Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Nels was no knight, though. He could not leave his easily frightened mother. Doing so would throw her into a panic. If Nels earned so much as a scratch, she would always assume the worst. Tonight, the village was preparing for the summer festival, and he was stuck at home, laboring for their winter stores — since his mother had again forgotten to get the seeds until it was nearly too late in the season.

  With a disappointed sigh, Nels watched the sun lower behind the treetops.

  I can’t blame her. What would she do without me? She needs me here.

  He knew becoming a knight would never happen as long as his mother had her way. She hated all knights, the royalty, anything that had to do with authority or nobility in the land of Avërand. No one else seemed to mind the royals. They were quite generous to the people; they kept taxes at a reasonable rate, and they made sure to visit the villages each year.

  What they did was not the problem. It was what they did not do.

  An apathetic monarch held the throne — a king who moped inside his castle, convinced that he was cursed. By what, no one knew for sure. But whatever was haunting the king caused him to ignore relations with other lands. If it were not for the sea town of Harvestport, the world would have forgotten about the minuscule country, a directionless kingdom with a languishing knighthood. Nels had never seen the king, but he knew if he were a knight, he could help — just as he helped everyone else. Mother forbade him from going to Hillshaven, home of Castle Avërand. In fact, she forbade him from going anywhere, especially to the summer festival.

  “I could do so much more. If only I could convince her …”

  The inviting smell of asparagus stew reached his nose. Tired from tilling and sore from wrestling in the dirt, Nels gathered his tools and headed, sluggishly, for the old cottage.

  “Did you enjoy wallowing in the dirt like a sow?” Mother asked.

  Sporting a cheerful grin, Nels strolled over the cottage threshold. “I sure did!”

  The woman stirred her pot. “Be glad I am not cooking you up like one.”

  “You should be glad.” Nels laughed. “I’d taste horrible, don’t you think?”

  With a sweet harrumph, Mother went back to her stewing.

  Their quaint cottage was a small, homey place, crowded, but organized. Tapestries made by his mother hung on the walls, and heaps of fabric, spools of thread, and piles of linens occupied every shelf and corner, filling the entire cottage with color. His mother was a seamstress. Her ability to make any textile, be it napkins or fancy gowns, was extraordinary. Nels couldn’t complain, really; few people in Cobblestown had a wardrobe as neatly fashioned as his.

  Mother kept busy most days, earning enough money to buy what they needed. Buying what they wanted, however, was a matter they hardly spoke of. This added to Nels’s confusion, because she had fashioned a number of stunning outfits — suits fit for kings and dresses worthy of queens — but she never sold them or showed them. Instead, she had them locked up in a wardrobe.

  We could be rich. Why won’t she do more than patch jobs?

  Nels changed out of his filthy clothes. The taste of dirt still lingered in his mouth.

  “Wash thoroughly,” Mother commanded. “I cannot afford to soil the fabric when I lay it out for measuring.” She spooned a few helpings of asparagus stew into two bowls and daintily placed them on the table. “Such a ragged thing, that girl, but she may look lovely with age.”

  “You mean Jilia?” Nels slipped on a fresh shirt. “Why would you say that?”

  “Time has a way of changing a girl … and the way a man thinks of her.”

  Nels walked to the table and sat down. “She’s not the kind of girl I have in mind.”

  Mother snickered as she returned the pot to the hearth. “No, no, not that little thing. You deserve someone better, someone calm and refined, a girl who will appreciate your character.” Her warm smile almost taunted him. “I understand several in the village have an eye on you.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose. They’re nice, but … none of them seem right.”

  Mother finally sat herself down, soft and gentle like a feather. “That may be for the best. I let you try working with Lars the blacksmith, after all,” she reminded him. “That work did not impress you, and the same goes for the quarry. Not even tailoring holds your interest. If you do not take up and master a trade soon, you will have nothing to offer a young bride.”

  “There’s one trade you haven’t let me try yet, Mother.”

