by A. Sparrow
“That sounds more like faith.”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. No matter. Let’s move on. What about diversity? Can you handle the presence of races and cultures that differ from your own?”
“Oh sure. People are people. I get along with pretty much everyone.”
“And your soul? How stable is it? What portion of your days are spent here?”
“Not much lately, but things might be changing. My life’s kind of … taken a downturn.”
“Good. That’s good. Skills? You can Weave, can’t you?”
“Kinda.” I shrugged.
“Show me. Weave me something.”
“What do you want me to Weave?”
“Give me your best effort. Something big. Something … grand.”
“Grand?”
Like what, I wondered, Grand Central Station? The pit was certainly big enough to accommodate it. With my luck it would come complete with bounty hunters.
Maybe I conjure my grandmother? I wasn’t sure I could swing that. I could be too freaking literal sometimes, but I had no clue what someone like her considered ‘grand.’
And then I remembered my Nana’s house back in Cleveland. She had a baby grand piano in the parlor that she would sometimes play show tunes on when we went over on weekends. She would round up all of the grandkids and get us to sing along to ‘Oklahoma’ and ‘Hello Dolly.’
I used to wail on that thing whenever I had some time alone with it. It got so that I could pick out melodies by ear. Mom got all excited and signed me up for lessons with some Nazi of a piano teacher. That effectively killed my budding musical inclinations. As much fun as I used to have plonking away, I never went near a piano again.
“Well, if you’re unable, there is nothing to be done,” said Victoria. “Only Weavers gain entrance to Frelsi.”
There was a patch of exposed roots visible just below the collapsed rock shelf. I wish I had my sword with me, but I had seen her use her bare hands to focus her will. I stuck my hands out like a sleepwalker, letting my fingers droop down and I pretended to play that out-of-tune baby grand in my head, recalling its raucous, jangly tone.
It must have looked silly to her, me playing air piano like that, but within seconds, a mass of roots pushed up out of the floor of the pit, dripping water and clumps of gritty silt. It was just a crude block of tangled, gnarly things, but it smoothed itself out, splitting and flattening its strands until it approximated a dark walnut grain with a scuffed and worn finish.
I went over and lifted the panel that protected the keys. I tried playing a tune, but the notes sounded dull, like someone plinking on an old gut-stringed cello. It was way out of tune and some notes were out of sequence. I’m not sure what I expected for something dredged out of a pool and slapped together, but I was disappointed in my work.
Victoria gaped at me. “How extraordinary! Most souls just Weave me a towel or a T-shirt.” She ran her fingers down the keys in a descending glissando. Her eyes whipped back to me. “In the tunnels west of here, there was a gaping hole that cut down nearly half a mile, so twisted it’s like a tornado had torn into it. The damage is still not repaired. It may never be the same. Do you happen to know anything?”
I averted my eyes. “Yeah … um … that was me. Sorry about that.”
“What are you sorry about?”
“Well, we got into a tangle with a Reaper and … uh … it was the only way.”
“Astonishing.” She just stared at me blankly, blinking slowly. “Maybe the Dusters were lucky. They had no idea what they messing with, what risk they exposed themselves.”
“Don’t know about that. I was pretty worthless up top. Couldn’t even Weave myself a decent pair of jeans.”
She shook her head. “The powers you displayed you retain wherever you go here. They just get harder to summon the farther you get from the Liminality’s core.”
“Good to know, I guess.”
She couldn’t stop gawping at me. It was making me uncomfortable.
“I have half a mind to take you back to Frelsi right now. But I’m just starting my rounds.”
“It’s okay. Like I said, I’m in no rush.”
“That is some rare talent you’ve displayed. There is a case to be made for sending you straight into cadre training, that is, if you were committed to becoming a Freesoul. But all that will come in due course.”
“Again, no rush.”
“I suggest you find a pit less accessible to mantids and make yourself comfortable. Clearly, you have the means. I will return for you. Just give me a few days.”
