by Andre Norton
Mrs. Jones propelled her considerable bulk around the end of the counter. “You was a-wanting your package, Miss? Jimmy the Post brought it in last night.” She produced a box from a pile of parcels and slid it toward me.
“Mighty lot of stamps on that,” the proprietress observed. Though her delivery duty was concluded, she did not turn away but stood watching. The little eyes in her broad face flitted from me to the box and back again.
I decided that, the sooner I gave my new neighbors something real to discuss, the quicker I would be accepted as relatively harmless.
“Yes, there are,” I agreed; then I took my first step toward acquaintance. “Some children collect stamps. Do you know any youngster who would like these, Mrs. Jones?”
The shopkeeper nodded. “If you’d be so kind, our Jamie does that, miss—Miss Tremayne.”
Out of nowhere a pair of scissors appeared, and I carefully cut out the much-bestamped corner of the parcel’s wrapping. Enid had certainly made sure of a safe delivery of my order, I thought as I passed the scrap to Mrs. Jones.
Encouraged by this minor ice-breaking, I voiced my real concern. “Could you direct me,” I asked, “to someone who could help in the house?”
Silence again, except for a kind of hiss from the other customer, who was now looking at me intently. The shop’s owner retreated a step or so, and her mouth pursed as though locking itself on any answer.
“I can post a notice if you want,” was the curt reply. The woman nodded toward the door, where a small board hung to which a few tags of paper had been pinned.
“That would be most kind,” I answered. “I would like help every day but Sunday—just general cleaning.”
Mrs. Jones nodded once more, then abruptly turned back to her other patron. “More o’ them cream biscuits for you today, Missus Calder?”
I had been dismissed but accepted the fact without irritation. I was far from certain I would be here very long; however, though I am not a gregarious person, there are shades of loneliness that even I did not wish to darken my days.
As though bodying forth my thought, the overgrown trees and shrubs on the path leading back to my lodging cast their own darkness over me. It was most apparent that this was not a well-traveled way, yet its budding promised an early spring that I longed to see.
A few minutes of travel brought me into an uneven clearing that contained my temporary home: a cottage larger than those in the village. When Ravenmere was in its glory, this place must have housed the bailiff. But what, I had wondered from my first sight of it, had it been in the very beginning?
Two slabs of rock resembling menhirs flanked either side of the door, and stones even larger and apparently more ancient formed the base of the walls. The structure had been created by additions—quite a number of them. Each succeeding century had left its own mark here.
The great house of the estate was now merely a tumble of stone half-hidden by vegetation long out of control. I had no desire to explore that area; none of the locals had warned of snakes, but such a miniature jungle seemed a place where snakes might well set up hole-keeping. What the present owners intended to do with the long-deserted estate they had not yet decided, but meanwhile I had settled here at their invitation for an indefinite stay.
On so promising a day, my chosen workplace was not inside. I set the box I had just acquired into the top of my handy wheeled tote, then pushed past bushes that clutched at my jeans, heading for the discovery I’d made on my second day of residence.
They were called “follies” two centuries ago, such fantastic small buildings placed in formal gardens. Some, of which I had seen pictures, were modeled after classical temples or hermits’ caves, and a few were large enough to be used for sheltering picnic meals or staging amateur theatricals. This one, set to front a weed-choked lake, must have indeed been a folly where money was concerned. Its shape was that of a square tower, as though to suggest it had once been part of a now-vanished fortress. Fortunately for my needs, real windows, not arrow-slits for the convenience of castle defenders, had been built into the four sides of the structure. All gave good light, but that was best at the side where I chose to set up my worktable in the single room: facing the water.
The lake was framed by coarse reeds that formed an oddly-precise ring about its murky liquid. One could easily imagine strange life going about its own affairs beneath the surface; yet, while I had been drawn several times to study it, I had never thought of menace.
I unloaded my tote with the ease of long practice, setting out assembly trays, then glass bottles of beads, boxes of threads, and a container of tools—needles and the like. Next I took out my pattern sheet, which I had fastened to stiff backing. At last I was free to deal with the contents of the parcel.
I lifted away the packing material, and what lay within came to life with color. For a moment I simply feasted upon those many hues. Enid had been more than generous. Glowing ember of garnet, molten lava of ruby, noon sun of gold—bands of fire appeared to pulse across the beads dyed with the warm tones of the spectrum. Farther along, the colors cooled to water-tints of green and blue, then chilled to silver, gray, and black. Every nuance was present, from the lightest to the darkest.
Yesterday I had set up the embroidery frame. Now I rose and pulled it from the wall, untied the protecting cover, and drew it into the strongest light; the casters on its legs would make it easy to move as the sun shifted. Finally I arranged the pattern, creasing it so it might be readily consulted. When I had subsided again into my chair, I let myself relax and become absorbed in studying the lines marked on the long banner of gray silk tight-stretched before me.
This was an old art. Exquisite examples had been brought into being in the far past but were now only to be marveled at in museums; however, such “painting” had recently been reborn to enchant beadworker and beholder alike. Considering the challenge of the craft, I flexed my fingers nervously, so much in doubt of my own skill that I almost shrank from threading the first needle.
