Woven

by Michael Jensen

  “I’m glad you’re here, Princess. It’s been a long time since I’ve had company. I’m sorry that I cannot be of more help to you, but there is no way I can read that book.”

  “If you can’t read it, do you think a ghost can?” Tyra asked.

  Nels liked the suggestion. He was quite good at seeing in the dark now.

  “Ghosts are said to see what mortals cannot, so it is possible.” Gleesel raised her head. “I will show you, if you promise to see Ickabosh for me. Will you tell him I’m sorry?”

  Tyra glanced at Nels, her brow raised. “I certainly will!”

  Gleesel stood from her chair. She picked up a candle and a flame lit on its wick as she held it upright. “The book is in the east wing; this way.” She strolled over to the stairs, still blocked by the two hulking gargoyles. They had massive, powerful shoulders and beast-like faces. “Back to yourselves.” Like shifting millstones, their arms moved and their hands clasped over their knees. Gleesel reached for the banister to steady herself. “Come.”

  Relieved, Nels followed Tyra as she reached the stairs and ascended with the woman. The steps creaked, but only for Tyra and Gleesel. Ornate decorations greeted their eyes as they mounted the landing, but they didn’t stop long enough to admire them. They continued on, deep into the mansion, every corner piled with dust. A grand clock and countless paintings covered the richly colored walls, depicting places different from the kingdom of Avërand. They turned a corner into another hall.

  “How did your sister die?” Tyra asked suddenly.

  Nels turned to the princess. “Let her take us to the book first.”

  Tyra swatted at him.

  The woman stopped and spoke without turning around. “It’s too terrible. I don’t wish to discuss it.” Before they could say anything more, she continued. “There’s nothing we can do for her. I will show you the book, but I ask that you not bring this up again.” Gleesel sighed as she pressed on.

  Nels and Tyra followed her. “What was that about?” he asked.

  “She’s not telling us everything,” Tyra whispered. By the suspicious frown on her face and the sound of her voice, Nels could tell something was troubling her. “When I was alone, I heard a struggle and a scream, but I couldn’t see it. I think something terrible happened in this place.”

  “I saw something before you screamed,” Nels said. “Let Gleesel show us this book before you ask her anything else.” She flashed him a look, and he shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

  Gleesel paused before a narrow flight of stairs, the steps thin and steep. Only one person could go up them at a time. “Light up, candles! Light up, lanterns!” Small flames effloresced onto the wicks of various candles in mounted holders, brightening the ascending stairs.

  “I wish my candles could do that,” Tyra said.

  Nels laughed. “Your servants don’t light your candles at your command?”

  She smirked back. “Not that fast.”

  “Let me go first, Princess,” Gleesel said. “I’m not so young anymore. Many years have gone since I last went up these steps. I may need your help if I am to reach the top.”

  Tyra peered up the dark stairs. “Well, go on and have a look, ghost.”

  Complying with her wish, Nels floated through the trap door. A small room caught his eye, the only trace of light coming through a window on the other side when the lightning flashed. The ceiling was low and angled, like the attic of a textile shop he once explored as a child.

  Before the rain-streaked window was an old desk.

  A thick book lay on its dusty surface.

  A thick layer of dust slid over the trapdoor’s hinges as it opened behind Nels. Candlelight spilled into the attic, throwing the shadows aside. Not a single rafter was without spiderwebs, their eight-legged inhabitants, or the dried remains of flies, beneath them. Brittle and discolored candles lay on the desk, their rancid wax nibbled on by rodents. No one had set foot in this room for years.

  “Light up,” Gleesel commanded. “All of you, light up!”

  Wicks sparked to life in the lanterns above Nels, giving the room enough light to reveal the grime he had missed. The woman struggled out of the hatch, fanning the dusty air with her hand.

  Tyra’s head popped up next. Her eyes explored the room.

  “There’s the book.” Gleesel pointed at the desk. “Take your time.”

