| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Timothy Miller / Artwork by Lee Kuruganti |
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| The Weaver's Price |
“Not even close,” Matron Fornata declared angrily. “This piece is no better than the last three you’ve shown
me!”
Emma flinched as the boney old woman threw the embroidered scarf to the floor amidst a steadily growing
pile of discarded cloth.
“I apologize, Matron,” Rodara fawned as she drew yet another sample from the shrinking pile held in Emma’s
skinny arms. “I’m certain this next piece...”
Matron Fornata, undisputed head of the Weavers Guild, waved her hand dismissively. “Enough, Rodara,” she
said. “This is pointless.”
“But, Matron,” Emma’s mistress argued, “these were made by some of our finest weavers.”
Walking across the small room to her desk, a beautiful construct engraved with images of spinning wheels
and spools of thread, the white-haired Matron sat down. “I don’t doubt you, Rodara,” she said. “What you’ve
shown me today is some of the finest I’ve seen in years, but...”
Setting the green sash she’d taken back into Emma’s arms, Rodara sighed. “But we can’t match her,” she
said. “We can’t equal Lady Aranea. If we don’t do something soon, we will have to close the guild.”
Nearly dropping the samples, Emma stifled a gasp of horror at her mistress’ blunt proclamation. It was
inconceivable.
As long as she could remember, Emma had longed to become a weaver of the guild; one of the chosen who
practiced the art of needle and thread. An orphan, she’d had no apprenticeship dowry, but her determination
had convinced Rodara to take her on as a maidservant. Six years she’d waited hand and foot on the short-
tempered women, secretly dreaming of the day the weaver would take pity on her and agree to become her
mentor.
Becoming a weaver was everything to Emma, and the guild held the secrets of a thousand years of weaving
lore. To even suggest an outsider such as the Lady Aranea could somehow surpass their skill was flirting with
blasphemy. “It’s just not possible,” she muttered.
“What did you say?”
Realizing she’d spoken her thoughts aloud, and Rodara had heard, Emma’s heart sank into her stomach.
“I’m...I’m sorry, mistress,” she stuttered, “I was...I didn’t...”
The stinging backhand staggered Emma, spilling the samples from her arms and filling her mouth with the
salty taste of blood.
“How dare you speak in the Matron’s presence,” Rodara said. “You useless gutter trash, I should never have
taken pity on you. You are dismissed from my service! Get out of my sight, before I...”
“Wait.” Though Matron Fornata didn’t raise her voice, the softly spoken word ended Rodara’s tirade like a
knife to the throat.
“Matron?” Rodara began, but Fornata raised a hand for silence.
Examining Emma with a calculating eye, the white-haired Matron pursed her thin lips thoughtfully. “Come to
me, child,” she said.
Her head bowed deferentially, Emma was careful not to step on any of the spilt linens as she shuffled up to
the desk. “How may I serve you, Matron?”
Tenting her boney fingers in front of her nose, Fornata leaned back in her seat. “How old are you, girl?”
“Fourteen, Matron,” Emma answered. “I’ve worked as maidservant to Mistress Rodara since I was eight.”
“Six years?” Fornata exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. “How is it you haven’t yet attained an apprenticeship?
Are you lazy?”
“No, Matron,” Emma insisted fervently. “I work very hard. It’s just I...”
“She is an orphan, Matron,” Rodara interjected. “She has no dowry.”
Fornata’s pursed lips twitched toward a frown. “Was I speaking to you, weaver?” she asked.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw Rodara’s brow crinkle with uncertainty. “No, Matron,” she simpered.
“I was simply trying to provide an answer to your question.”
The Matron’s gaze hardened. “Why thank you, weaver,” she said. “Since you seem to be in the giving mood,
perhaps you might provide me with another answer?”
Swallowing loudly, Rodara lowered her eyes submissively. “Of course, Matron,” she mumbled.
“Excellent,” Fornata continued. “It has just occurred to me that I recall no record of a maidservant on your
expense report. Perhaps you would care to explain this oversight?”
Rodara began to look sick, and though she opened her mouth, no words came out.
“I see,” Fornata said, nodding to herself as if Rodara’s silence was in itself a confession of sorts. “You never
told her.”
_Never told me what_, Emma wondered. Nervous and confused, she once again forgot to hold her tongue.
“What didn’t she tell me?”
Fornata seemed not to mind the lapse in protocol. “As a maidservant, Rodara can only allow you to remain in
her service for three years. After which she must either take you as her protégé or send you away from the
guild. The law was put in place so as to prevent those without an apprenticeship from gaining knowledge of
the art.”
Emma looked at her mistress, but Rodara wouldn’t meet her gaze. “But, why?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t she
tell me?”
