Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Until the storm passed, the mansion was their only option.

  “You have a look,” she said. “I will stay by the door.”

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home. I’ll see what I can find.”

  Tyra walked by his side to the mansion’s front door. An eerie feeling overcame her, like someone, or something, was watching her every move. She glanced over her shoulder again. The goat had followed them. This time, it had a cautious, curious look in its unblinking eyes.

  Tyra pondered what the tailor had said about the witch.

  Could she really turn travelers into animals?

  Is that goat one of her victims?

  Tyra turned around and dared herself not to look again.

  Get a hold of yourself.

  They ascended a short flight of stone steps that stopped at a covered porch. Each new burst of lightning revealed carefully laden stonework. The granite walls reflected the light. They peeked inside the door and saw nothing remarkable about the mansion’s interior. It was spacious, wide, and terribly quiet. White sheets covered abandoned furniture, the linens grayed with settled dust. A few burning embers in a tall, spacious hearth caught Tyra’s attention. Fires weren’t known for building or lighting themselves.

  Someone had to be in there.

  “Where would we find such a book in here?” Tyra asked.

  “Maybe this place has a library. I’ll start upstairs.”

  The peasant jumped inside, crossed the floor, and glided into the house. Tyra thought it would be best if they stayed together, but she had no intention of going inside unless she absolutely had to. The porch was good enough at keeping the rain off. The hem of her cloak whipped her boots as Tyra leaned on the door, silencing its noisy hinge. She folded her arms to keep herself warm against the cold wind. Only a moment had passed, but it felt more like hours.

  Why did I agree to this?

  Hoping to keep the storm and the darkness from disturbing her thoughts, Tyra tried focusing on something else. It was useless. Was seeking after a Needle worth all of this trouble, risking blisters, a cold, or a tragic metamorphosis into a goat at the hands of an evil witch? She thought not. She prayed that the storm hadn’t washed away their trail.

  I hope Arek finds this place. I’d feel much better if he were with us.

  “Baaack!”

  Tyra jumped and looked back. The old goat stood at the base of the steps, staring at her with unyielding eyes. It then hopped onto the first step and ascended toward her.

  “Tuuurrrn baaack!”

  Gasping, Tyra ran inside, grabbed the iron handle, and slammed the door shut. She found a thick wooden latch hanging on the wall to her left, so she pulled it down and secured the door against the wind and the creature. Hooves scratched at the other side as she backed away.

  Tyra laughed nervously to herself. “What’s with that goat?” she muttered.

  A moot question. She had no desire to know, just a desire to keep the goat away.

  She caught her breath and searched the darkness. The struggling embers in the fireplace provided little light. Someone had lit that fire, but the mansion felt deserted. A chandelier dangled above; the stirred air clinked its crystals. Lightning revealed parts of an expansive room with a marble hearth and a flight of stairs guarded by two carved gargoyles. A thick layer of dust buried their stony faces. Tyra waited for her eyes to adjust as her drenched cloak left grimy streaks on the floor. She walked on, gingerly stepping onto a plush rug.

  “Ghost?” she called out. “Where are you?”

  The house groaned with the storm. The peasant didn’t answer.

  Anxious and annoyed, Tyra removed her cloak and draped the soggy heap over a chair by the hearth. She tried to warm her arms, but the fire was too faint. If she had a candle, she could look around and be of more use. Just as she thought it, she saw several long candlesticks on top of the high mantle. She stood on her toes and knocked a few of the candles down. She snatched one off the floor and prodded its wick into the ashes. A small light flickered to life.

  When she looked up, a pair of eyes glared at her.

  Not one pair — three.

  Tyra stopped short in the middle of the room and waited for the lightning. Brief flashes revealed a fine portrait of a bearded man and two girls. Their clothing depicted the loftier style of the old Avërand era, before Tyra or her father’s time. Both of the girls had braided hair. Curled locks framed their faces, their dresses fashioned with black satin.

  Such a dismal color. “Who would wear such a thing?”

  Just then, as Tyra moved, so did their eyes.

  All three pairs followed her every step.

  It’s my imagination. The storm. That’s all.