  Tyra coughed as she neared the desk and pinched the cloth jacket with her fingers. “This is what we came for,” she said, looking at Nels. “You want me to open it?” When he nodded, she carefully parted the volume. She leafed through the first few pages, but none of them contained any writing, not a single line. “Gleesel’s right. I don’t see a thing. What about you?”

  Nels looked over her shoulder and scanned the next page. It, too, was blank. He reached over Tyra’s arm and leafed to the next one. He turned to another page, and then another, frantically searching the book for a scribble, a blotch of ink, anything — but there was nothing.

  Nels’s hand trembled as he turned another page. “I see nothing.”

  Tyra heaved a sigh. “So we climbed this mountain for nothing, you mean.”

  Flipping through the rest of the volume, Nels reached the back of the book. There were hundreds of pages, but not a single one had writing. Nels faced Tyra, ready to admit defeat, when a young girl appeared next to Tyra, right before his eyes. She materialized out of nothing, as though a mix of vapor and moonlight. She ran right up to Nels, like a memory from the past.

  “Sing Mother’s lullaby,” she said, and then she was gone.

  Nels swallowed, amazed by what he had seen. “Did you see that?”

  Tyra perked her head up and scanned the room. “See what?”

  “Another ghost; a child — I think it was Sibylla.”

  “Really? Where is she?”

  “She’s gone now, but she told me to me to sing Mother’s lullaby.”

  “Sing Mother’s lullaby? What does that mean?”

  “What did you say?” Gleesel gasped behind them.

  Tyra looked at her. “Does that mean something to you?”

  The old woman’s arms shook, as if she were terrified. “My sister often wanted me to sing a lullaby to her, after our mother passed away. I never had the heart to sing it again.”

  “My ghost just saw your sister,” Tyra said. “I think she wants you to sing it.”

  Lowering her head, Gleesel turned away. “I cannot bring myself to.”

  “But this lullaby could mean something; you have to try.”

  The woman crossed her arms with a defiant glance.

  “Please, Gleesel,” Tyra begged. “Recite it for us?”

  After a moment, Gleesel cleared her throat and raised her chin; a new resolve made her look slightly younger. “If it will bring peace to her soul, I will,” she said. Then she started to sing:

  “Do not tremble, dear child.

  Trust in the darkness, now.

  Treasures await, dear child.

  Nothing there harms, I vow.

  “The sun is gone, dear child.

  Let the shadows take form.

  The moonlight glows, dear child,

  Beyond the coming storm.

  “Darkness abounds with no light,

  Magic roams beyond the sight.

  Like the gentle wings of a lark,

  You will find it in the dark …”

  As she trailed to a stop, Tyra placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. Gleesel turned and embraced Tyra, gently reciprocating her touch. “Oh, Sibylla — why did you leave me?” Tyra’s eyes shifted to Nels. All she could do was allow the woman to hold her, and all he could do was shrug. “Those verses have restored memories, locked away inside my mind for many, long years.” Gleesel let Tyra go. “Forgive me, Sibylla. I know you tried. Please forgive me …”

  A strong gust of wind splashed sheets of rain against the window.

  “A riddle,” Tyra said. “You will find it in the dark … I know!” />
  She left Gleesel, ran up to the nearest candle, and blew it out — but she did not stop there. She went to the next flame, and the one after that, and the ones after that, slowly vanquishing all the light in the room. Nels didn’t know what she was doing, but the old woman nodded her head, as if she had come to an understanding of her own. “Be dark,” Gleesel commanded. “All lights, all candles. Snuff yourselves out!”

  Darkness ensued as the flames died — but only for a second. “Look!” Tyra cried. “The book!”

  Nels spun around. Words appeared inside the book, spreading across the pages in small green letters. Each new sentence cast an emerald light into the room, emanating a soft glow with every word. Tyra flipped through the pages, where the same transformation was happening to all of them.

  Tears welled in Gleesel’s eyes. “You will find it in the dark … I understand now; who would think to read in the dark? Not I!” She neared Tyra and beamed gratefully at her. “Without you and your ghost, I never would have discovered the truth. Thank you. Thank you so much!”