“It’s simple really,” Fornata explained. “Without a dowry, you can never obtain an apprenticeship with the
guild. Had Rodara informed you of this, you might have left her service to seek other employment. That is why
she kept you off the rolls, because she didn’t want to give up a skilled maidservant.”
The old woman glared at the weaver with something akin to disdain. “Her deception was bad enough, but to
rob a young girl of the chance to raise the money for her dowry? That is so selfishly immoral; it sickens me to
think of her as a fellow weaver.”
“Matron,” Rodara protested, “I assure you I only ever had the girl’s best interests at heart.”
Fornata’s palms slapped down on the desk like twin thunderclaps. “Silence, you fool!” she demanded. “You’ve
shamed this guild long enough. I lead here. It is my place to make amends for your lawlessness.” Turning to
Emma, she asked, “Would taking you on as my personal apprentice make right the wrong that has been done
to you?”
The Matron’s apprentice?
The room spun, and Emma grabbed the edge of the desk to steady her rubbery legs. “You will not regret this,
Matron,” she promised. “I will work hard, you will see. I won’t disappoint you.”
Fornata smiled. “Of course you won’t, my dear,” she said. Tapping a long finger against her chin, she then
added, “However, there is still the small matter of your dowry. The apprentice fee is a matter of guild law,
after all.”
Sent soaring only moments before, Emma’s dreams were brought crashing down to the unforgiving earth. “I
don’t understand, Matron,” she said. “I thought, well, because of what Mistress Rodara did...” She trailed off
helplessly.
“Oh, make no mistake, Rodara shall be punished,” Fornata assured. “As for the dowry, considering all you’ve
suffered, I’m sure we can come to some type of arrangement. Indeed, if you will agree to just one small task,
I will gladly pay the guild’s price myself.”
Heart hammering in her chest, Emma bowed low. This was her chance; the day she proved her worth to the
weavers of the guild and was added to their number. “I will do anything, Matron,” she breathed. “I will do
anything to become a weaver.”
The old woman’s smile widened, and behind Emma, Rodara’s chastised expression suddenly transformed to
one of devious triumph. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d say, my dear,” Fornata cooed. “Now, here’s
what I want you to do.”
* * *
“Why, child?” Lady Aranea inquired absently, never taking her remaining eye from the spinning wheel. “Why
should I teach you?”
Standing amidst the towering shelves of linen and fabric, Emma glanced around the small store to keep from
staring at the woman’s peculiar eye patch. Glossy and black, the patch was embroidered with silky white
thread worked into the shape of a web complete with a jeweled black spider in its center. So lifelike was the
rendition, the very sight of it sent chills down her spine.
“Do you have no answer, child?” the dark-haired weaver asked. “If not, perhaps you had best leave me to my
work.”
This was not going well. Matron Fornata had been adamant. If she wanted her dowry paid, Emma had to find
a way to ingrain herself into Lady Aranea’s service.
As she tried to think up a worthy answer, her eyes happened across a crimson jacket with gold embroidery
crammed carelessly beneath a flowing blue gown on a nearby shelf. Like a bolt of lightning, inspiration struck.
“Wait, mistress,” she begged. “I can be of service to you.”
“I doubt that,” the one-eyed woman scoffed, never taking her attention from the long threads slipping from
the wheel and through her ivory fingers. “You’ve already admitted to having no knowledge of the art. I am a
master of the weave. How could you possibly be of service to me?”
“Your work is truly beautiful, mistress,” Emma agreed as she extracted the crimson jacket from beneath the
gown and began to smooth its rumpled sleeves. “But I couldn’t help but notice your wares appear
somewhat...disordered.”
“The weaving is everything, child” Lady Aranea’s voice was cold and sharp. “It brings the wealthy to my door
like flies to a web, but the art is a cruel taskmaster. I have little time to spend cataloguing my merchandise.”
“I understand completely, mistress,” Emma sympathized. “But if you had an apprentice, you would not need
to.”
For several long minutes, the weaver did not speak as she seemed to consider Emma’s offer. Suddenly, she
asked, “Why are you here, child? What is it you really want?”
Her devious purpose weighing on her conscious like an anchor on her soul, Emma was relieved to be able to
give an answer that remained untainted by falsehoods. “I want to become a weaver.”
“Are you certain, child?” the one-eyed woman pressed. “Do you desire it more than gold, more than children,
or love, or even life?”
“It is all I ever wanted to be,” Emma answered simply. “Weaving is everything.”
The wheel stopped spinning. Rising from her seat, Lady Aranea pushed her long black hair from her forehead
as she went to a door just behind the shop’s long counter. Opening the latch, she walked through and closed
it behind her.
