Weaving Man: Book One of The Prophecy Series

by Tove Foss Ford

  Borsen looked as though he’d been invited to commune with the gods.

  “Now then,” Menders said, standing up, “I suggest we go and have something more to eat. I’m hungry all the time. I know you are too and it’s important you eat whenever you want to. There’s always food to be had in the kitchen. You’re free to go there anytime. No-one in this house ever goes hungry, understand? Now, slide off that table and come on.”

  The little boy beamed delightedly, jumped down and took Menders’ hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ***

  “Your nephew!” Franz stared at Menders. “There is a resemblance, yes, but it could be between any two dark-haired, puny, Thrunnish types. You have to be jumping to conclusions!”

  “If you’d seen me at his age, you’d have no doubt,” Menders answered. “There is no other place on the Sea of Grass called anything sounding like Stettan, nothing beginning with an ‘s’ at all. The Tailors clan lives only in that area. And if you knew my father,” Menders grimaced. “He used those Thrun women. Not a female servant in the house was safe and it didn’t matter if they were only girls …”

  “You needn’t spell it out. I know,” Franz said gently.

  Menders shook his head, trying to dispel the childhood memories, the sounds of young servant girls being forcibly deflowered, the cries of pain and grunts of lust.

  “You know about Thahlia being my half-sister and Thira being my niece,” he continued roughly. “Several more of Tharak’s people are also my close relatives. They were always taken in by the clan, half Mordanian or not. But some of those poor girls were ashamed that they had my father’s bastard in their bellies. They became targets for unscrupulous Thrun men who wanted to live in the towns. The girls would go away from the clan with them, believing that life would be easy in the city with plenty of money to be made. They’d end up as City Thrun, petty criminals, prostitutes.

  “One girl finally put her knife through my father’s eye when he tried to rape her and finished him off. Once he was gone, I tried to track some of his illegitimate children down, to make amends. It was like trying to reweave a broken spiderweb – there were so many, but they left no trace.”

  Franz was silent for a while.

  “I still find it an enormous leap for you to decide that Borsen is your nephew,” he finally said. “His mother could have been from Stettan but conceived with someone else. Your father couldn’t have been the only Mordanian man in the area.”

  “That’s true, but Borsen told me part of her name. Thara.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a Thrun word. One of its meanings is ‘eyes. Thara is the feminine form. The masculine form has a ‘k’ at the end of it.” Menders looked away out the window.

  “This is like pulling hen’s teeth,” Franz sighed.

  “Sorry.” Menders shook himself and looked directly at Franz. “I assure you her other name was Borgela, which means ‘white’. My Thrun name is Thartan a’a’ Tharak, ‘Magic In The Eyes’. Tharak Karak means ‘Eyes That See Forward’. I’m positive Borsen’s mother’s name was Thara Borgela – ‘White Eyes’.”

  “Why do you make this assumption about her name?” Franz asked, his voice edged with frustration.

  “All people with my eye condition don’t have the white eyes. That’s a very extreme form of the disease,” Menders explained. “Most people have the visual problems though their eyes appear normal. It doesn’t come from my Thrun side, but from my father. He had the same condition I do, though his eyes were brown. Stettan is the last bastion of Mordania on the Sea of Grass and there is no other settlement or estate near there. My father was the only man in the entire district with this eye disease. Even his full brother, Kaymar’s father, didn’t have the white eyes, or pass the condition on.”

  “And?” Franz urged. He turned his hands palms up and shrugged in irritation and impatience.

  “Franz, Borsen is nearly blind and he’s sensitive to light. If you look in his eyes, I know you will see the same abnormalities you see in mine. And his name, Borsen – the Old Mordanian custom of naming a boy by putting ‘sen’ behind the first syllable of the mother’s name. Borsen, son of Borgela.”

  Franz sat back slowly and lit a cigar. After a moment he raised his eyebrows and shook his head wonderingly. “Impressive deductive reasoning, my friend. Borsen hides his poor eyesight well but being nearly blind is a weakness that can be exploited, so I understand why he did so. I can have a look at his eyes if you wish.”