She retracted her cloak around her. The fabric shrank until it was snug against her form. “I’m off. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. James.”
She strode into a solid wall of roots, passing into it as easily as a bullet through smoke. I hesitated a second before trying to follow after her, but the roots had already reformed. They bristled and stiffened and barred my way.
Piano or not, I still had a lot to learn about Weaving.
Chapter 11: Monday Morning
Renfrew pretended to grumble and groan when Jessica told him that the girls would be staying at the farm for a few days, but it was all for show. He was all smiles when they came to the cheese factory, which was basically just a barn fitted with gas-fired copper cauldrons, tanks of whey and rack after rack of curing cheese. He gave them a complete tour, sharing samples, boasting of his various awards and contracts with upper crust fromageries.
Again, Karla was puzzled by all the attention. She figured his behavior had something to do with James, but it probably didn’t hurt that she and Isobel were nubile and female. Whatever the reason, Renfrew seemed glad to have them around, even though he kept ribbing them about their short-cropped hair, calling them chaps and dykes.
When Karla offered to pitch in with chores, he was effusive with gratitude. But helping out in the barns all day only gave him more opportunity to regale them with Falkland war stories and tales of his pre-military days when he had apparently been quite the local folk star, playing his guitar and accordion at all the coffeehouses in Cardiff.
Helen kept rolling her eyes and sharing annoyed glances with Jessica, but Karla didn’t mind listening to him talk, and neither did Isobel, as evidenced by her rapt attention and numerous questions. Renfrew was more sweet than gruff. There was a charming innocence behind his crust. He was just an overgrown school boy at heart.
***
Saturday evening passed with a quiet dinner of grilled shish-ke-babs and a communal DVD double-feature in Renfrew’s parlor, Harry with his leg elevated in a walking cast and Helen acting as unofficial bar maid. Jessica was an anime aficionado and she shared a pair of Hayao Miyazaki films: ‘Princess Mononoke’ and ‘Spirited Away.’ In lieu of popcorn and keeping with the Japanese theme, Helen prepared a bowl of salted, steamed edamame for all to share.
Renfrew muttered something about this being the last time he gave up his parlor so a bunch of kids could watch cartoons, but one beheading was all it took to draw him into the story.
The plot astounded Isobel, who kept asking questions no one could answer. Karla knew next to nothing about Japanese culture. Certain scenes were truly bizarre, opening windows into worlds she could barely comprehend.
When the movies were done, they stumbled like zombies back to Jessica’s cottage. Isobel passed out as soon as she lay down. Karla stayed up a spell, chatting quietly with Jessica, thinking of James, before joining her sister under the covers.
Sunday morning after milking, Helen and Jessica invited the girls to attend church with them. Every female on the farm piled into a van driven by Helen’s friend Eleanor. Renfrew and Harry stayed behind, Renfrew joking that he would rather worship the devil than listen to a preacher.
It turned out to be a Presbyterian mass, which both mortified and titillated Isobel, who had never been around Protestants before. They settled into their pews, Isobel all fidgety and looking toward the door as if she expected thei
r father to barge in with an army of angels.
The mass itself, once it started was remarkably casual. There were prayers and songs, but the proceedings lacked the rigidity of ritual that characterized her father’s sect. The absence of Latin and the resulting lucidity and transparency was certainly refreshing, but she experienced no revelations, felt no inspiration to convert.
The sermon actually offended her. It was a simple-minded homily about family austerity being the fundament of patriotism, as if the nation’s economic troubles should be blamed on the masses. If she could help it, she would not be coming back to this or any other church anytime soon.
When the electric organ played the closing hymn and they filed out onto a cobbled yard. They lingered on the steps of the church while Eleanor went to fetch the van from its parking spot. Jessica seemed eager for their impressions.
“It was nice,” said Isobel. “But it wasn’t really mass.”
“Oh? Then what would you call it?” said Jessica.
