Weavers
The sun set slowly in the west, melting into the blue fabric of sky and permeating its depths with streaks of orange and gold. The waning light of day seemed reluctant to go, clinging to the world just long enough to allow the two figures that sat outside a small hut, amidst the trees, to finish the work they had started
Gabe watched patiently as her grandmother worked, needle in hand, weaving the tapestry in front of her. Picking up her own needle she slowly began to emulate the intricate movements the elder woman had performed, producing the desired patterns.
“Excellent,” her grandmother replied, admiring the girl’s work. Gabe was a quick leaner, and quite skilled with her hands. Gabe beamed. She always enjoyed teaching sessions with her grandmother. The older woman had a great deal of knowledge and skills. Not only did she know the art of weaving, but she also knew a lot about plants and herbs and healing, another art which she had taught to Gabe. Often the villagers would seek out the old lady when they fell ill, or for advice on crops, when to sow them and how to make the harvest prosper more. The village ‘wise woman’ they called her, wisdom she was now passing on to Gabe.
“Let’s try a different stitch now,” her grandmother said. Her gnarled fingers grasped the needle again and she winced from the pain as her aged joints protested the action.
“Grandmother,” Gabe said, concern in her voice, “perhaps you should rest now, we can try again tomorrow.”
“No, Gabe, I want to finish this before the sun goes down. The pain is not so bad.”
Smiling bravely, the old woman started her work, speaking as her fingers worked the threads.
“Do you see the threads, how they interweave with each other, lending strength and beauty to the tapestry? All life is like that Gabe, a tapestry of interwoven and interconnected energy that holds the world together. No one better than the other, but all necessary. And it is how we weave them, that’s what gives us the myriad of patterns and what makes them strong. Do you understand?”
“Yes, gran,” Gabe nodded, brown eyes illuminating with understanding. Her grandmother loved to teach her the old philosophies, using examples from all her daily task to illustrate the subtle wisdom of the lessons.
“Good, “the old women nodded. She looked over at the girl with satisfaction and then set down her needle. “I think I have taught you all I can, Gabe, the sun is going down now, it is time for me to retire.”
As her grandmother spoke the words, a tinge of sadness touched her voice. To Gabe she sounded weary.
She studied the old woman, who was now looking sorrowfully at the setting sun as it sunk into darkness, her face a mask of mourning, like that of someone who had lost a dear old friend.
“Are you alright, grandmother?” Gabe asked, clasping the other’s hand. There were tears on the old lady’s cheek now.
“Yes, child,” she replied turning to Gabe. She stroked her granddaughter’s hair as she spoke. “You are the pride and joy of my life Gabe, and such a good weaver, you are ready now…my work is done.”
“Grandmother?” Gabe asked, confused by her words.
“I am weary Gaberiel, I must rest now, and you I think should retire to bed soon too. Goodbye, my darling child.”
Gabe watched as her grandmother walked slowly into the house. It was dark now, and the old hut was blanketed in shadows that seemed to swallow up the lone form of the elderly woman. A feeling of dread filled the girl as her grandmother disappeared, as though she would never see the woman again. Standing, she shook the feeling off. Gathering up the tapestries and needles, Gabe followed inside.
Gabe’s hand trembled as she lit the pyre, watching the flames consume the lifeless form of the old woman. Her stomach sickened and her heart burned with a guilt that felt hotter than the flames she was standing next to as she remembered her premonition that something was wrong with her grandmother, a feeling that she had ignored. The knowledge that the woman had died peacefully in her sleep did little to console her.
Eyes blurry with tears, Gabe watched the people around her. Almost the entire village had turned out, all coming to pay respects to their beloved ‘wise woman.’ The ceremony was almost to conclusion, the ashes gathered in a rune carved urn that would be emptied later into the sacred river. The crowd that had stood in respectful silence was muttering now, low voices filled with awe. Gabe looked around to find the cause, her eyes falling on the company now entering, walking slowly and somberly through the crowd, that parted in deference to let them through.
At first she wondered who they were, these regal looking strangers in their fine raiment, that came now and stood before her as she held the urn. Kneeling, the strangers bent their heads, throwing back the hoods of their royal blue riding cloaks. Gasps of astonishment echoed through the crowd. Even Gabe stared in open mouthed wonder as her eyes rested on the pointed ears of the visitors. Elves! Elves had come to honour her grandmother. They had left their great city and ventured into a human town, something they rarely did, not even to the more lavish capitals. But they were here, in this simple farming village, kneeling before her gran’s ashes.
