Weaving Man: Book One of The Prophecy Series

by Tove Foss Ford

  “Hire her,” Eiren said succinctly as soon as he finished sketching out the situation. “She’s a fine young woman and you can trust her. We could certainly use the help and she could use the freedom from that terrible place she’s had to live in.”

  “I need no other recommendation,” Menders smiled, kissing her swiftly.

  Back in his office, he nodded to Varnia.

  “If you wish to work here, we would be glad to have you,” he said, eliciting the slightest smile from the solemn faced young woman. “I’ll need to speak with your father, of course.”

  “I speak for myself, Mister Menders,” Varnia said firmly. “I am of age and do not need my father’s permission to take employment.”

  Menders nodded. “Very well. When can you move in?”

  “Now. I have my things with me.” She rose and picked up a small bag that she’d carried in with her. Varnia Polzen traveled light.

  ***

  From Doctor Franz’s files:

  Borsen Carvers, initial examination:

  Patient is male, approximately thirteen years of age (he is uncertain of his birth date and year.) This child is chronically undernourished and presents the appearance of a nine year old. He demonstrates the fragility of bone and swollen belly associated with ongoing lack of sufficient meat and milk. There are multiple scars on his hands and fingers, some of them quite recent. He states that these are from rat bites, resulting from catching rats for food. There are bruises from a recent fall (incident at school) and also from what appears to be physical abuse.

  Borsen is not forthcoming about whatever abuse caused his bruises and is quite reticent about himself. Makes the statement “we go on from here,” when questioned about his recent life with his father and stepmother. He is cautious, but obviously craves attention and affection. His is a gentle and retiring nature upon first meeting, but he responds well to Katrin as a peer, has a good sense of humor and in time will probably shed a great deal of his shyness and reserve. He has hugely enjoyed the attention given him by members of the household and holds Menders in absolute awe.

  I fear, however, that this child will always be undersized and frail. Once the swollen belly appears in a patient’s symptomatology, growth is forever stunted. There is also the distinct possibility of brittle bones. A diet of high nutrition has been recommended, supplemented with goat’s milk, meat extracts and supplements. Borsen has a voracious appetite and will make up some lost ground. However, I doubt he will ever reach average height. He will need careful handling and attention and will always need to be mindful of his health.

  ***

  Menders looked up from the estate account book with a smile. From the sounds reaching him, Mister Spaltz had just breezed into the house.

  “Hello there!” the farmer said to Kaymar, who was lounging around the front door, taking advantage of one of the last warmish days that The Shadows would see for months. “Been keeping yourself out of trouble?”

  “As best I can, considering all the temptation around me,” Kaymar answered, making Mister Spaltz explode in his characteristic cackling “hee hee”. He considered Kaymar hilarious and referred to him as The Mordanian Wildcat, impressed by the dichotomy between Kaymar’s diminutive size and impressive strength. Spaltz could watch Kaymar chuck hay bales about and cackle endlessly.

  “And there’s our Kat! Give us a kiss there, my girl!” Katrin had come down the stairs to the foyer. “How’s your lovely mama? Keeping well? I didn’t stop by the school on my way down, though I’ll look in on her when I go home. Where’s your pa?”

  Menders couldn’t help grinning. Mister Spaltz simply considered Katrin Menders’ and Eiren’s child and, therefore, his granddaughter. He caused varying levels of local confusion by referring to himself as the Princess’ granddad and Menders never bothered to enlighten anyone. It was far more amusing to let people puzzle the conundrum.

  “Thanks, m’love, no need for you to show me the way,” Spaltz was saying. “Get on with whatever you’re doing decked out in your regal robes.” A giggle from Katrin echoed a snort of amusement from Menders. Katrin was embroiled in changing the bed hangings in the suite, suitably attired for the task in an ancient smock and a dreadful old cap she’d dug out somewhere. At this point she was probably entirely grey with dust.

  A moment later, Spaltz appeared at Menders’ door, his expression belying the lighthearted exchanges that Menders had overheard.

  “A word, son?” he asked, easing the door shut behind him.