“I don’t know. It seemed like a friendly sing-along with a lecture in the middle.”
“It was just … very different from what we’re used to,” said Karla.
“Really? I would have thought a Catholic service would be quite similar. They evolved from the same tradition after all.”
“We were raised not merely Catholics,” said Karla. “We are … were … traditionalists, though even that, I am afraid does not describe it. My father, he was an SSPXer, then SSPV and now he’s just a Sedevacantist of some sort.”
“A what?”
“Don’t ask. I don’t even think he knows what to call it. He is just grasping for the one faith that will cover up his perversions.”
“Oh dear,” said Jessica.
“If Papa knew we went to this church, he would condemn us straight to hell,” said Isobel.
“Isobel, stop! He has no say in where we go,” said Karla.
“But to him these are heathens, La!” said Isobel, more intrigued than appalled by what she had just experienced.
“Nonsense,” said Karla. “God is God, no matter how he is worshipped. These are all good Christians here. He should be glad we are going to church at all.”
“James never attends church with us,” said Jessica. “Not even if we bribe him with food.”
“I don’t suppose that he would,” said Karla.
“Oh? Why is that? Is he an atheist?”
“No, not an atheist. I don’t think that would be possible after all he’s seen, but I can’t imagine him taking any organized worship seriously.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
Karla realized she had said too much. It was going to be hard stuffing this cat back into the bag.
“Well, his life. It has been unusual. He has faced very big difficulties and challenges.”
“A little spirituality might help someone line him, one would think,” said Jessica.
“He gets plenty of spirituality, I assure you,” said Karla. “It is the sermons that I think would be the problem.”
“I could understand that,” said Jessica. She lowered her voice. “I don’t particularly like this pastor myself. I only come here because … well, we don’t get much choice around here.”
***
They stopped at a bakery and picked up a batch of croissants and scones to bring back for Renfrew, along with some bread for lunch with Helen’s friends, a trio of female artists who lived in a colorful loft with a greenhouse that looked like a jungle and a rooftop patio that looked out into the hills.
They were a raucous bunch, these lady artists, but were quite kind to her and Isobel. One lady even gave Isobel a small painting of a fox that she couldn’t help admiring to the point of obsession.
It was late afternoon when Eleanor finally brought them back to the farm. On the way, Karla kept staring at any male on a motorcycle hoping it would be James. Failing that, she hoped to see a motorbike parked in the barn where Jessica said he kept it, but there was no one about but Renfrew in the greasy coveralls he wore when he tinkered with his tractor.
Helen tossed him a scone and brought the rest inside.
“Where the hell have you all been all day?”
“Where do you think, you old bugger?” said Helen. “We went to church, and afterwards had lunch with the Wiccans.”
“Wiccans?” said Isobel. “Those ladies … were witches?”
“That’s just what they call themselves,” said Jessica. “I don’t think they actually practice witchcraft.”
“They don’t have to practice. They have it mastered,” said Renfrew, patting Isobel’s head.
“Have you heard from James?” asked Karla.
“Heard from him?” said Renfrew. “Why would he call me? He went off to get away from me. And besides, the boy doesn’t have a phone. What’s he going to do, send me a carrier pigeon?”
“Easy old man, she’s just anxious to see him,” said Jessica. “She’s the one he went up to Glasgow for.”
“What a berk, wasting his time going all the way up to that horrible place. That boy really needs to get himself a telephone … if he expects to get anywhere with the ladies.”
Jessica took Karla’s arm and led her away from Renfrew. “If he left at midday, it’ll be hours yet before he returns.”
Helen came back outside and looked at her. “What’s wrong? Is she worried about James?”
Jessica nodded.
“Don’t fret, darlin,’” said Helen. “I’ve watched him ride that thing. He’s careful on these roads. Not a maniac like Sturgie.”
