| 1 2 3 4 5 |
"The Tapestry" (the thirty-second ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
6 7 8 9 10 11 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Tapestry" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), April 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Tapestry by My Nguyen idlemousse1885@yahoo.com (Entry #7) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| As the red ball jumped from foot to
fist of the cheering children, it rose above to eclipse the sun, then glowing a
demonic fiery ruby, it descended. The children shouted in delight and clapped
happily, as they tried to gain hold, of the scarlet sphere. A girl in a green gown cheered with the rest and continued to dance the ancient dance, step to skip, with the others. She thought, what a beautiful day, and giggled as the ball bounced off the head of a boy, in a brown tunic, knocking him over. He sat there stunned, rubbing his head with a dazed expression on his face. The girl looked all around the garden seeing the spring day slowly cleansing itself from the wintry cold. The world was singing once more. No more cold drafty walls enclosed all around. No more unbearable nights when the snow and frost seemed to creep underneath the heavy wool blankets and freeze your toes. The girl named Celeste twirled happily around in a dancing circle as her gown folded all around her. For a moment, she lost her balance and fumbled on one foot, but luckily did not fall into the thorny rose bush to her side. She looked at the roses for a moment and bent down so that her nose could kiss the tips of the petals and feel the fragrance. As she neared the roses, and closed her eyes, Celeste heard a buzz and recognized an aggravated bee was circling over her head. She gasped and took a step back, swatting it from her face. As her arms flung out to strike at the air, she caught sight of a figure out of the corner of her eyes, standing near the castle windows, gazing far off into the distance. Celeste waved to her grandmother, but the Lady seemed not to see her. Forgetting the fun and games, she went back into the gloom of the castle, Celeste rushed into the cold walls, though the corridors and into her grandmother’s gate, her golden hair flowing behind her. She already could feel her grandmother’s habitual presence as she neared. She stopped next to the worn, but certainly dear tapestry, and hesitated, unsure now. Some of the sunlight had waned in these walls, but through these tall windows; they graciously allowed a few strands of golden silk to fall through. Celeste felt her grandmother’s sadness already emanate even though the cold stone walls. She struggled within herself, uncertainly, if she should ask, and then asked, "Grandmamma why do you always stare so at this tapestry, " she tried again to put it adequately into words. "What is it that makes you sad Grandmamma? Please tell me, " said the little girl, as she tugged on the older women’s sleeve, looking up at her with a particular desire: to understand. But it was different from the one that fills the older women’s eyes with permanent wistfulness. The Lady’s was an ancient and lost yearning. Celeste sensed that underneath the layers and layers of mystery her grandmother hid under, there was a certain story to tell. Hush, everyone said. Don’t bother the Lady. Go outside and play now. Be a good girl, as they pinched her cheeks rosy and sent her going outside. But always like the figure near the windows, the presence of the untold tale haunted her. Ignoring these warnings, Celeste felt that this was her chance. She sensed something flowering in the gentle light and lifting its secret petals. She watched as her grandmother’s gaze lifted from the window, where the slight sea of light was pouring forth, bathing the inner walkway. The light, pale and gentle, moved with the warm grace that lit up part of the gloomy, dark castle, lighting part of the Lady’s face as the other half lay in shadows. As it caught the light, Celeste noticed her grandmother’s pale, but clear blue eyes sparkle and lit up, seemingly with emotion, as if touched by Celeste’s concern, but still her gaze did not lift from the tapestry. Celeste looked from the Lady’s beautiful but aged face and shift to the rather old and worn tapestry nestled between the two window frames. The warriors woven on the tapestry held a certain air of majesty; clinging on to the men riding tall and distinguished: each stitch, each subtle, grain of color, is still alive. The swords worn to the side glint in the sun, the flags and banner flowing in the wind, and the shiny armor that could blind any passerby, all in complete detail. Each fluid or motion of grace that is seethed in every gesture and movement, are frozen in time on the heavy fabric for all to see, now locked in the older women’s gaze. For a while Celeste seemed as transfixed by the tapestry as her grandmother seemed to be. Celeste stared out at the intricate designs wove on the heavy fabric, seeming to lose track of time. She could not tear her eyes from the birds that criss-cross and weave around in the air above the marching warriors. She stood fascinated and imaged the flock soaring beyond the margin of the tapestry, to a place that she could not see. Celeste stepped back, blinked and took as deep breath to compose herself from the dream-like trance that she had been under. Then, she turned to the Lady and asked innocently, "Are you thinking about grandfather? What was he like? I heard he had been a great warrior," and then Celeste thought of something. "Is he up there? In the tapestry." And then with the innocent curiosity of an eight year old child, and yet cruel, Celeste said, "But why is he gone…How did he die?" The Lady seemed to instantly snap out of her reverie and looked sharply at her granddaughter. "What did you say?" The Lady’s previously calm blue eyes now lit up and became two fiery balls of fire, raw with emotion and expectancy. The sudden lash startled Celeste. She was taken off guard and the look on the Lady’s face frightened her. She suddenly did not know what to say, and worried that she was in trouble. Celeste lowered her head shakily said, "I just wanted to know what grandfather was like, Grandmamma." And then she looked up, eyes pleading, "Oh, please don’t be mad at me. I didn’t mean any harm," she added tentatively. Somehow, Celeste had managed to assuage the addled flames. And then the Lady looked away, as if reminded of something. "Of course, your grandfather was a remarkable man. He was everything at once and more," said the Lady as if in forgivance. "Tell me, Grandmamma. What was he like? Is he really on the tapestry? And is that why you gaze so at it and so often?" Celeste’s curiosity lept up, licking the fuel. The Lady’s lips slipped into a small smile as if reminded of something, a pleasant memory that suddenly flooded back, enticing her good mood again. She started, "My late husband, your grandfather gave me this wall ornament for my birthday when your father was very young. I cherish it to this day not because he is depicted in it, or that he had given it to me as a gift, but because it reminds me of a story about four sisters." Suddenly Celeste’s eyes lit up, sensing a story coming. "What sisters?" she said now rapt in attention. "These sisters," the Lady went on as if she hadn’t been interrupted, "were in charge of fate, or destiny or whatever you might want to call it on those here on earth. One sister weaves, one measures, another cuts out thread of life, and the fourth infamous sister mends and irons the cloth of…destiny—mend and smooth out what is left." "In life, I have always wanted to meet the fourth sister," as the Lady’s eyes seemed to focus on something far off. "To mend what is torn from me." The Lady added and then paused for a moment. She started again, "But we all in some ways these sisters. And we are the masters of our own fates. Whether we may know it or not." Celeste’s eyes widened in wonderment, and the Lady wondered if she understood anything that she had just said. "I hope you understand so far." Celeste nodded rigorously, waiting for her to go on. The Lady remembered it was that year when they had a new maid. A lithe creature with bright golden hair, much like Celeste’s. She fingered her granddaughter’s curls as she and the girl fell into silence. They quietly watched the children in the garden play with the bright ball; roaming where the red object went. The Lady remembered when once she had pitied this pathetic creature, the servant-girl. Her bright eyes began to flash with anger and her grip on Celeste’s golden locks tightened. "Ow, Grandmamma. You’re hurting me," Celeste protested. The Lady’s hold loosened, as she smoothed the girl’s locks and said, "I’m sorry, dear. I was only trying to untangle your beautiful hair. It was starting to be a bit unkempt with you running around outside with those children all day. You know it isn’t good for you." Celeste pouting, rubbed her sore scalp and said, "Yes, Grandmamma." Then the Lady remembered that day in the garden. A beautiful day like this one. Oh, how she loathed that day! She was just about to send that lazy, insufficient servant of hers away. Her white gown was not properly mended and she needed it to be ready for the party that evening. Oh, she moaned, why can’t the help do anything right? The Lady stopped in mid-stride as she heard voices and laughter outside. She walked back and stopped near windows by the new tapestry, the recent gift from her husband. She looked through the windows, craning her neck to see who it was. Her heart seemed to grow cold as she watched her husband conversing flirtingly and enjoyably with a girl with crowns of golden curls mounted on her head. It was the new servant girl. The idling one. Her melodious laughter seemed to tickle the master and encourage him heartily, but it only seemed to mock the Lady uncontrollably as it continued to ring. The Lady watched as her husband suddenly bent down as it to brush as kiss on the girl’s lips, but only swept slightly pass her to pick a daisy that he promptly decided to place on the nook of her ear. There was only more cuttingly delicious and painfully clear laughter. The Lady’s eyes suddenly filled with tears as the white gown that she was holding crumpled in her hands, which she tossed aside, a lot like the way was trying to toss her tears aside. *** "Grandmamma, Grandmamma! What is it?" asked Celeste astonished. "Why are you crying?" Celeste tried to wipe away her grandmother’s tears. The Lady smiled sadly at Celeste. "It’s nothing, dear. Why don’t I tell you what a great man you grandfather was and the sudden incident that led to his predicament." "Oh, but you don’t have to, if it makes you sad," Celeste said kindly. "Oh, it causes me no sorrow now, child," she lied. "It had been a long time." The Lady’s face had a contradictory look: eyes that were filled with tears that were brimming over and a mad smile that made her look a little crazed, but her voice was steady when she spoke. "It was an accident." "What, Grandmamma?" Celeste asked, unsure now what her grandmother meant. And then everything faded before the Lady’s eyes, and all she could see was that day, the day when the thread to one branch of her fate was cut. *** The evening of the party, the Lady sat quiet and seemingly aloof: she was far apart, seeing things from a tinted screen of shock and betrayal. She rarely spoke and her eyes were fixed on something that was not there, seeing her husband stealing glances from other women, each whisper and look, tearing her heart apart and ripping it to shreds that were burning like paper, lit by the flames of a straying love, whose smoke now smothered her raging vision. The next day, the Lady had rushed in to the garden and hurrying to her husband before he left. She crossed to his side as he got up the saddle to ebony-colored mare. She smiled forcefully up at him and held up a batch of daisies, torn cruelly from their roots, hanging mournfully down. "Oh, were these the flowers you gave her?" she accused. She then said cruelly," I would have chosen another. A prettier one. And another, ….and another…." "…and another….," as she screamed this chant, she tried beating him with the bouquet of daisies, but only managing to hit the black mare again and again. When the flowers became too limp, she used her fists to try to appease her anger. She wanted to reach up and tear him apart into sweet little pieces that she could manage and still pretend that they were hers. But her frantic movements and fists only scared the horse. Its eyes moved from side to side, looking for a way out, and finding none. It reeled over and caught him off-guard. The Lady could only watch as he was knocked off his horse, falling backwards, head first into a rock, unmerciful it its solid station. It was unmoved even as blood spattered on its face. The Lady could only stand horrified, waiting for the moment to pass, but she could not wake from the wait. Then saying to herself over and over again, what have I done… *** "Grandmamma?" "Yes, it was an accident. Your grandfather fell off a horse and hit his head on a rock. That’s how he died." Celeste then realized, uncertainly that her questions had been finally answered. The Lady’s eyes moved to the tapestry again and fingered a small tear above a bird in mid-flight. Celeste looked at where the older women hands were fingering and naively said, "Don’t worry, Grandmamma. It’s just a little tear. The fourth sister can mend that." "Of course, I’ve been waiting for that." "This tapestry is very important to you." "Yes, it was given to me on my birthday," said the Lady distractedly. And she began to remember that day her husband had given her the tapestry, new on these walls with a red ribbon…. "Grandmamma," said Celeste urgently as she rushed over and held tightly onto her grandmamma, saying over and over again, "Come back, come back …" holding on to her still, not wanting her to fly off again into the past. But the Lady could only see the tear on the tapestry, formed like a bird frozen in mid-flight, reaching beyond the edges, wanting to be with the rest of the flock. |
| The Tapestry by Mark Lambert Marknutswriter@aol.com (Entry #11) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Milan was beautiful in the spring,
so full of life, colour and excitement. I’d travelled alone for the first
time, hoping to get my head around the recent traumatic loss of my mother, and
the cruelty of the world as I saw it. It was early Sunday evening, and I walked
away from the San Siro stadium, while the roar of the crowd rang in my ears,
and the bright flashes of the fireworks still sparked in my eyes.
