The Dragon's Tapestry

A mumbling half-blind old woman was slowly working her way through the crowd to Sneda’s feet. She was clothed strange­ly in a dress of rough green weel, clouted at the elbows and cuffs and tattered at the hem. Her apron, no less stitched and worn, was the blue of hot sky, with handprints of flour like clouds. On the old woman’s feet were yellow slippers. In this tiny village, Marwen was sure she had never seen this grandmother in all her life, and yet no one else in the room seemed to take notice of her or even see her. Marwen could not stop staring at the old woman’s free, her cataract eyes the color of ice, her skin falling like spidersilk, taut over the bones and drapey in the hollows.

“Who are you?” Marwen whispered.

The old woman did not speak, but she smiled sweetly at Marwen, nodded inanely and, with a wrinkled splotchy hand, made an arthritic pointing gesture at Sneda.

Grondil looked up and saw the old woman.

And then she did a thing Marwen did not understand at first. Though the Tenets of the Tapestry demanded that the Oldwife be soft-spoken and of gentle heart in all her dealings, never did they require that she be servile. Yet, before this old woman, Grondil bowed.

Leba began to wail.

Like an animal she howled, and two women put their arms around her and helped her to a bed. Marwen began to under­stand.

The old woman was leaning over Sneda with slow sore move­ments, smiling her blind smile and muttering and chuckling sweetly.

“The Taker?” Marwen said, her voice high and incredulous.

“Yes,” Grondil whispered, and there was fear and warning in the stillness of her voice. Perhaps she knew, before even Marwen knew, what would happen next, too quickly for her to intervene.

Marwen picked up the cold blood-smeared hand, and just as the Taker bent to touch Sneda’s foot, Marwen placed the sev­ered member into the hands of the old woman. She was think­ing of the eyes watching her use her magic to do glorious things that would earn her honor and love. She did not think of any­thing else. She placed her hands gently on the old woman’s frag­ile shoulders, turned her around and led her out of the cottage.

The Taker mumbled and chortled like a village aunty, smiling and nodding, and all the while she cradled the hand in hers, as though it had an arm and a person attached. Outside, Marwen let go of her shoulders and watched as the Taker shuffled around to the other side of the house and vanished.

Marwen returned to Sneda’s side and, putting aside Grondil’s hand, murmured the only spell of healing she had ever heard—the simple words Grondil had said over her scraped knees and stomachaches.

At once Sneda’s skin became pink and her breathing more regular.

“She is alive. The girl has saved her.” The words spread like wind, and in a moment the eyes were softer, and the coldness was gone. Sneda opened her eyes and mumbled incoherently. Amid sighs of relief, the eyes became decidedly warm.

But not Grondil’s.

In her eyes were fear and pain, a breathless unbelieving pain that she kept concealed from the people behind closed lips and half-closed eyes.

Grondil said to the women, “She will need broth, warm and wholesome. I will return to change the dressings.” She turned and left, Marwen following.

She would be very angry, Marwen knew. Grondil may even punish her. But before Marwen left, she had met Maug’s eyes, and he had looked away in shame. Whatever her punishment, it would be worth it.

When they arrived home, Grondil, in quiet calm movements, began gathering articles of food to the center of the table: sud-bread, dried fruit and waterphan.

Marwen stared. Her entire body began to prickle and sweat in premonition.

“What are you doing? Are we going somewhere?” Marwen asked. Grondil stopped and looked down, then resumed her task.

“I am not leaving, Marwen. You are. You must.”

The beating of her heart filled Marwen’s head. She could scarcely hear Grondil over the sound of it.

“I’m sorry,” Marwen said. She couldn’t hear herself speak but she could tell Grondil had heard. “I’m sorry! What did I do? It was my fault that it happened, Grondil—I had to do something. I saved her life, didn’t I?”

Grondil began gathering twine and utensils and blankets. “You saved her life, Marwen, yes. But it was all too late.

“Sneda will be an imbecile now, forever a burden to Leba, forever unable to care for herself. When the village sisters see what you have done, they will drive you away like an animal.”

Marwen’s shoulders shook. She forced her voice to calmness. “But you could stop them, Grondil. Please. Where will I go? Who will apprentice a soulless one? I don’t want to leave.” Mar­wen’s voice got quieter with every word until it was no more than a desperate whisper.

Grondil did not answer. With strong articulate fingers, she rolled the food into a blanket and took twine to bind it.

“I won’t go!” Marwen cried angrily. “You can’t make me!”

Grondil jerked the rope into a knot.

“Mama!”