by A. Sparrow
“Luther made all this? Really?”
“Welcome to Luthersburg,” she said, pushing open the heavy door. The scents of lilacs and freshly baked bread wafted in. “Come! I see Lille and Bern. I am excited for them to meet you.”
She burst out on to the square. I hung back, hesitant. She waved for me to join her. “Come on! Don’t be shy.”
I followed her out. The place reminded me of “Disneyworld”—one of those fake European town squares, scrubbed clean, with every detail cute and quaint, every rock identically faceted as if each were created from the same mold.
I saw no signs that this urban landscape was woven from roots. The bricks bore glaze and char marks from firing in a kiln. The stone cobbles had crystalline inclusions, flakes of mica and facets that had been shaped with chisels.
The square was nearly vacant. A handful of people converged on the center of the plaza where an array of benches surrounded a stepped, stone platform where a couple sat on a bench holding hands.
“It is pretty, yes?” said Karla.
“Yeah,” I said, unable to keep the nervousness out of my voice.
“There are more souls coming here than what you see,” said Karla. “What you see is the tip of the iceberg. We cannot be here all at once. But things are unusually quiet, it seems.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Never cared much for crowds.”
“If this was mine, I would make a different kind of piazza,” she said. “Something with a fountain and trees and more places to sit. This one I find too drab. Too … German. But this is what Luther he likes. Have you ever seen Trevi or Espania … eh … Spanish Steps in Roma?”
“Nuh-uh,” I said. “Never been out of the US, except for the Bahamas.”
“Well, if you ever get a chance to go, that’s the kind of piazza I prefer.”
My gaze drifted over to the central platform, where an obelisk and podium were flanked by pedestals bearing winged gargoyles.
“Come see Bern and Lille!” She made a beeline for the couple on the park bench.
Their heads turned our way in unison as we approached. There was something odd about their faces. Their skin was waxy and too smooth, as if they wearing many layers of makeup. It reminded me of those rich people in South Florida who had every square inch of their faces cut and lifted and botoxed until they looked like mannequins.
“And who do we have here, Mädchen?” said the man, who had a cane with a jade handle propped beside him. A bowler hat perched slightly askew on his brow. His billowy shirt was contained beneath an intricately embroidered vest.
“Bern, it’s the glow-worm!” said the woman, who was practically smothered in silk scarves, beneath which she wore something that looked like a purple bathrobe. “Remember him? From the tunnels?”
“This is the same boy?”
“Bern, Lille? This is James.”
They rose from the bench and each in turn took my hand and kissed me on alternate cheeks, three times.
“How are you feeling, Lille?” said Karla. “You were a bit under the weather before, no?”
“Terrible,” she said. “I’m coming apart again.” She ducked her head and covered her face with her hands.
“But you look fine,” said Karla.
“I keep telling her that, but she doesn’t listen to me,” said Bern. “I think she doesn’t like my cosmetic work.”
“Sorry my dear, your aesthetic sensibilities may be fine, but you just don’t have Luther’s panache. When he does me, I can go for days without worrying about threads popping out of my cheeks.”
Karla pulled me close and whispered. “Lille survived a fire. She is self-conscious about her looks.”
“A fire? Here?”
“No. On the other side.”
“What are you telling this boy?” said Lille, scowling.
“Just explaining how this place works,” said Karla. “He is very new, but I have to tell you, he has wicked skill for someone so green.”
“Oh, believe me, we already know,” said Bern. “We came across him in the tunnels ages ago. He was in a tight pod up near the branching. Of course, we would have helped him, if he had needed it, but this was an early visitation. He reverted rather quickly. But even then, we saw him, still in his pod, already influencing the lights.”
“When was this?” said Karla, amazed.
Bern and Lille looked at each other.”
“Months ago, I suppose,” said Lille.
“Yes, months.”
