Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Beside her lay a pale body, crushed beneath the oak. She picked up the thimble lying nearby and carefully placed it into the palm of the body’s lifeless hand. “My perfect son …”

  Nels stared at his own body on the ground. He trembled and reached for his mother’s shoulder, to comfort her, but his hand passed right through her instead.

  The woman shivered as he backed away.

  Long strands of golden hair brushed Tyra’s shoulders as she guided her mare along a path lined by tall white oaks. She never imagined going this far from the castle in the middle of the night, or riding into the woods on her own … but to be alone with Arek was worth the risk.

  Why did he send the old tailor to fetch me?

  Riding through a shadowed thicket was not how Tyra planned to spend her midsummer evening. Her secret walk outside the city was interrupted when she found the tailor by the bridge, holding the bridle of her mare in his weathered hand. Tyra reprimanded him for saddling Brooklet — no one could touch the mare without her consent — but when he told her that Sir Arek was waiting for her in a clearing within the white oaks, she mounted her horse and rode off into the night.

  A meeting in the woods was such a spontaneous and romantic idea, even if the location was rather inconvenient. Why would he pick such a distant place? Tyra had heard rumors, of course — rumors about a question he wanted to ask her, and she had a good idea of what that question was. A late summer night, a full moon, a secret tryst in the woods. This fueled her excitement about the possibility that she’d entertained — and embraced — ever since the end of last summer.

  He was going to propose to her.

  How did he obtain my father’s blessing?

  She had no idea. Her father, the king, hardly showed an interest in anything — except to oppose her desire to be with Arek. Regardless, Tyra rode on, peering between the trees for her love. Arek’s conduct had changed somewhat since the festival, thanks to that arrogant peasant who bruised more than her beloved’s face. She shuddered at the thought of almost kissing him.

  Hundreds of thick trees surrounded her the farther she journeyed into the woods. The full moon shed enough light through the high branches to guide Brooklet along the road. Some commoners spoke of the full moon as though it was a terrible omen, but that was silly. There was no better time to go out at night than during a full moon — and nothing was more romantic than a proposal beneath one.

  Still, Tyra could not understand why Arek had sent the tailor to fetch her … that strange, old man who wove fabrics in a dingy cellar within the castle’s foundation. Tyra had to admit that the tailor’s abilities were praiseworthy. His skilled hand provided her with comfortable, extravagant dresses. Some in the castle claimed that he could do more than weave beautiful fabrics, that he had gifts of a magical nature, and that he knew of things that no one else knew. And the most peculiar thing about him was that he never took measurements.

  With a deep sigh, Tyra let go of her thoughts about the tailor.

  As the daughter of Avërand, she had everything she wanted.

  Well … almost everything.

  What she truly wished for, even more than Sir Arek’s hand, was her freedom.

  There was no doubt that she was fortunate. She had a good life, with obedient servants to cater to her every whim. Beyond that, she could only guess what it would be like when her parents left the world, leaving her to rule the kingdom. Govern the people all by herself? She couldn’t stand the thought of it. No tutor was competent enough to give her the knowledge she needed — or the courage — and Father’s constant gloom caused him to overlook her worry. Mother’s attention to his woes was of no help, either. It was no surprise to the Court that Tyra had sought out a strong, worthy man to be at her side, to admire her, and love her.

  If not for Arek, Tyra would be lost.

  But Brooklet, her faithful mare, was the only creature that seemed to truly understand her plight. When, as a child, Tyra went to select a horse for herself, she found the smallest foal standing by a dribbling brook. The creature trotted to her and pressed its nose against her arm with a gentle nudge. She connected with the filly instantly, both of them smaller and more vulnerable than they wanted to admit. From then on, she and Brooklet were bonded. If only Tyra’s parents felt as strongly about their daughter. Another memory invaded her thoughts as the princess recalled the most genuine smile that had ever graced her father’s face, all because of that insolent peasant.