  She reached for a pinch of pepper, obviously ignoring him.

  Nels let his chin rest on his knuckles. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Elbows.”

  He heeded the reprimand by lowering his hands. “It’s about the festival —”

  “I will not hear of it.” Mother reached for her spoon. “Imagine what could happen if I were left alone. What if thieves should come? No. Now stop slouching and eat your supper.”

  Nels sat upright with a groan as a fragrant steam rose from the bowl of stew in front of him. His mother’s unconvincing response to his incomplete question had made him lose his appetite. What sort of knight fails to stand up to his own mother? Nels glanced at her; she did not look back. She had a thin frame, and her vibrant red hair curled around her ears. Her eyes revealed a hint of blue that sparkled whenever she laughed. No other woman in the region could match her striking looks. Suitors from the village knew this, and she had refused every single one.

  Mother dabbed her chin with a napkin. “Eat, before it cools.”

  “I’m going to the festival, Mother.”

  “You may not. Festivals do not finish work. Frivolity after drudgery.”

  Nels clutched his chair and took a calming breath. “Why don’t we set up a stand at the festival? We could afford to buy our stores for winter if you sold the dresses in your wardrobe.”

  “You have no business in my things,” Mother warned. “And why would I do that? We have all the seed we need. Why buy what we can grow? Are you looking to weasel out of your chores again?”

  “I don’t see the need for it, and you always give me extra chores right before the festival.”

  The woman fidgeted. “Summer is our busiest season, Nels. You know that.”

  “Then why buy the seed so late? Everyone had their crops set weeks ago.” His mother glanced away, resisting his question, so Nels placed his hands on the table — more forcefully than he meant to — and stood up. “I want to become a knight, Mother,” he said. “Why won’t you let me?”

  “Nels.” Mother shot him a reproving look. “I will not have this. Those villagers have filled your head with these dangerous aspirations for too long. Do you believe saving a man from a rockslide is merit enough to affiliate yourself with that wretched horde of crooks and merrymakers? Sampling wine is all the knights of Avërand are good for!”

  Nels shook his head. He did not enjoy arguing with his mother. He knew she loved him — and he loved her — but there was nothing to love about her outlandish excuses. Past arguments told him that debate was useless, but he had to do something. Going to the festival was the only way he could fulfill his dream. “All the more reason to join them. I could do something!”

  “Must a parent explain herself when protecting her child?”

  “Protecting me?” Nels stared into her eyes. “From what?”

  “From making a fool of yourself. Why do you really want to be a knight?”

  “I want to make a difference,” he said. “I want to be of help to the kingdom.”

  “Helping me is not enough? Is that what you are telling me?”

  Nels had no answer. Of course he wanted to help her, but she didn’t understand. What was so wrong about lending a hand to others?

  “We are finished with this discussion,” Mother continued. “Sit down and eat your stew.”

  Before he did, Nels had one last thing to ask: “Mother, why are we hiding out here?”

  “Hiding out here?” She raised a hand
to her mouth. “What makes you say that?”

  “We don’t fit in, Mother. If you went outside more, you’d see what I mean. Everyone thinks we’re strange for living in the woods, and you hardly let me leave your sight. Why?”

  He waited for her to speak. She raised her other hand and covered her face. “It is not a matter of hiding; I simply do not like strangers.”

  “You’re afraid of something. I’ve known it for a while. I know you hate the royals and the knights, but it’s more than that. Does it have to do with Father? Every time I ask about him, all you say is, ‘I will not hear of it.’ ”

  His mother turned away from the table, assuring Nels that his assumption was right. At long last, a lifetime’s worth of questions and secrets were out in the open, all because she wouldn’t let him go to the festival. Nels should have put his foot down sooner.

  “If you can’t tell me why I shouldn’t go, then I have no reason to stay.”

  Tears filled the woman’s eyes as she lowered her head and sobbed. Nels’s heart sank; he did not mean to make her cry, but he had run out of options.

