Yarn

by Jon Armstrong

  "Welcome," said a man dressed in a silky white sailor's outfit. "Mr. Tane Cedar, right?"

  "Indeed," I said, forming a smile. "I need to speak with Ryder." The man's chalky green eyes slowly passed over my suit jacket and slacks, as if he were adding the thread count, dividing by the tailoring, and finding the square root of the lining. "Now," I added, gently waking him. "It's urgent."

  "I can help you, sir." He blinked several times as he held his sand-white smile. "I love your suit!"

  "Thank you, but I need to speak to Ryder."

  The man's mouth soured in a way that made me think that he had already spent his imagined commission. He fluttered a hand toward the back of the space. "For the boss you'll have to wait."

  I started past the sailor salesman.

  "I could help you. He's really busy. It's not about the commission!"

  In the back surrounded by a crowd of fifty or so, I found Ryder sitting behind a large transparent aquarium desk filled with some glowing blue-green protoplasm. He wore a triple-breasted silver and navy coat. The long pointed collar of his spider-silk macramé shirt hung halfway to his waist.

  I had only seen Ryder once before at a fabric convention two years ago and he struck me as someone auditioning to play himself. The one thing I remembered was that each time he spoke, he would first touch the end of his tiny and preternaturally pale tongue to his thin top lip. The shapes and colors reminded me of the action of some small, nocturnal, insect-eating mammal-a lemur maybe.

  The others were all arguing with him.

  "That's not the contract!" he said to one of them. "The yarn count was to be between one fifty and one seventy-five.… No, I can't refund your money.… It is pure chemocott, and I guarantee it. Check the chemical composition!"

  "Ryder," I said, nudging my way forward, "I need to speak with you."

  As his eyes focused on mine for an instant, they grew large with surprise. "Gloria said a Mr. Cedar was here, but I didn't believe it was you." He raised his voice and said, "Everyone, I want to introduce you to my newest customer and my very dear friend: the revered Mr. Cedar."

  Several of the others said hello and I heard someone ask how much hand stitching I did. Ignoring them, I asked, "Can we talk? Privately."

  "What about my order?" asked a man in a floor-length ivory jacket.

  "About that," replied Ryder, "I can't tell you how very, truly, and wonderfully sorry I am." The wet and white tip of his tongue darted out for an instant. "However, the details of our contract stipulated that all of the said goods would be grey. How this even became a misunderstanding, I cannot comprehend." Ryder glanced at me as if to commiserate.

  To my right, a man in black puckered his cracked lips. "I've got to have more of that red double-poplin, Ryder!" Ryder paid no attention to him, but began arguing with someone else.

  "Very sorry," said Ryder to me. "You see how wanted and needed I am."

  "You told me it would be a high-gloss finish," complained someone else.

  "I said it could. Could. With a C! Read the contract. I know it's there, because I wrote it. It's an experimental finish. I understand it didn't work. But you knew that when you bought it." Ryder's tongue dotted his sentence.

  "I haven't gotten the backing I ordered!" said someone farther back. Turning, I saw a familiar face, another men's tailor from Ros Begas. He had made a splash several years ago with an absurd five-vented jacket and since then had kept slicing his suits into smaller and smaller pieces. Our eyes met, and while I could see that he was surprised to see me here, he bent his head in greeting. I returned the nod. "I need the stuff, Ryder," he continued. "It was supposed to be at the factory yesterday."

  "An honor to see you so early," scoffed Ryder. "You told me your delivery service would come and take it!"

  "No, I didn't!"

  "It's still at the mill waiting for your people." He turned to the mermaid holding his monocle. "That's what you recall, right, my watery paramour?"

  She did not turn toward him, but stared forward, her lips seemingly sounding out dialogue to some imagined scene or lyrics to a song.

  The tailor said, "I'm going to tear out your ribs and use them as collar stays, Ryder."

  "If I could do without my ribs, or any other body part," quipped Ryder, "I would have happily sold them long ago." He glanced at me and sucked in his cheeks. When I frowned, he fluttered an angry hand at his mermaid. "My naughty, algae-covered Mildred! Please scream something unpleasant to the mill yield supervisor, and tell them to rush the backing to his studio." When she did not respond, he leaned closer to her green hair. "Immediately, my naval navel!"