  If I should ever see him again …

  What troubled her more than anything was that she had actually considered kissing him.

  It had been a week, and she was still thinking about it.

  Never had she seen green eyes like his before, deep enough that she could see reflections in them. Of all his features, she remembered his eyes most. She’d caught him glancing at her that day, more times than she could count. Aside from the dust in his hair, he was actually rather attractive, although the thought of a commoner defeating her perfect knight was infuriating.

  Rewarding the peasant would’ve completely undone her.

  Tyra shook her head and focused on the path in front of her. The woods grew darker as she rode deeper. Arek was waiting for her in a clearing somewhere, but she did not know where.

  Shouldn’t I be there by now?

  The tailor had instructed her to follow the wooded path west to find the clearing, but she’d been traveling for nearly an hour with no sign of her Arek. Frustrated, but not wanting to become lost in the shaded group of dense oaks, Tyra kept to the path. An owl hooted. The sound startled her, but only for a moment. She spotted a lone figure walking on the path in front of her.

  Maybe this person knows where the clearing is.

  Tyra hooded her head and tightened the sash on her cloak before reaching the stranger. She then encouraged her mare to follow his pace before she spoke. “Excuse me.”

  The stranger came to a stop and raised his head.

  It was too dark to see his face.

  “I’m looking for a clearing along this path. Would you happen to know where it is?”

  He said nothing. He just stared at her. His eyes made Tyra shiver.

  “I assume you can speak … or do I assume too much?”

  “You … you can see me?” he asked.

  Tyra cinched her brow. “Should I not see you?”

  “No one else can see me. Are you dead, too?”

  Shocked by the outrageous question, Tyra could only blink in response. Perhaps a full moon could drive people to madness. “My apologies, sir. You are in no condition to help me.”

  “Wait!” He dashed in front of her. “I need help.”

  “You are beyond my help. You are quite mad.”

  “I swear I’m not. Please, miss, you —”

  “Quite. Mad.” Tyra guided Brooklet’s reins. “Come on, girl!”

  She urged the mare to take off in a sprint, but the simpleton ran ahead and spread his arms wide. Tyra pulled back, but she was too late to stop Brooklet in time. The mare trampled right over the stranger. Spooked, Brooklet reared her legs and tossed Tyra from the saddle. The princess let out a shriek before she hit the road. The mare took off toward Cobblestown. With the wind knocked out of her, Tyra rolled to her side and gasped several times before producing a solid breath. She was unharmed, but could tell her rear end was going to be sore in the morning. Tyra rose to her knees. The sash around her waist was loose, and her hood had fallen from her head. The young man stood over her, his body and clothing untarnished.

  How is he not hurt?

  Brooklet had run right over him. There was no chance that he dodged her in time. But then, to her surprise, with his sandy-brown hair and his deep-green eyes, she recognized the young man,

  He was the peasant from the festival!

  “You!” Their voices sounded as one.

  Tyra jumped up and ran to the side of the road, wanting to be anywhere but here.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked.<
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  “Stay back!” she warned. “Don’t even think of touching me!”

  The boy raised his hands, surrendering. “Don’t worry. I can’t.”

  Tyra gave him a hard stare before she shook the dust off her dress.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “but how are you not hurt? What fool runs in front of a horse?”

  “Well … nothing can hurt me. Not anymore.” His eyes met hers. “I’m dead.”

  Her heart pounding, Tyra looked for something with which to defend herself. She grabbed a long fallen stick and swung it at him. “Get away from me!”

  The peasant shook his head. “What are you going to do with that? Swat me?”

  Pressing against the bark of a rotted oak, Tyra held her stick at the ready, but the peasant refused to yield. She swung at his head, but her blow failed to strike him. She swung again, hard this time, right at his chest, but her stick passed through him, hit the ground, and snapped in half.

  “You see?” said the peasant. “I’m dead.”

