Weaveworld

2

So they walked.

He had his silence; she, hers. So many feelings to try and comprehend. Her thoughts went back to Mimi, and the sacrifice she’d made, knowing Romo, her beautiful lion-tamer, was sleeping in a place she could not trespass. Had she touched the knots where he was concealed, she wondered?; had she knelt and whispered her love for him to the Weave? The very thought of it was beyond bearing. No wonder she’d been so severe, so stoical. She’d stood guard at the paradise gates, alone; unable to breathe a word of what she knew; fearful of dementia, fearful of death.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Jerichau said at last.

‘I’m not afraid,’ she lied, then, remembering that the colours from her would be contradicting her every word, said: ‘Well … maybe a little. I can’t be a Custodian, Jerichau. I’m not the equal of it.’

They’d emerged from the myrtle copse and walked out into a field. Several huge marble beasts stood in the knee-high grass, their species either mythical or extinct, but either way chiselled in loving detail; tusk and fur and tiny eye. She leaned against the flank of one and stared at the ground. They could hear neither the debate behind them nor the bells in the branches; only night-insects going about their business in the shadow of the beasts.

His gaze was upon her – she felt it – but she couldn’t raise her head to meet it.

‘I think maybe -’ he began, then stopped.

The insects chattered on, mocking his struggle for words.

Again, he tried.

‘I just wanted to say: I know you’re the equal of anything.’

She was going to smile at this courtesy, but:

‘No. That’s not what I wanted to say.’ He took a fresh breath, and with it said: ‘I want to go with you.’

‘With me?’

‘When you go back to the Kingdom. Whether it’s with the carpet or without it, I want to be with you.’

Now she looked up, and his dark face was that of an accused man awaiting verdict; hanging on every flicker of her lash.

She smiled, searching for a response. Finally she said:

‘Of course. Of course. I’d like that.’

‘Yes?’ he gasped. ‘You would?’

The anxiety fled from his face, replaced by a luminous grin.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I want so much that we should be friends.’

Then friends we’ll be.’ she replied.

The stone was chilly against her back; he, in front of her, exuded warmth. And there was she, where Romo had advised her to be: between.