  "What about me?" asked someone else.

  "All in good time, good sir! I will finish with everyone in order."

  "Ryder…" I leaned far over his plasticott-covered aquarium desk, "I am pressed for time."

  "Mr. Cedar," he whispered, "but you didn't call ahead. I'm an important jobber as you see!" His tongue flicked his rigid smile.

  "On the banquet table over there you will find some sea urchin tarts from late yesterday. Please have one and drink a coffee. I would very much like to discuss your needs, and I will be with you as soon as I can." He then smiled at the crowd and said, "Would someone help Mr. Cedar with a calm coffee?"

  Sitting backwards on his aquarium desk, I lifted my legs and spun to face him. Leaning in to bring my nose close to his, I said, "I'm quite pressed."

  Ryder sat back in his chair. His face paled and his eyes grew watery. "Scissors!" he chirped. "Are you mad? Get off my desk and get away from me!"

  The voices around his desk had hushed.

  "Listen to me," I whispered, "I need pure Xi yarn."

  "What?" he asked as if I hadn't spoken a language he recognized.

  Near his ear, I shout-whispered, "Xi yarn!"

  He leaned far back. His tongue dotted his lip nervously, his eyes darted toward the others as though to elicit their help. "B–But that's illegal," he stammered with a pasty smile. "That's been prohibited for years. You should know better. No one has that. No one! It's quite immoral. It's nasty stuff." Out of the corner of his mouth, as if I might not hear, he muttered, "Mildred, call security."

  "I just got the mill manager!" she complained.

  I spoke to his clients. "Please excuse us. It will just be a moment. Thank you." The other Ros Begas tailor stepped back. A woman rolled her eyes angrily. "I apologize for being rude," I said to Ryder, "but I need it now."

  "It's not made!" he snorted. "It's amoral. It's terrible! Now please, get off my desk and leave. I'll report you to the authorities and have you dragged out."

  "Can you get it?"

  His tongue held against his lip. He seemed about to answer, but then glanced away. "Mildred," he said, "security! Call them now! Right now!"

  I eyed her and shook my head once. She frowned, not so much as if unhappy with me, but everything, and folded her blue hands in her blue scale-covered lap.

  I returned my attention to Ryder. "Can you get it?"

  He dabbed his forehead with the lace of one of his cuffs and laughed tightly. "Maybe five days… maybe… possibly. Just go away now!"

  I shook my head. "I need it now."

  "That's impossible! I will have to check with my sources. That will take some time, but I'll let you know. I'll call you. I will. I'll call you as soon as I hear something."

  I grasped the long right collar of his shirt. Bending the fabric around, I touched the sharp point to his soft neck. I did it gently, but knew he could feel it. "Then I need your sources."

  His Adam's apple rose and fell, and I thought of the time Kira had scratched my throat with her needles. Was I turning into a tailorwarrior?

  Dots of sweat shone across his forehead like sequins. "I admire your work, sir. It's tremendous. You're talented. Very talented! But I'm sorry… I don't have what you need. Just don't hurt me!"

  "Your source," I repeated, getting tired. "You said you had a source."

  "That's the thing. I don't
know if he has any. I would have to check." One clear bead of sweat rolled down his right temple, stopped a moment as it neared his chin and then was lost in the folds and deltas of his neck.

  The room was so silent it felt as if all the electrons had stopped their frenzied orbits. "Tell me your source!"

  "This is not how I am accustomed to doing business, sir."

  "Nor I," I agreed. The soft flesh around the collar point was white.

  His eyes met mine and were steadier than they had been since I came in. "I can't even be sure he's got any."

  "Who?"

  "Fine," he muttered, as another drop of sweat ran down his forehead and was absorbed in his left eyebrow. "It's CeeCee Textiles. The man's name is Zoom Langsin."

  I released his collar, which impotently flopped back down across his shirt. Spinning around, I was off his aquarium desk, heading through the bolts of fabric, and past his employees and waiting customers. I saw several eyes follow me as I passed, but no one spoke. As I crossed the threshold, however, I heard Ryder shouting. "God damn slubber! They should slaughter all those disgusting prisoners once and for all! Did you see how he attacked me!"

