The Midnight Circus, стр. 4

“Oh,but it was,” said the old woman, as she led the girl into the cave.

Andwhat a wondrous place the cave was. On one wall hungskeins of yarn of rainbow colors. On the other walls were tapestries ofdelicate design. In the center of the cave, where a single shaft ofsunlight fell, was the loom of polished ebony, higher than a man andthree times as broad, with a shuttle that flew like a captive blackbirdthrough the golden threads of the warp.

Fora year and a day, Vera stayed in the cave apprenticed to the Weaver.She learned which threads wove the future of kings and princes, andwhich of peasants and slaves. She was first to know in which kingdomsthe sun would set and which kingdoms would be gone before the sun roseagain. And though she was not yet allowed to weave, she watched theblack loom where each minute of the day took shape, and learned how,once it had been woven, no power could change its course. Not anemperor, not a slave, not the Weaver herself. And she was taught tofinish the work with a golden thread and a needle so fine that no onecould tell where one day ended and the next began. And for a year shewas happy.

Butfinally the day dawned when Vera was to start her second year with theWeaver. It began as usual. Vera rose and set the fire. Then she removedthe tapestry of yesterday from the loom and brushed it outside untilthe golden threads mirrored the morning sun. She hung it on a silverhook that was by the entrance to the cave. Finally she returned tothe loom, which waited mutely for the golden warp to be strung. Andeach thread that Vera pulled tight sanglike the string of a harp. When she was through, Vera set the pot onthe fire and woke the old woman to begin the weaving.

Theold woman creaked and muttered as she stretched herself up. But Verapaid her no heed. Instead, she went to the Wall of Skeins and picked atrandom the colors to be woven. And each thread was a life.

“Slowly,slowly,” the old Weaver had cautioned when Vera first learned to choosethe threads. “At the end of each thread is the end of a heartbeat; thelast of each color is the last of a world.” But Vera could not learn tochoose slowly, carefully. Instead she plucked and picked like a gaybird in the seed.

“Andso it was with me,” said the old Weaver with a sigh. “And so it was atfirst with me.”

Nowa year had passed, and the old woman kept her counsel to herself asVera’s fingers danced through the threads. Now she went creaking andmuttering to the loom and began to weave. And now Vera turned her backto the growing cloth that told the future, and took the pot from thefire to make their meal. But as soon as that was done, she would hurryback to watch the growing work, for she never wearied of watching theminutes take shape on the ebony loom.

Onlythis day, as her back was turned, the old woman uttered a cry. It waslike a sudden sharp pain. And the silence after it was like the releasefrom pain altogether.

Verawas so startled she dropped the pot, and it spilled over and sizzledthe fire out. She ran to the old woman who sat staring at the growingwork. There, in the gold andshimmering tapestry, the Weaver had woven her own coming death.

Therewas the cave and there the dropped pot; and last the bed where, withthe sun shining full on her face, the old woman would breathe no more.

“Ithas come,” the old woman said to Vera, smoothing her black skirtsover her knees. “The loom is yours.” She stood up fresher and youngerthan Vera had ever seen her, and moved with a springy joy to the bed.Then she straightened the covers and lay down, her face turned towardthe entrance of the cave. A shaft of light fell on her feet and beganto move, as the sun moved, slowly toward her head.

“No,”cried Vera at the smiling woman. “I want the loom. But not this way.”

Gently,with folded hands, the old Weaver said, “Dear child, there is no otherway.”

“Then,”said Vera slowly, knowing she lied, but lying nonetheless, “I do notwant it.”

“Thetime for choosing is past,” said the old Weaver. “You chose and yourhands have been chosen. It is woven. It is so.”

“Andin a hundred years?” asked Vera.

“Youwill be the Weaver, and some young girl will come, bright and eager,and you will know your time is near.”

“No,”said Vera.

“Itis birth,” said the old Weaver.

“No,” said Vera.

“Itis death,” said the old weaver.

Asingle golden thread snapped suddenly on the loom.

Thenthe sun moved onto the Weaver’s face and she died.

Verasat staring at the old woman but did not stir. And though she sat forhour upon hour, and the day grew cold, the sun did not go down. Battlesraged on and on, but no one won and no one lost, for nothing more hadbeen woven.

Atlast, shivering with the cold, though the sun was still high, Vera wentto the loom. She saw the old woman buried and herself at work, and soshe hastened to the tasks.

Andwhen the old woman lay under an unmarked stone in a forest full ofunmarked stones, with only Vera to weep for her, Vera returned to thecave.

Inside,the loom gleamed black, like a giant ebony cage with golden bars asthin and fine as thread. And as Vera sat down to finish the weaving,her bones felt old and she welcomed the shaft of sun as it crept acrossher back. She welcomed each trip of the shuttle through the warp as itticked off the hundred years to come. And at last Vera knew all shewanted to know about the future.