Summer 3, 513 AV
Summer was come, it was visible in the stars. A more knowledgeable woman, perhaps would have known this by their juxtaposition, by the direction of the Hook, or the way the Cave-rider hung just over the horizon. Ara was no oracle, though. It was a question, instead, of the way the sun-baked, cloudless sky turned clear as a settled stone pool, and the stars shown down in clear, steady, untwinkling stabs of light. Ara looked up at them, as her hands moved.
As above, so below.
Her hands were growing used to this work, to the long rows of knots on the filleting of the lace. When she thought about it - and she worked to avoid doing so - it was almost funny, she could see why the seamstress had given the work up. She knew, in her heart, how bored she should be by now. But her mind, thirsty for something to focus on, enclosed itself in this tiny world of repetition, of minuscule knots, knots that now, in the deepest night, she could hardly even see, so fine was the thread - she had to judge them with the sensitive tips of her fingers. long, knotted rows of star shine, when she knotted them correctly, a star falling into the belly of a second star, falling into the belly of a third, and on, and on, interrupted by the tiny supernova'd junctures of two strings.
She began now to feel, as she felt on the web, the subtle imbalances of a knot not just so. She had grown used to pulling them out, and learned the philosophical acceptance of her own insufficiencies. And the glory of being denied any need to concern herself with the grand schema, yet, in these early days of learning, freed her mind to focus, instead, on perfection, on making each individual knot just so, just precisely so. She ran her fingers up the slender threads of stars, and felt the subtle rhythm of an unshorn fingernail against even knotting - tiny tapping, muffled by the softness of the cotton thread - but no. Stop, that knot, it echoed differently through her hand. She pulled her hook out, unravelled back, fifteen knots back from where she was, and fingered the thread… no imperfections. Just her own sloppiness.
She retied it, delicately, felt, carefully… yes. Yes, that was cleaner, then her hands went on in the subtle rhythm, felt as clear and sure in the sharp stabbing knots in her back. She sat, and drew slow prisms of fiber out, like tying knots into a second sky, the pale fabric drawing in the faint new-moon starlight like a thirsty child. She wondered how Zintilla kept the stars. Where they, like her lace, in animate things, crystals formed by her fine fingers? Or did they live, like creatures in a sheepfold, to be driven out each night, and gently led back to their boom as the sun rose? PErhaps that was why they faded in the morning's light, slowly as the sun bled purple dawn across the horizon - they were not fading, but simply ambling slowly away,a way at the order of of Zintila's shepherd-crook, off into some secret haven to be tucked away until the sun-queen draws back underneath the earth. She pulled the story through her mind, like a child drawing strings through the mud puddles of spring, to pick up tiny glimmers of Seleme in the midst of the dull mud. Or maybe, they drew down, into the earth, their light infusing into invisible spirits of fixation, waiting to be tied into the knots of little lace skies. Ara tied knot after knot, and named them as she went in the last fainting echoes of a child's playfulness. Zina. Hela. Starhands. Idora. Palelip…
It was late. The city slept but for the echoing hooves of the watch and the night keepers, down beneath the hill. She thought of them, of the men and women, unburdened tonight. If her mother lived, she would be there, riding slow circuits around the Amethyst flank of the city, probing gently at the webstrands, and drinking in the starlight with her eyes, looking up when she passed, to see her daughter, sleepless on the hill. Sleepless, too much honesty in sleep, tonight. She was not tired enough. She had lay still in her cot for hours, until her body could not hold the weight of dream-flesh in, and she began to shiver in her nightdress.
When she rose, Livvy pretended to sleep - it was a bidirectional fantasy, for Ara knew it was a ruse, and Livvy knew it was unconvincing. But if Ara rose in the dark of night, she rose to be alone. If she wished comfort, she would roll to her side, and let her hands ask silent for it from her slave. Livvy, Ara supposed, lay in her bed, alone and worrying, and trying not to stir, trying to sleep, for if she was clumsy and tired in the morning, it would not fare well for her. She would get none of the concerned glances Ara might earn. She felt a pang for this, and wished, for everyone's sake, she could simply drop her consciousness, become a none.