  SEATTLEHAMA: BLOOD AMONG FIBERS

  Josephone stepped before another mannequin and pulled back her knitting needles as if to bash it. Kira leapt forward with needles outstretched, and tore the sleeve of Josephone's dress, drawing blood. With a war cry, Josephone swung back. Kira ducked, but one of Josephone's minions jabbed her shoulder. Kira hit the floor, but jumped up instantly. Josephone tried to spear her. They locked needles.

  Meanwhile, the terrified customers began shoving their way out. Several were knocked to the floor and trampled.

  A Casper Union warrior, eyes watery and teeth clenched, rushed at me with needles aimed at my throat. Just a few feet before she reached me, one of the new Python saleswarriors leapt forward and plunged her needles into the base of the woman's throat. A spray of black blood shot from the wound and she crashed to the floor like a cut corn stalk.

  I felt sick.

  Kira and Josephone shoved each other back and forth. Kira swiped her needles and cut Josephone's left hip and leg. Josephone spun around and slashed Kira across the side of her head. A clump of bloody scalp and hair fell to the floor before my feet.

  "Stop!" I yelled. "Stop fighting!" No one listened. Kira circled Josephone warily, waving her needles and warTalking. From the top of my right sleeve, I ripped out a yarn two feet long. Stepping forward, I whipped it at Josephone and caught her in the eye.

  Screaming, she instinctively reached for her face… and jabbed one of her needles into her right pupil. She fell to her knees, her face glossed with her own blood. Before she collapsed, the remaining Casper Union saleswarriors grabbed her. Kira went in for the kill, but the two fought her back, pulled Josephone out the door, and ran.

  Two bodies now lay on the floor: the Casper Union woman who had attacked me; one of the new Python saleswarriors, face down in a large pool of blood that soaked the plush fabric.

  After the Casper Union saleswarriors retreated, the last few trapped customers ran. Kira threw the injured Python saleswarrior over her shoulder, and with Worm Jacket and Giraffe following, carried her down the hallway past the cuisine court to the nurse station. Promising to return, she exhorted Ginn and me: "Guard the flagship with your life!"

  Ginn dashed into the design studio and reemerged with shears for both of us. We stood on the bloody floor, surrounded in broken cups, abandoned hors d'oeuvres, torn fabric. The air smelled of salt, rust, and solid recycle. At one point, I began to gag, and stepped away from the fallen enemy saleswarrior. Outside the window, shoppers stood with their hands cupped around their eyes, staring at the destruction. I stood strong, even as my stomach threatened to heave and my knees shook.

  "Have you forgotten purity of line and the hand of love?" complained Kira as she tossed my newest skivvé into the trash.

  I stepped off the Stanton-Bell, where I had been working for hours. I was exhausted and hadn't slept well for days. The nervousness I had felt about being without my papers and witness to drap-de-Berry's death was replaced with the dread of the Casper Union saleswarriors showing up again.

  The store had been cleaned up and reopened, but I hated to go out of the design room. "They're going to come back and attack us!" I told Kira. "We shouldn't be open."

  "The frayed yarn of your heart! You disgust the Python Duck."

  "Aren't you afraid?"

  "Of art? Glory? Celebrity?" She scoffed. "Your prisoner courage is a tangle." She pointed at the Stanton. "I command you to peel the sticky fear from your skin. Now stand on the controls and knit as you did!"

  "I don't want to be killed."

  Her eyes grew wide. "You doubt me! You question the point on my needles and the edge of my shears!"

  "No," I told her. "But those Casper Union saleswarriors will be coming back. And there are lots of them."

  She curled her lip. "How can you shrink like this? Why is your being so cotton?"

  "Kira," I said, exhausted, "do you want to die for skivvé?"

  "That would be the jewel of honor!" She laughed. "What would you die of, Warrior Remon? Would you prefer to perish from the sniffles? Perhaps you wish to be killed by tripping down an escalator!"

  Reluctantly, I stepped back onto the Stanton and started another skivvé. When I was done, Kira took it from the hooks with her needles.