Moments later, the weaver reappeared carrying a small wooden jewelry box and a flat silver tray. Placing the
items atop the counter, she motioned Emma over.
The jeweled spider glittered weirdly in the lamplight, the patch seeming almost to squirm beneath its eight
legs, as the weaver stared into Emma’s eyes.
“The weaver’s path is not simple, child,” Lady Aranea warned. “It is a puzzle; a web of threads that must be
carefully and precisely woven, or the weave is ruined. In this box, I have placed the first of these threads. I
can show its power, but everything I teach comes with a price. What is in this box cannot be bought with
coin; only sweat, toil, and pain. Are you prepared to pay that price?”
A tingle of disquiet touched Emma’s belly, but she quashed it at once. “I am, mistress.”
Lady Aranea nodded. “So be it.”
Opening the box’s thin lid, she revealed a bright nest of needles secured together by a fine silken thread
along with a pair of shiny brass thimbles.
Emma’s mouth dropped open in wonder. “They’re beautiful, mistress.”
“And they will be yours,” the weaver promised, “along with the skill to use them, just as soon as you pay the
price.”
“How shall I pay, mistress?” Emma asked.
Closing the box, the woman produced a stack of creamy white parchment along with a quill and ink pot from
beneath the counter. Motioning to the silver platter, she said, “You will catalogue and separate my wares by
color and function. When you have finished, place the report on this tray. If you do this task well, the contents
of the box and my instruction shall be yours. Is it agreed?”
“Oh yes, mistress,” Emma gushed, snatching up the parchment and writing tools. “I agree!”
“Very well,” Lady Aranea replied. Stepping out from behind the counter, she went back to her spinning wheel
and began to work the pedal. “Incidentally, child, I am not your mistress,” she said. “You will address me as
Lady, or Lady Aranea.”
Emma bowed low, almost spilling the ink pot before she caught it in the crook of her arm. “Of course, Lady
Aranea,” she said. “I will begin at once.”
* * *
The needles and thimbles took eleven days to earn. Attacking the piles of disorganized fabrics with a
vengeance, Emma soon had neatly folded rows of color-coordinated clothing lining every wall and rack. She
would have finished sooner, but as the store transformed, it’s new look prompted a fresh influx of cliental.
Ironically, this forced Emma to take numerous breaks from her work to help out behind the counter.
Thanks in large part to her tireless efforts, business in the shop was now booming. But as Emma triumphantly
placed the flawlessly detailed inventory sheets onto the silver platter, Lady Aranea offered not a single word
of thanks.
Without so much as glancing at the parchments, the one-eyed weaver opened the wooden box and slid it
forward. As Emma gingerly took the sewing instruments into her hands, the weaver’s remaining eye glittered
strangely and the jeweled spider seemed to twitch in its web.
“And now, child, let us begin the web.”
* * *
Feeling as if shiny destiny had been placed in her hands, Emma learned the rudiments of the needles quickly.
So quickly, in fact, it wasn’t long before she was pressing Lady Aranea to show her how to color the thread.
And so, the box appeared again, this time packed with a gleaming collection of glass tubes filled with brightly
colored dyes.
Earning the dyes however was even more difficult than the needles. For an entire month, Emma made the
six-mile trip to the shipyard to collect a heavy bolt of fabric for the Lady from one of the many warehouses.
After the dyes, the box contained a spool of rough wool, and then a fluffy handful of cotton, and finally silk.
On and on it went; for nearly a year, Emma worked herself to exhaustion. Bit by bit, and task by task she
learned, pushing herself mercilessly to pay the price of the wooden box. Regardless of how backbreaking the
task, she pushed on, always remembering Matron Fornata’s promise. If Emma could deliver the secret of the
Lady’s weave to the guild, her apprenticeship to the Matron was assured.
Unfortunately, the wooden box never seemed to contain the secret the Matron was looking for. To make
matters worse, Emma was at a loss as to what she was supposed to be looking for.
Unlike the guild, the Lady did not hide away her art. Sitting at her wheel, the one-eyed woman spent hours
creating everything from trousers to tapestries with equal passion. But, as far as Emma could tell, the Lady’s
secret consisted of nothing more than an almost unearthly skill. Shapes and colors seemed to just come to life
in her hands; shimmering and ethereal, her creations shamed those of lesser weavers as roses would to
weeds.
In late autumn, after watching a shimmering scarf come alive with rioting dragons beneath the Lady’s nimble
fingers, Emma could contain her curiosity no more. “How do you do it, Lady?” she asked. “You have taught me
so much. Yet, I know in my heart that were I to practice a hundred lifetimes, my skill would not equal yours.
What is your secret?”
Setting the scarf aside, Lady Aranea looked over at her and smiled for the first time Emma could remember. “I
have waited for that question for a long time, child,” she said. “I was beginning to think you lacked the
courage to ask it.”
