Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  As the racket slowly fell behind, leaving their ears filled with its remnant whistle, a tall and thin figure of a woman stooped out from under the door’s lintel. She straightened and hurriedly wiped dust or crumbs clear with a blur of hands before finally facing them.

  Swathed in a sumptuous, shard-patterned smock and jacket, her long hair pulled tight into a large bun, she peered at them as they steadily drew near. Pettar could see sudden joy blossom freely on her face, see a smile flower and a glint grow strongly in her eyes as she recognised Melkin.

  Melkin affectionately called out, “Ah, Mistress Clatterbrayk, what a real pleasure it is to see you again.” Her smile seemed to grow even broader. “I do hope you’re keeping well?”

  Her voice seemed to belong to some other, not at all what Pettar had in mind of one so lean. It was round and full, undeniably confident and assured, and seemed to fill the spaces between the trees with a timbre that echoed their woody strength.

  “Melkin Mudark! Well I never! What a pleasant surprise … and with guests along as well.” She quickly and closely appraised both Pettar and Nephril, with no lapse in her warm and welcoming smile. “And who’ve we got ‘ere then? Who be acalling on t’old woman?”

  Melkin clapped her affectionately on the arm and introduced them, chiding her in the process for overstating her age. He then sniffed the air.

  She returned his grin and laughed. “Reckon thee can smell t’brew, eh, Melkin, an’ fresh baked bread? Think I might ‘ave some nettle in t’mash? Well, maybes thee’s right. S’pose ya’d better come on in n’ find out.”

  Pettar caught sight of Nephril’s face as she turned to lead them indoors, which made him quickly catch at Melkin’s arm.

  Nephril was staring blankly at Mistress Clatterbrayk’s retreating back, or at her cottage now framing it. He stared as though in a far off world of his own, peopled with the long dead busily about their own now long defunct business. Mistress Clatterbrayk stopped when she got to her door and found herself alone, and turned to look for them.

  They soon got Nephril inside, comfortably seated on a chair by the fire, but it failed to draw him any further into the here and now. He remained as removed, as totally withdrawn.

  Mistress Clatterbrayk peered closely into his eyes. “Seems to me he’s got good weft and weave o’ body. Aye, well close and even for ‘is age, but there ain’t no way of weaving t’mind for it flows like a river, always prey to t’shape o’ its banks an’ depth of its bed.”

  She frowned and looked even closer into his dull eyes. “I’d say he’s suffering summat like what we get wi’ t’looms when t’bhleustrang’s been weakened by a leak or t’like. When t’weft an’ weave ain’t smooth and even, when it has too many burlings an’ slubs that make it catch an’ snag.”

  “Snag?” Pettar asked.

  “Aye. When t’bleustrang ain’t got enough vigour to run t’looms properly, and t’cloth loses its smoothness.”

  It made Pettar think of how smoothly Galgaverre ran, how it was the one place where Leiyatel still had strength enough to keep order. If Nephril’s weft and weave needed smoothing then surely that was the place he needed to be.

  What? he then thought, what if Nephril were the one, the one of the ‘all but one’ who were ‘forbidden entry there’, and ‘could pass beyond its walls and down to its island charge that nestled at its eye’?

  If Nephril were indeed that very one, and his succour Leiyatel’s embrace, then her loss to him could explain his state, could show how fragile be his shell. It would make plain what held his mind together in like manner to Mistress Clatterbrayk’s loom-woven weft and weave. It slowly started to dawn on Pettar just what the message likely meant, and with that growing understanding, he finally turned the others a startled face.

  9 Into Sharp Relief

  They’d been thankful for Mistress Clatterbrayk’s practical turn of mind, for her offer of a handcart and a wealth of blankets and bedrolls. Nephril had remained unchanged, and other than his shallow breathing, just about dead to the world. As he couldn’t be left there, however accommodating Mistress Clatterbrayk was, he needed returning to the college without delay. So, she’d quite sensibly suggested they cart him there.