  “Stop that!” Tyra demanded, even though she was starting to believe him.

  Her blows had not missed him — they had gone right through him. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to scream or run, so she took a few long breaths and tried to calm down.

  “You’re, uh, um … Explain yourself!”

  There was a dull shine of moonlight in the peasant’s eyes. “What’s to explain?”

  “Well, you were … alive when I last saw you. What happened to you?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Wouldn’t believe? Either I’ve lost my mind, or I’m talking to a ghost.”

  “You haven’t lost your mind,” he said.

  Tyra exhaled a deep breath. “That’s comforting.” She stepped a little closer and extended her hand, enough to poke his chest. Her finger sunk into him — where his heart would have been — and she felt nothing there. The sight sent a chill through her body. “You really are dead!”

  The peasant cocked his brow. “You don’t have to be insensitive about it.”

  “Sorry. I just didn’t expect … you don’t look like a ghost.”

  “What are ghosts supposed to look like?”

  “I — I don’t know. See-throughish?”

  He chuckled. “I thought that, although I never believed in ghosts until I became one.”

  This was incredible. Here she was, talking with a ghost. It might not have bothered her so much if it had been someone else, but, despite her disdain for him, she marveled at this unexpected wonder. She crossed her arms, actually feeling a bit sorry for the poor boy. “What happened to you?”

  “I was crushed by a tree,” he answered.

  Tyra shivered at the thought. “How did that happen?”

  “A man attacked me with magic. I couldn’t move. The next thing I knew …” He paused. “I’ve searched everywhere for help, and you’re the only one who’s been able to see me.”

  Tyra chortled. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t believe the situation or the conversation she was having.

  The peasant glared at her. “I’m glad you find this amusing.”

  “I’m sorry, but — you must admit how odd this is.”

  His glare persisted.

  “Look, I’m sorry for what happened to you,” she said. “Truly, I am.”

  “You should be, after what you’ve done.” He crossed his arms and stepped closer.

  Tyra had to tilt her head back as he neared. His height made her uncomfortable. She stood her ground and slowed her breath. “What have I done? I’m not responsible for this!”

  “No,” he said, “but you made a fool of me at the festival.”

  Oh … that …

  The memory had completely escaped her mind; how pathetic, holding on to a grudge like that. “I made a fool out of you? You have no idea what you put me through!”

  “Forgive me if I can’t sympathize,” said the peasant. “I’m sure whatever you’ve been through is much worse than death.”

  She looked into his eyes with a knifelike stare. It did nothing to him. Not a trace of fear showed in him, when anyone else would have groveled at her feet. No one else would dare act like this, or make offensive accusations, in her presence. Dead or alive, this peasant should be no different. “I am sorry for your loss, but what do you expect me to do?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she headed down the road to find Brooklet.

  “I guess my friend was right,” he said. “You are a witch.”

  Tyra paused in her stride. “A witch, am I?” She turned back and found the peasant where she had left him, looking frustrated and miserable. “A witch? Is that really the best you can do?”

  He lowered his head, ashamed that he’d used the childish insult. It served him right.

  “Just as I thought. I must go now. If I don’t return home, they will worry.”

  “Will you speak to my mother first? She’s down the road in a clearing.”

  Clearing? Tyra’s interest was piqued. “What clearing?”

  “If you follow me, I’ll show you.”

  Could this be the same clearing where Arek wanted to meet her? The idea warmed Tyra’s chest and settled her nerves. “If I speak to your mother, will I be finished with you?”

  “I swear on my grave.”

  Imagining his buried corpse made her quiver, but if he promised to leave her alone on the condition of her help, it was worth a short detour, if only to see if this was the same clearing where Arek had intended them to meet. “I will hold you to that, ghost. Take me to your mother.”

  He smiled, pleased that she accepted his terms. “This won’t take long. Thank you!”

  Tyra tailed behind him, begrudging a smile of her own.

