Lingen, Marissa K - [SS] Dark Thread [v1.0].rtfDark Thread by Marissa K. Lingen

* * * *

Anne knew it was time to stop practicing soon. Her fingers were less sure on the keys, and she could hear the difference in the counterpoint. She had rechecked the Braille manuscript three times in the last five minutesnever a good sign. She heard footsteps in the wings and withdrew her hands from the keyboard.

I didnt mean to disturb you, Miss Duvallier, said the young woman. I justyour chauffeur is pulling the car around. I can take you out to the atrium, if you like.

I would appreciate that very much, said Anne, wishing she could remember the girls name. Just let me take your arm, if you will.

The girl helped Thea get Anne settled in the back seat of the car. Did you have a good session? asked Thea.

It was all right, said Anne. The performance will be quite good, I think. The acoustics are excellent.

Youve worn yourself out.

Anne sighed. Im a little tired, yes. She was grateful that she had Theawithout the dogged young woman, Annes musical career would have halted immediately when she went blind. But sometimes she wished Thea didnt know her quite so well.

You need to take a longer break next time.

Thea, sweet child, you know Im terrible at relaxing.

Anne could hear the young woman cluck her tongue. Im going to get a masseuse again when we get done with the tour, and Im not going to let you out of the house all day.

Anne did not dignify that with a response. She let Thea help her negotiate the unfamiliar hotel room, and then they laid out her nightgown and cane in easy reach of the bed. After she told Thea good-night, Anne turned the radio on to a jazz station and slipped clothes off and her nightgown on. The magic came quickly when she was tired, and it had washed around her almost immediately. She felt light reaching her eyes as she entered the other place.

She blinked into a sunset whose colors would have dazzled her even if she had been able to see during the rest of her day. It was color that always dazzled her in Avrenes. She had used her prerogatives as the Weaver Queen to get a huge stained glass window in deep azures and rubies installed in the Weaver Queens Tower, and she always wore deep purple robes to luxuriate in the color.

But there was work to do. She stretched forth her hands out of habit and crossed the room to her loom. The threads were made of pure colored light, but when she touched them, she could see all sorts of pictures, bits of past and present and future. There were possibilities as yet unrealized and potentials lost forever, all woven into the glowing fabric of the loom.

The threads had to be contemplated, pulled through and knotted individually, and Annes hands were already tired from a day at the piano. She could only work for a few minutes at a time before having to take a break. As night fell, she could have worked by the light of the loom, but she lit a lamp to enjoy its golden glow. Also, she was expecting a visitor, and the eldritch light often unnerved strangers.

Anne frowned at the loom. There were twists in the pattern she hadnt meant to make. Little mistakes. She could fix them, but what if she didnt catch the next ones? She hurried to repair them.

In among the mistakes she had to correct was a thread whose color she couldnt identify. She squinted at it, moving her head around to try to adjust the angle. Anne finally grasped the thread. She was plunged into darkness so thorough that she thought she was falling back into her everyday world, until she heard the music.

For the first time in her years as the Weaver Queen, she could not see the life and the plans this thread encompassed. She could only hear thema boys laughter, turning into a young mans voice. A thunderous organ concerto. Some recorder music. Quarreling from the young mans voice, and then laughter again.

She dropped the thread, and her sight came back. After she recovered from the shock of blindness in the other world, she knew that the dark thread wasnt evil, simply strange to her, someone unknown. She picked it up again and tried to use her magic to discern its secrets. She heard the organ concerto again, but could see nothing.

She let the thread drop again and sat staring at the loom.

It was a relief when the Scientist knocked on her door. Good evening, Weaver Queen.

She inclined her head. Scientist. She didnt know what his name was, in their home world. In Avrenes, who they were was synonymous with what they were.

My Queen, I have spent many long hours in research, but I must confess myself baffled.

Anne frowned. Do you have any avenues left open?

He sighed and seated himself across from her. I cant think of anything. In all of my studies, and in all the notebooks I could find from previous Scientists, it seems that the question of injury is still open. Some claim that it is a matter of whether the pain or injury is essential to a persons sense of self. If it is essential, it crosses worlds. Others believe that some external party determines whether it crosses over. No one has admitted to this power, of course.

So somehow this pain in my hands is supposed to be more important than being blind?

I cant explain it, he said. Now, if you would like, we can send for the Healer to get an ointment prepared for your hands. It wont fix the essential problem, but....

Anne frowned. Yes. I think that would be a good idea. Great things were coming in Avrenes. She needed all the help she could get.

* * * *

When Anne awoke in the hotel bed the next morning, she felt the same shock of disappointment she always did at the return of her darkness. Her hands, too, felt a trifle stiff, and she winced at the thought of having to play that evening. She waited, listening to the faint sounds of life outside her room, until Thea came in to wake her.

The afternoon concert went almost well. Anne was never satisfied with almost. She missed ornamentation twice in the second half of her program. It was something a dozen people would have noticed, at the most. But she knew.

And Thea knew. Whats wrong? she asked as she drove Anne back to the hotel room.

Nothing.

Dont tell me nothing, said Thea sharply. I know. Whats wrong? Is it your hands again?

No.

Are you having trouble with the different surroundings? Are you sleeping okay?

Im fine.