Rising from her spinning wheel, the weaver slipped into the back room and emerged once again with the
wooden box. “The secret is in here, child,” she explained. “It is the last thread of the weave.”
Hurrying over, Emma made as if to open the box, but Lady Aranea pulled it away. “Not yet,” she warned.
“This a special thread, and I want you to consider the price carefully before you decide to open it.”
“I will pay anything, Lady,” Emma insisted. “I would give my soul to weave as you do.”
Lady Aranea nodded, causing the jeweled spider to glitter like a tear amidst the silky web of the patch. “This I
know,” she said. “But I wonder if once you’ve paid the price of this knowledge, you will be so eager to share
it with those who have not.”
Emma’s breath caught in her throat.
“Oh yes,” the weaver confirmed, “I know you were sent as a spy by those who envy my talent. But, I do not
condemn you, for you have not stolen my art. Indeed, you have paid for everything you’ve learned by the
sweat of your own brow.”
“I don’t know what to say, Lady,” Emma whispered. “I want to be a weaver so badly, and the Matron said I
could be her apprentice if I sent the guild your secret.”
To Emma’s surprise, the Lady chuckled warmly. “Oh, you little fool,” she said without rancor. “I have already
made you twice the weaver the Matron could ever hope to be. Why on earth would you want to be her
apprentice?”
The matter-of-fact way the Lady proclaimed this absurdity left Emma dumbstruck and unable to reply.
The Lady’s face turned serious, and as it sometimes did, her black eye patch seemed to squirm weirdly below
the jeweled spider. “And now comes the final decision, child,” she said, fingering the box. “Think on what I’ve
said. If you desire my secret, it is yours. But remember, all that is given comes with a price.”
“What about the guild?” Emma whispered.
Lady Aranea shrugged. “If you pay the price, the secret is yours. If you truly wish to be their pupil, what right
do I have to stop you from sharing what you’ve learned?”
“Thank you, Lady,” Emma said with a deep sigh. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Thanks are for gifts, child,” the weaver replied as she returned to the spinning wheel. “You have paid for
everything I’ve given you.”
* * *
Jerking the package from her servant’s arms, Rodara held it tightly to her side as she knocked on the Matron’s
polished wooden door.
“Come,” called a voice inside the room.
Ducking into the old woman’s office, Rodara hurried to the carved desk with the silk-wrapped package. “It
worked just as you planned, Matron.” She fairly squealed with delight. “The little gutter rat actually pulled it
off.”
“As I knew she would.” Matron Fornata took the package from the other woman’s arms and removed the
piece of parchment that had been carefully pinned to its surface. “As we agreed, Matron Fornata,” she read
aloud. “I am sending you the Lady’s secret. All I can add is that I hope you are willing to pay the price.”
“Price?” Rodara repeated.
“Don’t you recall, Rodara?” Chuckling evilly, Fornata began to open the package. “The orphan thinks she is
going to be my new apprentice.”
Rodara grinned. “I’d nearly forgotten,” she admitted. “It’s hard to believe anyone could be so naive.”
“She served you for six years, Rodara,” Fornata reminded her. Pulling away the last of the cloth, she revealed
a small wooden box hidden within its folds. “How curious,” she muttered.
Examining the ornate wrapping for a moment, a silken scarf embroidered with dozens of clashing dragons,
she tossed the fabric aside and greedily reached for the lid. “As I was saying, Rodara, that kind of
desperation has its uses. You shouldn’t let any—Eeek!”
As the Matron let loose the wild screech of terror, her hand brushed the edge of the wooden box, spilling its
contents onto the desk.
Gasping in horror, Rodara spun on her heel and rushed to the door. Opening the portal wide, she snagged
the sleeve of the boy who had taken Emma’s place and jerked him into the room. “Who delivered this
package?” she demanded, shaking him ruthlessly. “Who told you it was for the Matron and me?!”
“A girl, mistress,” the boy wailed. “It was a girl with just one eye.”
“A girl with only one eye, you say?”
The servant bobbed his head manically. “Her other one was covered by a patch that looked like a spider web,
and there was blood dripping out from under it. It was all over her cheek.”
Releasing the boy, Rodara felt the cold touch of terror brush the back of her neck as she turned and met
Fornata’s horror-stricken gaze.
On the desk between them, the fat orb-like spider continued to scuttle circles around the spider web eye-
patch as it hungrily waited for someone to pay the weaver’s price.
me!”
Emma flinched as the boney old woman threw the embroidered scarf to the floor amidst a steadily growing
pile of discarded cloth.
“I apologize, Matron,” Rodara fawned as she drew yet another sample from the shrinking pile held in Emma’s
skinny arms. “I’m certain this next piece...”