At the sight of them Gabe felt her heart wrench. Memories of her grandmother telling her tales of elves and magic and sorceresses and heroes swarm in her mind. She felt the grief that she had been struggling to contain gain mastery, breaking through her composure. Sinking to her knees, she sobbed openly now, and then the rains came, as though heaven mirrored her sorrow and was weeping with her. The downpour caused some of the crowd to dissipate. Others who had gathered around her to offer comfort tried to persuade her to let them take her home. She declined their offers and eventually they left her, respectfully of her desire to grieve alone. Even the elves were gone now, though she did not remember seeing them leave. It did not matter to her. Clutching the urn tighter as though drawing comfort from it, she mourned under the darkened skies, with teardrops and raindrops her solitary companions.
* * * * *<
The rain had stopped and so had her tears, but nothing it seemed could appease the grief and emptiness in her heart. She felt so alone, so lost, so without purpose, an orphan now.
“You are none of those things, Gaberiel,” a voice said.
Startled she turned around, surprised to see an elf standing behind her. She was tall and fair, with raven black hair that cradled a youthfully beautiful face. Her blue eyes, brimmed with the light of knowledge and wisdom that only time can bestow betrayed its owners ancient lifespan, well concealed by her ageless form.
Gabe stared silently into the other’s eyes. There was sorrow in the blue orbs as well as compassion. After a while Gabe found her voice.
“You knew my grandmother?” she asked, disbelief in her voice.
“Yes”, the elf replied, “We were friends a long time ago. Tell me Gabe did your grand mother ever tell you stories of the elves and the weavers?”
Gabe nodded, confused. Her grandmother had told her that the weavers were magical people with the power to manipulate the world around them. They wove the shroud that engulfed the world and protected it from dark forces. Their magic it was said kept the world alive. The elves, she had been told were ancient guardians of the weavers. But those were just stories, old legends that had been told to lull a small child to sleep at night. They could not be true.
“They are not stories, Gabe, they are true. And you Gabe, are destined to be a weaver, like your grandmother once was.”
“Me?” Gabe cried, incredulously, “but I have no magic!”
The elf laughed. “Of course you do Gabe. You influence the world whether you know it or not. Did not your tears summon the rains? Today was not the first time that has happened, and sometimes, do you not will that the sunset linger longer and have it happen? Your grandmother could do that too, as well as make plants grow better just by speaking to them right.”
The girl shook her head, still not believing what the other was saying. How could it be possible?
“It is possible Gaberiel, it is why your grandmother taught you all she did, and why she taught you to weave. To weave the shroud of life Gabe, you have to understand the art of life, the things that binds and connects us, all of us, from human to elf to dwarf to animals to trees, everything. She knew one day you would be called upon to take your place. You are not an orphan, nor are you without purpose or destiny. You are a weaver, Gabe, like your grandmother once was. And I am to you protector and friend now, as I was to her long ago.”
Gabe watched patiently as her grandmother worked, needle in hand, weaving the tapestry in front of her. Picking up her own needle she slowly began to emulate the intricate movements the elder woman had performed, producing the desired patterns.
“Excellent,” her grandmother replied, admiring the girl’s work. Gabe was a quick leaner, and quite skilled with her hands. Gabe beamed. She always enjoyed teaching sessions with her grandmother. The older woman had a great deal of knowledge and skills. Not only did she know the art of weaving, but she also knew a lot about plants and herbs and healing, another art which she had taught to Gabe. Often the villagers would seek out the old lady when they fell ill, or for advice on crops, when to sow them and how to make the harvest prosper more. The village ‘wise woman’ they called her, wisdom she was now passing on to Gabe.
“Let’s try a different stitch now,” her grandmother said. Her gnarled fingers grasped the needle again and she winced from the pain as her aged joints protested the action.
“Grandmother,” Gabe said, concern in her voice, “perhaps you should rest now, we can try again tomorrow.”
“No, Gabe, I want to finish this before the sun goes down. The pain is not so bad.”
Smiling bravely, the old woman started her work, speaking as her fingers worked the threads.
“Do you see the threads, how they interweave with each other, lending strength and beauty to the tapestry? All life is like that Gabe, a tapestry of interwoven and interconnected energy that holds the world together. No one better than the other, but all necessary. And it is how we weave them, that’s what gives us the myriad of patterns and what makes them strong. Do you understand?”
“Yes, gran,” Gabe nodded, brown eyes illuminating with understanding. Her grandmother loved to teach her the old philosophies, using examples from all her daily task to illustrate the subtle wisdom of the lessons.
“Good, “the old women nodded. She looked over at the girl with satisfaction and then set down her needle. “I think I have taught you all I can, Gabe, the sun is going down now, it is time for me to retire.”
As her grandmother spoke the words, a tinge of sadness touched her voice. To Gabe she sounded weary.
She studied the old woman, who was now looking sorrowfully at the setting sun as it sunk into darkness, her face a mask of mourning, like that of someone who had lost a dear old friend.
“Are you alright, grandmother?” Gabe asked, clasping the other’s hand. There were tears on the old lady’s cheek now.