  By mid-afternoon, Nephril had been carefully carried to his makeshift sedan, tucked well-in, gently yet firmly strapped down and enclosed within a tented tarpaulin. As they gathered by her door, ready for the off, Melkin thanked her effusively. “Once again, and no doubt not for the last time, I’m most indebted to you, Mistress.”

  She’d smiled softly as her eyes began to sparkle. “Nay, Melkin, t’aint thee place to be thankful to me, nay, ‘tis but a small part-payment fer all t’good thee’s done me aplenty in t’past.”

  Their gazes seemed to lock for a short while, some silent discourse passing between, before Melkin stepped before her, leant forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. His hands lingering at her arms as he withdrew, her face ever so slightly flushed for a moment or two as she cast her eyes down. The peaceful silence they’d somehow drawn into that wooded enclave only slowly dissolved at the fresh sound of raindrops, now drumming sporadically on the cart’s tarpaulin.

  Pettar looked up and watched the flickering leaves, where the raindrops slid past on their lazy descent to the quiet grass at their feet. He pulled his robe’s cowl over his head and heard a soft patter on its fabric as he bent and carefully lifted the handcart’s shafts. He found it a small burden, easily drawn as Melkin slid in behind.

  Whilst they were beneath the green canopy, only occasional splashes of rain marred the smooth stone flags and by it brought patches of thin celadon from their dusting of moss. When they reached the mill, Pettar drew the cart ahead onto a rutted track that began its climb up the dene.

  Melkin, though, had hung back. He’d turned and waved at Mistress Clatterbrayk, still standing before her doorway, turned his collar up and then hunched his shoulders against the gathering rain.

  By the time he’d caught up with Pettar, the sky out to the east was a threatening black and the track’s ruts were quickly filling with water. They’d a short reprieve as the lane wove its way beneath the last of the wood’s sheltering canopy, before they passed between the two taverns at the road’s junction.

  They hadn’t yet opened, their doors still closed and bolted, their patrons no doubt only now drawing to the end of a long day’s labour. The main road was eerily empty and bedraggled as they halted briefly under a sheltering veranda, and there checked on Nephril only to find him unchanged.

  They retraced their steps through the growing gloom until coming to the lane that would eventually lead to the college. Unfortunately, its direct way was too unmade for the cart and so they kept southwards on the main road, despite it taking them no nearer the college for some time. It took them down towards the centre of Yuhlm, on into the lower districts and their more nefarious inhabitants.

  The rain brought some benefit, in that it did seem to keep the locals at home, or in the brothels, or those inns that rarely closed. Despite the emptiness, however, every time they stopped, Pettar’s eyes nervously sought out the darkest and dankest corners.

  When they eventually came to a large junction, Melkin led them to the left and into a dark and deafening defile. It ran between blackened and completely blank walls. In the overcast gloom, Pettar noticed lamp-lit skylights peeping above the sputtering gutters, and saw their glass rattle in sympathy with the enclosed cacophony.

  He readily recognised that sound but was shocked by its intensity, momentarily halted by its strident escape through the thick stone walls. On both sides, hidden behind normally deadening stone, they were accosted by the roar and thunder, chatter and clatter, and the swish and swoop of innumerable looms.

  They headed a furlong or two further into the cleft until a crack of light broke one of the wall’s long and monotonous marches. It marked a doorway, the door ajar and through which, when Pettar stopped to stare, he could see a vast and brightly lit hall crammed full o
f looms. There must have been a hundred at least, all thundering away, producing great rolls of cloth.

  Above each hung an oil lamp, casting its light onto both loom and weaver, the reflected glow revealing rain smeared skylights above. At each loom a pipe descended to a box, what Pettar now recognised as one of Melkin’s ingenious waterwheels. He’d have stood transfixed had the silhouette of a figure not intervened, unheeding of the spectator without, and firmly slammed the door shut.

  The road now seemed pitch-black when Pettar turned back to it with a start at Melkin’s touch. Pettar’s eyes adjusted soon enough and brought the welcome sight of abating rain, the sky to the east beginning to lighten. It remained no place for voice, though, its potency soon lost to the noise still crashing about them.