Eighty-thousand screaming Italians, passionate about their local teams made my
head spin but I was secretly glad the game was drawn when I’d left early.
Honours even. A lone, young, obvious Englishman surrounded by angry losing
football fans was not something I wanted to consider. My trip was supposed to
be a mixture of relaxation, excitement and breathing in the culture of the
place; not putting my life at risk. I hailed a taxi to take me to the Parco
Sempione for a late evening stroll, where I could think about my visit so far.
A visit of extreme culture: Sforza castle with its historic art on Saturday and
testosterone-fuelled football on Sunday. I smiled at the difference and at my
enjoyment of it all. The Parco Sempione looked magnificent in the dusk, with tall path lights throwing a glow on the surrounding greenery of the trees, contrasting emerald shades with darker browns, yellows and greens. Hushes of wind blew through the leaves as I squished the gravel on the path. A warm bath and a cold beer in my hotel beckoned. With such a big game on, the park was virtually deserted and I lost myself in thought and sights. "Help me." A quick stiff breeze blew up and made the lines of trees sway gently. I thought I could hear them speaking to me. "Help me." I heard the voice. Almost lost on the wind and weak, but I heard it. English words with an Irish accent. I instinctively turned to my left and stood still. A groan. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Was this a set-up? Would I be mugged in one of the most beautiful city parks on earth? "They have killed me." My legs shook as adrenalin pumped in anticipation of trouble, but I walked slowly towards the voice. The sound came from behind the tightly-packed trees off the path. I pushed branches aside and moved into the semi-darkness. "Hello?" "Help me." I saw a man, sat, or as I got closer, slumped against a tree, his head lolled to one side. My eyes got used to the lack of light and I could see that he was an elderly man, dressed all in black, save for a white collar. A priest. I looked all around, wary of what I was doing, but moved toward the man. His eyes were half-closed and his body limp. I propped him up further against the tree. "What’s happened? Can I help?" "They have killed me, but they must not have this." He weakly nodded his head towards something on the ground beside him. "They have poisoned me, and I will die, but you must take this to safety." My legs were bursting to run, and run fast, but I needed to help. "What do you mean? Poisoned? I’m going for help." The old man grabbed the sleeve of my jacket with surprising strength. I believe it was his last. "I say to you, young man." He coughed and spluttered his words. "I say to you to take this to..." His head fell to one side and his grip grew weak. He took in a last laboured breath. "Take this...to...Father Foster." He let go completely and sighed once, then fell silent. I don’t know why, but I shook him by the shoulders and slapped his face, not once but twice. I suppose I didn’t like to see people die in front of me. His body fell over to the side and lay still on the grass. I must have stared at him for a few minutes before looking to the thing he’d talked about. It was a scroll, about eighteen inches long. I reached and picked it up. It was sturdy in my hands, with round wooden edges. The body of the scroll felt thick and rough, as if made from cloth. I tucked it into my jacket and ran for the light. All along the path, there was nobody to be seen. No telephones. I hurried towards the entrance I’d used, my mind spinning with the priest’s words. What was he talking about? Who killed him? Who was Father Foster and should I attempt to find him? No, I decided, let the police deal with it. A young couple came into view. I ran towards them. "Please, err, I need ambulanso," I stammered. They both looked at me and quickly moved on. "Non capisco," the man muttered. "But you don’t understand! There’s a man dead and..." I reverted to English in panic from obviously wrong Italian. They walked faster. "No, err, polizia!" I shouted. They broke into a run and disappeared around a corner. I looked around for any other help, but I was again alone. The trees swished to and fro with an increasing wind and my heart thumped in my throat. A strange feeling took me, and I slowly turned in the direction of where the priest lay. Leaves were brushed aside as a man, dressed all in black, but without a white collar, stepped onto the path. He stood still and stared at me. "Desidero aiutarlo. Quei diabolici desiderano il rotolo." "Err, no capisch. Umm, non capisco," I said. He took a step forward and reached into his jacket. A gun? I ran. I ran as fast as my feet would fly, not knowing why I just didn’t drop the scroll. Two thuds. Two soft thuds almost hidden in the swishing breeze. I expected to feel pain, but nothing came. Something made me stop and turn around. The man lay prone, blood seeping out beneath him, staining the pink gravel black. I headed for the park gate, becoming a sprinter, with only one aim in mind. The gate was my personal tape with all sounds dissipated as I forced air into my struggling lungs. My eyes opened wide with fear, I pushed my legs as hard as I could against the giving gravel under my feet. As I reached my goal, a car screeched to a halt. "In. In now!" a man shouted from the front passenger seat. I stopped and looked at the man, then left and right. Two men rushed from the car and before I knew what was happening, they grabbed me and bundled me into the back seat. The doors closed just as the car screeched away, throwing me from side to side. "Keep low and don’t make a fucking move!" the passenger shouted, loud enough for me to comply. My forehead brushed against the seat, leaving a trail of sweat and I fought to keep my legs still as the car raced and swerved through the streets. I thought about my situation. Two men dead and I’ve been kidnapped, all in the space of five minutes, and I knew it wasn’t over yet. I moved my head up slightly. "Keep that fucking head down man!" I complied. "You have the scroll? Tell me you have it!" I felt inside my jacket. "Yes. What is..." "Enough. Wait." After a while, as I looked up from the back of the car, street lights and buildings were replaced by tree tops, lit by the moon. We were out of the city. The car made a slow left turn and came to a halt. The two men up front climbed out and then the back door was opened. "Get out." I held the scroll up. "Look, if this is what you want, it’s yours, I..." "Get inside." The man motioned towards the large house to the right of the car. Tall wooden doors opened and I walked in, the two men from the car flanking me. An enormous spiral staircase opened up in front of me and gold-framed portraits hung on the walls to each side. "This way." The man who had been the passenger in the car didn’t let up with his terseness. I was led through a door underneath the staircase, into a softly-lit room. A man stood by the window. As I entered, he turned to me and smiled. "I am Father Foster," he said. "Does he have the scroll?" He directed his question to one of the men, who nodded. "Please, here." He pointed to a table and I put the scroll on it. An uneasy silence fell. I broke it. "Um, what’s the scroll anyway?" "You don’t need to know, young man," said the priest. "Just know that you have done us a great service. My drivers will take you back to your hotel now. Please, this way." He held his arm up, implying that I stepped through a door to his left. I wondered why I just didn’t go back out the way I came in, but I went through the door, which was immediately slammed shut behind me. "What! Hey!" I heard swiftly-spoken Italian from the other side of the door, which was now locked. I realised things were not going my way again. In the blackness of the room I noticed a musty smell and heard a groan. I searched the walls with my fingers for a light switch. Nothing. The only hope was the lighter in my jacket. For once, I thanked god that I smoked and I flicked it on. An old man sat on the floor in the corner of the room. He looked up. "Light that candle," he said weakly. I looked around and held the lighter flame to the wick of a candle on a table. "Who...What...? I stammered. "I’m Father Foster my son. The man outside this room is evil, and now he has the scroll." My mind spun. "But, the man in the park said..." The old man looked up at me. "I’ve heard everything said in the other room. The man in the park you took the scroll from was one of theirs. One of our men tried to help you. I know now that he was killed by them, and now they have me, you and the scroll. All is lost." "But the old man died. He said he’d been poisoned." "Yes, he was! By us! You don’t understand, my son. We have been at war with them for centuries. The scroll has been backwards and forwards for hundreds of years, but now it seems that they have it and will finally destroy it." "But the scroll, what is it?" The old man looked at me and paused, his eyes slowly looking down away from my gaze. "It’s the story of humanity, from five thousand years ago to the finish. All is shown in hieroglyphs, dating from ancient Egypt. But it is the truth. It shows the end, which is very soon. Our goal, the Church’s goal, over hundreds of years, since it was discovered, was to bring the scroll to governments and make them aware of what they are doing and what the consequences of their actions would be. They wouldn’t be able to argue, but we’ve not been able to achieve that." "What does it show?" He spoke slowly and quietly. "It shows things that people today would understand. The world wars of the last century, the unrest in the middle-east over time and the current wars, even naming the leaders. It goes into great detail about certain important things." "But isn’t that down to interpretation?" I didn’t want to believe. For all that had happened to me so far, I didn’t know who to trust, but somehow it was scary that the man was making some sort of sense. "The interpretation of those hieroglyphs is well-known, my son, well-known. It also shows further into the future, which is why we’ve battled so hard to make it known." "What about the future?" "The scroll ends fifteen years from now. Escalation of war. Then it ends." I looked for an answer. "Maybe it’s unfinished, you know, not the end..." "The end is shown, my son. I can tell that you do not believe. In this case, you have to." "But...but, why would they destroy it?" "Their goal is to destroy the earth, and if they keep the scroll secret, they will achieve that. Not by their own actions, but by letting us do it." I thought hard, wondering firstly about the scroll, then about the locked room and then about my life. I found myself wishing I’d stayed to the end of the game in the San Siro stadium. "You still don’t get it, do you, my son. Their master is the Devil, and this is his way of victory against God." Whatever was happening, and whatever the truth was, I went at the door like a devil myself. I pulled, pushed and kicked, but it held fast. I turned back to the old man. "I still don’t see..." "Stephen," he said, "your name is on the scroll. Stephen Winters. You came here after your mother’s death." I shivered. Unless this was an elaborate game, an old man I’d never met before knew my name and situation. I decided to ask him. "What, just what does the scroll show? At the end, just what?" He sighed deeply and clutched his hands together, and looked to the burning candle. "Is it worth me saying?" he said. "Is it worth me telling you?" I mustered a strange form of courage. One I didn’t quite understand. "If I’m mentioned on the scroll, then yes, of course you have to tell me." He told me about the wars, the destruction of society and the earth around us. It was so real as he spoke. I almost cried at his telling of how stubbornness or mis-understanding or pride led to the destruction of the Earth. The tapestry had it all. I sat back and waited for the finish of it all, but at least my name was on it, although, I was disappointed by the ending. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place (tie): #4 & #7 Third place: #11 Others receiving votes: #10, #5, #8, #1 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Tapestry lee10@host365.com |