  “Please. I’ll take him to Erdstrom for glasses when we go up next month.” Menders accepted the cigar for a puff and handed it back.

  “So it seems you’ve happened upon a little kinsman,” Franz mused.

  “It seems incredible, but I believe I have,” Menders said. “It’s a part of life I thought I’d put behind me. Stettan, and all that. I’ve never even been back there, you know. Not once.”

  “Pasts have a way of turning up,” Franz philosophized, “and that boy has just lost everything he had. From what you’ve told me, it wasn’t much. You can give him a family, Menders, just as you’ve given him a future and a home. What greater gift could you give him than to let him know that he’s not entirely alone in the world? If I was related to you, I would want to know.”

  Menders was relieved to feel himself smiling. He drew a deep breath.

  “Thank you. It just seems so impossible, of all places in the world this boy washes up here,” he said. “Something out of a novel.”

  “Singular things happen around you,” Franz replied. “To you, it’s just everyday life, but to someone observing, it’s much more.”

  “Like what?” Menders scoffed, looking at Franz as if he’d gone mad.

  Oh – take your cousin, Kaymar as an example. I’d have staked everything I have on him having become a victim of his own urges and past. He ends up coming to The Shadows because you’re here. He had some troubles and still does, but he settles down with a very nice fellow and for the most part, has quite a happy life. Crippled and injured servicemen like Ifor and Menck came here where they can lead productive lives instead of becoming destitute beggars – and that is entirely because you’re here. Against all tradition and expectation, a Princess of Mordania is being protected from the cycle of destruction that is the Royal Family, and is becoming a kind and loving young woman. And while I’m blathering, let’s not forget a doctor who runs to fat, who was lonely and drinking himself to death after losing his wife and baby, a man who never admired anyone in his entire life, who comes to admire a boy still wet behind the ears, simply because that boy was you – and I learned to live again and love life.

  “Extraordinary things happen around you, Menders. I’ve long since stopped trying to convince myself it’s all coincidence. These things are happening for a reason, which has yet to be made clear - and the catalyst is you.”

  Menders stared at him. Franz was so often flip and cynical that this impassioned, sincere speech was shattering.

  “Next you’ll be spouting Thrun prophesies, Doctor,” he managed with weak sarcasm.

  “This child has been sent into your care,” Franz insisted. “Just as Katrin was. Have you ever wondered at someone handing a newborn baby to an assassin – the assassin? What are the chances of that? Some old fart being put out to pasture should have been assigned as a guardian for Katrin, not a boy who happened to be the most lethal person on the planet. Has it never struck you as a bit unexpected?”

  “Of course it has,” Menders answered.

  “You managed that peculiar situation, as you manage everything that comes your way. Strange things fall into your lap and you pick them up and weave them together to make something coherent out of them. To you, it’s routine, but to the rest of us, it’s much more.”

  Menders didn’t know what to say, so said nothing. Praise was not something he sought from others and he was inwardly embarrassed by it.

  “Look at Borsen as a way to make right some of those
past wrongs, Franz continued when he realized Menders was not going to speak. “You said you tried to find some of your father’s byblows. It’s taken a long time, but one has just fallen into your lap. You can’t help Borsen’s mother. You’ll probably never be able to help the others - but Borsen is here, and he’s yours. He needs you, Menders – and you need him.”

  “How so?” Menders scowled, but Franz was immune to his repertoire of menacing expressions.

  “He’s a child who can’t be taken from you by the Queen,” Franz answered bluntly. “You’ve been granted a little son, Menders. If ever a boy needed a father, it’s Borsen.”

  “I’ll tell Eiren first,” Menders said after a moment. Then he smiled.

  “Ah, I know that look,” Franz grinned back. “Menders has just talked himself into rising to yet another challenge.”

  ***

  “Was your mother’s full name Thara Borgela Tailors?” Menders asked Borsen, who was sitting beside him on the sofa in the family suite.

  Borsen nodded slowly.