  A sudden crash sounded behind Tyra. She spun around in time to see dozens of books on a tall shelf. Numerous thuds hit the floor, as if the volumes had fallen there — but none of them had. She then heard a terrible scream, like the shriek of a murdered woman. Tyra turned back around and heard another thud on the rug at the base of the stairs.

  This mansion was haunted.

  “Ghost?” she cried. “Wherever you are, come back here!”

  All of a sudden, the front door latch shattered to splinters and the door burst open. A fierce wind entered the hall, fanning the embers in the fireplace and blowing out Tyra’s candle. She stumbled backward in the dark, tripped over the rug, and landed on her back.

  The goat was standing under the doorframe. Even at this distance, Tyra saw anger in its eyes. A new flame burst in the hearth as the creature placed a hoof over the threshold.

  Before her very eyes, the hoof twisted into a human hand.

  The goat’s front legs morphed into arms, the joints curling and stretching with sickening cracks. Its back hoofs swelled into human feet while its front femurs extended, bursting out into thin legs. In a few short seconds, the creature turned into an old woman with hunched shoulders. She wore a tattered black dress, her head covered in white-gray strands of hair. Her cold eyes chilled Tyra to the bone.

  With nowhere else to run, Tyra bolted for the stairs.

  “Stop her!”

  When Tyra reached the first step, something knocked the wind out of her. A stony fist, belonging to one of the coarsely chiseled gargoyles, had blocked her escape. Both turned their heads and blinked dust from their eyes. Terrified, Tyra skittered back and pulled out her dagger.

  “Seize her!”

  Something caught hold of Tyra’s ankle. The rug’s thick, wool fibers had woven around her boots, anchoring her feet to the floor. Slashing to free herself, Tyra lost her balance and fell on her hands and knees. Her dagger slipped out of reach. Several new fibers rose up and tied down her wrists. The woman laughed and rubbed her old hands together.

  “I warned you to turn back, child. Why did you not listen?”

  Tyra searched for a scream as the witch drew near.

  The dark hallways made it difficult for Nels to see.

  Like the entryway, dust, cobwebs, and more dust covered everything he saw, be it tables or lofty chairs. Green paper lined the walls, etched with fancy floral designs that had a silvery sheen, even in the dark. Nels walked along, door to door, poking his head into each room in the left wing, only to find more dusty furniture. The house held no sign of life, much less a shadowed book.

  A dark figure caught the corner of his eye as he strolled down the next hall. Nels flew around the corner, but saw no one. He could have sworn there was a woman in a black dress.

  A light bled through the space beneath a closed door ahead. Returning to the floor, Nels approached and took a breath before he passed through. On the other side, Nels thought he had stepped into a dream. Lit candles were everywhere, a fire was burning in the hearth, and not a speck of dust tarnished the colorful walls, the floor, or the four-poster bed with its deep red curtains. Compared to the rest of the unkempt house, this bedroom was immaculate — clean enough for someone to sleep in.

  “Is someone here?” he aske
d, not that he expected anyone to hear him.

  After a brief look around, Nels saw for himself that no one was inside the room. Above the mantle hung a huge portrait of a young woman sitting in a garden. The woman in the portrait had long ebony hair and a lovely smile, and the walls of Castle Avërand were behind her. She wore the same dress as the figure he had seen, or thought he had seen. Suddenly, the fire in the hearth billowed, and when he looked up again, the woman in the portrait had a knife stuck in her chest.

  Her eyes flew open, and she unleashed a blood-curdling scream. Startled, Nels stepped back. When he looked again, the portrait had returned to normal. If he had a heart, it would be pounding.

  That woman — was she a ghost?

  If so, she wasn’t like him or Yalva; she was more of a presence than a person.

  Another scream seized him, coming from below. “Tyra?”

  He heard it again. It was her scream. She was in trouble!

  Without thinking twice, Nels dived into the floorboards as if they were the waters of a placid lake. He sunk through wooden supports, iron bracers, and ceiling plaster until he reached the main hall. It was much brighter than before, more than when he’d first entered.