Matron Fornata, undisputed head of the Weavers Guild, waved her hand dismissively. “Enough, Rodara,” she
said. “This is pointless.”
“But, Matron,” Emma’s mistress argued, “these were made by some of our finest weavers.”
Walking across the small room to her desk, a beautiful construct engraved with images of spinning wheels
and spools of thread, the white-haired Matron sat down. “I don’t doubt you, Rodara,” she said. “What you’ve
shown me today is some of the finest I’ve seen in years, but...”
Setting the green sash she’d taken back into Emma’s arms, Rodara sighed. “But we can’t match her,” she
said. “We can’t equal Lady Aranea. If we don’t do something soon, we will have to close the guild.”
Nearly dropping the samples, Emma stifled a gasp of horror at her mistress’ blunt proclamation. It was
inconceivable.
As long as she could remember, Emma had longed to become a weaver of the guild; one of the chosen who
practiced the art of needle and thread. An orphan, she’d had no apprenticeship dowry, but her determination
had convinced Rodara to take her on as a maidservant. Six years she’d waited hand and foot on the short-
tempered women, secretly dreaming of the day the weaver would take pity on her and agree to become her
mentor.
Becoming a weaver was everything to Emma, and the guild held the secrets of a thousand years of weaving
lore. To even suggest an outsider such as the Lady Aranea could somehow surpass their skill was flirting with
blasphemy. “It’s just not possible,” she muttered.
“What did you say?”
Realizing she’d spoken her thoughts aloud, and Rodara had heard, Emma’s heart sank into her stomach.
“I’m...I’m sorry, mistress,” she stuttered, “I was...I didn’t...”
The stinging backhand staggered Emma, spilling the samples from her arms and filling her mouth with the
salty taste of blood.
“How dare you speak in the Matron’s presence,” Rodara said. “You useless gutter trash, I should never have
taken pity on you. You are dismissed from my service! Get out of my sight, before I...”
“Wait.” Though Matron Fornata didn’t raise her voice, the softly spoken word ended Rodara’s tirade like a
knife to the throat.
“Matron?” Rodara began, but Fornata raised a hand for silence.
Examining Emma with a calculating eye, the white-haired Matron pursed her thin lips thoughtfully. “Come to
me, child,” she said.
Her head bowed deferentially, Emma was careful not to step on any of the spilt linens as she shuffled up to
the desk. “How may I serve you, Matron?”
Tenting her boney fingers in front of her nose, Fornata leaned back in her seat. “How old are you, girl?”
“Fourteen, Matron,” Emma answered. “I’ve worked as maidservant to Mistress Rodara since I was eight.”
“Six years?” Fornata exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. “How is it you haven’t yet attained an apprenticeship?
Are you lazy?”
“No, Matron,” Emma insisted fervently. “I work very hard. It’s just I...”
“She is an orphan, Matron,” Rodara interjected. “She has no dowry.”
Fornata’s pursed lips twitched toward a frown. “Was I speaking to you, weaver?” she asked.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw Rodara’s brow crinkle with uncertainty. “No, Matron,” she simpered.
“I was simply trying to provide an answer to your question.”
The Matron’s gaze hardened. “Why thank you, weaver,” she said. “Since you seem to be in the giving mood,
perhaps you might provide me with another answer?”
Swallowing loudly, Rodara lowered her eyes submissively. “Of course, Matron,” she mumbled.
“Excellent,” Fornata continued. “It has just occurred to me that I recall no record of a maidservant on your
expense report. Perhaps you would care to explain this oversight?”
Rodara began to look sick, and though she opened her mouth, no words came out.
“I see,” Fornata said, nodding to herself as if Rodara’s silence was in itself a confession of sorts. “You never
told her.”
_Never told me what_, Emma wondered. Nervous and confused, she once again forgot to hold her tongue.
“What didn’t she tell me?”
Fornata seemed not to mind the lapse in protocol. “As a maidservant, Rodara can only allow you to remain in
her service for three years. After which she must either take you as her protégé or send you away from the
guild. The law was put in place so as to prevent those without an apprenticeship from gaining knowledge of
the art.”
Emma looked at her mistress, but Rodara wouldn’t meet her gaze. “But, why?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t she
tell me?”
“It’s simple really,” Fornata explained. “Without a dowry, you can never obtain an apprenticeship with the
guild. Had Rodara informed you of this, you might have left her service to seek other employment. That is why
she kept you off the rolls, because she didn’t want to give up a skilled maidservant.”
The old woman glared at the weaver with something akin to disdain. “Her deception was bad enough, but to
rob a young girl of the chance to raise the money for her dowry? That is so selfishly immoral; it sickens me to
think of her as a fellow weaver.”