  “Yes,” he said, looking startled. “That’s where my name came from – Borsen. Mama said she didn’t think that Tharsen was a pretty name, so she used Borgela to make my name instead of Thara. How did you know that?”

  While omitting certain unsuitable details, Menders carefully explained about his father’s illegitimate children and that his father had been Lord Stettan, making Borsen’s mother Menders’ half-sister.

  Suddenly Borsen sat bolt upright and stared at him.

  “Are your eyes brown?” he asked excitedly. Menders shook his head.

  “If you would let me see your eyes,” Borsen continued, “I’ll be able to tell you right away.”

  Menders dimmed the lamp. He hadn’t realized that Borsen hadn’t seen his eyes, but given the child’s poor vision it was unlikely that he had caught so much as a glimpse.

  He removed his glasses.

  “Mama!” The cry came from Borsen’s heart. He was staring at Menders’ eyes, wringing his small hands, looking as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Her eyes,” he choked in Thrun. “You have her eyes.”

  Menders waited as Borsen wiped at tears with his sleeve and then squinted at him again.

  “She had white eyes, just like yours,” he finally said, switching back to his heavily accented, often halting Mordanian. “It’s like she’s looking at me. The light hurt her eyes very much. She didn’t see well, just like me, but my eyes are dark and the light doesn’t hurt them so much.”

  “That’s right,” Menders said gently.

  “So it’s true, what you said.” The uptilted brown eyes were filled with wonder as they focused imperfectly on Menders’ own.

  “I have no doubt, Borsen. You are my nephew.”

  Menders felt his heart opening, as it had when he’d first held Katrin in his arms; when he first saw Eiren as a grown woman, walking down the steps of her schoolhouse. It had opened again for this frail nephew. He put his arms out to the boy, who flung himself into them.

  “You have a family,” Menders said fiercely in Thrun, hugging the little body close. “You are loved and you are part of us now, Little Man.”

  “My mama called me Little Man. Please, may I call you Uncle?” Borsen whispered against Menders’ neck in the same language, his thin little arms squeezing tighter.

  “Of course.” Menders gave Borsen’s back a rub and then released him.

  Borsen sat back on his heels, looking as if he didn’t know whether to jump around or turn cartwheels. Instead, he snatched up a little pile of papers he’d brought to the suite with him and handed them to Menders.

  “Katrin said I should show you these,” he chattered, the Thrun words tumbling out giddily. “They’re my drawings. She says you’re a great artist and can teach me.”

  Menders replaced his glasses and looked – then looked again.

  I didn’t need to do all that detective work, he thought. All I had to do was see my own style drawn by your hand.

  The drawings were designs for men’s clothing, all beautifully rendered, the body proportions correct. The level of detail was amazing for a young boy who was virtually blind. The clothing styles were original and exquisite and the male body was lovingly worshipped in the drawings.

  “These are very fine,” Menders said admiringly. “I can certainly help you with your drawing. We’ll get you some proper drawing pencils and colors and you’ll improve very quickly.”

  “I’m glad you like them, Uncle,” Borsen replied. “I looked at magazine drawings when I could find them and tried to do the same things with my sketches. My father used to make fun and tear them up, so I hid them and didn’t show them to anyone.”

  “Make some of these clothes and no-one will ever make fun again. Show these to Tomar,” Menders said honestly. “I’d give my left foot to have that dark green jacket with the grey trim.”

  “Mama used to make clothes and I had a little suit in just those colors when I was tiny,” Borsen reminisced. “I used to have a pile of scraps that she gave me but they got left behind once when we moved. Uncle – can I still be a tailor? Now that I’m your nephew I don’t have to take over from you here, do I?” The boy looked fearful at the thought.

  “No. If you want to be a tailor, a tailor you shall be,” Menders replied firmly. “This is not my estate, it’s Katrin’s. I only run it. There’s no nonsense like following in my footsteps, so don’t panic.”

  “And you don’t mind that I’m a nancyboy?” Borsen asked the question quickly.