  Tyra was bound on all fours, kneeling before an old woman.

  The Mountain Witch!

  Nels swooped down and crouched in front of Tyra. When he glanced up, the woman was still closing in, her weathered face shrouded by gray and white hair. Tyra’s dagger lay on the floor. Nels picked it up and waved it in front of the witch. The old woman jumped back as she stared at the floating knife, her blue eyes widening. When she was far enough away, Nels saw Tyra’s wrists — both tied to the rug, its threads slithering over her skin like woolen snakes. He cut them off and pulled Tyra free; the threads wove quickly back into their old seams. He then shielded Tyra and brandished her dagger at the witch, ready to use it if he had to.

  “Where were you?” Tyra asked, quivering behind him.

  “I shouldn’t have gone off alone. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t ever leave me like that again!”

  Trembling, the witch took a step back. “What are you muttering, child?” Before Tyra could say anything, the woman’s eyes widened. “What have I done?” The witch threw herself to the floor. She bowed her head so low that they could no longer see her face. “Do not cast a spell. I beg you!”

  At a loss for words, Nels glanced at Tyra. Her puzzled expression told him their confusion was mutual. “M-Miss … W-Witch?” Tyra stuttered. “What are you talking about?”

  The witch pointed a shaky finger at the floating knife. Nels returned the dagger to Tyra, who grasped it without taking her eyes off the old woman.

  “What are you doing in my home?” the witch asked, looking miserable on her knees. “I thought all the conjurers returned to Cravélle, beyond the White Sea?”

  “But you’re a conjurer,” Tyra said, “are you not?”

  “No,” the woman answered. “You are the only witch here.”

  Reminded of a similar comment he had made to Tyra on the first night they spoke, Nels snorted. Tyra glared at him. Straightening his stance, Nels cleared his throat and kept his guard up. This woman had given them a start. She could still do something terrible to Tyra if she wanted to.

  “But you were a goat a moment ago,” Tyra said. “How are you not a witch?”

  “It is a curse,” the woman answered. “I change whenever I leave this house.”

  Nels focused on the woman. Was what she said even possible? He should have taken Tyra’s concerns a bit more seriously when she complained about the talking goat.

  “But that rug,” Tyra pointed, “and those statues —”

  “This mansion does whatever I wish,” said the woman.

  Tyra shook back her tousled hair. “You’re not the Mountain Witch?”

  “I am Gleesel. The witch you speak of is Sibylla.” The woman pointed at the youngest girl in the portrait above the fireplace. The man sitting between the two girls must have been their father. Sadness and anger prevailed in her voice when she said the girl’s name. “She is my sister.”

  “Oh,” Tyra said. “Is she home? I need her help.”

  Gleesel frowned. “She … she cannot help you.”

  Tyra looked at Nels for a second. “Why not?”

  “Why do you need her help, conjuress? Will you lift my curse?”

  “I can’t,” Tyra confessed. “I’m not what you think I am.”

  The woman stared at her. “You’re not a conjurer?”

  Tyra shook her head. “I’m Tyra, the Princess of Avërand.”

  Gleesel stood up. Astonishment washed over her. “A princess? In my house?” She glanced at the fireplace and walked to it. “Clear out,” she said. “Her Highness and I need a place to sit.”

  The moment she said this, two white sheets flung into the air and exposed two comfortable-looking chairs with tall backs. Gleesel sat in one and invited Tyra to have the other. Tyra bit her lip and looked at Nels before she accepted. “The Princess of Avërand in my home. This is an unexpected surprise!” The woman pressed her hands against each other before she raised her fingers to touch the end of her nose. “If you have no magic, how did your dagger protect you?”

  “You won’t believe this” — that same embarrassed expression appeared on her face again, the one that manifested whenever she tried to tell someone about him — “it was held by a ghost.”

  “A ghost, you say?” Gleesel laughed. “I suppose I should believe you.”

  Her reaction surprised Tyra and Nels both. “You should?” Tyra asked.