They went back to Jessica’s cottage and helped her tidy up the place a bit before the evening milking. Karla and Isobel subbed for James, moving goats in and out of the stanchions. It was enjoyable work, even though Isobel kept getting distracted by the antics of the kids.
They shared a cheese and noodle casserole for dinner along with artichokes stuffed with ground lamb. Not since her mother still lived with the family in Rome had eaten so lavishly. Her stepmother had only seemed to know how to make pot roasts. And once she left, Papa had gone vegetarian, making Karla cook nothing but lentils and carrots and pasta fagioli. In Glasgow, at least, Linval would occasionally bring home a heap of fish and chips or a bucket of fried chicken.
Isobel wolfed through her plate and reached for the serving spoon, but Karla slapped her hand.
“Izzie, don’t be a piggy!”
“No, it’s alright. I made plenty,” said Helen. “Go ahead, Izzie. Have yourself a second helping.”
“But … what about … for James?”
“I’ve already set some aside for him should he join us.”
Karla put down her fork with half her plate left uneaten. Her nerves were making her queasy. She skipped desert, which was a decadent looking chocolate pudding layered with whipped cream. Isobel partook with abandon, moaning in ecstasy with each spoonful.
After the washing up, there was still a little bit of daylight left so Karla clambered up the hill and found a place to sit on the remnants of an old stone wall. It looked directly down the dirt track that led to the main road, where she could see any and every vehicle that came their way.
After about half an hour, with the sun almost down, a lone motorbike finally appeared on the main road. Heart skipping and jumping in anticipation, she hopped up and started trotting down the trail. But the motorbike went straight past the turnoff and off towards Pontypridd. Karla’s spirit sagged like a punctured tire.
She sat back down on the wall, the next time controlling her excitement as several more motorcycles came and went. It was dark when Isobel and Jessica came to fetch her with a torch light.
“La! What are you doing up here all by yourself? I was afraid you’d been kidnapped.”
“Just … meditating.”
Jessica sighed. “You’re just like James. He loves coming up here to watch the sun set. But come on down before you catch a chill. It’s supposed to get frosty in the swales tonight.”
“A frost? Really?”
“Just in the bottom lands. The cold air pools.”
“What ever happened to the summer?” said Isobel.
“Goes by quick around here. Brynmawr’s the highest town in all of Wales. Did you know that?”
“I never would have guessed. It is not exactly mountainous around here.”
“I suppose you would call this a plateau.” The lights of Brynmawr came flicking on, just like the stars overhead. “Regardless, let’s go home. James will come when he comes. I’ll make us all some cocoa.”
Karla got up from the wall and draped her arm around her sister. They started back down the patch, following a jiggling patch of illumination.
“One thing I haven’t asked you,” said Jessica. “Once James gets back, how long will we have the pleasure of your company?”
Karla hesitated, wondering how truthful she should be. She didn’t wish to leave a trail of crumbs for Edmund to follow. But she decided to ignore her paranoia, as her destination was no mystery.
“We plan to go to Rome,” she said. “We used to live there near the Vatican.”
“Oh? Does James know about this?”
“Not yet, but we are hoping he will join us.”
“Really?”
They walked in silence for a spell.
“If he wants to,” said Karla. “I was not actually intending to come down here. Not ever. We had agreed that I wouldn’t and that he wouldn’t stay.”
“Did you guys break up or something?”
Karla took a deep breath. “There is something I have not mentioned. There is a reason I am feeling so nervous for James. Izzie and I saw our father in Glasgow … he was there, looking for us. I’m sure.”
“What does that have to do with James? Do they not get along?”
“Well … Izzie doesn’t know this, but … I had a boyfriend in Rome.”
Izzie gaped and grinned. “La! You harlot, you!”
Karla did not smile back. “But Papa found out. He and his friends took Francesco for a ride out into the countryside. He went into the hospital, and when he came out, he would not speak to me. When I saw him once, in the piazza, he would not even look at me. Later, I heard he had to have surgery … to repair his skull. I never saw him again.”