  It had better not …

  A quaint little cottage sat in the center of a plowed clearing, its front shadowed from the full moon. Soft candlelight danced along the sills of two sturdy windows. There was also a barn to the left, and several chickens walked freely about, but there was no sign of Arek anywhere.

  Tyra could not believe she was helping a ghost — the ghost of a peasant who had the nerve to humiliate her, no less. She jabbed him in the back, just to be sure — again — that he was a ghost. And again, she felt nothing. His presence went against everything she had ever heard about ghosts. He did not glow, nor was he transparent. He seemed normal, like any healthy person. Despite the illusion, he was dead. Not that it was a tremendous loss, in her opinion. She hadn’t heard of his death, something the royal scribe would have mentioned at the morning meal. Mother liked to know of Avërand’s new births; Father, on the other hand, preferred news about the deceased.

  Pushing the morbid thought from her mind, Tyra surveyed the clearing and smelled the air, catching a tinge of smoke. The ground was soft, too, but free of moisture, since it had not rained all week. They walked by a grave mound, not far from the road.

  “That’s where they buried me,” said the peasant.

  At the head of the grave was a stone with the inscription, Nels: The Knight of Cobblestown. Flowers and wreaths adorned either side of the plot, along with a few burned-out candles. The collection of flora was the greatest that Tyra had ever seen for a deceased commoner.

  “Once I speak to your mother, I am going home.”

  “You’ll want to put on your hood,” he warned.

  Tyra did so without knowing why. “Whatever for?”

  “My mother hates royalty. If she knows you’re the princess —”

  “Why would anyone hate royalty?”

  The peasant raised his brow with a conspicuous stare. She glared back as his eyes turned to the cottage. In spite of the peasant’s insolence, Tyra was intrigued and curious about him — if only a little. He annoyed her, most definitely, but she also remembered him being rather nimble during his spar with Arek — beguiling, even — and Tyra did have a tendency to find tall men attractive
. But not this one; no, she couldn’t stand this peasant in the least. Then again, it would one day become her duty to settle the kingdom’s affairs, to resolve disputes and help the people. Fulfilling the request of a dead peasant was a memorable way to start.

  “I’m glad you found me. You have no idea what it’s like to go unnoticed.”

  Tyra sighed. “Actually, I do know what that’s like.”

  “Isn’t ignoring the princess a high offense?”

  “Not if you’re my father.”

  Nels was silent, a look of curiosity on his face.

  “Look,” Tyra said. “All I want is to speak to your mother and be done with this.”

  “You didn’t come here to apologize, then?” he replied. “Why are you out here?”

  “I came here to practice witchy spells. Do you want me to speak to your mother or not?”

  Again, the peasant said nothing. He just smiled with a nod and pressed for the cottage.

  When they reached the door, Tyra gave it a knock. No answer. “Is she home?”

  “Give her a moment,” he said.

  “Wait,” Tyra said, panicking. “What should I say to her?”

  The door opened a crack. Standing on the other side of the threshold was a middle-aged woman with red hair, her face glazed with sorrow. She looked lovely, aside from her puffy, bloodshot eyes. She stared at Tyra with a suspicious frown, stooping to see more of what lay beneath her hood. “Do I know you, young lady?”

  “We, uh, have never met,” Tyra answered, “but I have come to tell you …”

  The peasant stood beside her. The woman did not seem to notice. “What is it?”

  Tyra looked to the peasant, unsure of what to say, as the woman waited.

  I can’t just say her son is a ghost. “It’s … sensitive. Can we talk inside?”

  “I have no idea who you are,” the woman said “but I see by the dress beneath your cloak that you are a Lady of the Court. You are not welcome in my home. Good night.”

  Without giving Tyra a chance to speak, the woman closed the door.

  Tyra glanced at the peasant. “She can tell by the hem of my dress?”

  “She knows a lot about nobility,” said the peasant.