is not the same tongue.’

  Vivian, who secretly thought this alien world couldn’t get any stranger, grew tired of the nonsense.

  ‘Telepaths, beasts, alien tongues…’ she rolled her eyes. ‘Why not just hit me with your best shot?’

  ‘What you hear is Æurlek’ääj ,’ the woman continued patiently, ignoring Vivian’s derisive remarks, ‘the most ancient of spoken tongues. It addresses one’s mind, not their ears.’

  From the cocoon of threads, Vivian’s coal-black eyes rolled once more.

  ‘I understand your frustration, dear,’ the woman added, when faced with Vivian’s particularly vexed look. ‘My gift is no common talent, as one is bound to find when immersing in the study of Æurlek’ääj. It has cost the better half of my existence to master, and there are yet notions difficult to hold candles to. Even about Ærria, few are those who speak it.’

  The prospect of being spoken to in a universally-intelligible language gave Vivian a headache – or perhaps it was the effect of hunger, thirst and sleep deprivation. Whatever Æurlek’ääj was, it entered her head without passing through her ears. What this woman spoke was of little importance, Vivian thought. Regardless the verbal means, it was answers she needed.

  ‘Why did you tie me up?’

  ‘I’m sorry dear but you were waning. A few more restings and you would’ve passed. These Threads restored you. I wove them up to put you right. Here, here, let me help you out.’

  The woman manoeuvred a little pulley which lowered Vivian, along her prison of metallic wires, until her feet touched the ground. She then pulled a small dagger from her boot and freed Vivian with a single swish of her wrist.

  ‘Wear these.’

  Embarrassed for her nudity, Vivian struggled to get the offered clothes as quickly as possible on her body. They smelled like dung and wet chicken. Despite their tattered appearance, they felt smooth and warm to the touch. Handmade, by the feel of them, crafted from combined leather, fur and silk.

  ‘The Shenk’shen noticed your right leg was festering and brought you here first. Had I not acted, that leg of yours would’ve poisoned your blood,’ the woman said apologetically, in explanation for Vivian’s nudity, ‘but you’re alright now, dear. I fixed you up in a heartbeat.’

  ‘Shenk’shen?’

  ‘Recuperators, dear,’ repeated the woman. ‘Kranija is under curfew, see. We are not to leave Solidago without permission, or by no means cross into the borderlands. Anyone who breaks curfew ends up in the Hollows– well, ends up in a bad place to find oneself,’ said the woman.

  ‘But they let me go, didn’t they? These… Recuperators.’

  ‘You broke curfew so they meant to put you in chains, yes, but I interfered. I told them you work at my Haijk . Told them you’re my herbalist-in-training and if they want my practice to continue healing their soldiers, they should quit arresting my harvesters.’

  ‘And couldn’t they tell—?’

  ‘—that you’re human?’ the woman let out an electric laughter. ‘Surprising how the extraordinary eludes the eye whose mind is boggled by the ordinary. Your first contact with an intelligent civilization and look how we disappoint you,’ she gave Vivian a look of complete reverence before dropping in a superb woven chair.

  ‘They couldn’t tell, no. You’re indistinguishable from a Northerner, dear. I care very little for the whole “middlings” versus “higher beings” madness. I say it now and I say it again: humans are not much different than us Alarians. Dirty-Beard back there was particularly mudded between the ears. Couldn’t tell his own fingers apart, the darn whoreson. But old mama Saah offered him quite the snip for returning you. Their soldier stipend is slight, see, and I always pay well for their silence.’

  ‘Who… are you?’

  ‘I am Lady Saah, Artisan and keeper to this mending practice. And what should I call you, dear?’

  Vivian rubbed her wrists only to discover all her journey-inflicted bruises, cuts and wounds had mysteriously disappeared. ‘V-Vivian.’

  ‘No, don’t try to st—’

  But Lady Saah’s warning had come a fraction too late. Vivian attempted to stand on both her legs and violently collapsed.

  ‘Your spirit is strong, dear, I’ll give you that,’ said Lady Saah in a motherly voice as she helped her to a chair. ‘I healed your bone but the flesh will take much longer. Kings be cursed, you’re a bag of bones. You need food, water and rest.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Vivian right away. ‘A drink would be lovely.’