  “It explains why you spoke to yourself. Ghosts are all too real — I should know.” Gleesel reached for something around her neck. Nels hadn’t seen it before: a bronze trinket, bell-shaped with dimples, fastened to a chain. It was a thimble, just like the one Bosh had given to him.

  Why does she have one?

  “What I have a hard time believing is you, here, in the middle of a storm.” Gleesel ran her fingers through her hair, taking several strands of it with each stroke. It looked more like goat hair than human hair. “I’m curious, Princess. Why would you come all this way with a ghost?”

  “I was told you have a shadowed book,” Tyra answered.

  The woman heaved a wry sigh. “I knew someone would come for that. Even if I were to show you, you cannot read the book. Only a skilled conjurer can see what is written.”

  “Can your sister read it for us?” Tyra asked.

  Gleesel stared at her. “My sister is dead.”

  Dead? Nels looked at the portrait again. Gleesel was clearly the older of the two girls. Sibylla resembled the young woman in the portrait upstairs. Her ghost was somewhere in the house — he knew it. If they could find her, she could give them the information they were searching for.

  “I’m sorry,” Tyra said. “It must have been a terrible loss.”

  “More than that,” Gleesel said. “She was the only one capable of lifting my curse. I can only be human inside this house.” She held up her thimble and dangled it from her chain like a tiny bell. “Answer me, Princess. What information could that book possibly hold for you?”

  “I don’t want it,” she answered. “It’s not for me.”

  “Not for you?” The woman scoffed. “Then whom is it for?”

  “It’s rather complicated … You see, we were told your book can tell us where to find a Needle that can sew a ghost back to life.” She glanced down. “I’m trying to save him.”

  Her sincerity surprised Nels. He liked the way she’d said that. The storm outside had quieted down. The fire crackled and popped. Gleesel gazed into the hot flames. “You’re looking for that, are you? I have heard of it, this Needle. It is a tool for Fabrication, said to hold powers beyond imagination.” She laughed. “My father went in search for it … and he never came back. Who told you about this Needle?”

  “My tailor,” Tyra answered. “He told us to start here.”

  Gleesel
glanced at Tyra’s dress. “What is his name?”

  “Bosh, I believe.”

  The firelight reflected in the woman’s eyes as she held her thimble tightly. “Ickabosh?” Gleesel leaped to her feet and grabbed Tyra by the shoulders. “He’s alive?” Surprised by the woman’s speed, Nels seized Gleesel’s wrists and pulled her away from Tyra with a yank. She let go of the princess the moment he touched her. Silence divided them. Gleesel rubbed her wrist and looked at Tyra with a hopeful glimmer in her eye. “Your ghost is rather protective of you.”

  Tyra blushed. Nels couldn’t help but notice. “How does she know Bosh?”

  “How do you know Bosh?” Tyra asked for him.

  Gleesel sighed. “He was Threadbare’s apprentice — and the love of my life.”

  “He was?!” Tyra and Nels asked in unity, Tyra leaning forward in her chair.

  The woman nodded. “My father went to help Threadbare with some crisis in the land of Mendarch. The journey changed him. Whatever the crisis was, he was never the same after that. He whisked us to this place, made it our home, and forbade us from ever going to Avërand. But I had to see Ickabosh, so I disobeyed him. When my father found out, he cursed me.”

  Nels understood. Her thimble was a gift. “How come Bosh never mentioned her?”

  “Bosh never mentioned you,” Tyra said. “Did something happen between you?”

  “While my father and sister were away, Ickabosh came to the house to convince me to run away with him, but I could not — because of the curse. I was too embarrassed to tell him. And I knew what my father would do if he learned of Ickabosh’s trespass. There was only one thing I could do to protect him. I lied. I told him to leave and never return. I told him I did not love him. He left me, his heart undoubtedly as broken as mine. I have regretted that lie ever since.” The woman cupped her cheek with her hand. “My father was certain he knew where the Needle was. He went to find it and left me with a curse that my sister could not undo. My father vanished and my sister died. Everyone I loved has left me.”

  Nels was captivated by the woman’s tragic story. Tyra, resting her own chin on her cupped hands, seemed to be even more captivated. No one spoke. Only the draft and the fire drew breath.