“I should tell you, Bern and Lille help me when I first was visit. They were the ones who free me from my pod and take me to their cottage. They teach me how to Weave too, though I learn much more slow than you.”
“We do our part, saving a few souls now and then,” said Bern.
“Such a terrible waste,” said Lille. “All those souls getting Reaped without having a chance to succeed in the Liminality. I truly believe that Weaving is in the heart of every soul, you just have to show them the possibilities.”
“Sad, but most of them don’t listen,” said Bern. “They can’t wait to be Reaped.”
“But you see James,” said Lille. “It doesn’t have to be that way. Weaving lets us create our own little Heavens.”
“Or a big one, in Luther’s case,” said Bern.
“But isn’t it … temporary?” I said. “Don’t we all have to die some day? Some way or another?”
Bern and Lille looked at each other conspiratorially.
“Maybe,” said Bern. “Maybe not.”
“I think we all can become like Luther,” said Karla. “Maybe it is vain, but I hope someday to have powers like him.”
“Well, I hope that day comes soon, my dear,” said Lille. “And then we can all move to Karlaburg.”
“Cinque Terra, I will call my place.”
“Oh?”
“Shush everyone, here he comes,” whispered Bern.
“He has called this public assembly to greet you,” said Lille. A flash of worry sparked in her eyes. “Do not be alarmed by his appearance. He is just a man like you. Just remember, he is a Weaver of souls.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ve met.”
***
At first I thought it was some giant bird hopping across the rooftops, a huge thing, more stork than Great Blue Heron, but it was Luther. He now sported six, armored and articulated legs attached to a horse’s trunk, giant black-feathered wings and a scorpion stinger dangling over the entire affair. Only his face and upper torso remained human.
“Jesus Christ” I sidled behind the bench.
“Oh, he’s just showing off,” said Lille.
“He’s such a drama queen,” said Bern.
Luther galloped across the plaza, his six legs striding in perfect synchrony one tripod at a time. He wore a queer little green vest with brass buttons and gold brocade. A captain’s cap perched on a frizzy puff of ginger hair. His proportions were all wrong. His head looked too small, his face too pinched for the length and bulk of his arms.
“I gather you here today,” he bellowed, as he pranced before them on the square, his voice pitched high and edged with a rasp. “To meet our latest supplicant.” He looked down at me. “Take a bow, son and tell them your name.”
I turned to face the sparse crowd gathered around. “Hi y’all.” I ducked my head, unable to meet their eyes. “I’m James.”
“Let me emphasize to you, James, that your residence in our community is conditional. We are a guild of Weavers. We do not tolerate charity cases.” He glared at Karla. “Thus, I will require you to pass a basic examination of competency to allow you to remain. After all, we have standards to maintain.”
“But the boy already has shown great skill,” said Bern. “Lille and I, we’ve seen it.”
“And me too,” said Karla. “That shirt he is wearing. He shapes it himself.”
Luther pursed his lips and squinted. “I require evidence not anecdote,” said Luther. “He needs to demonstrate some basic com
petency, right here, right now. Otherwise, it’s back to the tunnels. We can’t go cutting down every sad little soul we pass because we feel sorry for them. The Reapers must have their morsels. Don’t want them getting too agitated now, do we?”
“So we save a soul now and then. Why not?” said Lille. “It’s not like your silly little burg is getting overpopulated.”
“He freed himself … by himself! … from a pod,” said Karla. “He can … already … he can Weave.”
“Pfft. Finding one’s way out a sack does not a Weaver make. Any kitten can do that. This one can’t even dress himself properly. Look at him! His kilt has no sporran.”
“He is still learning,” said Karla. “But he is already good. Very good.”
“No Luther, this boy has real skills,” said Bern. “He’s a natural.”
“Make something glow,” whispered Lille. “Wait till he sees your talent for lighting.”
Luther swallowed, making his bulging Adam’s apple bob. “Show me. Weave me something boy. Anything. I don’t care what. A pair of mittens. A sock. Is that too much to ask?”