  When they’d left the mills well behind, Pettar was finally able to speak. “I’m truly astounded, Melkin, I am that, just utterly amazed!”

  Melkin had taken the opportunity to check on Nephril and so was straightening when he replied, “Aye, the guilds have taken full advantage of bhleustrang, have steadily increased their use of it and in so doing have put a millstone about our necks. And,” he began, ruefully, “you’ve not seen the half of it yet.”

  Somehow, the weight of change brought about in Yuhlm had failed to find firm hold on Pettar’s mind, until now. All about him a new world was emerging, not a stumbling infant but a growing youth, all the time becoming more strident and self-confident.

  It had only come to Pettar slowly, but he now realised that behind him - following on the handcart - was a truly rare Bazarran. Melkin Mudark was certainly unusual, a Bazarran seemingly thrown forward from a noble and ancient past solely to reinvigorate its future.

  As if that thought somehow had charge of the weather, the sun came out at last. The sky to the east, above the distant college, was now a lazuline blue, and Pettar’s feet felt, well, certainly wet but also a whole lot lighter.

  10 Melkin Makes an Overture

  They say ‘all things in life are relative’, that poverty to one be but great riches to another. They say it but it’s often heard with only half-opened ears, another fine sentiment well said, well-intentioned but sadly lacking in any real meaning. They say a lot of things, especially those who’ve no need to console themselves with platitudes, those whose own inclinations are better served by rhetoric.

  However, sometimes the phrase finds open, sensitive and pertinent ears, ones that burn at the hearing. Sometimes it’s a plain and simple statement that carries most weight, that gets deep under the skin where it can itch and irritate.

  Pettar had always seen himself as being self-reliant, resilient. He’d been wrong, though. He’d seen himself as something of an outsider, but it had largely been delusion. All things in life are relative, it was certainly true, but he now saw just how true. His rare individuality and independence had stood him apart in their prescribed and ordained world, but in doing so had fooled him into believing he was far more than who he’d now discovered he really was.

  The man who brought up the rear of the handcart, who’d quietly helped draw it along, who’d been so solicitous of Nephril’s needs and who’d borne the same drenching and fatigue of their journey, Pettar now knew to be far more worthy.

  Not just worthy in intention or ambition, but far more importantly, worthy in deed. What Melkin had seemingly brought about single-handedly put Pettar’s own self-image into the darkest of shadows. The changes fast gathering pace around them, that Pettar had been unable to see for his lack of any real stature, marked Melkin out as a true visionary, a true rebel against the stultifying weight of Dica’s overly long and stagnant past.

  Pettar had felt somewhat ashamed. Had he been fairer to himself, had his finely wrought blood allowed a wider and more balanced view, then he may have seen his own place in a far less damning light. He might also have recognised in Melkin more of a coincidence of merits and faults than a paragon of virtue.

  Somehow, though, there didn’t seem to be an edge with Melkin. There was nothing about him that kept Pettar distanced, as had been the case with Storbanther. To Pettar’s constrained and fashioned blood Melkin Mudark came across as more rounded and human, as someone akin to his own outlooks.

  When they’d finally retraced their steps along Smiddles Lane, through its last wandering and by now far more familiar jostle of buildings, it was already late-afternoon. The sun had shone surprisingly hot on Pettar’s back, lifting wan wisps of vapour. The college gates had been thrown open and a flurry of watchmen quickly yet carefully lifted Nephril from the handcart and carried him through the great doorway. On the way, they’d passed the hunched figure of Crowbeater.

  There was a look of consternation on the old tutor’s heavily lined face for he had by then come to know who Nephril really was, and his significant part in the college’s foundation. He’d also remembered how totally unfair his earlier score had been, and how poorly it must have reflected on his own merit.

  However, Crowbeater wasn’t a proud or vain man and so accepted his failings with humbleness and equanimity. Instead, he showed even greater concern for Nephril and therefore followed on the watchmen to oversee his care.