  "Neither the exact promise of dawn nor the witchcraft of dusk," she muttered. She started toward the salesfloor with it, stopped, and twirled a finger at me. "More."

  Although the next weeks passed without incident, I still jumped at loud sounds and barely slept. My legs and back ached from working the knitting machine, and I had lost weight despite a diet of snacks from the cuisine court.

  "I must butter and scone with creditwarriors!" chimed Kira early one morning. Despite her misgivings about the quality of my knitting, sales were booming, and she had big plans for Python Duck. "Warrior Remon," she told me, "guard the flagship!" With that she was gone.

  I cracked the design room door and saw that she had left the store open. Kira hadn't showed me how to take credit and lock the front door. The musician, Ginn, wouldn't be in for another hour. I was alone.

  I thought about running. I could be across the new blue sales floor in seconds and out of this building in a few minutes. But then what? And what if I ran into the Casper Union saleswarriors?

  A woman entered the store. I thought about closing the door and hiding in the design studio, but she was not with Casper Union. Instead of their sharp black and yellow, she wore a green dress with white boots and a little hat. I didn't see any indication of a skivvé.

  Stepping out, I drew a shaky breath. "We're not open yet."

  She peered at me as if unsure of something. "Tane Cedar?"

  "I'm Warrior Remon," I told her, afraid she was some sort of an official who had come to take me away. "Chief Executive Knitter for Python Duck Weapon Men's Fantasy Skivvé."

  She glanced around the store as if at the products. On her right hip hung a long pair of silvery shears. Her hair was orange; her skin, spotted, and grayish around her eyes. If I used just one word to describe her it would have been tired.

  "If you want a fantasy skivvé," I told her, "you'll have to come back later."

  Her expression was pained. "Sixty percent of the participants in the foundation war died last year. Mostly were in little houses like this." She frowned. "The foundation war is the bloodiest of all. They're littering the hallways with fallen bodies, you know."

  I worried that she was talking about drap-de-Berry. I swallowed, but stood firm. "I just work here."

  With a sad laugh, she said, "You can see yarn or something, right?"

  This warrior wasn't from one of the stores along our hallway, I didn't think she was one of Kira's fans, nor did she seem like an official, but something about her seemed familiar. "You'd better talk to the CEO, Kira Shibui."

  She steppe
d around one of the tall plinths, peered up at the skivvé, and then looked me up and down.

  I asked her, "Are you a knitter?"

  "No."

  "Fashion?"

  "Cut and sew," she replied. "Mostly cut."

  "What's cut and sew?"

  She smiled for an instant and continued to admire the skivvé. When she turned, I saw that her dress didn't cover her bottom. "What matters to you is that those of us in weaving are just not as murderous as these loopers." She stepped behind the far plinth.

  "What do you make?" She did not reply. In fact, she had not reappeared from behind the skivvé display. Stepping around, I said, "Hello?" She was gone. The store was empty. I dashed toward the design room, afraid she had somehow gotten by me and was stealing supplies. She wasn't.

  A moment later, Kira came in the front with two creditwarriors in short, navy pinstriped dresses.

  "Warrior Remon!" she announced as she stepped beside me. "The breathing pride… the escaped menace… the sculptor of the skivvé."

  From the glow in Kira's face I could tell things were going to change. And what was her great idea? As I soon learned, she wanted to expand the flagship and move it closer to Casper Union!

  "Our needles will pierce not simply poke!" she declared when explained her plans to Ginn, the other saleswarriors, and me. "We float helpless in the foundation war, but today we craft our continent of final victory."

  The saleswarriors clapped and pumped their fists. Ginn gave a battle cry. I could only muster a tense smile as I pictured our blood spilled across some immense gleaming salesfloor.

  Over the next days, as I knit long into the night to try to stockpile skivvé for the new space, Kira and the other saleswarriors were constantly heading out to check on new locations and attend countless meetings. Usually one saleswarrior stayed to guard the place, but twice I ended up watching the flagship alone. The second time, as two other consumers browsed the store, the woman in green returned.

  "Where did you go last time?" I asked her quietly.