The Woven End Read online

  "Devote yourself to the pages, and there, I think, you will begin to win this battle. Feed love for Nat, and starve all else. The first thought that comes to your mind when you ask yourself for the truth is, most likely, the right answer. Believe yourself."

  Ashamed at her loss of control, Story cried into her hand again as she hurried out of the room.

  Fool, fool, fool! She hissed to herself. Feed the love and starve all else. Curses on you, traitor!

  She fled to the reading room where the Ilians kept the pages in a trunk. She pulled the pages out and set them on the podium where the Father taught from. She sat on the stool behind it and leaned on her elbows with her face near to the pages. She had never seen the sacred writings up close before. They were old. Very, very old. This was the original copy from Il. She scrambled to wipe her tear drop from it. She turned the pages until she found one that spoke of Nat. It was a strange language, but she recognized enough of the words to get the idea.

  He was handsome, glowing, strong, fit for the throne, generous, wise and compassionate. She read, and read, and read. The sounds of giggles, girls, and occasionally a man or two passing by the reading room did not disturb her. Her own thoughts, not the words on the pages, were her focus.

  Oh, frosts, what shall I do?

  She had to identify the problem. She thought long and hard about herself and her affections. Who could possibly compete with the image in her dream, with the soul in the cellar? One man came to mind but… it was impossible and she would never admit it to anyone because…

  Because it simply is not true! Creed. May the north wind blast his face from his body!

  He had to come in and stir her up.

  Still, it was the first thought, and she had to give it some credit.

  That bone brained bear is going to kill the world and ruin my life. I have to find him and… get rid of him.

  She closed the book of pages and stormed out into the quiet hall.

  It must be midday meal.

  She walked down the hallway and swirled about the staircase until she reached the first floor. She pulled her hood up as she emerged into the cold, gray outdoors.

  #

  He stood in a circle of guardians, prepared to deliver the visual punch line to a joke that only the masculine sex might appreciate, when hands grabbed his shoulders and threw him to the ground. He looked up at the gray sky and a flurry of cream and green. His audience exploded with laughter. Creed sat up to face his attacker.

  He brushed the snow off of himself and looked at her. The image of conflicted fury.

  "Frost blasting north wind—" He sputtered to a halt. "What's the matter?"

  "You! You've ruined everything. I'm releasing you. I'm letting you go. What else can I say to make it right?" She shouted, her fists balled up at her side.

  The audience made themselves scarce. As interesting as the conversation promised to be, they didn’t want to be there when the Father took note of it.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Creed said softly. He stepped in closer to avoid being heard.

  She stepped backward.

  "I'm all tangled up inside," she said. "You're the only thing I can think of that might be doing it to me, and I can't afford it. Do you hear me? Here…" She grasped at her head as if pulling something out of it and threw the invisible article at him. "Take that. I don't want that thought in my mind. You can keep it and fill it up in your own head. You love yourself more than anything anyway, the way you go around using women just to get a thrill for yourself." She scrunched her face in disgust and spat at his feet. "I'd rather be a unigender family than ever accept that thought from you!" She growled furiously, and with one final, acerbic glare she marched off.

  There. That's that. If Hadate doesn't call me back now then I don't know what to do.

  "I love myself?" Came the unexpected voice behind her. "Don't come around here insulting me and think you can just fly off like a blizzard," he said.

  With a few steps to catch her, he grabbed her arm and forcibly turned her around.

  "You only think you love this Nat because you feel like you deserve something after all the emotional hardship you've endured, don't you? How’s that for self-love? At least I give something back when I'm getting my thrills. What do you give back? I just got a sour face and spit! What the hoarfrost is really going on here?"

  "She won't see me anymore because I've got some love problem. My first thought was you. I've got to get rid of you if I'm going to…"

  She hesitated. The words she said had come out so quickly she didn’t think about them first. What a horrible confession. How he must be delighting. Then, the words that came to her mind to finish the sentence felt stupid to say.

  If I'm going to…Save the world? Really? She was going to save the world? No matter how firm her convictions grew, she blushed at the articulation of them.

  "What?" Creed pressed. "What? If you're going to be accepted? Loved? Cared for? Saved? Esteemed? What?"

  Her mouth fell open, and she threw her hands up to her face to cover the embarrassment she felt surfacing. The reasons Creed ascribed to her motive cracked like ice in her mind.

  She didn’t want to love, save, or esteem. She wanted to be loved, be saved and be esteemed. She'd never say it. No, she was dutiful and faithful to a worthy goal. She had a duty to the world and to a savior who reached out to her from the ground.

  She forced her hands away from her face and grimaced at him.

  "N…No!"

  As she opened her mouth to speak again she noticed the bystanders and withdrew from the scene. It would be no good to draw attention to this. She'd be caned by nightfall if she stayed any longer.

  "Come with me," a different voice said.

  A firm hand grasped her arm and gave her a tug. She looked up. The Father. He had Creed with his other hand. He charged ahead, pulling them along.

  "If you two have something you must resolve, do it privately and accompany it with the dignity of labor! Grab those shovels."