  As Nels glanced at Tyra, she gave him a warm, sincere smile.

  “Now it’s time for me to help you.” Gleesel took up the book and held it firmly. “An account of the Needle should be here.” She flipped a few pages back. “Here is my father’s last entry.”

  They stared at the words as the woman read them:

  I, Oyren, am set to embark on a task that may lay claim to my life, for I know the secret that ties us all. I have found and removed all signs that would lead one to the Needle of Gailner.

  No one can find it now — as no one should — and only by these words can I contain the truth: Hidden deep in Westmine’s treasury is the Weaver’s Gate.

  From there, I will enter. I will find and use the Needle to mend what was torn and return the thread that does not belong in our world.

  Some secrets should never be found.

  Some gates are meant to stay closed.

  Nels stared at the passage, the words leaving him with more questions. “A Weaver’s Gate … a thread that doesn’t belong in our world … what do you think Oyren meant?”

  Tyra shook her head. “I’ve never heard of any of this before.”

  “We’ll have to go to Westmine to find out for ourselves.”

  “The Valley of Westmine? Are you telling me we have to travel to the other side of the mountain now?” Tyra let out another long sigh. “Must we really go there?”

  Gleesel gasped. “Please reconsider, child. That place is unsafe.”

  “I have no choice,” Tyra said. “Why is the valley unsafe?”

  The woman waved her hand. Every lantern lit up again. “After King Hilvar’s demise, he became a draug. His presence brought ruin upon the grand city of Westmine, and a great darkness came over his castle. No one dares to inhabit it, and my father never returned from it.” Gleesel closed the book. “My room is the only clean one in this house. You are welcome to it, Princess.”

  “I can’t take your room,” Tyra declared. “Where will you sleep?”

  “I couldn’t possibly sleep!” Gleesel patted the book. “With this, I may lift my curse tonight. It might hold something useful for your journey, too. Help me downstairs, will you?”

  Nels stood still, thinking about the Needle as Tyra left to assist the woman.

  Is the Needle of Gailner in Westmine? Could it really be in Hilvar’s treasury?

  He didn’t know for sure. Whatever this Weaver’s Gate was, maybe it led to the Needle’s whereabouts. Knowing that it lay somewhere else was a disappointment, given their short time to find it. And, according to Lars, the blacksmith, people did not go to Westmine anymore. They feared the wrath of Hilvar’s ghost. Even Tyra’s history lesson had affirmed that the haunting of Hilvar was responsible for Westmine’s fall and desertion. Nels gathered his confidence. Draug or not, they would find the Needle, even if they had to search the entire Valley of Westmine.

  “Put out those lights, will you, ghost?” Tyra asked as she ducked out of view.

  Nels was about to carry out her request when an apparition materialized before him. Floating by the window was a woman wearing a black dress, the same woman from the dark hallway and from the portrait he had seen in the bedroom below. Gleesel’s sister smiled at Nels.

  Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Thank you.”

  She passed through the window and disappeared into the storm.

  Gleesel’s bed was like a cloud compared to what Tyra had slept on the night before, but still she woke early, troubled by a dream. She had seen her father walking in a forest, but no matter how loud she spoke or how hard she screamed, she remained invisible to him. The thought chilled her, despite the bed quilts that were almost too warm.

  Before she met him, the peasant had experienced that same loneliness.

  Tyra cast her eyes to the window; dawn was breaking. A fire danced in the hearth, casting enough light to define the red-and-gold walls of Gleesel’s room. The evidence of Avërand’s artisanship was noticeable in the molding, the rafters, and every cleft and corner.

  A book lay open on a small table by the door, and there was a chair beside it. The peasant had been sitting there when she drifted off to sleep.

  “Ghost?” she called out. No answer. Where is he?

  Tyra stretched before she slipped out of bed. Her hair felt tangled in places, but then her nose caught a delightful aroma. It made her hungry. As Tyra stepped into the hall, the sun peeked over the horizon, barely illuminating luscious green-and-gold walls and a dark marble floor. To her amazement, the dilapidated state of the mansion had changed completely. All dust and every trace of grime was gone. Everything looked perfect, like any of the mansions she’d known at home.