  “Of course, always,” Menders said. “Care for a drink?”

  “Yes, I would. How is your new apprentice, young Borsen, getting along?”

  Menders’ eyebrows went up. Spaltz was a man who told a tale in his own way, so it was pointless to press him.

  “Very well. Thriving with Tomar and settling in nicely.”

  And so Borsen was. It was like watching a plant that had been moved from dry shade to watered sunlight. His pinched face was rapidly plumping out, pounds were piling on his fragile frame and the bloated belly had shrunk to normal size after medication from Franz and plenty of food. Smiles were often seen and Borsen was even beginning to speak spontaneously rather than only when spoken to. Once it became obvious that Borsen was not likely to set fire to the place or steal from anyone, Menders relaxed his watchfulness and the boy slipped easily into the routine of the household.

  Mister Spaltz gratefully accepted the brandy Menders had poured for him. He flopped into one of the armchairs and sighed, crossing his legs.

  “Well, it’s good he’s settled in. That lot, his family, have scarpered.”

  “They’re gone?”

  “Aye. Gone in the night, unpaid bills and rent, who knows what else. Went by there yesterday on my way to the village to let them know the boy was getting on famously here. The place is deserted and no-one with an idea where they’ve lit out to.”

  “Grundar shit!” Menders growled. Borsen had been doing so well, and now this, abandoned like a worn out shoe?

  “It’s a scandal,” Mister Spaltz agreed. “Worse, there were some robberies in the neighborhood just before they went. I always wondered how they were surviving, with the man obviously not working, but I think we know now. Whoever did the stealing knew what he was doing. Took things that will fence easily and can’t be traced. No sign of such doings with young Borsen?”

  “No, he’s scrupulously honest,” Menders answered, raising his eyebrows. “Tells the truth no matter what. Found six florins in the pocket of a jacket he was mending the other day and gave it back right away.”

  “Hard to believe he’s from a bunch of thieves.”

  “I’ve been very careful to watch him. Eiren never saw any sign of trouble with him at the school. He was there for almost a year.”

  “Well then, he’s landed on his feet, ending up here,” Spaltz ruminated. “Still, to think of folks just walking away and leaving him without a word – sad. I wouldn’t do that to a sick stray dog.”

  Menders was suddenly reminded of Tharak’s words. It can take seconds to father a child, but it takes a lifetime to be a father. He repeated them to Spaltz.

  “Now then, that’s the truth,” the farmer agreed quietly. “Eiren was our firstborn, as you know, and when they handed her to me I knew that it wasn’t the bedsport nine months before that made me her father but the determination I felt when I looked at her, all red and screaming. I knew I’d fight off wolves to keep that little girl safe. I’d fight them with my teeth if need be. I was younger than you were when you had your Katrin, only sixteen. Marjana and I married young but I was a father at that moment, and I’m still working at it. I doubt young Borsen has ever really had a father.”

  “No.” Menders sat back in his chair, thinking.

  “I’ll let him know what has happened,” he finally said. “I don’t know how he’ll take it. There wasn’t any love shown by either his father or stepmother.”

  “I’ll leave it with you then.” Spaltz finished his brandy
. “I’ll step across the hall and see our Olan before moving on.”

  Menders stopped by the kitchen for a couple of sandwiches. Then he mounted the stairs to Tomar’s workroom. It would be best to let Borsen know what had happened without delay, in case he wanted to try tracing his family.

  Despite his anger, Menders had to smile when he looked into the nursery-turned-tailor shop. The contrast to the tailor’s old cluttered workroom was stunning. Natural light flowed from the bank of windows. Everything was neat and orderly. Tomar and Borsen sat tailor-fashion on opposite ends of the big worktable, crosslegged with their backs against the wall, their work on their laps. They were chatting back and forth companionably. Menders noticed that Borsen was bent double over the work on his lap, unlike Tomar, who sat upright against the wall. It was the only trick of the trade that Tomar said the boy simply couldn’t seem to pick up. Menders had a flash of intuition about Borsen’s hunched posture.

