6 Trials

Wretched thing.

Holly opened her eyes. The bugs were gone, her flesh was whole. The path was nowhere to be seen.

We are not Spiders. We do not Lie.

The mists slowly began to receed, drawing away like reverant priests. Holly stood up, her eyes scarcely believing what they were seeing.

We are Weavers, and we have tested you thrice.

The three figures were there, standing at the other side of a long bridge. The buzzing that had once filled her head now echoed from deep below in the chasm.

One final test awaits you.

At last, Holly couldn’t take it any longer. She collapsed to the ground, rolling onto her back. The world danced around her in a flurry of sights and sounds. She turned away, clutching at her head, struggling to breathe steadily. She could feel herself vibrating as she spat up the contents of her heaving stomach.

Finally, the world began to slow its dance, the music and sweet savory fading into memory. Holly rolled onto her back once more, at once grateful and at the same time struggling to hold on to a bit of the strange and horrifying world she had seen. Strings of atoms wound around each other, webs of cause and effect causing vibrations, waves that carried flotsam and jetsam to far and distant shores.

The needle was made of old dry bone, and the thread was a thin strong silk. The fabric had a pattern already sewn into it with the same white silk, and the paper — the paper was thin dry leather, skin from some animal. Holly struggled not to think about what kind of animal it might have been.

On the parchment, a strange and scratchy handwriting surrounded bizarre symbols. It was writing of some kind, possibly a language…diagrams? Were these instructions? Holly looked at the sewed pattern on the fabric; it certainly appeared incomplete to her.

She studied the needle carefully and observed the spool for markings. She flipped the fabric over, checking the stitching from both sides. She gave the strange language only a cursory glance — she knew she wouldn’t be able to decipher it — and focused on the ornate symbols.

“I don’t suppose you offer hints?” Holly couldn’t help herself. The cooing weaver shifted, the rustle of robes in the dark louder than thunder.

A sister would need none.

Holly’s bed was small, rickety, and at least a hundred years old. It had belonged to her grandfather, after it had been given to him by his grandfather, along with the tiny cabin. It had been the only piece of furnature in the cabin for years. Holly’s great great grandfather had been the chronically outdoors type, unwilling to do anything inside that could be done just as well outside. He cooked his food, mended his clothes, polished his rifle and sharpened his tools all outdoors. He only slept inside, and even then only when it was too cold, wet, or dangerous to sleep outside.

Holly’s grandfather was nowhere near as outdoorsy, so he had improved the cabin with some modern renovations. A sink, a fireplace, a few cupboards and shelves. It was nice and cosy, the perfect place to get away from it all.