#1 of 11 |
| 345 words | |
| I am part of evolution’s tapestry; a weaver’s knot, infinitesimal; a small stitch in the story on display. I would be more. I long to play a greater role in time’s unrolling. I yearn to touch the natural world, to explore its tactile traits; to reach out and scatter prismatic raindrops and burst the sun’s rays into a rainbow’s arch; to trace the curve across an awe-struck land and pluck the spectrum, to generate a sharp-red chord or a strident orange; to birth a fluid yellow note or a cool green third, then let my hand slide, diminuendo, across marble blue to silken mauve. I want to catch the wavelengths as they trickle into my palm, or hold throbbing ozoned air, clenched tight in my fist. I would caress the silky-soft southern hemisphere dusk and feel my skin scoured by the rasp of a cicada’s song. I want to know what the smell of dung feels like on the African veldt; ticklingly busy with scurrying beetles or ponderous with a warm-brown heaviness, enfolding scent-laden memories of thirst and packaged secrets of migration. Would a hyena’s cough be rough to the touch; and if I stroked a lion’s night-time hunting would I learn the sensation of gentle velvet or would it be coarse like the taste of the grave? I long for my blood to race, in tune with the pulse of the universe; to be bathed, gasping, by the burn of the ice-cold distance between stars. I would close my eyes and sense through my pores, the fragile rings of Saturn, spinning waves of aeons, ripples in a pond, brushing past on their way to forever. With a tap, I would make space ring with cold clarity. I want to touch time; to dip into the vast filling pot of history; to feel the shapes of the chaos that birthed the Earth; to fondle the fiery glory that sears to the bone. I ache to travel to the meaning of existence and be suspended in the weft and warp of creation, all my nerve-endings, omniscient. |
|
| The Tapestry Beverley Cull beautbev@iinet.net.au |
#2 of 11 |
| 1805 words | |
| "It’s moth-eaten! You can’t be serious
Hilary? What on earth are you going to do with it?" My Aunt stood looking dumbfounded at my choice. We had all been invited to choose something from Gran’s house. Of course my sister went straight to the china cabinet, but Aunty Gloria had already moved the Royal Dalton to a safe place. That was hers to keep, she told my pouting sister. Knowing Libby as I did, I’m sure it would only have ended up at the pawnbrokers anyway. It was a sad truth, but truth all the same. I, on the other hand, had chosen Gran’s wedding dress. It was worse for wear, and would never be worn again, but I had other reasons for wanting it. I eyed my sister suspiciously as she started pulling out drawers searching for an elusive treasure. "Oh, it’s for art class Aunty," I told her, not daring to look her in the eye. It was an out and out lie, but caught off guard, I said the first thing that had come to mind. There would have been too many questions and I didn’t have the heart to answer them. "Well, it doesn’t look like my idea of art. What will they think of next?" "If she wants to take it, let her," Libby spoke up, taking the dress from my hands and turning it over a couple of times to examine it. I held my breath thinking she may keep it just to spite me. Her nose puckered up. "Yuck! It even smells like mothballs Hil! Trust you to pick something like that!" Libby held her nose and gave the dress back. I felt a twinge of guilt for lying to my aunt but I just didn’t want the baggage that would inevitably come by telling them why I wanted Gran’s dress. I knew all would be revealed soon but that could come later. It would come when I was more able to deal with the questions, but for now it was my secret. You’d think that being the older sister I would be more assertive but with a sibling like Libby, it was almost impossible. We were chalk and cheese my sister and I. Her bubbly personality was a foil to my more serious, studious nature. My nose was always in a book, whereas Libby could be heard around the house singing and generally playing the fool. Some might call me foolish for letting my sister walk all over me, but for now I preferred it that way. My time would come and when it did, I knew I’d come into my own. "I’ve always loved that setting Aunty," Libby spoke up, trying another tactic with our Aunt. "Gran said I could have it." She stood looking forlornly into the almost empty china cabinet. "Fiddlesticks! She promised it to your mother, and when she died, rest her soul, your Gran told me to keep it safe and safe I will keep it. Now off you go and choose something else or you’ll miss out." Libby has really missed her calling. I stood watching her as she went through a gamut of emotions, trying to sway my Aunt. She would make a fantastic actress, I’m sure. Determined that she would get her own way, she tried the sympathy look first, and when that failed, she let the tears fall. Either Aunty Gloria was oblivious to her overtures or was simply trying to ignore it and went about her business. Not used to being ignored, after a while Libby began to mutter under her breath. Her last comment had been doozy and the untruth hadn’t gone past Aunt Gloria Seeing that this was having no effect, Libby turned back to the china cabinet to see if there was something else of value she could possibly hock. Why did I know this? Because I’ve lived with my sister for 25 years and she just can’t help herself. Money slipped through her fingers like water. I know she had a designer outfit in her sights and she usually got what she wanted. I know I sound like a whining sister and perhaps I am, but then again, I’ve paid my dues and I’m sure that anyone would allow me a little time to wallow. "Are you sure there’s nothing else you’d like Hilary?" Aunt Gloria put her hand on my shoulder as she spoke. "What about your mother’s emerald brooch? I’ve put that away somewhere dear…." Her voice trailed off as she went in search of it. That of course jolted my sister from her pouting and she rushed to help the older woman look for it. I suppose I could lie and say that none of it mattered, but deep down I knew it did. Children are intuitive by nature and I was no different. When I was younger I sensed a difference between my sister and I but could never put my finger on it. I never knew why we were treated so differently, that is until my 12th birthday. Libby always liked to be in control and it was at my birthday party, when I told her that she couldn’t play with one of my presents, that she landed the biggest bombshell of my life. She told me I was adopted. Of course, I never believed her and ran crying to my parents. Their look of shock and guilt, however, told a different story, and it answered questions I had been asking myself for a lot of years. That fact alone told me why Libby seemed to always get what she wanted and why arguments between her and I were always met with, "be nice to your little sister". My mother had always felt like a stranger to me and I had never known why. It wasn’t an unreasonable fear of an adopted child. It was just fact, a fact that I had learnt to live with. My relationship with my parents was different than Libby’s. She was adored and I was not. Four years after I came to live with them, Libby was born, much to their surprise and pleasure. They loved me in their own way I suppose but it was just not the same as their own flesh and blood, as Aunty Gloria put it one day, when I asked why Libby was so spoiled. She told me that I had been picked because I was special and I was never to think otherwise. It didn’t really ring true of course, when time after time I found myself on the outer but at least Aunty Gloria never made me feel like a stranger. She had been the one person I could turn to when I needed someone to confide in and I knew her affection was genuine. Shaking myself out of my daydream I found myself in, I gently folded Gran’s dress and put it back it its box, watchful of Libby, in case she grabbed it in a fit of anger and threw it in the bin. I certainly wouldn’t put it past her as she could be very vengeful when the occasion arose. The brooch was still missing and she had returned in a foul mood. That alone was enough to set her off. The dress was almost the last collection I needed to make and I would feel better when I had it under lock and key. It was time to add that memory to all the others, and what better to use than Gran’s wedding dress. Over the years I had collected many pieces along the way. In some ways I suppose you could have called it an obsession. I was always on the lookout for snippets of keepsakes I could use. I found our christening gowns stowed away in the attic, and managed to scrounge other bits of material from the most unusual places. All of them were memories, woven together to form threads of my life. All I had to do was put them together. It would be a quilt that would rival all the others I had made and it would be one passed down from generation to generation and added to later on. All that was needed now was one more item of clothing and for that I needed to be brave. When the letter came addressed to me via the agency, my heart skipped a beat. Months ago I had written, asking them to trace my mother. Nothing had happened and as the weeks had gone by, I had almost given up hope. At first I thought it had been mistakenly sent. The envelope had been addressed to me, but the letter started off "Dear Kathryn." It was when I read on that breath caught in my throat. My birth mother had made contact. I had a name and a birthday, a real birthday. "Your name is Kathryn, and I named you that after my mother. Your father lied to me and said that you had died. I know that sounds lame, but that’s exactly what happened. We were young and in love, but too young to get married. When you were born I thought it was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and when the sister said you weren’t well and needed care, I let them take you. That was the last time I ever saw you and every day, on your birthday I always a light a birthday candle and remember. When the agency wrote to tell me that you were looking for me I thought it was a mistake but now I know it’s true and that day was the best day of my life. I couldn’t be happier my darling daughter. I love you and always have. I hope you forgive me." My mother, my real mother, had made contact, and after all this time I finally found my identity, who I really was. Nothing changed on the outside, but on the inside it was as if a piece that was missing was finally in place. Nothing could erase the hurt I felt living in a family that felt like strangers, but now at least I could say my mother truly loved me. As I watched Libby frowning over what she had lost, I took pleasure in realising that my shallow sister was getting just what she deserved. She was the loser here, not me. Today I am going to meet my mother for the very first time and one request I had made was for a piece of material that meant something special to her. It would be the final piece to complete my work. My quilt would be a living tapestry and what better gift to give to my mother, my very own mother, who truly loved me. |
|
| The Tapestry DONNA MARIE DUFOUR MrsDew4@adelphia.net |
#3 of 11 |
| 1105 words | |
| Things long forgotten, thought lost, or never known
about can unexpectedly pop up from an unsealed box while unpacking when you are
moving. It could be a small item or large treasure which is rediscovered making
you stop and propel you back in time. The box can be something filled with
items that fill your heart with nostalgia, or even dispense a