  He spoke from the doorway and watched closely as Borsen and Tomar looked up to greet him. Borsen squinted rapidly, then allowed his eyes to return to an unnarrowed state.

  “A letter came from Hemmett this morning,” Menders said. “He’s wondering if you could manage some trousers for him to have when he comes home for Winterfest recess. I was going to take Eiren and Katrin to Erdstrom and he’ll come along too. Apparently he’s outgrown everything he owns - again. He sent the measurements.”

  Menders handed the letter to Borsen, who hunched over it just as he did over his sewing, squinting. Then he sat up, having taken in the information, and acted as if he was still reading it, though Menders was certain his eyes perceived nothing at a normal reading distance.

  You hide it well, my boy, but your eyes are worse than mine, Menders thought, as Borsen pretended to read out the figures to Tomar.

  “He must be huge,” Borsen said softly when he finished. “How old is he?”

  “He’ll be fifteen this winter.”

  Borsen looked dubious. Of course, the idea of a fifteen year old giant being at his haven for two months must be daunting, considering his past experiences.

  Menders explained. “He’s a very nice fellow, no bullying there.” He smiled as Borsen breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his work.

  “We can get on them right away. I have Hemmett’s patterns, and it will be good experience for Borsen to alter them,” Tomar said, laying his own work aside. “It’s time to have lunch, Borsen.”

  “I’ve not finished this,” the boy murmured.

  “It’ll wait until you’re back,” Tomar grinned.

  “I’d like to finish. I’ll eat as soon as I do,” Borsen replied, intent on his seam. Of course, Menders thought. If he puts it down, he’ll have a time finding the needle again, with those eyes.

  “That’s all right. I need a word with this young man and I’ve brought along something to keep him from fainting from hunger,” he intervened, setting the sandwiches out on the table. He’d noticed that Borsen was eternally hungry, entirely in keeping with his age and the fact that he’d been severely malnourished in the past. He still wasn’t confident enough to raid the kitchen when necessary.

  Tomar took himself off. Menders waited until Borsen reached the end of his seam, backstitched four times and then knotted the thread, cutting it neatly before he meticulously positioned his needle in his pincushion.

  “Well done,” he said, handing the boy a sandwich. “Borsen, I’ve had word of something that you need to know. It seems that your family has gone. Mister Spaltz went there yesterday to let them know how you’re doing and found the house empty.”

  Menders watched closely. No real emotion, other than a weary acceptance. The boy nodded, concentrating on his sandwich.

  “I thought they probably would, with me gone,” he said softly. “I make money now, so I’ll pay the rent that they didn’t pay.”

  “That house isn’t part of The Shadows,” Menders said.

  “No, to the white haired lady. She owns it.”

  Menders frowned. White haired lady? Then he knew.

  “Lady Spartz?” Indeed, it probably was one of Reisa’s tenancies.

  “Yes, Lorein’s mother. I’ll pay her. I know they didn’t pay the rent.”

  “I’ll see to it Borsen and we’ll work something out,” Menders offered, relieved that he wasn’t coping with weeping or upset. “Now, I think we need to sort out a few things. In time you would have told me, I’m sure, but if we’re to find your family for you, I’ll need to know now. Where did you and your family come from?”

  “Rondstein, for a little while. We moved all the time,” the boy said quietly, putting his sandwich down. He stared at the tabletop for a minute and then looked up at Menders, who had made a point of sitting fairly close so Borsen could see him.

  “Should I want you to find them? Because I don’t,” he said with a finality that Menders knew would never be shaken.

  “No, you don’t have to want that,” Menders replied. “I can understand why you feel that way.”

  “She’s not my mother. My mother died when I was six.” Borsen spoke flatly.

  Menders waited.

  “He’s my father but he never had any use for me, because I was always so little. I wasn’t any good at helping him. I didn’t want to,” Borsen continued. “He’s a thief, but I’m not. He used to have me watch for him while he stole but I… didn’t do it right and I didn’t want to help him steal. I can remember my real mother. She used to say it was wrong, stealing.”