  The air in the old mill was cool and lacked the sun’s tempering warmth, and so Pettar and Melkin both retired to don drier clothes. Melkin had led the way to his private chambers where he presented Pettar with a newly made-up robe. “I hope it fits, Pettar. My students only had occasional sightings of you to go on, but this year’s lot do seem to have a pretty good eye.”

  He was right, the robe fitted perfectly and went a long way to making Pettar feel far more comfortable, only his sodden underdrawers and singlet marring his wellbeing. “They’ll soon dry!” he murmured to himself just as there was a knock at the door.

  Melkin called out to enter, somewhat muffled under the dry chemise he was now donning, and Crowbeater came in. He hadn’t lost his concerned look, though, much to Pettar’s disappointment, and immediately conveyed his worries about Nephril.

  “Your Leech’s with ‘im now, Melkin, but if ye ask me he’s as perplexed as t’rest of us. All t’vital signs a’ there but fer ‘is mind. Just seems to ‘ave upped sticks and gone!”

  Melkin was by now hopping about the room, trying to force his leg into a fresh pair of pants. “Aye, it’s … it’s certain … certainly worrying. But…” He collapsed onto the arm of a sofa. “Seems he’s in no immediate bodily threat, thank the Certain Power, but I hope his mind’s only locked away and not dissolved.”

  He finished putting on his pants and straightened. “I reckon its more trapped than lost for he’s come back full of mind before, shown he’s got rational thought still lurking in there somewhere.” He was only half way through donning a dry jacket when he said, “You know what? I think I know just where we might find out, one way or t’other.” He was staring fixedly at Pettar.

  It had been the combination of Lord Nephril’s parlous state and the message’s ancient tongue that had finally given Melkin a way forward. Now he saw a realistic chance of finishing off a quest he’d set out on so long ago.

  “I reckon it’s Storbanther who has need of Lord Nephril, that it’s him who’s called Nephril back to Galgaverre, not Leiyatel, despite her signature. And do you want to know why I think he has need of him?” They did, in their own ways. “It’s Lord Nephril’s unique use of the ancient tongue, well, unique as far as Storbanther’s aware. It must be, why else write the message in its redundant script?”

  The argument had merit in Pettar’s eyes, but he couldn’t quite see where Melkin was taking it, and so waited for him to speak on.

  “Something’s happened in Galgaverre … or … perhaps … yes, maybe in Baradcar itself, yes, now, that’d be more interesting.” The Steward went quiet, seeming to forget the others, before he slowly started rubbing his hands together. He absently turned and walked to the window from where he stood looking out without seeing.

  The heavy stillness in the room was slowly lifted by the sl
ightly discordant sound of a choir of young voices, now beginning to drift in through the partially opened window. As the various voices drifted together and the strength of them grew, Melkin absently reached forward and gently pushed at the pane.

  Somewhere further along the college and out of sight, choral practice had begun, the choir eventually bringing their voices together until its volume spilled out to fill the yard below. Their song was simple at first, drawn only from unity and regular rhythm, but soon departed into more convoluted and complex paths.

  There, on that still, late afternoon air, their more entwining threads gently wove a wealth of suggested ayres. They crafted unsung counterpoint and melody, built a soft world of intangible shape and form - a veritable weft and weave of choral cloth.

  Melkin’s words only just broke free of its floating presence, mindful not to mar its magic. “One of the most joyous of finds amongst our library’s mined wealth, a benevolent dower from our ancient forebears.” Somehow in tune with the song, he described how they’d unearthed a discipline fashioned to add rigour and inspiration to their mechanicking knowledge.

  It revealed how music embodied the very patterns and shapes riven through the real world, how unexpected form could arise from massed, individual intent, how what appeared evident on the outside came but from myriad indiscernible notes vibrant within.

  The college had quickly added this new lore to its gamut and soon made it a part of their ways. All students now had to show some knowledge of music, to be proficient in the use of voice or instrument. It had soon given far wider harvest of ideas, had brought unexpected profit from even more novel schemes and devices.

  Many owed their very birth to patterns that would otherwise have never been seen. They’d learnt that reason alone was not enough, that one thing could only ever lead to another, never to the panoply of insight and knowing that the many could so often bring.