“Matron,” Rodara protested, “I assure you I only ever had the girl’s best interests at heart.”
Fornata’s palms slapped down on the desk like twin thunderclaps. “Silence, you fool!” she demanded. “You’ve
shamed this guild long enough. I lead here. It is my place to make amends for your lawlessness.” Turning to
Emma, she asked, “Would taking you on as my personal apprentice make right the wrong that has been done
to you?”
The Matron’s apprentice?
The room spun, and Emma grabbed the edge of the desk to steady her rubbery legs. “You will not regret this,
Matron,” she promised. “I will work hard, you will see. I won’t disappoint you.”
Fornata smiled. “Of course you won’t, my dear,” she said. Tapping a long finger against her chin, she then
added, “However, there is still the small matter of your dowry. The apprentice fee is a matter of guild law,
after all.”
Sent soaring only moments before, Emma’s dreams were brought crashing down to the unforgiving earth. “I
don’t understand, Matron,” she said. “I thought, well, because of what Mistress Rodara did...” She trailed off
helplessly.
“Oh, make no mistake, Rodara shall be punished,” Fornata assured. “As for the dowry, considering all you’ve
suffered, I’m sure we can come to some type of arrangement. Indeed, if you will agree to just one small task,
I will gladly pay the guild’s price myself.”
Heart hammering in her chest, Emma bowed low. This was her chance; the day she proved her worth to the
weavers of the guild and was added to their number. “I will do anything, Matron,” she breathed. “I will do
anything to become a weaver.”
The old woman’s smile widened, and behind Emma, Rodara’s chastised expression suddenly transformed to
one of devious triumph. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d say, my dear,” Fornata cooed. “Now, here’s
what I want you to do.”
* * *
“Why, child?” Lady Aranea inquired absently, never taking her remaining eye from the spinning wheel. “Why
should I teach you?”
Standing amidst the towering shelves of linen and fabric, Emma glanced around the small store to keep from
staring at the woman’s peculiar eye patch. Glossy and black, the patch was embroidered with silky white
thread worked into the shape of a web complete with a jeweled black spider in its center. So lifelike was the
rendition, the very sight of it sent chills down her spine.
“Do you have no answer, child?” the dark-haired weaver asked. “If not, perhaps you had best leave me to my
work.”
This was not going well. Matron Fornata had been adamant. If she wanted her dowry paid, Emma had to find
a way to ingrain herself into Lady Aranea’s service.
As she tried to think up a worthy answer, her eyes happened across a crimson jacket with gold embroidery
crammed carelessly beneath a flowing blue gown on a nearby shelf. Like a bolt of lightning, inspiration struck.
“Wait, mistress,” she begged. “I can be of service to you.”
“I doubt that,” the one-eyed woman scoffed, never taking her attention from the long threads slipping from
the wheel and through her ivory fingers. “You’ve already admitted to having no knowledge of the art. I am a
master of the weave. How could you possibly be of service to me?”
“Your work is truly beautiful, mistress,” Emma agreed as she extracted the crimson jacket from beneath the
gown and began to smooth its rumpled sleeves. “But I couldn’t help but notice your wares appear
somewhat...disordered.”
“The weaving is everything, child” Lady Aranea’s voice was cold and sharp. “It brings the wealthy to my door
like flies to a web, but the art is a cruel taskmaster. I have little time to spend cataloguing my merchandise.”
“I understand completely, mistress,” Emma sympathized. “But if you had an apprentice, you would not need
to.”
For several long minutes, the weaver did not speak as she seemed to consider Emma’s offer. Suddenly, she
asked, “Why are you here, child? What is it you really want?”
Her devious purpose weighing on her conscious like an anchor on her soul, Emma was relieved to be able to
give an answer that remained untainted by falsehoods. “I want to become a weaver.”
“Are you certain, child?” the one-eyed woman pressed. “Do you desire it more than gold, more than children,
or love, or even life?”
“It is all I ever wanted to be,” Emma answered simply. “Weaving is everything.”
The wheel stopped spinning. Rising from her seat, Lady Aranea pushed her long black hair from her forehead
as she went to a door just behind the shop’s long counter. Opening the latch, she walked through and closed
it behind her.
Moments later, the weaver reappeared carrying a small wooden jewelry box and a flat silver tray. Placing the
items atop the counter, she motioned Emma over.
The jeweled spider glittered weirdly in the lamplight, the patch seeming almost to squirm beneath its eight
legs, as the weaver stared into Emma’s eyes.