  “So you were born in Rondstein?” Menders asked.

  “No, I was born on the Sea of Grass.”

  “That’s interesting, so was I,” Menders said companionably. “Do you know which area?” The Sea of Grass was a very big place.

  Menders looked at Borsen more closely. He could tell the boy was almost entirely Thrun. His father was a fullblood and considering Borsen’s looks, his mother had been a good part Thrun as well. It wasn’t unusual in this part of Mordania. It was even more common on the Sea of Grass, where intermixing of Mordanians with Thrun was common. Borsen’s speech, with the singsonging intonation and emphases used by the Thrun, was more singular, but not unheard of.

  “Mama did say, but it’s so long ago now. She was part Thrun.”

  “I can see that,” Menders smiled. “I’m part Thrun too, one quarter.”

  “I’m almost all Thrun. My mother said I’m a quarter Mordanian,” Borsen grinned. “Both of us added together make one Thrun and one Mordanian.” Then he looked pensive.

  “She told me the name of the place she came from but I can’t remember it. I’m trying to hear her voice.” He closed his eyes, obviously concentrating. Then he shook his head.

  “Do you know your mother’s name, before she married your father?” Menders asked. He could place the origin of Borsen’s mother from the family name.

  “That’s easy. It was Tailors. Maybe that’s what gave me the idea to be one. And her first name was Thara,” Borsen replied eagerly, glad to be able to give Menders a definite answer.

  Menders felt as if he’d been slapped.

  Tailors? The Thrun used Mordanian surnames that were literal translations of their tribal names, which were simply a description of the occupation of that clan. Thus the name Menders, a rough translation of the Thrun word that meant ‘weaving man’, and carried the deeper meaning of one who repaired things and made them whole.

  The Tailors were a clan who made clothing. They were a settled, rather than nomadic group, and had joined with the Menders through marriage for centuries. This combined tribe lived in the region of the Sea of Grass that encompassed Stettan. Much of the work force on Stettan had been Tailors and Menders. Tharak Karak was of the Tailors clan – as Menders’ maternal grandmother, who married a man of the Menders clan, had been.

  Menders looked at Borsen again, closely. He’d avoided doing so up until now, because of the boy’s shyness. It couldn’t be, surely?

  Suddenly Borsen’s face lit up.

/>   “Starten. That’s it. She was born at a place called Starten… or Sterten… or Settan?”

  “Stettan?” Menders suggested.

  “That’s it! I can hear her saying it, that’s the very word! Stettan. She used to tell me that there was a big house there, with four round towers and many Giants nearby.”

  Borsen seemed quite pleased and Menders smiled at him, though he was stunned. From half way across the country – how did this little bird manage to find his way home? He was of the Tailors from Stettan. He was Menders’ own kin in some degree or another.

  “I was never there. I was born further west,” Borsen chattered on, his tongue loosened by his successful recollection. “My father moved us all the time, running from the law. It was always a new place, never paid the rent, then running out in the middle of the night after he’d rob a bunch of houses… oh! Did he rob people around here?” Borsen looked up at Menders, horrified.

  “There were some robberies right before they left,” Menders answered truthfully.

  Borsen’s eyes filled with tears.

  “That bastard!” he said roughly, his face flushing. “I’ll pay everyone who was robbed, Menders. I don’t want people hating me here.”

  “They won’t know. It’s our secret,” Menders countered immediately, realizing that attempting to pursue Borsen’s father was pointless. The man was probably miles away, untraceable, an old hand at his game. “It isn’t your fault, Borsen, so don’t take the blame upon yourself. Now then, how many fingers am I holding up – and don’t squint.” He held up his hand about three feet from Borsen’s face.

  The boy turned bright red.

  “I can’t see them at all,” he muttered.

  “All right, that’s what I thought. Bad vision can be corrected you know,” Menders smiled, indicating his own glasses. “Would you like to come with me to Erdstrom in a few weeks? My oculist is there. We’ll have you fitted with glasses so you can see properly and you won’t have to be bent over your sewing.”