  He let Creed loose to take the shovels that rested against the bridal ward. They continued to walk.

  "It snowed the other night and no one has had the decency to shovel the stairs off. I'd like to not have to ask to get everything done. Discuss your problems out there. Go."

  "Father, that's not necessary. We are—"

  The Father waved his hand flippantly toward Creed and Story and walked away. He hadn't the energy to fight over orders that were to be obeyed in the end.

  Creed turned to glare at Story. She was dumb-founded, still, quiet, but soon a sickening dread crept up on her face. She was trapped.

  "You!" She said. "This is entirely your fault! If you hadn't chased me down—"

  "My fault? My fault? I didn't fall on my back into the snow on my own, good lady." He stopped. His eyes changed from angry black to gentle and flickering with amusement.

  She didn't feel as angry now, her ruffled emotions smoothed out considerably.

  "Let's get that job done," he said.

  #

  Scrrrrruuup, foof, plop!

  Creed scraped another shovelful of snow off the stairs. He leaned on his shovel and looked up toward Story where she worked on top of the cellar.

  "Story?" He called out.

  She didn't answer him. Her shovel was silent.

  "Why do you think I'm a part of your undesirable complication of emotions? I've always been under the impression that you hate me."

  She continued her work. Scrrrrruuup, foof, plop.

  She called out, "Just because you might be a part of this complication doesn't mean that I don't hate you."

  "What? I can't be a competitor for Nat's place if you hate me," he said, resting his hands atop the shovel handle. He set his chin down on them with a smug smile, awaiting her reply.

  Scrrrrruuuuup, foof, plop.

  Scrrrruuuuup, foof, plop.

  His voice carried up to her with a knowing inflection that set her cheeks aflame.

 
"Stooo-oory," he sang.

  "What?" She replied.

  "How long do you suspect that this complication has been there?"

  "Are you working?”

  "Of course. Yes," he said, sitting down.

  She walked to the edge of the cellar and looked down at him.

  Scrrrrruuuuup, foof, plop.

  "Rimes and roots, woman! Why did you do that?" He jump and shook the snow off of himself. He looked up at his attacker.

  Her face answered him.

  He picked up his shovel and continued working. "Story, I'm not trying to trap you. I'm curious."

  "You're the only thing that came to mind, but I'm not convinced that you're the problem. I figured I could risk your feelings. If you aren’t the problem, I’d still be rid of you.

  "Oh, now, you don't mean that."

  "Do you drop a shovelful of snow on people you care about, Creed?"

  He laughed. "No, but I steal their boots."

  That thought was still in her head. Open the drawer of "Creed loves me" and insert that little nugget. She growled to herself.

  "What a stupid way to show affection," she grumbled loudly.

  "There are other ways," he said.

  He stopped shoveling and listened, hoping she would reply. It would be hilarious.

  She stopped shoveling, too. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He let out a great guffaw.

  "Well," she began. "If that's how you show affection, then I'd be in good company: a massive company of snippy, snappy, hissy girls. You must have a whole army of love spirits in your dirty little soul."

  Scrrrrruuuuup. Foof. Plop.

  Creed stepped out of the way of the falling snow.

  "That agitates the Starlight out of you, doesn't it?" He said, shaking his head.

  "Yes."

  He thought it over a moment.

  "I've enjoyed my life as I have lived it," he said. "But, I admit it was not right. I hope you will let me have a chance. I swear, I will not let you down.”

  Scruuuuuuup. Foof. Plop.

  Scruuuuuuup. Foof. Plop.

  Scruuuuuu—Thunk. Thunk.

  Story attempted to slide her shovel again. Thunk. Thunk. ThunkThunkThunk.

  "What's that?" Creed called up.

  "I… I found something," she said.

  She crouched down to investigate and dug at the snow with her hands. It was a very old, ugly, jagged pipe. Her heart clobbered the inside of her chest.

  "What is it?" Creed shouted.

  She whipped her head back to shout in his direction, "It's a hole into… into Nat's cellar."

  Creed dropped his shovel and took the stairs three-at-a-time to join her.

  Excited, she began, "Should I say—"

  "No," he insisted. "Don't say anything. I don't recommend it. I'm rather afraid right now. I don't know why."

  "I know why," she said. "Because you never really believed in Nat, and right now you might be proven wrong and have to accept everything, including the fact that I have become a devoted believer. If he's real, so is my love." She put her mouth near the hole. "Hello?" She said, timid, quiet. She closed her mouth quickly for fear her heart would fall out of it.

  He whispered, "I do believe. I just believe the outcome will be different than the Ilians claim. Therefore, it is not in your best interest, or anyone's, for that matter, to love Nat. It would be in—"

  "Shh! Did you hear that?"

  "What?"

  "Dear, dear Nat. Did you speak?" She said down the hole. Crying. She heard crying.

  She looked up at Creed then to the pipe. He crouched beside her and grasped her face with both of his hands and turned her gaze to himself. He had never looked so earnest. “Listen to me, Story. You have to listen to me.”