“Yes, child,” she replied turning to Gabe. She stroked her granddaughter’s hair as she spoke. “You are the pride and joy of my life Gabe, and such a good weaver, you are ready now…my work is done.”
“Grandmother?” Gabe asked, confused by her words.
“I am weary Gaberiel, I must rest now, and you I think should retire to bed soon too. Goodbye, my darling child.”
Gabe watched as her grandmother walked slowly into the house. It was dark now, and the old hut was blanketed in shadows that seemed to swallow up the lone form of the elderly woman. A feeling of dread filled the girl as her grandmother disappeared, as though she would never see the woman again. Standing, she shook the feeling off. Gathering up the tapestries and needles, Gabe followed inside.
Gabe’s hand trembled as she lit the pyre, watching the flames consume the lifeless form of the old woman. Her stomach sickened and her heart burned with a guilt that felt hotter than the flames she was standing next to as she remembered her premonition that something was wrong with her grandmother, a feeling that she had ignored. The knowledge that the woman had died peacefully in her sleep did little to console her.
Eyes blurry with tears, Gabe watched the people around her. Almost the entire village had turned out, all coming to pay respects to their beloved ‘wise woman.’ The ceremony was almost to conclusion, the ashes gathered in a rune carved urn that would be emptied later into the sacred river. The crowd that had stood in respectful silence was muttering now, low voices filled with awe. Gabe looked around to find the cause, her eyes falling on the company now entering, walking slowly and somberly through the crowd, that parted in deference to let them through.
At first she wondered who they were, these regal looking strangers in their fine raiment, that came now and stood before her as she held the urn. Kneeling, the strangers bent their heads, throwing back the hoods of their royal blue riding cloaks. Gasps of astonishment echoed through the crowd. Even Gabe stared in open mouthed wonder as her eyes rested on the pointed ears of the visitors. Elves! Elves had come to honour her grandmother. They had left their great city and ventured into a human town, something they rarely did, not even to the more lavish capitals. But they were here, in this simple farming village, kneeling before her gran’s ashes.
At the sight of them Gabe felt her heart wrench. Memories of her grandmother telling her tales of elves and magic and sorceresses and heroes swarm in her mind. She felt the grief that she had been struggling to contain gain mastery, breaking through her composure. Sinking to her knees, she sobbed openly now, and then the rains came, as though heaven mirrored her sorrow and was weeping with her. The downpour caused some of the crowd to dissipate. Others who had gathered around her to offer comfort tried to persuade her to let them take her home. She declined their offers and eventually they left her, respectfully of her desire to grieve alone. Even the elves were gone now, though she did not remember seeing them leave. It did not matter to her. Clutching the urn tighter as though drawing comfort from it, she mourned under the darkened skies, with teardrops and raindrops her solitary companions.
* * * * *<
The rain had stopped and so had her tears, but nothing it seemed could appease the grief and emptiness in her heart. She felt so alone, so lost, so without purpose, an orphan now.
“You are none of those things, Gaberiel,” a voice said.
Startled she turned around, surprised to see an elf standing behind her. She was tall and fair, with raven black hair that cradled a youthfully beautiful face. Her blue eyes, brimmed with the light of knowledge and wisdom that only time can bestow betrayed its owners ancient lifespan, well concealed by her ageless form.
Gabe stared silently into the other’s eyes. There was sorrow in the blue orbs as well as compassion. After a while Gabe found her voice.
“You knew my grandmother?” she asked, disbelief in her voice.
“Yes”, the elf replied, “We were friends a long time ago. Tell me Gabe did your grand mother ever tell you stories of the elves and the weavers?”
Gabe nodded, confused. Her grandmother had told her that the weavers were magical people with the power to manipulate the world around them. They wove the shroud that engulfed the world and protected it from dark forces. Their magic it was said kept the world alive. The elves, she had been told were ancient guardians of the weavers. But those were just stories, old legends that had been told to lull a small child to sleep at night. They could not be true.
“They are not stories, Gabe, they are true. And you Gabe, are destined to be a weaver, like your grandmother once was.”
“Me?” Gabe cried, incredulously, “but I have no magic!”
The elf laughed. “Of course you do Gabe. You influence the world whether you know it or not. Did not your tears summon the rains? Today was not the first time that has happened, and sometimes, do you not will that the sunset linger longer and have it happen? Your grandmother could do that too, as well as make plants grow better just by speaking to them right.”
The girl shook her head, still not believing what the other was saying. How could it be possible?
“It is possible Gaberiel, it is why your grandmother taught you all she did, and why she taught you to weave. To weave the shroud of life Gabe, you have to understand the art of life, the things that binds and connects us, all of us, from human to elf to dwarf to animals to trees, everything. She knew one day you would be called upon to take your place. You are not an orphan, nor are you without purpose or destiny. You are a weaver, Gabe, like your grandmother once was. And I am to you protector and friend now, as I was to her long ago.”
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