Karla looked at me and nodded, her expression grave but confident. “Go ahead. Show him what you can do.”
Jitters overcame me. My brain froze.
“But … there’s nothing to weave here,” I said. “No roots. All this stuff … is real.”
Luther snickered.
“No James,” said Bern. “Everything in root is made of string. Even our flesh. On every scale imaginable, all is made of thread.”
“You can take anything … and change it,” said Lille. “True, some things are harder to budge, but Luther hasn’t locked everything down, I don’t think. The more natural things should be—”
“Don’t help him!” said Luther. “Let him figure it out on his own.” He stomped his insect feet and they clicked and clattered against the cobbles.
“I need time,” I said. “I don’t like being put on the spot.”
“Stage fright?” said Luther.
“Look closer, James,” whispered Karla. “Look and you can see the fibers. And then you will know.”
I stooped and picked up a loose stone that had rested by the leg of one of the benches, next to Bern’s scuffed brown shoe.
“Remember what I told you … about touching,” said Karla.
“Leave the Weaver boy to his own Weaving, please” said Luther, arching his wings, swinging his tail. I couldn’t take my eyes off his stinger.
I wrapped my hands around the stone, feeling every curve and groove. I slid my thumbnail across it and it ratcheted across some fine striations. I held the stone before my face. I could see fibers now, hardly thicker than the grooves on a thumb print.
I closed my eyes and tried to conjure an image of something else about the size of that stone. My mind drifted to that box of my mom’s old knick-knacks sitting in the back of Dad’s truck. She had all kinds of crap, souvenir mugs, wooden carvings.
When I was little she used to keep them locked up in a cabinet to keep them away from my curious and destructive little fingers. I must have spent hours staring at those things behind that glass.
I pressed my fingers into the stone and sent myself back to those days, at the old apartment in Cleveland, with Dad in the living room, reading his Sports Illustrated and mom with a pot of corn chowder on the stove.
The stone softened and then collapsed, turning into a repulsive ball of writhing, wiry larvae-like creatures. I almost dropped them on the plaza.
“Keep hold! Don’t let go,” said Karla.
The larvae shrank as they shifted and then stiffened. A new, slender and elongated shape asserted itself as the surface went from bristly to fuzzy to slick. It hardened and froze into a something cool and glossy.
“Okay, that’s enough,” said Luther. “Let’s see what wonders you have wrought to that stone.”
I opened my hand. Karla gasped. Bern and Lille started clapping.
A perfect replica of Mom’s glass giraffe slipped from my trembling fingers and shattered against the pavement.
***
Karla cleared some of her furniture away and dragged a great big futon to the center of her chamber. I sat in a chair and sipped on a cup of her strange colorless tea.
“Did you see Luther’s face?” she said, beaming. “He was not expecting. I was not expecting … none of us were.”
“No idea how I did it. It just happened.”
“No, it did not just happen. You made it happen. You are already a very good Weaver. It is amazing.”
She tossed some pillows onto the futon and made it up with some gauzy blankets.
“There,” she said. “For us.”
I choked on my tea and sputtered. “Excuse me?”
“What’s wrong? Is big enough for two, no?”
“Um … sure … but—“
“Is for when we get sleepy. You don’t think I am expecting the hanky-panky do you? What kind of slot do you think I am?”
“Slut,” I said.
“What?”
“The word is slut … and no … I don’t think … I just—”
“Get off it, huh?” She plopped down on the bed. “I am tired. I plan to sleep. I am just suggesting that you should rest too. Even your soul gets tire. Our conscious cannot go twenty-four hours, all the time.”
I sat scrunched on the chair, tucking the hem of my kilt, nerves thrumming.
“I’m not tired,” I said. “Not in the least.”
“Well, I am tired. Very tired. So what will you do, sit and watch me sleep?”
“Sure. I’ll be your guard … your night watchman.”