She felt the thought with a shock, and analyzed it more closely, as she reached a fillet's end, threading the remnant into her steel needle's eye: the realization that, to be honest, she wished she had no more identity. That she was a horse, instead of a strider, a beast instead of a herdsman. Something to be pushed along, to feel only in a muted away, until the end came, until she grew too old and was of use no more. She rolled the thought around inside her mind, weighed it, wove it through her brain and tied in the staccato-legato of crochet-pull-knot, crochet-pull-knot, crochet-pull-knot. And then, clarified, and accepted the core of it: it was better to be useful than to be happy.
"These are lovely stars this evening Aramenta."
Ara started, turned. Her grandmother stood, leaning heavily on a stick. She had not too long left for the world. Ara, and everyone else, knew this. The last year, she had grown frailer, so frail it made her ache to ride a horse too long, and she had long hours when her mind grew rattled and tired. Ara starting tying off, temporarily, so she could stand, respectfully, and let her grandmother sit. Her grandmother laughed, and waved her off.
"Sit, child. If I settled onto a stool at my age, I might never stand up again."
Ara signed, her resistance, her insistence, humbly, Granmother smirked, and made a "Stop" signal with her own old fingers.
"Aramenta… I want to speak to you." Ara started to move again to stand so she could whisper, and her grandmother stopped her again, "No, no, child. None of that. Come, close your eyes. We'll speak web-wise."
Ara frowned, at this. This was unlike her Grandmother who. Ara had seen her Grandmother's handiwork in the web of their pavilion, but had never seen her there. She never spoke of it. Ara frowned, but nodded quietly. Grandmother came to her, stiffly, and put a hand on her shoulder, and closed her eyes. Ara closed her own, obediently, and drifted, down, down, down...x
Summer was come, it was visible in the stars. A more knowledgeable woman, perhaps would have known this by their juxtaposition, by the direction of the Hook, or the way the Cave-rider hung just over the horizon. Ara was no oracle, though. It was a question, instead, of the way the sun-baked, cloudless sky turned clear as a settled stone pool, and the stars shown down in clear, steady, untwinkling stabs of light. Ara looked up at them, as her hands moved.
As above, so below.
Her hands were growing used to this work, to the long rows of knots on the filleting of the lace. When she thought about it - and she worked to avoid doing so - it was almost funny, she could see why the seamstress had given the work up. She knew, in her heart, how bored she should be by now. But her mind, thirsty for something to focus on, enclosed itself in this tiny world of repetition, of minuscule knots, knots that now, in the deepest night, she could hardly even see, so fine was the thread - she had to judge them with the sensitive tips of her fingers. long, knotted rows of star shine, when she knotted them correctly, a star falling into the belly of a second star, falling into the belly of a third, and on, and on, interrupted by the tiny supernova'd junctures of two strings.
She began now to feel, as she felt on the web, the subtle imbalances of a knot not just so. She had grown used to pulling them out, and learned the philosophical acceptance of her own insufficiencies. And the glory of being denied any need to concern herself with the grand schema, yet, in these early days of learning, freed her mind to focus, instead, on perfection, on making each individual knot just so, just precisely so. She ran her fingers up the slender threads of stars, and felt the subtle rhythm of an unshorn fingernail against even knotting - tiny tapping, muffled by the softness of the cotton thread - but no. Stop, that knot, it echoed differently through her hand. She pulled her hook out, unravelled back, fifteen knots back from where she was, and fingered the thread… no imperfections. Just her own sloppiness.