“The weaver’s path is not simple, child,” Lady Aranea warned. “It is a puzzle; a web of threads that must be
carefully and precisely woven, or the weave is ruined. In this box, I have placed the first of these threads. I
can show its power, but everything I teach comes with a price. What is in this box cannot be bought with
coin; only sweat, toil, and pain. Are you prepared to pay that price?”
A tingle of disquiet touched Emma’s belly, but she quashed it at once. “I am, mistress.”
Lady Aranea nodded. “So be it.”
Opening the box’s thin lid, she revealed a bright nest of needles secured together by a fine silken thread
along with a pair of shiny brass thimbles.
Emma’s mouth dropped open in wonder. “They’re beautiful, mistress.”
“And they will be yours,” the weaver promised, “along with the skill to use them, just as soon as you pay the
price.”
“How shall I pay, mistress?” Emma asked.
Closing the box, the woman produced a stack of creamy white parchment along with a quill and ink pot from
beneath the counter. Motioning to the silver platter, she said, “You will catalogue and separate my wares by
color and function. When you have finished, place the report on this tray. If you do this task well, the contents
of the box and my instruction shall be yours. Is it agreed?”
“Oh yes, mistress,” Emma gushed, snatching up the parchment and writing tools. “I agree!”
“Very well,” Lady Aranea replied. Stepping out from behind the counter, she went back to her spinning wheel
and began to work the pedal. “Incidentally, child, I am not your mistress,” she said. “You will address me as
Lady, or Lady Aranea.”
Emma bowed low, almost spilling the ink pot before she caught it in the crook of her arm. “Of course, Lady
Aranea,” she said. “I will begin at once.”
* * *
The needles and thimbles took eleven days to earn. Attacking the piles of disorganized fabrics with a
vengeance, Emma soon had neatly folded rows of color-coordinated clothing lining every wall and rack. She
would have finished sooner, but as the store transformed, it’s new look prompted a fresh influx of cliental.
Ironically, this forced Emma to take numerous breaks from her work to help out behind the counter.
Thanks in large part to her tireless efforts, business in the shop was now booming. But as Emma triumphantly
placed the flawlessly detailed inventory sheets onto the silver platter, Lady Aranea offered not a single word
of thanks.
Without so much as glancing at the parchments, the one-eyed weaver opened the wooden box and slid it
forward. As Emma gingerly took the sewing instruments into her hands, the weaver’s remaining eye glittered
strangely and the jeweled spider seemed to twitch in its web.
“And now, child, let us begin the web.”
* * *
Feeling as if shiny destiny had been placed in her hands, Emma learned the rudiments of the needles quickly.
So quickly, in fact, it wasn’t long before she was pressing Lady Aranea to show her how to color the thread.
And so, the box appeared again, this time packed with a gleaming collection of glass tubes filled with brightly
colored dyes.
Earning the dyes however was even more difficult than the needles. For an entire month, Emma made the
six-mile trip to the shipyard to collect a heavy bolt of fabric for the Lady from one of the many warehouses.
After the dyes, the box contained a spool of rough wool, and then a fluffy handful of cotton, and finally silk.
On and on it went; for nearly a year, Emma worked herself to exhaustion. Bit by bit, and task by task she
learned, pushing herself mercilessly to pay the price of the wooden box. Regardless of how backbreaking the
task, she pushed on, always remembering Matron Fornata’s promise. If Emma could deliver the secret of the
Lady’s weave to the guild, her apprenticeship to the Matron was assured.
Unfortunately, the wooden box never seemed to contain the secret the Matron was looking for. To make
matters worse, Emma was at a loss as to what she was supposed to be looking for.
Unlike the guild, the Lady did not hide away her art. Sitting at her wheel, the one-eyed woman spent hours
creating everything from trousers to tapestries with equal passion. But, as far as Emma could tell, the Lady’s
secret consisted of nothing more than an almost unearthly skill. Shapes and colors seemed to just come to life
in her hands; shimmering and ethereal, her creations shamed those of lesser weavers as roses would to
weeds.
In late autumn, after watching a shimmering scarf come alive with rioting dragons beneath the Lady’s nimble
fingers, Emma could contain her curiosity no more. “How do you do it, Lady?” she asked. “You have taught me
so much. Yet, I know in my heart that were I to practice a hundred lifetimes, my skill would not equal yours.
What is your secret?”
Setting the scarf aside, Lady Aranea looked over at her and smiled for the first time Emma could remember. “I
have waited for that question for a long time, child,” she said. “I was beginning to think you lacked the
courage to ask it.”
Rising from her spinning wheel, the weaver slipped into the back room and emerged once again with the
wooden box. “The secret is in here, child,” she explained. “It is the last thread of the weave.”
Hurrying over, Emma made as if to open the box, but Lady Aranea pulled it away. “Not yet,” she warned.
“This a special thread, and I want you to consider the price carefully before you decide to open it.”