  She shook her head at him, refusing access to her mind. She sniffed and leaned down to the pipe again.

  "You will be out of there soon, good prince. We will welcome you. I… I will welcome you with open arms."

  She was deluded. Her eyes wide open with the silly look of a girl in love and awe. What a terrible mix to try to break through to with reason and truth. They finished their task without words and went home.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The worst thing that could happen, happened. It dealt a hard blow to their strategy. Open communication, not in dreams, but in life.

  "This might all have been avoided if you had behaved as a man rather than a little boy."

  Creed answered, "Yup, thanks dad. Rub my nose right in it there. We have so little time, and I have to do this like a chore rather than the joy that all of this courting business is supposed to be." As he spoke, a few flares of red burst into view in his blue-gold soul.

  "Courting? Let's try wooing. You woo a girl who isn't interested. You court a girl who is already interested."

  "That's helpful. Very helpful."

  Truth sighed. "Be what you have always been to her, whether or not either of you ever realized it."

  "And what is that?"

  "A lover," Truth smiled a wine-gold smile.

  Creed’s blue-gold soul erupted into a great peal of bells and chimes—laughter.

  "I mean that," Truth said. "You couldn't stand each other because you couldn't seem to pull down the well fortified walls you put up against your differences. She wasn't a bear for you to catch, slice open and gut, as other girls were. You couldn't bear it because she was the only one you really wanted.”

  The blue-gold soul flashed red.

  Truth continued, unimpressed. “I suggest you be a real man and love her as you always have, but cut down the defense and never cut her soul in the process. Do you understand me?"

  "Never cut her soul. Yes, easy. So easy to understand something that esoteric.”

  "There's something to be gained by pondering the arcane.”

  "Clever, dad."

  #

  Story felt sure that she had eliminated Creed from the equation. She convinced herself to expect Hadate to send for her. Still, Hadate did not send for her. She avoided Creed, and when she did see him, she had little to say. She gave him no opportunity to be alone with her, much less speak to her.

  She could not keep him out of her mind when her body rested and her subconscious reigned, however. She hated it when he interrupted her dreams. Whenever he stepped in, chaos ensued, yet she could not hate him in the dreams, nor in reality. She felt only a nameless bittersweet connection. Whatever it was, it was best to have it dissolved.

  Her attempts to dissolve him from her life were followed by a surprising, but convenient, disappearance. She didn't know where he was or if he was okay, and she didn't inquire. What did it matter to her? He was just another boy.

  Whether Hadate ever called her for lessons was of little import. Story would prepare herself for Nat whether she ever stepped into the shoes of an Illess. What use were titles?

  Nat knew her name. He did not speak to her, but he heard her voice and received her food. One must ask then, who would he seek out when he ascended? Would it be the faithless, loud Sweetly, presented to him like a gaudy, noisy trinket? Or would it be Story, who gave him food and kept him company sometimes?

  For the next two constellations she brough two out of her three meals to the cellar and lowered food in pieces by a small cup attached to a leather strap. The first time she felt a tug on the end of it she stifled a scream. It was like fishing, but with a god at the end of the line. He took her food, and she pulled the line back up to give him more, carefully letting it down bit by bit.

  Was the incumbent Illess devoting her time to understanding Nat? Was the Illess giving food to that man in the cellar?

  No. Story was.

  When she was not by the cellar, she sat in the reading room, studying the pages, falling asleep on the pages, dreaming of Nat, and the constant invader—Creed.

  While she was a sturdy, broad woman, as most women of her kind were, the rigorous schedule and diet made her very thin. Her cheeks hollowed out, her eyes darkened,
and her frame, if anyone hugged her, felt like a pile of bones beneath her clothes. In this austere place where she seemed much forgotten by others, no one hugged her anyway. She developed a cough that made her throat raw and kept her awake all night.

  The rest of the Ilians continued life as usual. It was almost as though she never came. She became a night time spectre in the halls. No Guardian stopped or spoke to her, which made her exempt from the rules for no apparent reason. She did not use this for occasion to cause mischief, but rather, to continue studying.

  As the constellation of the starving bear drew near, the Guardians worked at all hours. Outside, they beat on each other and honed their combative skills in preparation for being warriors in the savior's army. Story rocked back and forth to their rhythmic shouting chants as she read.

  The brides increased in anxiety, which meant much less giggling, more studying, and attempts to sway important people to favor them. As a result, there was a great host of girls who were now as unsuitable for the position of Illess as Sweetly was.

  Sweetly, however, held her head high. She was the Illess now, and would continue to be, despite the rumors that Story was set to dethrone her. Sweetly made her disdain for Story evident as often as possible.

  The constellations swirled overhead, pushing time forward, forward, forward..

  #

  “You will come?” Hadate asked, stroking his soulish face.

  “I will. Your soul is flickering. Why are you afraid?” Wine-gold held her.

  “I will be much better when I see you.”

  #

  The frenzy of the complex was almost unbearable when the starving bear came near. After one week with the starving bear hanging high above them, an unannounced visitor stepped foot on the Ilian grounds, interrupting the frantic preparations and regular routines.