She retied it, delicately, felt, carefully… yes. Yes, that was cleaner, then her hands went on in the subtle rhythm, felt as clear and sure in the sharp stabbing knots in her back. She sat, and drew slow prisms of fiber out, like tying knots into a second sky, the pale fabric drawing in the faint new-moon starlight like a thirsty child. She wondered how Zintilla kept the stars. Where they, like her lace, in animate things, crystals formed by her fine fingers? Or did they live, like creatures in a sheepfold, to be driven out each night, and gently led back to their boom as the sun rose? PErhaps that was why they faded in the morning's light, slowly as the sun bled purple dawn across the horizon - they were not fading, but simply ambling slowly away,a way at the order of of Zintila's shepherd-crook, off into some secret haven to be tucked away until the sun-queen draws back underneath the earth. She pulled the story through her mind, like a child drawing strings through the mud puddles of spring, to pick up tiny glimmers of Seleme in the midst of the dull mud. Or maybe, they drew down, into the earth, their light infusing into invisible spirits of fixation, waiting to be tied into the knots of little lace skies. Ara tied knot after knot, and named them as she went in the last fainting echoes of a child's playfulness. Zina. Hela. Starhands. Idora. Palelip…
It was late. The city slept but for the echoing hooves of the watch and the night keepers, down beneath the hill. She thought of them, of the men and women, unburdened tonight. If her mother lived, she would be there, riding slow circuits around the Amethyst flank of the city, probing gently at the webstrands, and drinking in the starlight with her eyes, looking up when she passed, to see her daughter, sleepless on the hill. Sleepless, too much honesty in sleep, tonight. She was not tired enough. She had lay still in her cot for hours, until her body could not hold the weight of dream-flesh in, and she began to shiver in her nightdress.
When she rose, Livvy pretended to sleep - it was a bidirectional fantasy, for Ara knew it was a ruse, and Livvy knew it was unconvincing. But if Ara rose in the dark of night, she rose to be alone. If she wished comfort, she would roll to her side, and let her hands ask silent for it from her slave. Livvy, Ara supposed, lay in her bed, alone and worrying, and trying not to stir, trying to sleep, for if she was clumsy and tired in the morning, it would not fare well for her. She would get none of the concerned glances Ara might earn. She felt a pang for this, and wished, for everyone's sake, she could simply drop her consciousness, become a none.
She felt the thought with a shock, and analyzed it more closely, as she reached a fillet's end, threading the remnant into her steel needle's eye: the realization that, to be honest, she wished she had no more identity. That she was a horse, instead of a strider, a beast instead of a herdsman. Something to be pushed along, to feel only in a muted away, until the end came, until she grew too old and was of use no more. She rolled the thought around inside her mind, weighed it, wove it through her brain and tied in the staccato-legato of crochet-pull-knot, crochet-pull-knot, crochet-pull-knot. And then, clarified, and accepted the core of it: it was better to be useful than to be happy.
"These are lovely stars this evening Aramenta."
Ara started, turned. Her grandmother stood, leaning heavily on a stick. She had not too long left for the world. Ara, and everyone else, knew this. The last year, she had grown frailer, so frail it made her ache to ride a horse too long, and she had long hours when her mind grew rattled and tired. Ara starting tying off, temporarily, so she could stand, respectfully, and let her grandmother sit. Her grandmother laughed, and waved her off.
"Sit, child. If I settled onto a stool at my age, I might never stand up again."
Ara signed, her resistance, her insistence, humbly, Granmother smirked, and made a "Stop" signal with her own old fingers.
"Aramenta… I want to speak to you." Ara started to move again to stand so she could whisper, and her grandmother stopped her again, "No, no, child. None of that. Come, close your eyes. We'll speak web-wise."
Ara frowned, at this. This was unlike her Grandmother who. Ara had seen her Grandmother's handiwork in the web of their pavilion, but had never seen her there. She never spoke of it. Ara frowned, but nodded quietly. Grandmother came to her, stiffly, and put a hand on her shoulder, and closed her eyes. Ara closed her own, obediently, and drifted, down, down, down...x