mystery. This recently happened to me when I found a picture of my mother and father which was taken oh I'd say when they were about 30 years old. They look so wonderfully happy. I started to cry to see them be so happy and peaceful together this way. So different from when I got to know them later when their life would be full of responsibilities. Of course, I really didn't know any difference. I'm not saying they weren't happy. I just imagine their lives were much less burdensome than when they had a pack of hyperactive kids jumping all over them everyday. Or maybe I'm just thinking of my life! The background of the picture I held is at some kind of water pond with a fountain spurting in the middle. There are some types of birds I can't identify walking around obviously making this water pond their home. They are sitting on a stone bench, and my mother is holding a box which I'm sure is salt water taffy. She loved salt water taffy, and each time we went to the beach, we had to stop and get a box. Her head was tilted toward my dad, they are sitting close together, and she is smiling. God she looks so young; it is hard to believe it is her. I definitely have inherited her pale Irish skin; freckles and all. Even though my siblings and I have fair skin, we all have my dad's dark hair. Funny huh? This picture reminds me how much I miss her, and how young she was when she died. For some reason, one thing comes to mind looking at this picture, is my mother never hurt anyone. Never hurt anyone. How many of us can say that? I can't. I feel embarrassed to reveal, I did not inherit that gene. Dad's not looking too shabby in this photo either. He is looking so handsome. He has dark hair and eyes to match, and just loved to always hear people say how young he looked for his age. In this particular picture, he is wearing a short sleeve beige shirt with a front pocket on the left side. He always had to have a front pocket on his shirts. Funny how you remember silly details when you see pictures from the past. I wish I knew where they where when this photo was taken, and what they were doing and talking about. What memories were they making here, and did they have a good time? I looked on the back of the photo, but nothing was written there to help answer those questions. So I kept inspecting each inch trying to speculate where they were, and what they were doing. I'm wondering now if they are younger than I first thought. They are looking a little too happy to have kids. Especially us - we were such terrors. I don't know how they could have gotten away finding someone to baby-sit us. Must have been a relative that owed them a lot. It is so weird when you come upon pictures of your parents such as this. We don't think of them as having a life before they became our parents. And life takes up so much of our time as we grow up quickly; we don't have time to talk to them about it. Generationally in the 50's, you didn't ask questions like that anyway. You were pretty much shushed outside to play all day, while Mom cleaned the house and made dinner. There were no long conversations in our house about the history of our family. No touchy, feely stuff ever. Nevertheless, known or unbeknown to them, they truly had begun to weave our family tapestry before we ever became a thought. Their first adventures and memories apart and together, for example, are in the tapestry. Their memories, dreams, and heartbreaks were all woven into how they lived their life and loved. They continued to add to the tapestry as they learned who they were, and what they wanted from their lives; as much as was allowed back then. Lives so different, yet I barely know anything about it. All I have is this little piece of a puzzle. A window into their life from one day that thankfully popped up from a box today. I'll shape a memory around and treasure it, because they are no longer here for me to ask. So this photo becomes a part of our tapestry for me to connect to other photos or treasures such as letters, jewelry, mementos I hope to find. I realize now how important it is to put together my own family tapestry for my children. They have remarked in the past about not having any pictures of their grandparents other than professional pictures. I have pictures of my parents wedding, Easter pictures, and first communion - only holiday pictures. No day to day pictures of us as kids wearing our parent's clothes prancing around the kitchen playing or talking to someone on the phone when we were barely able to speak at all. Or running around with nothing on at all! Nothing like that. Only pictures of us dressed in our Sunday best or the yearly school photo. I feel a family's tapestry is like opening a trunk in the attic which holds mementos from generations. It can be good, bad or ugly and should be, otherwise how boring that we would never know about Uncle Ralph's stealing his mother's medication or Aunt Delores' four marriages. Or find first communion dresses wrapped so carefully in acid free paper to be passed down. Quilts from Grammy that are so beautiful you want to cry you never learned how to do this with her. So much we didn't know about each other. Isn't that why we buy books? To read about parts of other family's tapestries? So I'm off to the store to find the perfect frame for this cherished picture. It will be a blessing to enjoy this found treasure everyday in my home. My children will also enjoy seeing this side of their grandparents. Just a small piece of the tapestry of their life; of what makes them who they are. |
|
| The Tapestry walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#4 of 11 |
| 1756 words | |
| "So- what room is this?" asked Louis, who bore the
rolled tapestry upon one shoulder. "This is the room that we seek," replied Maurice, his companion. The two were separated by the span of a wooden ladder carried from each end. "This is what was once the queen’s closet." "She must have had a great many garments," the first fellow said, setting his burdens down carefully on the floor. "It was not that kind of closet; it was a private chamber meant for prayer and reflection." "Is it not still?" "I do not think it shall be; it has been said that a murder was committed in this very room. The prince, driven mad by melancholy over the death of his father, had come in here to meet with the queen, and killed an adviser who was concealed and eavesdropping on their conversation," Maurice said. "Sounds like it was an accident." "Indeed, yet it were but one event in a string of many involving murder, madness, suicide, and treachery." "I think I’ve heard this story," Louis said. "It has a ghost in it, does it not?" "Yes. Who told you the story? Was it Sir Kenneth of Branagh?" "No. I’ve heard that his version of the events is a bit long-winded. I know of it from Mel, son of Gibb. He knows it because he once preformed in a staged dramatization of the tale." "Does he do the story justice in the telling?" "I do not know how accurate a storyteller he is, but there is no denying his passion." "Oh, well; the truth is hardly important to our task," said Maurice. "We are but hired by the new king to help with the redecoration of this storied castle, and we shall retain our place and opinions lest they cost us the job." "But King Carole seems such an even tempered and hearty fellow," said Louis. "Did you not attend the coronation?" "No. I remained in my home because of an ailment, but the boisterousness of the event could be detected even there. Verily, I felt the earth move under my feet during the grand procession through the village. Did you attend?" "Aye, I did. I went in the stead of my mother, whom was invited, but had relocated to a very distant place. It was too late, and she simply could not arrive in time." "Your mother moved so far away? Doesn’t anyone stay in one place anymore?" "Not since my father died. These days my mother impudently sets out for any place she’s got a friend." "Ah. So, pray-tell, what things did you witness at the coronation festivities?" Maurice asked. "I was surprised to see titles granted upon some fellows in attendance whom had garnered the king’s favor so swiftly. Most impressive was the elevation to dukedom of our old friend Marm." "Marm’s a duke? Why, he has less noble bearing than a large dog!" "Aye, but he is a great Dane. It is his patriotism for which he was rewarded." "I’ll bet his wife was happy..." "Ho! Let me tell you of his wife!" Louis exalted. "Even as Marm was basking in the glow of his new title and privilege, his wife was seducing a visiting nobleman; an English earl, I believe." "How bold of him to flirt with a married woman." "Ah, he might have thought differently had he knew that she was married, but she managed to keep the existence of both of her men from the other. The earl knew not of the existence of the duke, nor the duke of earl." "Methinks I have heard enough for now," Maurice groaned. "We should get to work installing this new tapestry. We have many more to hang before this day is done." The two men seized the ladder and rested it’s top end against the wall containing the existing tapestry they had been instructed to replace. Louis braced the ladder as Maurice climbed up to untie the wall-length fabric from it’s moorings. "There’s a bloody hole in this," Louis said. "No need to get profane about it," Maurice called back. "It’s old. It probably has a lot of holes and tears. That’s why they’re replacing it..." "No, I mean that it really has a hole with some dried blood around it," Louis responded, poking his finger through the hole in question." Maurice finished untying the heavy fabric from where it was moored, and guided it down to his partner. He then climbed down the ladder and observed the puncture that Louis held marked by his finger. "Perhaps this is evidence of the deed committed in this room," Maurice said. "The man was murdered while concealed behind this very fabric." "I could never kill anyone," Louis said, withdrawing his finger solemnly. "I doubt that I could stomach the killing of any living thing." "Really? Would you not even kill a goose if you needed it’s meat for survival?" "Never a goose, not even to eat. I had a pet goose as a child, so such an act would be akin to murder to me." "But what of chickens? Or ducks? Surely I have spied you feasting on these things in the past. Would you not kill one if necessary?" "Chickens, ducks, pheasant- I suppose I could murder most fowl, but no greater beast," Louis mused. "I’ll eat of cattle and swine, but I leave the blood of their death on the hands of the butcher." "And so long as you remain employed, you may yet never have to sully your own hands," Maurice said. He moved to where the new tapestry lie rolled on the floor, and bent to untie the twine that held it in that shape. Louis came to help, and the two men rolled the fabric out, laying at it’s full length and spanning the room. "What is that, a girl in the river?" Louis asked, studying the elegantly embroidered panorama of images on cloth. "I believe that she was one of the victims in the tragedies I spoke of earlier. The suicide, I would venture. Each of the tapestries is supposed to depict a different scene from the oft told tale." "Truly that is a fine work. Who crafted it?" "It commissioned and imported from England. A pair of renowned weavers named Dennis and Sir Gorney. I was personally dispatched to retrieve all of the tapestries we were hired to hang." "Sir Gorney? If what I have heard of him is true, you are lucky to have returned." "Why?" "He is notorious for his dislike of all foreigners, and is known to respond violently to their presence in his home vicinity. He is rumored to have slain scores of aliens that dared try to settle in his provenance." "Balderdash! Why should such hearsay have reached your ears, yet I have never heard of these things?" "It is said that Sir Gorney avoided prosecution for his actions by fabricating a different identity on