“I will pay anything, Lady,” Emma insisted. “I would give my soul to weave as you do.”
Lady Aranea nodded, causing the jeweled spider to glitter like a tear amidst the silky web of the patch. “This I
know,” she said. “But I wonder if once you’ve paid the price of this knowledge, you will be so eager to share
it with those who have not.”
Emma’s breath caught in her throat.
“Oh yes,” the weaver confirmed, “I know you were sent as a spy by those who envy my talent. But, I do not
condemn you, for you have not stolen my art. Indeed, you have paid for everything you’ve learned by the
sweat of your own brow.”
“I don’t know what to say, Lady,” Emma whispered. “I want to be a weaver so badly, and the Matron said I
could be her apprentice if I sent the guild your secret.”
To Emma’s surprise, the Lady chuckled warmly. “Oh, you little fool,” she said without rancor. “I have already
made you twice the weaver the Matron could ever hope to be. Why on earth would you want to be her
apprentice?”
The matter-of-fact way the Lady proclaimed this absurdity left Emma dumbstruck and unable to reply.
The Lady’s face turned serious, and as it sometimes did, her black eye patch seemed to squirm weirdly below
the jeweled spider. “And now comes the final decision, child,” she said, fingering the box. “Think on what I’ve
said. If you desire my secret, it is yours. But remember, all that is given comes with a price.”
“What about the guild?” Emma whispered.
Lady Aranea shrugged. “If you pay the price, the secret is yours. If you truly wish to be their pupil, what right
do I have to stop you from sharing what you’ve learned?”
“Thank you, Lady,” Emma said with a deep sigh. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Thanks are for gifts, child,” the weaver replied as she returned to the spinning wheel. “You have paid for
everything I’ve given you.”
* * *
Jerking the package from her servant’s arms, Rodara held it tightly to her side as she knocked on the Matron’s
polished wooden door.
“Come,” called a voice inside the room.
Ducking into the old woman’s office, Rodara hurried to the carved desk with the silk-wrapped package. “It
worked just as you planned, Matron.” She fairly squealed with delight. “The little gutter rat actually pulled it
off.”
“As I knew she would.” Matron Fornata took the package from the other woman’s arms and removed the
piece of parchment that had been carefully pinned to its surface. “As we agreed, Matron Fornata,” she read
aloud. “I am sending you the Lady’s secret. All I can add is that I hope you are willing to pay the price.”
“Price?” Rodara repeated.
“Don’t you recall, Rodara?” Chuckling evilly, Fornata began to open the package. “The orphan thinks she is
going to be my new apprentice.”
Rodara grinned. “I’d nearly forgotten,” she admitted. “It’s hard to believe anyone could be so naive.”
“She served you for six years, Rodara,” Fornata reminded her. Pulling away the last of the cloth, she revealed
a small wooden box hidden within its folds. “How curious,” she muttered.
Examining the ornate wrapping for a moment, a silken scarf embroidered with dozens of clashing dragons,
she tossed the fabric aside and greedily reached for the lid. “As I was saying, Rodara, that kind of
desperation has its uses. You shouldn’t let any—Eeek!”
As the Matron let loose the wild screech of terror, her hand brushed the edge of the wooden box, spilling its
contents onto the desk.
Gasping in horror, Rodara spun on her heel and rushed to the door. Opening the portal wide, she snagged
the sleeve of the boy who had taken Emma’s place and jerked him into the room. “Who delivered this
package?” she demanded, shaking him ruthlessly. “Who told you it was for the Matron and me?!”
“A girl, mistress,” the boy wailed. “It was a girl with just one eye.”
“A girl with only one eye, you say?”
The servant bobbed his head manically. “Her other one was covered by a patch that looked like a spider web,
and there was blood dripping out from under it. It was all over her cheek.”
Releasing the boy, Rodara felt the cold touch of terror brush the back of her neck as she turned and met
Fornata’s horror-stricken gaze.
On the desk between them, the fat orb-like spider continued to scuttle circles around the spider web eye-
patch as it hungrily waited for someone to pay the weaver’s price.
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Born in May of 1974, Timothy has worked at a farm, a meatpacking plant, a
pickle factory, a casino, and a rowdy nightclub as a bouncer. Currently employed
as a repair technician for a large telephone company, he writes in his spare time.
His biggest fans, his family, spend many frigid Wisconsin nights in their home,
listening to his stories and encouraging him...despite the nightmares.
pickle factory, a casino, and a rowdy nightclub as a bouncer. Currently employed
as a repair technician for a large telephone company, he writes in his spare time.
His biggest fans, his family, spend many frigid Wisconsin nights in their home,
listening to his stories and encouraging him...despite the nightmares.