***
‘I’m not as good as you, Willow. What if I knot the wrong places, or tear a thread that shouldn’t be torn? What if I entwine them wrong and the whole World changes?’
The Weaver holds her sisters pale face in her hands, nose to nose as she whispers,
‘You won’t. Threads are strong and difficult to break if they don’t want to be broken, and they almost fall into place as you guide them. You have practised for many years, Magnolia, almost as many as I. It is in our blood.’
The younger girl nods, reluctant to say goodbye, though already her shaking fingers hold the threads, ready to begin their task.
‘And you promise you won’t interfere? You know the rules. You can’t touch him. Any of them. You must only observe and-’
Willow holds a finger to Magnolia’s lips, though her whispers cannot be heard beyond their Weaving room.
‘I know the rules. I just want to see him. His threads are so clear to me, his tapestry warm and strong, not like the others. I need to see him for myself so that I may picture his face as I weave his story. Mother said that if we felt the pull we must take the chance. She wouldn’t have been able to weave so beautifully without the face of her own Core Lifeline to picture.’
Magnolia frowns ‘But you didn’t tell Him that you believe you have felt a Core Lifeline. You haven’t completed the lessons.’
Willow’s lips tighten, and she nods.
‘If I’d said my desire was to see a specific Lifeline, that I felt the Pull, they would never let me go in time. Core lessons last for weeks which would translate to centuries in the World, and his threads would be long since frayed and ended. I must go now. Even if I watched until the end of his tapestry I’d be back before you can complete 100 turns. Now. Take these pieces so I can let go.’
Willow kisses her sisters forehead, and Magnolia smiles weakly. Hands meet, and threads are passed over, entrusted to new fingers for the time being. As Magnolia now twists the yarns, colours spinning and looping between one another, Willow flexes her own fingers, unused to the stillness of hands without thread. With a final smile, she opens the door to the Universe.
***
For seventy-three of the World’s days she has watched him from afar, mesmerised by his eyes- almost the blue of Forgiveness- and the way his mouth turns up slightly higher to the left when his smiles are genuine. She has seen him sleep, and run, and dress, and kiss the female Lifeline he lives with gently on the cheek before he leaves for his lessons. His mother, she guesses, feeling a longing ache at the thought of mothers. Their home is small, but she remembers the Comfort she felt as she wove his younger years in that house, and she thinks of the room in which she weaves and how it somehow fits the whole World inside and she realises that the size doesn’t matter, only the threads it is woven with. She feels the Pull, stronger each day, like a thread from her chest yanking her closer. She remembers, vaguely, being told not to follow the thread. She cannot remember why. All she remembers is the feeling of his tapestry beneath her fingers and the Pull.
The Weaver takes a step, reeling the thread closer and closer as if the spool is spinning in her chest.
Her heart stumbles over itself as he sees her for the first time, standing stalwart on his front lawn as if he too feels the connection and cannot move to break it. Maybe he is waiting for the spool to wind the thread, closer, closer until there is no space between them.
Willow’s pulse is erratic, the Pull undeniable as she nears him. Dimly, she registers that his eyes are not coloured with Forgiveness, but with Sorrow. She feels his breath on her lips as she rises onto her toes.
***
All at once everything is glowing white, and she is spinning, spinning, and she knows she is on the Journey home but she doesn’t know where the World went. Her mother’s words echo, clear as if they’d been spoken yesterday. “The Pull is magical, a tie that binds us to the World like nothing else, but you must never unwind the thread, Willow. If you follow the Pull to the end the thread will be unwound and your Core Lifeline will unravel. Our paths are not meant to entwine.” The Weaver’s cry shatters stars as she gasps and writhes. Everything she knows is the colour of his eyes.
***
Magnolia’s golden tears dampen the fabric of the World, and she needn’t speak the question when her elder sister tumbles into the room.
‘I forgot-I followed the Pull and I kissed him and-’, Willow stumbles to the tapestries and clutches at the frayed edges of his Story, frantically tugging them together. The tatters disintegrate, her fingers clutching at cold air. Her lips continue to move and Magnolia knows they say ‘I’m sorry’, over and over, though she cannot hear the words. She moves closer, and skin to skin feels every sigh and tremor as her sister falls apart. Willow closes her eyes, tears gilding her cheeks, and drapes the brightest section of the tapestry over her body, cloaking herself in Light. Hours pass, many Stories are woven, before Willow breathes deeply, opens her eyes, and reaches for the tapestries.
When He visits the room later and asks her what she thought of the World, she answers that he was right. The World is cruel.
About the Author
Kerran Olson was born in Perth, Western Australia in 1991. When she isn't busy at university studying Tourism Management or Writing, she enjoys reading from a range of genres and writing short stories and poetry inspired by her travels, everyday life, and imaginings. She also collects copies of The Catcher in the Rye and loves them all, especially the pre-loved editions with notes in the margins from second-hand stores. The Weaver is her first published piece.
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