Fine. She snorted. Go on ahead and be fine. See if I care. But Im going out for supper. Im going to be fine as well. If thats all right with you, if youre so fine.

Anne wrinkled her forehead in surprise. Of course. Yes. Go on ahead.

Because youre fine.

Sure.

Thea had not taken a night off in four years. Anne thought she must have been particularly hard to deal with lately. She flushed and squirmed, and when Thea steered her into the hotel, she tried to be as accommodating as possible about dinner and arrangements. Thea was still snappish. Anne picked at her sandwich, trying to think about the choices she had ahead of her.

Im getting ready to go out, Thea said.

Have fun.

Thea was wearing something with a skirt that rustled. Anne could hear her turning in the doorway. You wont be able to do this for much longer, you know.

No, said Anne softly, after shed gone. No, I know. Fifty-six years of the piano. Twenty as the Weaver Queen. She rubbed her hands. Something had to givesomething besides her hands. A world without sight, a world without magic? Impossible. A world without music? Inconceivable.

She tore the paper napkin theyd provided into tiny shreds, then ran her hands over her dress to make sure shed gotten all of the pieces back on the tray for the hotel maid to pick up.

The Healer brought her some ointment for her hands that night, addressing her diffidently. I can change the scent if you dont like it, my lady.

No, no, its fine, said Anne absently. Lovely. She rubbed her hands over and over again.

Do you need something more, my lady?

No, thank you, that will be all.

Anne sat down at her loom again. The first few threads she touched were mundane, average people going about their daily lives in both worlds. She saw a peddler, a teacher, a man making bread. She stopped. Something felt wrong with the man making bread. She ran her hand along the thread and felt it become coarse and rough. She saw the man staring into a bleak landscape, featureless and oppressive from all sides.

Flinching, she drew her hand back. She tried one of the threads further into the pattern. It, too, turned coarse and gray. She searched for the other great powers of the world. Each of them grew prickly and gray, and then, sooner or later, snapped.

The death of the magic? she whispered to herself. But no, it went on, and the world with it. It was just the features, the distinctions, the soul of the place, and the people in it, that would be gone.

She shuddered.

The dark thread hovered in the very center of her tapestry. She braced herself for the blindness and took hold of the thread. As before, it was all sound and no sight, the boys voice, uncertain in itself but stubborn. It outlasted all of the others before it even started to coarsenbut it finally succumbed, surrounded by gray warp and gray weft.

Anne took a deep breath. No. She wove like a spider on LSD, trying one pattern that she thought might be crazy enough to fix things, then picking it out again and trying another. Her hands grew stiffer and stiffer; she rubbed another dose of the ointment into them and kept going. But every time, she found the dark thread blocked, kept from carrying out its mission by a white thread wrapped round in purple.

It was her own.

She slept badly that night and barely spoke to Thea as they traveled. She sat with her hands folded to keep from compulsively rubbing her skirt. Thea, for her own part, moved around her hesitantly, a guilty, cranky mother hen.

Everyone has to retire at some point, Thea said hesitantly at dinner.

Yes, said Anne. I know. She knew her clipped tones must sound as though she was still annoyed with the other woman, but she was too preoccupied to care.

That night in Avrenes, Anne lit her lamp again. She wished she had known more people there personally. People were easier to say goodbye to. They could talk back, perhaps even promise to visit. All the things she would missthey had no such advantages. She smoothed her robes again and again, admired the stained glass, even went to the Towers clear window to watch the hearth-fires highlighting all the homes in the countryside around her.

Finally, she turned to the loom. She settled the threads, leaving as stable a warp as she could. The world was filled with unforeseen circumstances. The next to last thread she touched was the dark one, with the music and the boys voice. She tucked it through under the others, to emerge when it was safe.

Then she found the white thread wrapped in purple. With practiced ease, and a little melancholy, she tied it off and sank back into the growing darkness for the last time.

Anne slept hard for the two days before her next concert. Thea kept complimenting her on how well she was taking care of herself. There was a little bewilderment in the other womans voiceAnnes sudden improvement came as an unexpected gift to Thea, and Anne couldnt tell her what the gift had cost. Anne accepted the kind words quietly; she missed the visions of her nights, but her hands had regained their full flexibility.

Backstage after the concert, Thea said, Anne, Id like you to meet a, well, a special friend of mine. This is Ivan Blazovichhes an organ and keyboard professor at the university here in town.

Anne felt her hands enveloped by warm, dry ones, and she smelled a man. Pleased to meet you.

I am charmed, Miss Duvallier, said Professor Blazovich. And this is my student, a great admirer of yours. Nate Iverson.

The boys hand was broad and strong, a little damp. That was to be expected, Anne supposed. And then the boy spoke. Its wonderful to meet you, Miss Duvallier.

His voice was familiar, and she knew that if he laughed, that, too, would be a sound she already knew. She smiled incredulously. Great things were coming to Avrenes.

* * * *

Marissa Lingen is a freelance writer living in Minnesota after a four-year exile to California. She has particularly missed snow, Norwegian food, and people who dont cut off their vowels. She is currently working on a novel about Finnish mythology, thermionic computers, and Cold War spies.

A N.E.R.D Release.txt

From Challenging Destiny Magazine - 2003 - Issue 17 - December.txt