  I’ve done it this time.

  He clasped his hands over hers. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “He was murdered.”

  Nels looked up. “What?”

  “Your father was murdered.” Mother dabbed her nose, trying to compose herself.

  After years of speculation, she had finally answered him.

  Father hadn’t deserted them. He was taken from them.

  “Who murdered him? Someone from the castle?!”

  “I cannot — I will not say,” she said. “But that is why you will not go to the festival.”

  The cottage fell silent, her decision final.

  Nels sat back. “May I be excused?”

  Without looking up, Mother nodded. “Night is upon us. Do not go far.”

  Feeling betrayed and sick to his empty stomach, Nels stepped out the door and went around back. If he had stayed much longer, he would have said something he would later regret.

  Nels did not bother to watch for the chickens as he walked, and each of them ran out of his way, clucking frightfully. At the end of the slope behind the cottage lay a small pond. An inlet trickled freshwater into it, and its calm surface had a way of quieting his rare temper. When Nels reached the marshy edge, he picked up a small rock and threw it — hard. It skipped over the surface, cracked against a boulder, and plopped into the water. Ripples spread back, lapping the bank at his feet.

  My father was murdered …

  Nels sat by the pond, allowing new questions about his father to surface. Nels knew very little about him — next to nothing — as did all the people of Cobblestown. But surely someone knew about their coming here. With the sky’s remaining twilight, Nels looked at his frowning reflection. Maybe he should’ve felt more content; at least his mother had finally confided in him.

  It was not enough, though. He had to know the rest of the story.

  If someone murdered him, why would she keep that from me? Is Mother hiding from his killer?

  Nels had spent many hours trying to understand his mother’s plight: jumpy at night, her guard up with every new customer. Now he knew why. It was still unfair; all he wanted was a chance — one chance — to prove his worth to the kingdom. Had he already compromised that chance? A knight’s duty is to ensure the welfare of all, a selfless charge for life, but what kind of knight makes his mother cry? For her sake, perhaps it was best if he deserted his dream altogether. After all, the older he became, the less likely it was to happen.

  “I want to be a knight, but not like this. I have to be better than this.”

  Nels lay beside the pond and closed his eyes for a moment. A frog croaked on the other side before it jumped into the water. Seeing the ripples calmed him further. Feeling defeated and tired, Nels stood up and walked back to the cottage.

  Nels found his mother drying a plate as he entered. She looked at him, her expression fallen more than it was when he left. His big bowl of cold stew remained on the otherwise empty table.

  He stared at the bowl. “I want to know more. Will you please tell me?”

  Mother hung up her rag. “When the time is right, I will tell you.”

  I’ve heard that before.

  Thinking it best to end the subject for now, Nels turned for his bed.

  “We need to discuss a small errand,” Mother said suddenly. “I have run out of turquoise dye. I cannot finish Magdalene’s tablecloths without it, so I need to fetch some in the morning.”

  Nels turned back, surprised by this news. “We’re going to Cobblestown?”

  “Of course not — not during the festival. I will have to go to Kettlescreek.”

  “Kettlescreek?” Nels sighed. “That’s a three-hour journey each way!”

  Mother removed her apron. After she hung it up, she left the kitchen and walked to her loom around the corner. “I bought the dyes from Agen. If the tablecloths are going to match, I will have to go to him in Kettlescreek. As you said, I need to get outside more.”

  Her journey to avoid the festival was a foolish one, but Nels held his tongue. He had an idea that renewed his hope. “I’ll finish the chores,” he said, “while you’re away …”

  “I should hope so,” Mother said. “We’re behind enough as it is. I will go to Kettlescreek for dyes and other supplies while you finish up here. If I return and see you are not finished —”

  “Don’t worry,” Nels said. “It will take me all day.”

  Mother nodded as she proceeded to weave.

  “I didn’t mean what I said,” Nels apologized. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Nels — my perfect son.”