She pulled off her moccasins and slipped under the covers. “You know, that sounds nice. Someone to watch over me. Like the song.”
“Don’t know that one,” I said.
I saw her staring straight up. I followed her eyes to the stained glass dove that topped her dome.
“I like your little bird window. Did you make it yourself?”
“Thank you, yes,” she said. “But it is not my design. I copy it from Vaticano.”
“The Vatican?”
“San Pietro.”
Distant rumbles sent vibrations rippling through the walls.
“Christ, that’s a big one,” I said. “Do Reapers ever sleep?”
“Eh … that is a good question. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I never go where they stay.”
“Do you ever worry … about getting Reaped?”
“Nah,” she said. “I am a Weaver. They never Reap us.”
“Really? Why not?”
“They don’t dare. They are not stupid. They know Luther can turn them into a pile of worms. They are scare of us.”
“Reapers … scared?”
“I mean, I think so. I hope so. They don’t chase us. Only the pods. They like the fresh meat. Even you … maybe … you are spoiled to them now. Shall we try? You go stand in the tunnel and see if they eat you?”
“Real funny,” I said. “Why don’t you go first?”
“I am not scare of them. I respect them, but I am not scare. And you should not be, either. They are just animals.” She laid her head back and closed her eyes. “Especially not you. I think you are already a powerful Weaver.”
“Nah. I’m just James Moody. Never been anything special. Never will be.”
“Shush. Save your whining for the other side. Now we are here in Root. All the rules have changed.” She yawned and sighed. “I am very sleepy. Is it okay if I make the light lower?”
“Um … sure.”
She raised her hand and the ceiling darkened as if the implied sun behind the window with the dove had slipped behind a thick cloud.
“Wow. That’s pretty nifty. You Weavers are something else.”
“It is nothing. You can do this and more, I am sure.”
Her head sank heavy onto her pillow and her breath softened into a gentle wheeze. I pulled the covers up over her shoulders and went back to the
chair. The chair legs scraped harshly against the floor.
“James? Are you still here?” She spoke without opening her eyes.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No. It’s okay. I’m just glad … you are still here … to watch over me.”
“Not a problem.”
She drifted off again and right then I realized that this—right here—was where I wanted to be. I never wanted to go back to that broken truck and that drug deal gone bad. But as soon as that feeling hit me, my fingers started to tingle. I was afraid to look at them, but I did, and those translucent spots again blotched my skin.
“Oh Christ! Karla! It’s happening again!”
“What is happening?” she said, sleepily.
“I’m falling apart.”
She propped herself up on her elbows and looked up at me.
“Oh!” She looked alarmed at first, but then her face softened and she smiled. “But this is a good thing. It means you still have hope. It is better not to be here. When you are here so short, it means you are finding some way to make your life on the other side more tolerable.”
“But I don’t want to go yet! How do I make it stop?”
“No,” she said. “Once it is happening, there is nothing you can do but go.”
“Tell me! Where can I find you … on the other side?”
“Find me? Forget about it. People like me, we are a sorry bunch on the other side. You do not want to become like us.”
“I want to see you again. Will I?”
She sighed and gave me a sad look. “Who knows? Probably. Though I wish not, for your sake.”
The tingles in my hand spread to the rest of my body. Something cold splatted against my face and seeped into my clothes. I held up my arm and could see tall grass waving through the emptiness outlining what had been my elbow. My flesh became a window to the other side.
“Ciao James. It was nice to see you.”
“But—”
Chapter 19: Land of the Cleves
My senses snapped and sizzled back into place. I lay inert, on a slope, staring up at a dense and swirly cloudscape, its underside brushed by the sodium glow of a thousand street lamps, its gaps backlit by the approach of dawn.
Lightning stitched the horizon. Black knobs—funnel clouds—jutted down like judging fingers. A cacophony of grumbles rebounded across the fields and hills. I pictured legions of Reapers advancing across the landscape.
