Weaving Man: Book One of The Prophecy Series

by Tove Foss Ford

  I love to dance but I thought being a dancer would be – well that it wouldn’t be a trial of pain, with damaged feet sure to become crippled with age. When we left the theatre, I said something about their feet to Menders. He stopped and looked at me and said that the larger a person was, the more toll dancing took on the body – and then he looked so sad and said “I’m sorry, my Little Princess, I couldn’t bear to tell you.”

  I wasn’t sad. Once I saw what it took to be a dancer – I didn’t want to be one anymore. That doesn’t mean I can’t dance and take lessons, which I will continue to do, but I don’t want to have that sort of pain. I’m afraid of pain. I could tell Menders admired the dancers for what he called “their sacrifice”, meaning they endure all that pain to dance – but that isn’t anything I want. So that settles that.

  Another moment with Menders today – when I chose the diamond set that he eventually bought for Eiren. I was terrified to even consider it, but he said my choice wasn’t written in stone, he was just curious as to what I would pick for her. So I thought of Eiren, of her running to meet Menders when she comes home from the school, of that time she and I were caught in the blizzard and she was so brave – and I chose a set with a simple necklace that was a half circle of diamonds. They were like autumn stars on a frosty night.

  Menders said, “Yes, that’s the one that said her name to me as well.” Then he said more softly, “Blood from my blood, body from my body.” He bought them, and gave them to Eiren later. She was speechless and cried, but was so happy. Menders was so proud when she wore those diamonds to the ballet. I so want what they have! Someday.

  On our way back from the jewelry store, I asked Menders about “blood from my blood, body from my body.” It seemed so very intense and strange.

  He didn’t say anything for a while, but I waited. He sometimes takes his time sorting out what he’s going to say. Then he said,

  “It’s a saying that describes how parents feel about their children, who are literally made from their own blood and flesh. It is the way that I feel about you, though I didn’t make you – well, in a way, in the most important way I did, because I’ve raised you. When you chose the very same necklace that I had as a gift for Eiren, I was reminded of how much you are like me, and how I feel that you are as much mine as you would be if I had truly been your father.”

  That’s the best I remember it. Then he took out a small box and gave it to me. He’d bought it on the sly in the jewelry store. It had a little brooch in it in the shape of a snowflower with diamond dewdrops on the petals.

  I remembered when I was tiny he used to call me Snowflower, before Menders’ Men and so many people about. He’s always used Little Princess as a name for me, but when he gave me the brooch, I knew he’d never forgotten those days when he was just a boy and I was Snowflower.

  I am a lucky girl and Menders is calling through the door for me to put out the lamp and go to sleep. I like this journal!

  Perhaps I’ll be a writer!

  (40)

  A Lost Bird Flies Home

  Katrin watched as the little boy called Borsen slowly edged his way toward Eiren’s desk at lunchtime, as he did every day. Eiren was ready for him and handed him a wrapped packet of food with a smile. Borsen didn’t smile back. He whispered a thank-you and then retreated quickly to a corner of the schoolroom. He huddled in a chair turned toward the wall and began unwrapping the packet.

  Katrin and her friend Petra Gunter exchanged glances. Katrin had already asked Eiren why she didn’t inform someone in authority of how thin Borsen was.

  “I’m afraid if I did, his family would simply pick up and leave,” Eiren answered frankly. “At least this way I know he’s getting one big meal a day and I give him food to get him through rest days as well. I don’t know his family. It may be that they’re simply poor and can do no better. It’s not a crime to be poor. And if anyone in authority did bother to take an interest, which isn’t likely, he would be taken to an orphanage. A child like Borsen wouldn’t last a week in one of those places.”

  Katrin thought it was a crime for anyone to be as thin as Borsen, though his stomach stuck out as if it was fat. Eiren said that was a sign of malnourishment. He often had sores around his mouth and his hair was dull and dry.