  Has Gleesel learned the secrets of her book already?

  Something wonderful was baking downstairs.

  Reminded of her reason for leaving, Tyra lifted her skirt and walked to the stairs. The steps were also spotless, just like the halls. The delicious scent was strongest at the bottom of the stairs.

  She reached the rug and looked around. “Where is that smell coming from?”

  The grinding sound of moving stone startled her, making her jump back. Without looking at her, one of the gargoyles at the base of the stairs raised its hand and pointed to the door at her left.

  “Uh.” Tyra wasn’t sure if she should curtsy or not. “Thank you.”

  The statue returned to its post. Tyra left it alone and went through the side door.

  Moving gargoyles — the mansion’s magic continued to amaze her!

  After a moment of searching, she finally heard Gleesel’s laughter behind a swinging door. A kitchen lay beyond it. A hardwood table and a heaping platter of fruit, bread, and a bowl of steaming oatmeal caught her attention. The peasant was sitting across from Gleesel with a sheet of parchment before him and a quill in his hand. A drastic change had occurred in the woman, her face now cheerful — younger looking, even. Her eyes beamed with newfound hope.

  Gleesel looked up at Tyra and smiled. “You’re awake, sooner than I thought!”

  Tyra grinned back as she eyed the parchment. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” The peasant leaned over the writings.

  “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your ghost,” Gleesel said. “I read through the book and practiced all night, thinking I could find a remedy for you.” The woman pushed her chair back and stood up. “Listen to me talk! Have a seat, Your Highness. Eat. You must be off soon.”

  Tyra hesitated before she accepted the chair and placed herself opposite the peasant. The woman had her back to them. With an oversized stick that looked more like an oar, she stirred the contents of a cauldron. Tyra turned to the peasant, who seemed rather nervous.

  “I didn’t know you could write,” she said.

  He smirked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “You could have written to your mother, or anyone else for that matter.”

  “T
hat was before I could touch things. You’re still the only one who can see me.”

  “I would very much like to know why I’m the only one who can see you.” Even after her visit with the tailor, she still didn’t understand. She stole a quick glance at the parchment. It read more like a conversation. The ghost had used it to communicate with Gleesel, his writing neat and pleasing to the eye — much too pleasing for the hand of a commoner. “Your mother taught you how to read and write?”

  “And sew,” he added, “but I can’t do more than patch jobs.”

  A spoon tapped the cauldron’s lip. Gleesel hummed, distracting Tyra from reading what the peasant had asked in his writings. He had questioned Gleesel about her dead sister and had asked if a man named Rasmus was the one who killed Sibylla. Noticing Tyra’s prying eyes, the peasant crumpled the parchment and threw it to the embers in the hearth. It burst into flame.

  If there was anything the peasant seriously lacked, it was subtlety.

  “I didn’t know your sister was murdered,” Tyra said to Gleesel. “What happened?”

  The peasant shook his head as the woman returned with a wooden bowl, her voice hesitant. “I was not in the house when she died. When I came back inside, I found her at the stairs with a knife in her heart. I do not wish to discuss it further.” She placed the bowl in front of Tyra. A creamy green goop bubbled in the dish. “You should eat this.”

  Tyra nearly gagged. “May I ask what this is?”

  “A cure,” Gleesel answered, “for your cold.”

  “But I don’t have a cold.”

  “You will if you refuse,” she insisted. “Your exposure to that storm was more than enough to chill your bones.”

  Tyra looked doubtfully into her bowl. The ghost seemed just as unsure about the substance. Raising her spoon, Tyra dipped it into the ooze and placed it in the back of her mouth. She swallowed fast but was surprised by a sweet, creamy taste. Whatever the concoction was, it left her refreshed.

  “I will pack you a flask,” Gleesel said. “You’d best be prepared if caught in the rain again.”