which to lay the blame. He was alleged to have used the name Robert Ripley, believe it or not..." "I believe I’ll choose ‘not’," Maurice said. "Besides, you should not speak idle rumor about the person who is instrumental in our being rewarded for our efforts." "How is that?" "Sir Gorney bestowed a special, sealed letter unto me when I left England with the tapestries. It is a letter that beseeches King Carole to reward us and serves as our reference for future work. We are not to submit it to the king until we are finished hanging all of the new tapestries." "What kind of reward? Did Sir Gorney tell you, or give any clues?" "He said that we would be rewarded in the manner of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern." "Who are they?" "I believe they were friends of the former prince who died in the tragedies that occurred here." "We’re they good friends?" "Most excellent good friends, I am told." "Then we shall be rewarded handsomely, I’ll venture." "And the letter of reference will open up a new world of opportunity." "How so?" "In a nut-shell, we are bound to be declared as veritable rulers of an infinite amount of space, all to be re-designed with our expertise. Hanging tapestries is just the beginning! Animal skins, painted papers to adhere to the wall, weapons as decor- there are more things on heaven and earth that man was meant to decorate with than most would imagine..." The two men moved forward with a renewed swiftness and energy spurred on by thoughts of wealth. In no time, and with some effort, they succeed in hanging the new tapestry. But the satisfaction for their efforts is suspended when a dog walks into the room and begins to sniff at the bottom of the fabric. "What’s this? Such a mongrel is not one of the king’s dogs, I am certain," Louis said, then made a hissing noise to shoo the animal. The dog moved away, but remained in the room. "I know this cur," Maurice said as he descended from the ladder. "It belongs to the Scots who are visiting. The wife insisted that they bring it along." "Scots? Have you met them?" "Aye. I got little impression of the husband, but the wife seems quite the shrew. Nonetheless, they should be better guest than to give their dog the run of the castle. Out, out, damn Spot!" The dog reacted to his shouts, and promptly fled. "Which room is next?" Louis asked, rolling up the old tapestry and pushing it aside. "Let me consult my map," Maurice said, pulling a rolled paper from his waistband. "What’s that?" "It is a floor plan of this place. I had it made so that we could make sure that the tapestries are installed in the correct rooms. I designated each room with a number and letter to indicate it’s location, and marked the tapestries to coordinate with each room." "So where are we off to?" "The ink is smudged, but I think we should go to room 2B next, but I could be wrong. I imagine we will find out when we get there." The two men grabbed opposite ends of the now lowered ladder, and started out the door. Maurice paused, consulting his ‘map’, and shaking his head. "What’s the holdup? It’s 2B or not 2B- is that not the question?" "Aye, but methinks it may be the room where the Macbeths are quartered." "Well, there is only one way to find out," Louis said, pushing forward; "Lead on, McDuff." |
|
| The Tapestry Rex Schechter rschechter@cox.net |
#5 of 11 |
| 636 words | |
| It was your typical school outing. Small flocks of
children wandered among exhibits, shepherded by smaller flocks of parents. Some
were terrified of losing children, others casually trying to lose them. Most
were tired of walking, but anxious to see the tapestry, a truly unique display.
Even the youngest ceased squabbling as they craned their necks to examine the
exquisite weaving covering two walls of the simulated hangar deck. Set against the dead blackness of space in most panels, the fires, planets, and stars had been so perfectly depicted that to look was to inhale the very vacuum of the subject. "This tapestry," the tour guide said, "though unfinished, was provided by our hosts. It symbolizes the ascendancy of mankind leaping from the Earth to the stars in little more than a century after leaving the ground to fly in the homeworld’s atmosphere. It is a story of cowardice, greed, politics, and corruption. Most of all, however, the fabric displays evidence of magnificent courage and unselfish devotion to an ideal, the dream of spreading mankind throughout the stars. "The first several frames show man’s early and awkward attempts to break the bond of Earth’s gravity. Two enemy nations poured immense resources into a race to control space and reach the solitary satellite. The two nations cooperated after a fashion when neither could afford or justify the continuing race. After achieving the modest goal of establishing a minimal presence in orbit, they gave up. Having lost a half dozen ships, some of them disposable, and less than a hundred lives, they gave up, unaware the entire galaxy was within reach. "Where the government failed, individuals conquered. In this frame, the first launch rail puts a bulky building block into low orbit. Not long after, a carbon fiber connected several building blocks to a Pacific island. These beetles, as they were called, brought all manner of materials up and down the carbon ribbon. "Only after mankind freed themselves from gravity could they discover the secret of traveling on light. See the fanciful rays being squared and cubed to provide virtually instantaneous transport anywhere in the Milky Way Galaxy. Here men met the only other known sentient species. The unfortunate resemblance this species bore to a pest on Earth gave them the name ‘spider,’ although some were half as big as the men themselves. Though curious about the spiders and how they communicated with each other, note the tenuous silver streaks indicating mental contact, mankind spurned contact with this species, outlawing any interaction. "I would draw your attention to the final few frames. A young lady, Jill, and her pet ferret stowed away on her uncle’s scout ship. The small rodents adapted to space travel even in the old days of chemical rockets, and their antics kept many a crew amused over the long weeks and months of journeys. "Jill, unfamiliar with the finer points of navigation, misdialed two coordinate vectors of her home address and landed the scout on the spiders’ home world. She and the ferret had wandered away from the ship by the time her uncle, whom she called ‘Colonel Bob,’ awoke to their predicament. "Retrieving Jill and the ferret, Bob found the scout had been entered by at least one of the spiders. Lifting from the planet, he purged the only lifepod and sent Jill away. He attempted to fumigate his own ship, but was stung by the spider, a young female. "Knowing he was about to die, Colonel Bob called for the destruction of his own craft. The real hero, however, was my Great-Great-Great Grandmother. If she had not deposited her eggs within the ferret and attacked the Colonel, many of us would not be here today. Nor would we have these excellent human hosts to nurture us in our travels through the galaxy." |
|
| The Tapestry Gregg J. Donaldson GJDONALD@aol.com |
#6 of 11 |
| 71 words | |
| T--The A--Apex of life is P--Passion and E--Experience S--Sown T--Together by our joys and sorrows, creating rich squares of individuals. Y--Yet, collectively the Tapestry of Life, is both huge and small in scope with its ever-changing beauty of its picture, both the inner and outer. O--Over time, weaving a F--Fluid bond of L--Love and recognizing the merits of an I--Individual, F--For E--Even one stitch adds to the unity we call Earth. |
|
| The Tapestry My Nguyen idlemousse1885@yahoo.com |
#7 of 11 Winner |
| 2492 words | |
| As the red ball jumped from foot to fist of the
cheering children, it rose above to eclipse the sun, then glowing a demonic
fiery ruby, it descended. The children shouted in delight and clapped happily,
as they tried to gain hold, of the scarlet sphere. A girl in a green gown cheered with the rest and continued to dance the ancient dance, step to skip, with the others. She thought, what a beautiful day, and giggled as the ball bounced off the head of a boy, in a brown tunic, knocking him over. He sat there stunned, rubbing his head with a dazed expression on his face. The girl looked all around the garden seeing the spring day slowly cleansing itself from the wintry cold. The world was singing once more. No more cold drafty walls enclosed all around. No more unbearable nights when the snow and frost seemed to creep underneath the heavy wool blankets and freeze your toes. The girl named Celeste twirled happily around in a dancing circle as her gown folded all around her. For a moment, she lost her balance and fumbled on one foot, but luckily did not fall into the thorny rose bush to her side. She looked at the roses for a moment and bent down so that her nose could kiss the tips of the petals and feel the fragrance. As she neared the roses, and closed her eyes, Celeste heard a buzz and recognized an aggravated bee was circling over her head. She gasped and took a step back, swatting it from her face. As her arms flung out to strike at the air, she caught sight of a figure out of the corner of her eyes, standing near the castle windows, gazing far off into the distance. Celeste waved to her grandmother, but the Lady seemed not to see her. Forgetting the fun and games, she went back into the gloom of the castle, Celeste rushed into the cold walls, though the corridors and into her grandmother’s gate, her golden hair flowing behind her. She already could feel her grandmother’s habitual presence as she neared. She stopped next to the worn, but certainly dear tapestry, and hesitated, unsure now. Some of the sunlight had waned in these walls, but through these tall windows; they graciously allowed a few strands of golden silk to fall through. Celeste felt her grandmother’s sadness already emanate even though the cold stone walls. She struggled within herself, uncertainly, if she should ask, and then asked, "Grandmamma why do you always stare so at this tapestry, " she tried again to put it adequately into words. "What is it that makes you sad Grandmamma? Please tell me, " said the little girl, as she tugged on the older women’s sleeve, looking up at her with a particular desire: to understand. But it was different from the one that fills the older women’s eyes with permanent wistfulness. The Lady’s was an ancient and lost yearning. Celeste sensed that underneath the layers and layers of mystery her grandmother hid under, there was a certain story to tell. Hush, everyone said. Don’t bother the Lady. Go outside and play now. Be a good girl, as they pinched her cheeks rosy and sent her going outside. But always like the figure near the windows, the presence of the untold tale haunted her. Ignoring these warnings, Celeste felt that this was her chance. She sensed something flowering in the gentle light and lifting its secret petals. She watched as her grandmother’s gaze lifted from the window, where the slight sea of light was pouring forth, bathing the inner walkway. The light, pale and gentle, moved with the warm grace that lit up part of the gloomy, dark castle, lighting part of the Lady’s face as the other half lay in shadows. As it caught the light, Celeste noticed her grandmother’s pale, but clear blue eyes sparkle and lit up, seemingly with emotion, as if touched by Celeste’s concern, but still her gaze did not lift from the tapestry. Celeste looked from the Lady’s beautiful but aged face and shift to the rather old and worn tapestry nestled between the two window frames. The warriors woven on the tapestry held a certain air of majesty; clinging on to the men riding tall and distinguished: each stitch, each subtle, grain of color, is still alive. The swords worn to the side glint in the sun, the flags and banner flowing in the wind, and the shiny armor that could