  Olan Spartz, Eiren’s brother closest to Katrin’s age, muttered, “Poor little bugger.” Varnia Polzen, one of the big girls in the top class, clenched her jaw tightly but said nothing, her piercing grey eyes fixed on Borsen as he crouched in his corner.

  “Would you mind if I ask him to sit with us?” Katrin asked, suddenly ashamed that she’d never thought of it before. She helped at the school four days a week now and had seen Borsen huddled over the food Eiren gave him many times, but it had never occurred to her to invite him to sit with her and her school friends.

  Petra and Olan both looked ashamed as well and shook their heads. Varnia said nothing and made no sign, but Katrin could hear her draw in a quiet breath. Katrin rose and went over to Borsen.

  He started, having been intent on his food, and drew away from her until she was very close. Then he stared at the floor.

  “Borsen, why don’t you come and sit with us?” Katrin smiled, putting a hand on his arm. “We’d like you to.”

  He shivered but Katrin waited patiently. After a moment, he rose and followed her back to the table where she and her friends sat. She settled him in a chair next to her and started talking animatedly to the others, who followed her lead. They let Borsen get on with his lunch, but Katrin could tell he was listening intently.

  “I don’t want any more of this,” Olan said, putting some cheese out in front of all of them. “It won’t keep, so take whatever you want.”

  After a moment, Borsen’s bird-claw hand crept out and took a piece. A few moments later he took another one. Katrin had an extra apple and put it out as well, offering it to the table at large. When the lunch period was ending, Borsen slowly reached out, pushing it into the tattered pocket of his ragged little jacket. He whispered a nearly inaudible thank-you and crept back to his desk.

  After that, Katrin and Olan always made a point of bringing extra food and made lunch a shared meal. Petra’s father, Mister Gunter, was the least successful farmer on The Shadows, so there was nothing extra for her to bring. The Polzen farm, Varnia’s home, was known for its sparse harvests, but Mister Spaltz more than made up for it when Olan explained Borsen’s situation. He sent great slabs of cheese, bottles of milk, meat and extra slices of bread. Katrin brought extra sandwiches, stew and fruit. On the days that Katrin wasn’t at the school, the others continued to have Borsen sit with them. It took weeks, but he would finally speak if you addressed him directly. One day he even managed a shy smile.

  Once you got Borsen to talk, he was interesting. Though his schoolwork was below average and he sometimes didn’t do assignments at all, he was very bright.

  He was also able to draw and finding someone else who could draw well always intrigued Katrin. That was often the reason for his forgotten assignments; he would be caught up in drawing something, usually men in elegant clothing. Katrin found that out by accident when she was going from desk to desk helping with an art class, and looked over Borsen’s shoulder. He wasn’t drawing the still life set out by the art teacher, but a fashion sketch of a man in a tailcoat, full-cut trousers and a top hat.

  “That’s beautiful!” Katrin whispered, bending over the sketch.

  Borsen immediately covered it with his hands and kept his eyes down. Katrin put a hand on his arm and then went on to the next student.

  That day at lunch, Petra, Varnia and Olan were absent, as it was a busy time on their farms. Borsen came over and sat quietly beside Katrin. He took a pile of papers from his pocket and placed it in front of her.

  Katrin leafed through it to find page after page of drawings similar to the one she’d seen during art class. They were fashion drawings of men’s clothing. Some were carefully colored with what looked like chalk. Some were
just parts of clothes, little details but expertly done; a man’s turnback cuff and button, elaborately stitched decoration, piping on a shoulder epaulette.

  “These are excellent,” she told him. “Who taught you?”

  “Nobody,” Borsen whispered.

  “Really? I can’t draw like this, and I’ve been studying for years,” Katrin smiled. “What did you color these with?”

  “Soft rocks I found.” Borsen snuck a look at her.

  “How smart!” Katrin looked through the pile again. “Why do you just draw clothes?”

