The Realms Thereunder

2

The weary travelers circled the dry island to find an easy way up that didn’t involve scaling sharp rocks and boulders. The ground underfoot crunched and shifted as they came upon a stretch of land made up of loose stones and gravel. In their own torchlight, they could see that this created a kind of ramp-like path up towards the island. “It’s a beach,” Freya said, laughing slightly. “Or at least, it used to be.”

They mounted the top of the ramp on an ascent of fine, powdery sand. The light was stronger and grew from a point just below a small rise.

“Shh!” hissed Daniel. “Listen!”

They all heard the singing now; many voices in chorus- melodic, but indistinct. It sounded strange to them, after all this time of walking in the silent dark, but there it was. They proceeded up the rise, alert, ready for nearly anything.

But they weren’t prepared for the smell. It was a homely smell of warm food and wood smoke-some sort of stew, at a guess. The singing had given way to an amiable chatter. The travelers rounded the mound, drawing closer, and Freya immediately wondered if it might all be some sort of illusion meant to confuse them, for as they came around the base of the mound, they saw a group of people sitting around a large fire, their hands moving vigorously in industrious work.

Creeping closer, Freya counted eight women, all of them ancient, sitting in a circle around a modest campfire, working on a long piece of grey patterned cloth spread across their laps. At one end, two old ladies worked spinning machines-turning a large pile of thin, wispy material into spools of thread, which were placed onto a loom that was operated by two others. This loom spewed a fine fabric from its top that was gathered by another who stretched and pulled the cloth. The cloth then crossed the laps of two other women, who placed the woven fabric into large embroidery frames where they added borders of an elaborate swirling pattern. The finished cloth then entered a large stack of long rolls that were piled behind the group. Because of the darkness, Freya couldn’t make out how many rolls of cloth there were, but she had the impression of quite a large number, as its production had apparently been going on for some time.

The last old lady flitted around the others to help-toting spools to the loom, fixing the frames in different places, and doing whatever else needed doing. She also paused occasionally to stir the large pot on the fire at the centre of the circle.

Freya and Daniel and the knights watched in silence for a few moments and then entered the circle of light cast by the fire. They stood between the weaving machine and the embroiderers. Freya felt a tingle of anticipation as she drew breath to speak.

“Hello,” she said.

All of them continued, oblivious, except for the old woman at the large pot. She stopped stirring and turned towards them. “Well, hello there, sweet child,” she replied. “Where did you spring from?”

“Um, we’ve been traveling. We saw the light and came here.

We thought you might be able to help us.”

“Who’s ‘us,’ deary? Who is ‘we’?”

“My friends and I. We-oh!”

The old woman tilted her face so that the light from the fire fell on it more directly. Her eye sockets were empty and puckered- blind. Glancing quickly at the others, she could see that all of the women were blind. Haltingly, nervously, Freya introduced herself and the rest of the group to the weaving women.

“Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said the old lady. “Now, I must ask you an important question. Think carefully before you answer: would you or would you not like to have some good, hot stew?”

Freya grinned. “Yes, please,” she said.

“I can hear your smile,” the old woman said. “I daresay you have answered correctly. Come then, all of you. Come get some eats!”

“Freya,” Daniel whispered, “I’m not sure that we should.” He looked cautiously around at the group of ladies. Although they had not stopped working, it was obvious that they were all paying attention to what was going on. “Not until we find out-you know-if they can be trusted or not.”

“Young boy-Daniel, is it? What is there to worry about? Why not trust us? What reason is there for suspicion?”

“Well, for a start, you know my name. Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he asked.

“Weaving, my dear, weaving.”

“Why?”

“There must always be weavers-and gatherers, and combers, and spinners as well. It is the way of humanity. The first thing that man understood when he knew things as God knew them was that there must be weaving. And so here we are. We weave.”

“But-what is it?”

The old woman smiled, showing a full mouth of healthy white teeth. “All the known and unknown stories of the world may be told through our tapestry. We roll up the past, weave the present, and spin the strands of the future. It’s all one to us.”

“But you can’t see,” Daniel blurted.

The old woman waved a wrinkled hand. “Don’t need to bother with that no more. Gets in the way more often than not. All we have to do is feel and then move our hands. Now, are you satisfied enough to chance a taste of my stew?”

“I would,” said Ecgbryt, pushing his way into the circle.

“As would I,” said Swi?gar behind him, “and thank you for your generosity.”

Daniel said nothing but followed the knights and Freya and stood in front of the big pot. Smiling, the old lady gathered up some clay bowls and spoons that were lying on a low stone table nearby.

“My, you’re a strong thread, aren’t you? You and the girl both. Such a shame though . . .”

“What?”

“Well, in tough times, when the fabric wears thin and weaker threads break, the stronger threads have to pick up the slack.”

Daniel frowned as he was handed a bowl of steaming stew.

“So, can you predict the future?” Freya asked. “Because of your weaving?”

“Oh no,” said the woman. “None see the future. But when you’ve lived as long as I, you get to know the pattern. All the threads follow their own paths, but each is affected by those around them. Each strand is small in itself, but all are great together. A very many threads seen together will give you a pattern or a shape, but even that will only be small in the larger work.” She spooned up another bowl and passed it to Freya. “The threads go here and there and make all manner of twists and turns, but it is always to a purpose, though it may not seem that way to the thread. To the thread all that happens feels accidental, but those as sees more, knows better.”

“So the threads can’t decide where they go? Or choose what part of pattern they’re in?”

“No, of course not,” said the woman lightly. “How could they?

They’re only threads, not people.” She handed the last bowls to Swi?gar and Ecgbryt.

None of the other weavers had stopped working during this exchange. Freya eyed the rolls of fabric. “How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Oh, year unknown upon year innumerable,” came the reply.

“Have you ever tried to leave?”

“Where is there to go?”

“Where do you get the stuff to weave with?” asked Daniel.

“Worms. Little worms. We are provided for. We don’t ask for much. Even the meat for the stew comes to us freely.”

Luckily, Daniel and Freya had already eaten a couple mouthfuls of the chunky broth and it tasted good enough to keep them from imagining what they were eating. Whatever it was, it tasted so incredibly good that they didn’t want to stop eating. The warmth of the food started in their stomachs and spread to their arms and legs.

“Yes, all manner of things that you wouldn’t dream of managin’ to fetch up here,” the old woman continued. “You could hardly credit it. All sorts of unimaginable persons and beasts and creatures . . .” Her voice was starting to drone. Daniel’s and Freya’s hands felt hot and heavy and a couple of sizes too big. Daniel felt himself rocking backwards as Freya began tilting forwards. She wondered if she should stop herself falling asleep but couldn’t think of a reason why. It would feel so nice to lie down on the floor and rest.

As Daniel quietly collapsed, he managed to loll his head around to look at Swi?gar and Ecgbryt. They were still awake, but obliviously spooning stew into their mouths. Daniel’s eyes closed-or at least he thought that they did. He felt himself spinning downwards even though he knew he wasn’t moving, and he slept.