blind any passerby, all in complete detail. Each fluid or motion of grace that is seethed in every gesture and movement, are frozen in time on the heavy fabric for all to see, now locked in the older women’s gaze. For a while Celeste seemed as transfixed by the tapestry as her grandmother seemed to be. Celeste stared out at the intricate designs wove on the heavy fabric, seeming to lose track of time. She could not tear her eyes from the birds that criss-cross and weave around in the air above the marching warriors. She stood fascinated and imaged the flock soaring beyond the margin of the tapestry, to a place that she could not see. Celeste stepped back, blinked and took as deep breath to compose herself from the dream-like trance that she had been under. Then, she turned to the Lady and asked innocently, "Are you thinking about grandfather? What was he like? I heard he had been a great warrior," and then Celeste thought of something. "Is he up there? In the tapestry." And then with the innocent curiosity of an eight year old child, and yet cruel, Celeste said, "But why is he gone…How did he die?" The Lady seemed to instantly snap out of her reverie and looked sharply at her granddaughter. "What did you say?" The Lady’s previously calm blue eyes now lit up and became two fiery balls of fire, raw with emotion and expectancy. The sudden lash startled Celeste. She was taken off guard and the look on the Lady’s face frightened her. She suddenly did not know what to say, and worried that she was in trouble. Celeste lowered her head shakily said, "I just wanted to know what grandfather was like, Grandmamma." And then she looked up, eyes pleading, "Oh, please don’t be mad at me. I didn’t mean any harm," she added tentatively. Somehow, Celeste had managed to assuage the addled flames. And then the Lady looked away, as if reminded of something. "Of course, your grandfather was a remarkable man. He was everything at once and more," said the Lady as if in forgivance. "Tell me, Grandmamma. What was he like? Is he really on the tapestry? And is that why you gaze so at it and so often?" Celeste’s curiosity lept up, licking the fuel. The Lady’s lips slipped into a small smile as if reminded of something, a pleasant memory that suddenly flooded back, enticing her good mood again. She started, "My late husband, your grandfather gave me this wall ornament for my birthday when your father was very young. I cherish it to this day not because he is depicted in it, or that he had given it to me as a gift, but because it reminds me of a story about four sisters." Suddenly Celeste’s eyes lit up, sensing a story coming. "What sisters?" she said now rapt in attention. "These sisters," the Lady went on as if she hadn’t been interrupted, "were in charge of fate, or destiny or whatever you might want to call it on those here on earth. One sister weaves, one measures, another cuts out thread of life, and the fourth infamous sister mends and irons the cloth of…destiny—mend and smooth out what is left." "In life, I have always wanted to meet the fourth sister," as the Lady’s eyes seemed to focus on something far off. "To mend what is torn from me." The Lady added and then paused for a moment. She started again, "But we all in some ways these sisters. And we are the masters of our own fates. Whether we may know it or not." Celeste’s eyes widened in wonderment, and the Lady wondered if she understood anything that she had just said. "I hope you understand so far." Celeste nodded rigorously, waiting for her to go on. The Lady remembered it was that year when they had a new maid. A lithe creature with bright golden hair, much like Celeste’s. She fingered her granddaughter’s curls as she and the girl fell into silence. They quietly watched the children in the garden play with the bright ball; roaming where the red object went. The Lady remembered when once she had pitied this pathetic creature, the servant-girl. Her bright eyes began to flash with anger and her grip on Celeste’s golden locks tightened. "Ow, Grandmamma. You’re hurting me," Celeste protested. The Lady’s hold loosened, as she smoothed the girl’s locks and said, "I’m sorry, dear. I was only trying to untangle your beautiful hair. It was starting to be a bit unkempt with you running around outside with those children all day. You know it isn’t good for you." Celeste pouting, rubbed her sore scalp and said, "Yes, Grandmamma." Then the Lady remembered that day in the garden. A beautiful day like this one. Oh, how she loathed that day! She was just about to send that lazy, insufficient servant of hers away. Her white gown was not properly mended and she needed it to be ready for the party that evening. Oh, she moaned, why can’t the help do anything right? The Lady stopped in mid-stride as she heard voices and laughter outside. She walked back and stopped near windows by the new tapestry, the recent gift from her husband. She looked through the windows, craning her neck to see who it was. Her heart seemed to grow cold as she watched her husband conversing flirtingly and enjoyably with a girl with crowns of golden curls mounted on her head. It was the new servant girl. The idling one. Her melodious laughter seemed to tickle the master and encourage him heartily, but it only seemed to mock the Lady uncontrollably as it continued to ring. The Lady watched as her husband suddenly bent down as it to brush as kiss on the girl’s lips, but only swept slightly pass her to pick a daisy that he promptly decided to place on the nook of her ear. There was only more cuttingly delicious and painfully clear laughter. The Lady’s eyes suddenly filled with tears as the white gown that she was holding crumpled in her hands, which she tossed aside, a lot like the way was trying to toss her tears aside. *** "Grandmamma, Grandmamma! What is it?" asked Celeste astonished. "Why are you crying?" Celeste tried to wipe away her grandmother’s tears. The Lady smiled sadly at Celeste. "It’s nothing, dear. Why don’t I tell you what a great man you grandfather was and the sudden incident that led to his predicament." "Oh, but you don’t have to, if it makes you sad," Celeste said kindly. "Oh, it causes me no sorrow now, child," she lied. "It had been a long time." The Lady’s face had a contradictory look: eyes that were filled with tears that were brimming over and a mad smile that made her look a little crazed, but her voice was steady when she spoke. "It was an accident." "What, Grandmamma?" Celeste asked, unsure now what her grandmother meant. And then everything faded before the Lady’s eyes, and all she could see was that day, the day when the thread to one branch of her fate was cut. *** The evening of the party, the Lady sat quiet and seemingly aloof: she was far apart, seeing things from a tinted screen of shock and betrayal. She rarely spoke and her eyes were fixed on something that was not there, seeing her husband stealing glances from other women, each whisper and look, tearing her heart apart and ripping it to shreds that were burning like paper, lit by the flames of a straying love, whose smoke now smothered her raging vision. The next day, the Lady had rushed in to the garden and hurrying to her husband before he left. She crossed to his side as he got up the saddle to ebony-colored mare. She smiled forcefully up at him and held up a batch of daisies, torn cruelly from their roots, hanging mournfully down. "Oh, were these the flowers you gave her?" she accused. She then said cruelly," I would have chosen another. A prettier one. And another, ….and another…." "…and another….," as she screamed this chant, she tried beating him with the bouquet of daisies, but only managing to hit the black mare again and again. When the flowers became too limp, she used her fists to try to appease her anger. She wanted to reach up and tear him apart into sweet little pieces that she could manage and still pretend that they were hers. But her frantic movements and fists only scared the horse. Its eyes moved from side to side, looking for a way out, and finding none. It reeled over and caught him off-guard. The Lady could only watch as he was knocked off his horse, falling backwards, head first into a rock, unmerciful it its solid station. It was unmoved even as blood spattered on its face. The Lady could only stand horrified, waiting for the moment to pass, but she could not wake from the wait. Then saying to herself over and over again, what have I done… *** "Grandmamma?" "Yes, it was an accident. Your grandfather fell off a horse and hit his head on a rock. That’s how he died." Celeste then realized, uncertainly that her questions had been finally answered. The Lady’s eyes moved to the tapestry again and fingered a small tear above a bird in mid-flight. Celeste looked at where the older women hands were fingering and naively said, "Don’t worry, Grandmamma. It’s just a little tear. The fourth sister can mend that." "Of course, I’ve been waiting for that." "This tapestry is very important to you." "Yes, it was given to me on my birthday," said the Lady distractedly. And she began to remember that day her husband had given her the tapestry, new on these walls with a red ribbon…. "Grandmamma," said Celeste urgently as she rushed over and held tightly onto her grandmamma, saying over and over again, "Come back, come back …" holding on to her still, not wanting her to fly off again into the past. But the Lady could only see the tear on the tapestry, formed like a bird frozen in mid-flight, reaching beyond the edges, wanting to be with the rest of the flock. |
|
| The Tapestry mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#8 of 11 |
| 908 words | |
| "Who is she?" Bernard asked old Carver. It had been
only three days since Bernard returned home from the prestigious private school
where he’d spent his teen years. "She is the new maid, Sir." Carver served for many years in the Montesquex mansion, since the time when Bernard's father Augustus was a young man. "She is so beautiful!" Bernard mattered. "What is her name?" "Abigail, Sir." "Abigail." Bernard repeated dreamily. "What a beautiful name…" "Does the young master want me to send her to your quarters?" "No, no, Carver, I'll try to meet her myself. "How beautiful," he kept on saying to himself. *** He met her as she passed by the library - carrying a basket of clothes. "Wait, Beautiful," Bernard stopped her. "Yes, young master," Abigail didn't raise her eyes off the basket. "When did you start working here?" "A week ago, young master." "Please don't call me, ‘Master,’ this keeps us AT such a distance. My name is Bernard. And what is yours? Wait. Let me guess." Bernard frowned, as if concentrating hard. "Your name is… your name is Abigail…" he said in a theatrical voice. Surprised, Abigail raised her eyes and looked at Bernard. This look decided everything. Their eyes locked in amazement, and they were both staggered by the feeling of sheer electricity flowing between them. Their hands clasped and Bernard pulled her into the library. There, in the dim light of a single candle, they kissed. Gentle at first, their kisses gained firmness and their bodies locked in passionate embrace. The library had a hard parquet floor. Bernard took a quick look around and noticed a large square piece of material on the wall. Immediately he tore it down, spread it on the floor and carefully lowered Abigail down onto it. Gently caressing each other, they undressed and their bodies melted together in mutual desire. The human sexual act is fairly monotonous. Michelangelo even called it "ugly." According to him, God sends a temporary madness to people during the act so they may not notice its ugliness. Not to disrespect the opinion of the great sculptor, but Bernard and Abigail, both in the first blossom of their youth, even in the dark setting of the library, looked beautiful. Both were inexperienced and, so, a little clumsy and careless about their love noises. The raw power of their