  Borsen looked down, and she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

  “I want to be a tailor,” he finally whispered. “I was hoping I could find a tailor here to apprentice to but there isn’t one. I’ll have to wait until we move to a city, but I doubt I’ll find one who’ll take me because I’m Thrun.”

  Katrin started.

  “What’s wrong with being Thrun?” she asked. “The Thrun come here almost every winter for a carnival. They’re wonderful people!”

  Borsen turned his brown eyes on her again and stopped taking little bites off the sandwich she’d given him.

  “You don’t know about City Thrun then. That’s what I am,” he said, his voice with the lilting Thrun accent soft and sorrowful. “In the cities they consider us scum because most City Thrun are beggars and thieves. It’s almost impossible for Thrun to get work in the cities. That’s why I hoped there would be a tailor here. It’s better in the country.” Borsen turned his attention back to the sandwich, but not before Katrin saw tears in his eyes.

  As the autumn came, Borsen continued to join Katrin and her friends at lunch. Once in a great while he would smile. He never spoke as freely as he had to her alone, but he listened happily. The food he was getting had made a difference, though he was still painfully thin and his belly was still too large.

  When harvest began, a number of pupils of the type Eiren called “busy time scholars” turned up at the school. These were older boys who decided they wanted to go to school around the time the heavy work of harvest on their fathers’ farms began. They would turn up for several weeks, do nothing, disrupt classes and harass younger students. When Eiren confronted them about their behavior, they would beg pardon and promise to behave, but that only meant their tactics became more underhanded. Worst of all, they had chosen Borsen as their victim this year.

  Suddenly they always seemed to be where Borsen was walking. They would bump him, trip him, send him flying into a wall. Then they would sneeringly apologize and do the same again as soon as they could.

  Eiren sent them home for several days. Katrin was shocked that she allowed them back.

  “It’s a difficult situation, darling,” Eiren sighed as they rode home in the governess cart. “If I deny those boys access to the school, their parents can point out other children who attend who don’t work particularly hard. Some of those children might just begin to do better one day, and they all benefit from being in school. Some of them are simply not capable of doing better, but do what they can.”

  “Like Borsen?” Katrin asked. “He doesn’t do all the assignments.”

  Eiren nodded. “School is a haven for Borsen,” she said quietly. “I believe he does what he can. So you see, if I sent those boys away that could endanger Borsen’s ability to come to school.”

  “I don’t like them,” Katrin said after a minute.

  “I don’t either, but I have to be careful when I exclude someone. Education should be available to all.” Eiren answered. “Yes, even those who don’t want it, like those louts,” she added, catching Katrin’s look.

  A few days later, Katrin was helping a girl with a writing exercise. One of the “busy time scholars” went to the front of the schoolroom to ask Eiren a foolish question. He was given a brisk dismissal and sent back to his seat. As Eiren responded to another student, the boy detoured by Borsen’s desk, pouring the contents of a bottle of ink over the paper Borsen was drawing on.

  “That’s for you, you little nancy trash,” the big boy sneered, sauntering to his seat and slumping into it.

  Katrin snatched up a sheet of blotting paper and began mopping the pool of ink. Borsen was staring at his inky shirt with horror. It was the only one he owned.

  “Milk will take that out,” Katrin said quietly.

  He looked at her and she flinched. Where was Borsen going to get milk to take ink out of a shirt when it was obvious he didn’t ever get any to drink? His shirt wouldn’t take much scrubbing either, it was threadbare and frayed already.

  Katrin started toward the front of the room to tell Eiren what had happened, but felt a tug on her skirt. She turned. Borsen shook his head, crumpling the damp, blackened sketch he’d been working on.

  Later as they sat together at lunch she asked him why.

  “It would make it worse,” he whispered, looking at the floor.

  “Mistress Menders wouldn’t want them picking on you like this,” Katrin protested. “They shouldn’t be calling you names either.”

  “If she tries to stop them, it will be worse,” he repeated. “And I am a nancy.” He flicked his eyes up to look at her.