  Hiding a smile, Nels slipped into his nook and lay on his wool mattress.

  She never said I couldn’t go if I finished my chores first …

  All he had to do was wake up early, finish everything, and see what he could of the festival before she came back. The plan was foolproof!

  Nels closed his eyes, imagining what the festival would be like. His friends had told him of games and races, pies and tarts, and merchants who visited from Harvestport to sell their wares. This time — for the first time — he would see it all for himself. This time, he would have his chance to become a knight, even if he had to bend the rules to do it. He refused to spend the rest of his life in the shadow of his mother’s fear.

  Mother hummed as she wove, the mild tune lulling Nels to sleep.

  Nels slept in. He felt like a fool.

  Scrambling out of bed, he barged out the back door to gather every tool he needed. The morning sun was high, hard at work baking the ground. Noon would arrive in a few short hours, meaning his chores would carry him into the evening. Old Brown and the wagon were gone.

  “She left me asleep on purpose!”

  No matter. He didn’t have time to stew over it.

  I have to finish this!

  Nels fed the chickens first. They would never stop clucking if he ignored them. He then ran into the field and shoved a spade into the dirt. He rushed through the first and second hour, digging and planting, setting up the crops faster than he ever had in his life, but he still had so much to do. The barn needed a sweep and he had to fix the fence — he needed wood for that.

  Nels charged to the back, grabbed the old ax, and began chopping branches off his latest felled tree. But it wasn’t long before the iron head flung off the handle and plonked into the pond. Nels collapsed by the stump. Hot sweat stung his eyes. It was no use.

  Even if he skipped the fence, he would never make it in time.

  “Maybe this is for the best,” he muttered to himself.

  Exhausted and out of breath, Nels staggered to his feet, removing his shirt. His body teemed with sweat. He dunked his face into the trough, feeling instant relief in the cool water.

  “You work yourself like an ox, young man.”

  Nels spun around, water dripping down his face. By the corner, an old
gentleman stood holding a cane with a metal grip — like the hook of a large crochet needle. Curly hair ringed his bald head and his short beard matched his gray robe. Even his eyes seemed worn and gray, like beads of unpolished steel. Nels looked over his shoulder, making sure they were alone.

  He held his hand up, the bright sun forcing him to squint. “May I help you?”

  “I am a friend of your mother’s,” the old man answered, his voice warm and cordial. “No one answered the door, so I thought I would look around back, and lo, here you are!”

  Nels shrugged. “Here I am,” he said halfheartedly. This man was much too cheerful for Nels’s present mood. “But my mother isn’t here. She left for Kettlescreek early this morning.”

  The old man leveled his lips. “Pity. I had hoped to see her before the festival.”

  Nels stopped mid reach for his shirt. “You’ve come for the festival?”

  “Why else?” he said, taking a few steps closer. “Cobblestown is colorful, and the smells in the air are delicious. The king and his family will arrive soon, including fair Princess Tyra, the most beautiful maiden Avërand has ever known.” The old man looked Nels up and down. “Have you seen her before? If not, you should, and I could use an escort back to town.”

  Nels let out an envious sigh. “I must finish these chores before I go anywhere.”

  “Pity,” the man said again. “Though I see your mother has raised an obedient young man.”

  Laughing at that, Nels patted the old fellow on the back. “By all means, if you want to help me finish my chores, I will gladly walk with you to the other side of the world!”

  The man tilted his cane. “That is unnecessary — but what have you left to do?”

  Nels blinked, thinking the old man had taken him for a fool. “I wasn’t serious.”

  “I am sincere, dear boy,” he said, following Nels to the front of the cottage.

  “Well,” Nels said slowly, “the fence needs fixing, and the barn needs sweeping, and the field needs —” Nels froze in his tracks, his eyes staring at the repaired fence, the swept barn, and the watered field. He could not believe it. Every single one of his chores was finished. “But … when did —?”