lovemaking - their passionate chatter and moans of pleasure - leaked out from under the library door, and several servants approached the door on their tiptoes. One ran to report the incident to Sir Augustus. As the young lovers lay on the floor embracing and full of tenderness, the door of the library was, suddenly, flung open and in hurried the old Count, as fast as his war-wounded leg would allow. Jumping up, Abigail screamed, grabbed her dress and covered her nakedness. Bernard, caught completely off guard, couldn't say a word. "You," the old Count referred to Abigail with condemnation, "Get out!" Covering herself as best she could, Abigail quickly ran out of the library, accompanied by the sneers and mocking laughter of the other servants. "Now, everybody, get out!" the old Count said angrily. The servants left, still discussing and giggling as he closed the door. "Young man." Count Augustus Montesquex said calmly but firmly, "Dress up and go to your room." As Bernard dressed up, by far not as fast as he had managed to dress down, the old Count moved closer to where the young lovers had lain. Concerned, he lit more candles and peered at the jumble of cloth on the floor. His expression changed from one of bemusement to anger. "You…You are a disgrace to this family!" he barked with disgust pointing to the floor. "I am sorry, father," Bernard said, his voice trembling, "but weren't you young and passionate once?" "What?" exclaimed Augustus, with his full face becoming redder and redder. "Do you think I am mad at you, because you slept with the servant?" Bernard, perplexed, could only open his mouth. "Do you know, you idiot, what you used to do your dirty fornicating on?" Bernard who still wasn't in full possession of his voice stammered: "The rug, father." "The ‘RUG’? The ‘RUG’?" screamed Augustus at the top of his lungs. "This is a fifteenth-century, hand-crafted Gobelin, from the Beauvais! It used to hang in Versailles during the reign of Louis the Fourteenth! I paid three hundred thousand franks for it at auction! Get out of my sight, you nincompoop!" "I’m sorry, father" Bernard mumbled, "What is a Gobelin?" "Why, it’s a French tapestry." He shook his head in disbelief. "Didn’t they teach you anything at that blasted school?" Bernard, silent, continued staring. "Oh, go on – get out of here," Augustus spat, turning away in disgust. "And for Christ‘s sake, Sir, take a bath before coming down for supper. You smell like a peasant." After Bernard left, trembling, Augustus slowly kneeled to examine the sad, crumpled remains of his famous "Emperor of China" tapestry. The good Emperor and his fair ladies, once proud and jovial at sunny table, glowered up at him through their stiffening veil of drying stains, mutely bermoaning their spoiled picnic, protesting that they, now, probably smelled like peasants, too. "Oh, my Lord, oh, my Lord," Augustus muttered as he caressed the defiled Gobelin, lovingly, tears streaming down his war-torn cheeks, "Oh, my Lord – you gave my son a dick, why not brains?" |
|
| The Tapestry dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com |
#9 of 11 |
| 147 words | |
| Wake up and shower, On full power, Ponder the hair that sticks to the soap, Towel yourself and sit and mope Buy a pint of milk, Consider a tie silk, Go shopping for things, For the joy it brings Shout at the man, In the van, He’s jumped a light, Adds to your plight Go to work, Try not to shirk, Earn your cash, Leave in a flash Switch on the tele, See starving belly, In the news, which can confuse, While the kitchen gets smelly Save the burnt dinner, Think like a winner, You might be a chooser, And maybe a sinner Go to bed and think about life, The trials and joys and also the strife, Snuggle up and look to dreams, Find a way to stitch the seams, A Tapestry it is, That’s the biz, Embrace it and say, I like it that way. |
|
| The Tapestry John Hosking sandraandjohn@ncable.net.au |
#10 of 11 |
| 1342 words | |
| He’d tried to join so many times. But on every
occasion someone had vetoed his application. Of course he had no idea who, or
even if it had been the same person on each occasion but somewhere there was at
least one person who either held a grudge or thought he was genuinely unworthy.
What more could he do? He had been the top apprentice in his year and he could not legally practice without membership. Perhaps someone held a grudge against his father – he had risen to the highest office during his long membership. He must be turning in his grave at this repeated rejection of his only son. Each year in the application fortnight he had filled in the forms, his proposers had been the most impeccable, all lifelong friends of his father. What on earth had gone wrong? The little favours he had done for friends and neighbours, surely that couldn’t be classed as working without a permit, after all they had fed him and kept him going through three years of frustration and they had never paid him in cash. The tax office had never caught up with him so why should they? No he decided that was not the reason. Was there anything else, he thought, anything that he had done wrong or omitted to do. He backtracked over his teenage years. He had always wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, had gone out on assignments with him, been enthralled by the mystic skill that his father had displayed. Even when very young, four or five years old, he had taken great delight in knowing the names and uses of the devices his father employed. He would hand them to him when asked and be proud on seeing the awe of the client. Was pride his fault, surely not in a five year old? When the service had been performed he would see the spiritual glow in the face of the subject and grasp his fathers hand to move on the next assignment. How could he not want to be like his father? Later he had become genuinely useful; as his father’s wisdom had grown so his physical strength had declined and Augustus – wasn’t that the name of an emperor? - had contributed more and more to the scenario. At last his father had said: "Augustus, you already know more about our craft than many of the upper order, but in order to practice in your own right you must be apprenticed to someone unrelated who can independently ratify your powers and who may teach you aspects which I have not." And so it had been that at the age of fifteen he had moved away from home to the town of Bodlington where for the next five years he would serve as assistant to Silas Grant a long time friend of his father’s. Augustus found the old man’s approach slow and less interpretive than his father’s. His father, he thought, would have used his inherent powers to give instant satisfaction whereas Silas was not one for short cuts he did everything by the book, step by step. Perhaps, he thought, his father had feared that his son would not have inherited his own amazing powers. Perhaps this apprenticeship was his idea of a safety net. If he couldn’t become a grand practitioner then at least he could earn his living as a steady and reliable assistant. Well he had inherited his father’s powers, he knew it, they welled up in him and at times he had been so tempted to intervene in Silas’s work to finish the service in half the time that it took all of his willpower to hold back, knowing that to shame a master would surely lead to trouble. "Earn a living", that was an irony; he had not earned a penny in the three years since being ratified by old Silas. Yes he had had eggs and bread and the odd chicken and on occasion he had been tempted to eat the rats and bats which were an everyday part of his vocation, but no money had changed hands so what on earth had he done wrong? He remembered the first time his father had taken him to the chambers, he must have been about twelve then. Holding his fathers hand he had been taken through the outer rooms, each dedicated to a different aspect of their craft and each awe inspiring in their own way, but then they stopped at the great door with the resplendent coat of arms supported by those magnificent gold -were they Victorian or older? – antique artifacts that they all worshipped. "Sorry son. No further. Not until you are ratified." His father had said, and he had sat on a chair by the door until his father had emerged from the inner sanctum and they had returned home. How he had wanted to enter that grand room, how he wanted to know its deep secrets, how frustrated he was that now after three long years he was still kept from that desire that he had held so long in his heart. Was it perhaps jealousy; was there someone in the grand order that held a grudge against him or his father? His father had been so revered by his colleagues. He could believe that there was anyone that did not worship him, let alone like him. But there had been that incident at Littlehampton when there had been a communication glitch. His father had certainly had the call. It was very faint, he had said, but definite and urgent. Someone was in great trouble. They had arrived at the same time as Frederick Fink. "Oh no" he had insisted, "This is my call. Don’t pull rank on me". But the client had settled it "Thank you for coming Fink" she had said "But I think I need the Master this time" Fink had slunk of with some vague threats and he had heard no more of it. Fink was now on the Grand Council so perhaps it was he who harboured a grudge and was blocking his entry. Augustus was now so frustrated he was prepared to try anything. If Fink was blocking him then he would simply have to eliminated Fink from the vote, whether temporarily or permanently was of little consequence. Fink frequently practiced in underground chambers, a little flamboyant, many of his associates thought. They mostly practiced in their clients houses. All Augustus had to do was to wait until the object of his malice was securely underground and then seal the entrance. His chance came soon enough and, with Fink securely out of the way, he filled in his forth set of application forms. He never understood the need to know body measurements, shoe size and all the other intimate details, but forms are forms. Three weeks later he received by special messenger his gold embossed ratification and an invitation to meet the Grand Council in the inner sanctum on the following Wednesday. Augustus could hardly contain himself. So overjoyed he even considered the possibility that Fink was still alive and that he should release him, but quickly dismissed the idea, the man deserved his fate having tormented him for all those years. The day came and with his heart thumping he made his way along the same steps that he had taken with his father eleven years previously. Up the great steps, through the door that led into the jointery across the floor and into the cisternium, on to the sewery and finally to the great door itself which burst open revealing the rear wall decorated with every variety of the objects of their veneration, iron and brass, copper and chrome and the most recent additions in stainless steel, cold and hot, metal and ceramic and even single lever mixers, what a sight. All the Grand Council, apart from Fink, standing with their wrenches of office held high in salute. "Welcome. Welcome Augustus. Welcome to the Tapestry. |
|
| The Tapestry Mark Lambert Marknutswriter@aol.com |
#11 of
11 Runner-up |
| 2386 words | |
| Milan was beautiful in the spring, so full of life,
colour and excitement. I’d travelled alone for the first time, hoping to
get my head around the recent traumatic loss of my mother, and the cruelty of
the world as I saw it. It was early Sunday evening, and I walked away from the
San Siro stadium, while the roar of the crowd rang in my ears, and the bright
flashes of the fireworks still sparked in my eyes. Eighty-thousand screaming
Italians, passionate about their local teams made my head spin but I was
secretly glad the game was drawn when I’d left early. Honours even. A