  “That’s still no reason for them to bother you,” Katrin replied.

  “Thank you.” After that he wouldn’t speak again. He kept fingering his ink-stained shirt nervously.

  One morning two days later, little Lorein Spartz came galloping up to the school on her pony. She jumped down and went puffing up to Eiren.

  “Mistress Menders, those big boys are following Borsen! They keep hitting him and kicking him!”

  Eiren caught up her skirts and ran down the steps and into the road. Katrin followed and was rapidly joined by Varnia and Olan.

  Borsen was plodding toward the school, with the three big boys behind him. They were pushing him and kicking at his spindly legs. Varnia began to hurry toward them with long purposeful strides and clenched fists but Olan ran ahead of her, motioning for her to stay back.

  When the big boys saw strong, wiry Olan coming toward them they dropped back, trying to look innocent. Borsen was covered with dust from the road, the knees of his trousers were torn and there were bruises showing on his hands and arms.

  Varnia put an arm around Borsen and hustled him into the school while Eiren confronted the three loutish boys. In a moment they were on their way home again and Eiren ran inside to Borsen. Katrin saw her speaking to him earnestly but he kept shaking his head. Eiren finally put an arm around him in a little hug and he went off to his desk, where he sat quietly, his eyes down. Varnia, her face white with rage, dipped a handkerchief in the water bucket and began wiping the dust from Borsen’s face and hands.

  Katrin felt a burning in her chest while she stood on the schoolhouse steps, watching the three big boys laughing as they walked away. They were very pleased with themselves.

  If something didn’t change, they were going to end up hurting Borsen. There must be something she could do!

  ***

  “Menders?”

  “Yes, my dear?” Menders looked up and had to smile. Katrin was wearing a very old, outworn dress and had a scarf wrapped around her head, her official soapmaking outfit.

  “I was wondering if we could get an apprentice for Tomar.” She stood in the doorway, looking at him intently.

  Menders’ eyebrows went up. An apprentice for the tailor would be an excellent thing indeed. Tomar was severely overworked and had recently moved from his cramped little workroom into what had been the old nursery, which had plenty of space and excellent light. Tomar’s worktable was groaning under the weight of mending and clothing in all stages of construction. Though he stitched continuously for eight hours and more a day, there was no way he could ever keep up with the workload.

  Menders already planned to hire two young secretaries into the household, Eiren’s younger brother, Olan Spaltz and Katrin’s friend, Petra Gunter. Both young people were finishing school and had few prospects for the future. Olan ha
d not cared for school and had no desire to continue further. Petra was doomed to spinsterhood on her father’s very primitive farm, as he insisted that she was needed to help work it. Marrying at fifteen would be her only possible escape.

  Menders had been glad to offer a secretarial position to Olan once that young man realised that he didn’t want to be a farmer, and several improvements made to Gunter’s place freed Petra from being needed at home for long days of hauling water and milking cows.

  Having the young people take over much of the endless copy work that went into maintaining correspondence and records for the estate would relieve a lot of the strain on Menders’ eyes. He was more than willing, if an amenable young person could be found, to ease Tomar’s staggering workload.

  “An apprentice tailor would be very useful,” Menders said. “It was something I was meaning to attend to… at some time or another.” He indicated his desk, layered with papers. “I’m glad you thought of it.”

  Katrin smiled and came to sit across from him.

  “There’s a boy at school, Borsen Carvers. He… he likes clothes, a lot.” Katrin suddenly seemed reticent. Menders waited for her to continue. She looked up at him and squared her shoulders.

  “He’s very gentle and quiet, and he wants to apprentice to a tailor but there isn’t one anywhere around. He doesn’t know about our tailor,” she went on. “He’s like Ifor and Kaymar. Some of the older boys torment him. Would his being a nancyboy be a problem?”

  “No, of course not,” Menders answered. “So long as he wants to do the work and learns, whether he’s a nancyboy or not is completely immaterial. How do you know this, Katrin?”