I continued to gaze at the waiting fabric, picking out the lines I had set there as guides no more than an afternoon ago. But—quickly I pulled my chair closer, reaching at the same time for the large magnifying glass I kept always at hand— No!
I snatched up the paper pattern with its intricate markings. Leaf and branch were gone! A drawing remained there, right enough, but it no longer showed the picture I had so carefully designed in days of planning. The glass tilted in my shaking hand.
There was no possible way this could have happened. The new lines had obviously been set down by someone experienced in such work; however, I could not believe that what I had created with such labor had simply vanished—or rather been exchanged for this alien motif which bore no resemblance to it.
Shaking with anger fast growing into such a rage as I had never known, I lifted one hand to rip the cloth from the frame. All my limited time—wasted! And by whom? In this small village, which person could have the expertise to do such a thing—and why?
With this thought, my hand fell again to the table, and I cowered in my seat. The unnatural—impossible—nature of the act had smothered my fury with a fear as icy cold as the anger had been hot. Such a thing could not happen!
Every movement was an effort; still I forced my head around and twisted my body so I could view the room without trying to get to feet I did not believe would support me at present. I listened, too, though I could hardly demand an explanation from emptiness.
Then an answer came. Like a hand gripping me by the nape of my neck, some compulsion forced me to bend forward, examine again those marks I had never made. As I did, I began to understand the meaning of this and that traced line. They formed a picture, yes, but one very unlike what I held in mind. The more I studied the artistry of that unknown hand, the greater grew my fear. The only word I could put to the feeling of what I detected in the new pattern was—Power. My fear became awe, then envy. This was masterwork, as far above my own labors as they wou
ld be beyond the stumbling stitches of a clumsy child.
I laid down the magnifying glass, pushed out of my chair, and stepped through the door, leaving all behind me unprotected. A wind, not yet more than a breeze, had arisen. Careful to keep away from the edge of the reed-bed, I stood for a long moment facing the lake.
The rising air was light, but it drew ripples across the surface. As I watched, though without truly concentrating on what I observed, I saw colors moving wave-wise in my mind: green of standing water, blue of sun-touched shallows, gray of shadow-play.
Thus—and thus—and thus—
I swung around and ran back to the workroom. Throwing myself into the seat, I faced the smooth stretch of waiting background. Yes! There could be no mistake: the design had been altered to represent the pond. But by whom had it been drawn, and for what purpose?
Curiously, those questions no longer troubled my mind. It seemed enough that the scene without had been brought within. I might be caught up in a mystery, but fear had departed.
Touching the fabric, I gasped. My probing finger had been stung with a sharp burst of force like that of an electric shock. I felt filled with energy, consumed by the need to bring to life the image I could now see on that expanse of cloth.
When I looked up from my labor, the light had moved; the hard jewel-glitter of the beads had softened to a stained-glass glow. For the first time, I was aware of the ache in my hands, my shoulders, and I felt dizzy as I straightened up. My mouth was dry, too. I had never worked thus before, so utterly absorbed in what I was doing.
I glanced away from the small section on which I had been concentrating, then back again—a device I used to sharpen sight dulled by fixed gazing and to catch any error.
I saw the green of velvety sod, the blue of liquid unclouded by murk and laced with a silver glint that expertly created the illusion of breeze-wakened ripples. And at the nearer edge of that body of water was the outline of a pacing bird.
Close-mown grass, not the rank growth I knew to exist outside my window; water of such freshness that it might be rising from a clear spring; a bird in stately pose. The deft shading and setting of the beads made it alive—all of it. I drew a breath of wonder. I had prided myself on my work, but this—this was perfection such as I had aspired toward but never before attained.
Thus began my bondage, for imprisonment—and forced labor—it came to be. Luckily, the cottage had been stocked with provisions when I moved in, as I begrudged any time away from my task, even the brief length needed to prepare a simple meal. I sustained myself by oatmeal made in quantities and swallowed speedily when I came out of bed; then by soup and crackers, or a mess of canned vegetables, heated up at dusk when the light had faded too far for me to put in even one more bead. I did not break my absorption for any midday meal.
During the hours when I was not occupied with needles, beads, and tiny stitches, muscles I never knew I owned protested their hours of being pulled as taut as the threads they had sent into the silk. However, while I labored, I felt nothing but excitement, a relentless drive to accomplish as much as I could. That in itself was new, for it was clear that I was now somehow able to complete far more work at each sitting than I had ever done before.
On the third day I was interrupted. Without warning a shadow fell across the backing of the bead-picture, and I glanced up, startled, to see someone standing at the window that faced the lake. At the same instant, the passionate desire to continue my crafting vanished.
The woman was tall, and her body was concealed in a dark garment so that only her face was visible. That was an ivory mask in which the eyes alone showed life; but once I had raised my own to look into them, I could not turn away. Out of that muffling cloak emerged a pale, long-fingered hand, and she beckoned.