lone, young, obvious Englishman surrounded by angry losing football fans was
not something I wanted to consider. My trip was supposed to be a mixture of
relaxation, excitement and breathing in the culture of the place; not putting
my life at risk. I hailed a taxi to take me to the Parco Sempione for a late
evening stroll, where I could think about my visit so far. A visit of extreme
culture: Sforza castle with its historic art on Saturday and
testosterone-fuelled football on Sunday. I smiled at the difference and at my
enjoyment of it all. The Parco Sempione looked magnificent in the dusk, with tall path lights throwing a glow on the surrounding greenery of the trees, contrasting emerald shades with darker browns, yellows and greens. Hushes of wind blew through the leaves as I squished the gravel on the path. A warm bath and a cold beer in my hotel beckoned. With such a big game on, the park was virtually deserted and I lost myself in thought and sights. "Help me." A quick stiff breeze blew up and made the lines of trees sway gently. I thought I could hear them speaking to me. "Help me." I heard the voice. Almost lost on the wind and weak, but I heard it. English words with an Irish accent. I instinctively turned to my left and stood still. A groan. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Was this a set-up? Would I be mugged in one of the most beautiful city parks on earth? "They have killed me." My legs shook as adrenalin pumped in anticipation of trouble, but I walked slowly towards the voice. The sound came from behind the tightly-packed trees off the path. I pushed branches aside and moved into the semi-darkness. "Hello?" "Help me." I saw a man, sat, or as I got closer, slumped against a tree, his head lolled to one side. My eyes got used to the lack of light and I could see that he was an elderly man, dressed all in black, save for a white collar. A priest. I looked all around, wary of what I was doing, but moved toward the man. His eyes were half-closed and his body limp. I propped him up further against the tree. "What’s happened? Can I help?" "They have killed me, but they must not have this." He weakly nodded his head towards something on the ground beside him. "They have poisoned me, and I will die, but you must take this to safety." My legs were bursting to run, and run fast, but I needed to help. "What do you mean? Poisoned? I’m going for help." The old man grabbed the sleeve of my jacket with surprising strength. I believe it was his last. "I say to you, young man." He coughed and spluttered his words. "I say to you to take this to..." His head fell to one side and his grip grew weak. He took in a last laboured breath. "Take this...to...Father Foster." He let go completely and sighed once, then fell silent. I don’t know why, but I shook him by the shoulders and slapped his face, not once but twice. I suppose I didn’t like to see people die in front of me. His body fell over to the side and lay still on the grass. I must have stared at him for a few minutes before looking to the thing he’d talked about. It was a scroll, about eighteen inches long. I reached and picked it up. It was sturdy in my hands, with round wooden edges. The body of the scroll felt thick and rough, as if made from cloth. I tucked it into my jacket and ran for the light. All along the path, there was nobody to be seen. No telephones. I hurried towards the entrance I’d used, my mind spinning with the priest’s words. What was he talking about? Who killed him? Who was Father Foster and should I attempt to find him? No, I decided, let the police deal with it. A young couple came into view. I ran towards them. "Please, err, I need ambulanso," I stammered. They both looked at me and quickly moved on. "Non capisco," the man muttered. "But you don’t understand! There’s a man dead and..." I reverted to English in panic from obviously wrong Italian. They walked faster. "No, err, polizia!" I shouted. They broke into a run and disappeared around a corner. I looked around for any other help, but I was again alone. The trees swished to and fro with an increasing wind and my heart thumped in my throat. A strange feeling took me, and I slowly turned in the direction of where the priest lay. Leaves were brushed aside as a man, dressed all in black, but without a white collar, stepped onto the path. He stood still and stared at me. "Desidero aiutarlo. Quei diabolici desiderano il rotolo." "Err, no capisch. Umm, non capisco," I said. He took a step forward and reached into his jacket. A gun? I ran. I ran as fast as my feet would fly, not knowing why I just didn’t drop the scroll. Two thuds. Two soft thuds almost hidden in the swishing breeze. I expected to feel pain, but nothing came. Something made me stop and turn around. The man lay prone, blood seeping out beneath him, staining the pink gravel black. I headed for the park gate, becoming a sprinter, with only one aim in mind. The gate was my personal tape with all sounds dissipated as I forced air into my struggling lungs. My eyes opened wide with fear, I pushed my legs as hard as I could against the giving gravel under my feet. As I reached my goal, a car screeched to a halt. "In. In now!" a man shouted from the front passenger seat. I stopped and looked at the man, then left and right. Two men rushed from the car and before I knew what was happening, they grabbed me and bundled me into the back seat. The doors closed just as the car screeched away, throwing me from side to side. "Keep low and don’t make a fucking move!" the passenger shouted, loud enough for me to comply. My forehead brushed against the seat, leaving a trail of sweat and I fought to keep my legs still as the car raced and swerved through the streets. I thought about my situation. Two men dead and I’ve been kidnapped, all in the space of five minutes, and I knew it wasn’t over yet. I moved my head up slightly. "Keep that fucking head down man!" I complied. "You have the scroll? Tell me you have it!" I felt inside my jacket. "Yes. What is..." "Enough. Wait." After a while, as I looked up from the back of the car, street lights and buildings were replaced by tree tops, lit by the moon. We were out of the city. The car made a slow left turn and came to a halt. The two men up front climbed out and then the back door was opened. "Get out." I held the scroll up. "Look, if this is what you want, it’s yours, I..." "Get inside." The man motioned towards the large house to the right of the car. Tall wooden doors opened and I walked in, the two men from the car flanking me. An enormous spiral staircase opened up in front of me and gold-framed portraits hung on the walls to each side. "This way." The man who had been the passenger in the car didn’t let up with his terseness. I was led through a door underneath the staircase, into a softly-lit room. A man stood by the window. As I entered, he turned to me and smiled. "I am Father Foster," he said. "Does he have the scroll?" He directed his question to one of the men, who nodded. "Please, here." He pointed to a table and I put the scroll on it. An uneasy silence fell. I broke it. "Um, what’s the scroll anyway?" "You don’t need to know, young man," said the priest. "Just know that you have done us a great service. My drivers will take you back to your hotel now. Please, this way." He held his arm up, implying that I stepped through a door to his left. I wondered why I just didn’t go back out the way I came in, but I went through the door, which was immediately slammed shut behind me. "What! Hey!" I heard swiftly-spoken Italian from the other side of the door, which was now locked. I realised things were not going my way again. In the blackness of the room I noticed a musty smell and heard a groan. I searched the walls with my fingers for a light switch. Nothing. The only hope was the lighter in my jacket. For once, I thanked god that I smoked and I flicked it on. An old man sat on the floor in the corner of the room. He looked up. "Light that candle," he said weakly. I looked around and held the lighter flame to the wick of a candle on a table. "Who...What...? I stammered. "I’m Father Foster my son. The man outside this room is evil, and now he has the scroll." My mind spun. "But, the man in the park said..." The old man looked up at me. "I’ve heard everything said in the other room. The man in the park you took the scroll from was one of theirs. One of our men tried to help you. I know now that he was killed by them, and now they have me, you and the scroll. All is lost." "But the old man died. He said he’d been poisoned." "Yes, he was! By us! You don’t understand, my son. We have been at war with them for centuries. The scroll has been backwards and forwards for hundreds of years, but now it seems that they have it and will finally destroy it." "But the scroll, what is it?" The old man looked at me and paused, his eyes slowly looking down away from my gaze. "It’s the story of humanity, from five thousand years ago to the finish. All is shown in hieroglyphs, dating from ancient Egypt. But it is the truth. It shows the end, which is very soon. Our goal, the Church’s goal, over hundreds of years, since it was discovered, was to bring the scroll to governments and make them aware of what they are doing and what the consequences of their actions would be. They wouldn’t be able to argue, but we’ve not been able to achieve that." "What does it show?" He spoke slowly and quietly. "It shows things that people today would understand. The world wars of the last century, the unrest in the middle-east over time and the current wars, even naming the leaders. It goes into great detail about certain important things." "But isn’t that down to interpretation?" I didn’t want to believe. For all that had happened to me so far, I didn’t know who to trust, but somehow it was scary that the man was making some sort of sense. "The interpretation of those hieroglyphs is well-known, my son, well-known. It also shows further into the future, which is why we’ve battled so hard to make it known." "What about the future?" "The scroll ends fifteen years from now. Escalation of war. Then it ends." I looked for an answer. "Maybe it’s unfinished, you know, not the end..." "The end is shown, my son. I can tell that you do not believe. In this case, you have to." "But...but, why would they destroy it?" "Their goal is to destroy the earth, and if they keep the scroll secret, they will achieve that. Not by their own actions, but by letting us do it." I thought hard, wondering firstly about the scroll, then about the locked room and then about my life. I found myself wishing I’d stayed to the end of the game in the San Siro stadium. "You still don’t get it, do you, my son. Their master is the Devil, and this is his way of victory against God." Whatever was happening, and whatever the truth was, I went at the door like a devil myself. I pulled, pushed and kicked, but it held fast. I turned back to the old man. "I still don’t see..." "Stephen," he said, "your name is on the scroll. Stephen Winters. You came here after your mother’s death." I shivered. Unless this was an elaborate game, an old man I’d never met before knew my name and situation. I decided to ask him. "What, just what does the scroll show? At the end, just what?" He sighed deeply and clutched his hands together, and looked to the burning candle. "Is it worth me saying?" he said. "Is it worth me telling you?" I mustered a strange form of courage. One I didn’t quite understand. "If I’m mentioned on the scroll, then yes, of course you have to tell me." He told me about the wars, the destruction of society and the earth around us. It was so real as he spoke. I almost cried at his telling of how stubbornness or mis-understanding or pride led to the destruction of the Earth. The tapestry had it all. I sat back and waited for the finish of it all, but at least my name was on it, although, I was disappointed by the ending. |
|
"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club