  How effectively he uses my own technique, probably without realizing it, Menders thought. Borsen had perfected the trick of getting people talking, only to throw in an important question fast, to catch them off guard. There’s no doubt you are mine, body from my body, blood from my blood.

  “Not in the least,” he answered.

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Borsen said softly. “Some people have minded.”

  To me you are a gift, my little son,” Menders responded, putting a hand on Borsen’s fragile shoulder.

  ***

  “That means I’m your cousin,” Katrin said excitedly. They had gone up after dinner to see the new sewing machines that had just been installed in the tailor shop, and Borsen had told her about his conversation with Menders “And Kaymar is also your cousin.”

  “Really?” Borsen looked stunned.

  “Yes, if you’re related to Menders, you’re related to Kaymar and me. You have cousins among the Thrun as well. It means you’re a member of the Royal Family. You’re also cousin to the Queen.”

  Borsen squinted at her, for once not bothering to hide the fact that he could hardly see. “How can that be with me Thrun and a bastard?”

  “That doesn’t matter – Royal Family is Royal Family – and the Royal Family has plenty of bastards. Menders told me that long ago.” Katrin grinned at him.

  Borsen goggled at her and then started to whoop with laughter.

  “If my father knew that!” he howled. “He’s a common thief and I’m part of the Royal Family! Oh, that’s too funny! Maybe I could have his head cut off.”

  They giggled and then bent over the sewing machine together.

  ***

  Hemmett always refused to be picked up at the halt when he came home by train. He insisted on marching to the house, raucously singing soldiers’ cadences as he tromped the two miles.

  Menders could hear him coming up the road, roaring deafeningly about how he was the best marching man in Mordania. He rounded the corner of the drive, duffel balanced on his head with one hand, striding along like a legendary hero, his uniform perfect.

  “Good Gods, he’s even taller,” Menders remarked to Eiren, who was watching from a second floor window with him. They were taking a break from helping with Lucen’s latest construction project, a dumbwaiter, which was going on apace.

  “I think he’s bigger than Lucen now,” she replied, laughing as Hemmett began to incorporate a capering dance s
tep into his march. Katrin had come out onto the steps to meet him, followed by Borsen, who was taking his lunch break.

  “Ho there, yer bleedin’ Royal Highness,” Hemmett grinned when he reached the bottom of the steps, dumping his duffel in the dirt. “Proper respect shall now be paid.” He performed a slight curtsy, tugging at the legs of his trousers and then pretending to remove his drawers from his backside. Menders snickered and Eiren covered her mouth to hold back laughter. Obviously, Hemmett had no idea they were watching, or he’d never be so playfully disrespectful.

  Katrin leapt at him and he spun round with her.

  “Ooof! Hello there, Willow! Gods, I’ve missed you, life’s been dull as a wake lately!”

  “What, with all those exploding pillows and such?” she laughed back.

  “Faw, it’s been really quiet. We got pretty wild at midterm and Sir came down on us and told us to pull it in, so we did.”

  “What did you do at midterm?”

  “Well, let’s just say it led to some flooding of the second floor after the fire got going and that idiot Villison chopped through the water pipes with the fire axe to try to put it out,” Hemmett grinned.

  “Oh, Hemmett!”

  “Now then, don’t nag. I didn’t do it, though I enjoyed the show,” he replied, putting her down. He looked over at Borsen, who was studying him warily.

  “Is this the new cousin?” Hemmett asked, making his voice gentle.

  “Yes, this is Borsen,” Katrin said proudly, climbing the steps. “Borsen, this is Hemmett.”

  Hemmett put out an enormous paw, engulfing Borsen’s little hand with a friendly handshake. Suddenly Borsen grinned and Hemmett gave out a great haw-haw that shook the house.

  “I’d know in a second you were Menders’ nevvy, you look just like him,” he announced. Menders was amused to see Borsen draw upright with pride. He’d already announced to Katrin that he intended to stop cutting his hair and was going to try to grow a beard, in imitation of Menders. The hair was coming on apace, but the beard had, so far, been a failure.