  Vivian’s leg was hurting badly now. She attempted to give it a small shift and a sharp pain similar to a piercing blade soared through her leg. The leg moved, which meant it festered no longer, but it was far from recovered.

  ‘Quite the smart companion you have there. He told me you’ve walked along the Ing’sla’ka , all the way from the Ne’erine mines. Quite the journey, dear.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vivian answered simply, confused about the names she was hearing. ‘Speaking of which, where is my, umm companion?’

  ‘In the scullery, where a very warm supper awaits you,’ she replied through a narrow smile. ‘What for Oj’t creature is that? I could’ve sworn his fur changes colour with every moment of the day. Never seen his sort around.’

  Vivian thought of revealing to Lady Saah that Kaap was a Hole-in-the-Wall, but quickly refrained. Judging by her collection of furs and stuffed animals, the Artisan was no animal lover. What if she decided Kaap’s hide was worth a skinning? Kaap’s warning seemed to float at the back of her mind “ Human feared by those who not see ”.

  ‘Come. Let’s get you some supper.’

  Yet at that precise moment the wooden door opened and a little boy popped from behind Lady Saah’s large skirt. A short conversation in the alien language, Æurlek, drew Vivian away from the topic of her savage thirst. It sounded a lot like scolding.

  ‘I apologize for my son, Matijas. He was curious to see a middling – I’m sorry, force of habit – a human in flesh. Around these parts, you are the stuff of legends.’

  Vivian focused on the unexpected boy. He was just as melanistic as his mother, except his metallic irises burnt a magnificent shade of copper.

  Matijas shyly said something to his mother that Vivian failed to understand. One of his eyebrows was entirely white. Vivian smiled his way, trying hard not to stare at his albino eyebrow, which vividly contrasted with his ebony countenance.

  The boy lingered for what seemed like minutes, visibly entranced by the presence of a living human. He continued staring at Vivian with the insatiable curiosity of the youth before Lady Saah ushered him out and took Vivian to the scullery for her supper.
>
  The kitchens were spacious and entirely made of dark polished wood. A large wooden table filled most of the room, around which fitted twelve exquisitely-woven chairs. Vivian noticed Kaap on a nearby counter. He was curled into a black ball of fur, apparently asleep.

  The table was beautifully adorned with a hyacinth-blue tablecloth which seemed to radiate light. Around a munificent candle that burnt in the same shade of lilac as everything else in the cottage, assorted foods had been neatly arranged for Vivian’s starving delight.

  The foods looked strange, yet smelled delicious: steaming baked goods (some exotic varieties of honey-pastries, lentil cakes, aniseed patties and dark bread – or at least they all tasted the part); yomsaap , a sweetened drink of milk, berries and nuts that Vivian drank in one gulp; a sticky lump which tasted like sour-cheese and a suspicious type of spiced meat whose earthy flavour reminded Vivian of snake-meat. All dishes were served on large platters of dark glass.

  Ala Spuria might have taught Vivian the meaning of “famished”, but she didn’t remember her hunger ever being as fierce. She stuffed a little of everything in her mouth, half-chocking on the occasional chowder or swallowing the Artisan’s delightful tartlets without bothering to chew. She had little idea what was on her plate, but the Artisan’s cooking would have given Chef Benoît a run for his money.

  Lady Saah too sat at the table, her plump face leaning on her chubby fingers, her quicksilver eyes pasted onto Vivian. Every once in a while, she heaved a deep sigh and muttered under her breath “ No good omen. No good omen at all ” until Vivian paused her savage eating and drew enough breath to voice to her curiosity.

  ‘What’s not a good omen?’

  With the kind of thrill which alluded she’d been bursting to start about it, Lady Saah sat upright.

  ‘Your presence here, dear. You have fallen through the Shroud and lived to tell the tale. Of course, with everything that’s been going on, I am far from surprised.’

  Vivian looked exasperated. For once, she wished everyone would stop speaking in riddles and give her a straight answer.