Nor could I delay my answer to that gesture. I rose and went to the door and, as I opened it, found myself facing my visitor through the window in another wall. Again her gaze held me mute and waiting. She herself was in no hurry to speak; instead, she shrugged almost lazily, and her covering slipped from her. That garment never reached the floor—suddenly, it simply was not.
The dress she wore beneath fitted far more snugly and was of a now-familiar green-blue shade touched here and there among its folds with a flick of silver. Her hair had been divided into a pair of heavy braids, one of which fell across her left breast while the other disappeared behind her right shoulder.
By now I was shivering—this lady (she surely owned no lesser title) could not be anyone from the village come in answer to my note posted in the store. Not by the greatest stretch of imagination could I envision her wielding broom or duster, or bustling about a kitchen with cooking pots!
She ceased to hold me with her measuring stare but rather advanced boldly so that I was forced to move aside as she strode past me. When I turned, she was standing before the frame and tracing with her first finger a pattern in the air, at a few inches’ distance from the patch of completed work. Now and then she nodded, as though with approval. I was still trying to summon the courage for a question when she spoke.
“Nimuë ever chooses well. You are truly of her service, Maid of the Needle—”
Nimuë . . . that name . . . Deep within me, a memory struggled to awaken.
At last I succeeded in speaking. “Lady—who are you?”
My visitor smiled enigmatically. “Who am I? Well, I have borne many names in my time: Traitor, Challenger, Destroyer, Dealer-in-Death. How like you such titles?” Now she laughed, on a mocking note. “You will find them told in chronicles long kept, but said to spring only from bards’ fancies and to have no force of true life in them.”
I backed away, believing by now that the woman was not only attempting to frighten me but also that she was working herself up to an act of violence. Clearly she was insane.
“No,” she replied as though she had read my thoughts. “I am not twisted of mind—I am, in truth, more sane than this world with all its strains and stresses. But this work,” she indicated the bead-picture, “will alter that. For you there will be payment, when the labor is complete. And that must be soon.”
I began to shake my head. The gesture of negation grew ever faster, until I could hardly see and only the supporting wall behind me kept me on my feet. Still I could not voice the denial that seemed dammed behind frozen lips.
Now my legs, too, obeyed orders that were not my own, carrying me to my seat and planting me firmly in it. I twisted my hands together, resisting the pressure that came next to pick up a needle, choose another bead.
The woman had likewise moved, and I could still see her. That she was enjoying the sight of my resistance—and relishing my grinding-down into subordination—was very plain.
“What name do you bear in this age, Maid of the Needle?”
That query swung a lash of force against which I could not stand.
“Gwen—Gwen Tremayne.”
Once more the water-gowned one laughed, and her gaze swept over me slowly from head to feet, as though she were appraising me in some way.
“This time is not so fortunate for you, is it—my Queen?” she drawled, her tone close to insolence.
What she said had no meaning as far as I was concerned— or so I thought.
“So you are yet lost; still, you can make yourself useful.” My captor held out both hands brought together to form a cup, and into that improvised vessel liquid began to splash, though from where I could not tell.
This meeting had passed so far beyond the bounds of reality that I closed my eyes. Had I labored with such intensity during the past few days that I was hallucinating?
“Nine we were . . .” intoned a voice, one so distant that I heard it only as a whisper. “Nine we divided the Great Wheel . . .”
And then I saw—though with some sense of the mind or memory, for my physical eyes were still shut—that there was, indeed, a Wheel. Lines of silver crossed, overscoring one another to form a disk, and adorning it were nine glimmering stars of
argent light.
“Turn with time!” the voice ordered crisply.
One of the stars moved forward, expanded, and eclipsed the Wheel. It formed a frame that enclosed the head of a woman. Her piled gray hair supported a crown, or what seemed the ghost of such a diadem: a tarnished circlet pocked with empty settings for now-lost gems. Her face was near as hueless as her hair.
“Greetings to thee, Dindrane, Queen of the Wasteland,” chanted the speaker.
“Greetings to thee in turn, Mistress of the Wheel,” the gray woman answered, “but I am not for your summoning again. What we wrought, we wrought, and that is long past.”
With that speech, she vanished. The silver-traced disk became visible again, though briefly, for another star flung out of it to front me. Once more a woman appeared; however, this lady had free-flowing black hair beneath a crown of clouded silver, and she wore a countenance as deeply tinted as her predecessor’s had been wan.
“Hail,” the voice greeted her, “Dark Woman of All Knowledge.”
The answer of this high one, too, came swiftly. “The Storm Winds blow no longer; I am not for your calling.”
So they came and went. Some were young, others in the fullness of life. Each was crowned, and every one was saluted by the speaker as a woman of Power. However, when the seventh star swung outward and grew, the frame it formed was empty, save for the likeness of an apple behind which hung an argent branch.
“Aye, you still linger.” The voice rendered no formal greeting but a curt phrase chill with anger. “Yet your power is long since wasted, Flower Queen, and the Wheel has thrown you off—though not so far that I cannot bring you to my service. For I am Morgan, and the Wheel answers to me in this world, which I once lost, as well as in Avalon!”
The frame vanished, and the nine-sectioned disk once more appeared—but one of its blazing stars was gone.