The Iron Butterfly
Page 18
It took a moment for her words to sink in. Weavers was the nickname given to the Denai with weaving abilities. They were able to make a pot that would never boil over or silverware that would never tarnish by weaving power into their items during construction. I had seen some of the items first hand in the Citadel’s kitchen.
“Do you ever weave hate or fear into them?” I asked cautiously.
Her eyes darkened angrily, “That would be abusing the gifts that God gave me and I would never do that.” Her voice became louder, almost a shout as she ranted, “I only weave light, not darkness! Never darkness! The dark does not like to be ignored, and its call is sweet like honey, but it will devour you whole and spit you out.” Her anger rose and then quickly dissipated when she saw my obvious distress at her tone. Her voice lowered and she seemed to regain clarity and looked around warily. “Not saying someone else couldn’t do it, but I won’t do it. And no one can make me.” She seemed as if she knew from experience and which may have brought on her moment of insanity.
“Please don’t take offense.” I held my hand out to her, palms up as if I was soothing a frightened animal. “I should have known better than to question your methods. Your work is beautiful and I would never wish to insult you, but my curiosity at the wonder of what you can do made me speak without thinking.” I put every ounce of comfort into my voice, trying to soothe the woman who seemed so close the edge of reason.
The women visibly softened.
“Ah child; don't let old Ruzaa's bark worry you. I do get a little irrational about my gift sometimes. Once, long ago, a terrible man thought I could weave a potion to force people do his bidding.” She looked tired and worn out as she went on, “I was even been beaten as he tried to force my hand to work dark and evil things into potion form.” She held up her hands and I could see the white mangled tissue of faded burn marks around her hands. “I wouldn’t do it. That would be compromising my values. To give in, to take something that was meant for good and use it to do evil is a sin. And I refused. They could’ve killed me for all I cared.” Her gaze turned steely in determination before flicking to a movement over my shoulder. She dropped her hands and hid them behind her apron. I turned but saw nothing.
My heart lurched with a feeling of empathy. Here was a survivor, a kindred heart, someone who had lived through unbearable circumstances and arose to live on. I had more in common with this unstable female than anyone I had met in Calandry.
“Ruzaa, stay strong, never change who you are for anyone.” I reached for her hand under her apron and held it in such a way as to expose my own scars. Ruzaa’s eyes widened with understanding, and she looked up at me as tears sparkled in both of our eyes. A bond between two survivors formed; one old, one young.
Avina, not understanding the exchange, finally spoke up with her childish exuberance. “What about getting a boy to kiss you? I could really use something like that!” Ruzaa laughed out loud and I smiled at the excited look on Avina’s freckled face, when my gaze was drawn to the flowers that were drying and hung around posts from the booth. An idea struck me.
“Ruzaa. What about dyes? Can any of your flowers be used for dyes? I’m looking for a gift for the Citadel’s head seamstress, Berry. I would love to give her something to experiment with and get a color that no one else has?”
Her aged eyes grew thoughtful as she pulled a plant that resembled holly and was a rich deep blue. She put it in a small cinch sack. “Try this. I would say she could get a wonderful deep blue and some indigo. But here is a secret.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Whatever garment she makes with this dye, the wearer will always have feelings of hope.” She winked at me. I couldn’t help myself. I hugged her with delight, almost knocking her over. Ruzaa’s surprised laughter stayed with me as I carried my small prize with me down the street. She had even given me a wonderful deal on my present. Avina, who was very patient during this exchange, was now buzzing with excitement.
“You know she’s crazy right?” Avina whispered in a hushed voice, hoping that Ruzaa wouldn’t overhear.
“Aren’t we all?” I answered back.
“Founding Celebration?”
Avina rolled her eyes at me. “You know, the Founding Celebration, the midwinter celebration in honor of the founding of Calandry. Are you going with anyone?”
My mind immediately went to Joss but then a picture of him and Syrani flashed in my mind. “Um no, I didn’t know that you had to go with someone, I thought you could go as a group?”
“Of course you can go as a group. But on the final night of the Celebration, the Palace holds a masked event... It’s the one night of the year when everyone in the Citadel is equal, and of course there is dancing and contests. But the best part is when the Faeries pass out matching dance tokens to the male and female guests; you are supposed to find your match to redeem your dance,” she rushed out almost in one breath. Her eyes got a dreamy look before finishing. “And then at midnight, when the bell tolls midnight, whoever kisses you is meant to be your true love.” I was getting lost in her babble of love, fairies and tokens.
“That seems unlikely. It sounds like the drivel a bunch of desperate girls would make up,” I chuckled.
“But, Thalia!” Avina whined, eyes opening wide, “I am a desperate girl. And it's not drivel. I didn't make it up. It's tradition.”
“It's a stupid tradition.” I could see that my comment hurt her as her shoulders slumped dejectedly. Leaning over I nudged her. “So are you going with anyone?”
“No, I wish though.”
“Well I’m not going with anyone either, so I don’t see the point of getting all dressed up especially when no one knows who you are.”
“I see your point Thalia, but still…” Avina’s words drifted off as she pretended to dance with an invisible dance partner. Doing a curtsey and bowing in acceptance, she spun around and around until she accidentally bumped into a man. Then Avina tripped and went flying into a crate full of passionfruit.
“Now look here!” A stern vendor with a full beard yelled at us while his upset wife came rushing out into the street to try and save the fruit. She grabbed the closest crate and attempted to put the passionfruit in them while Avina followed the fruit rolling into the street, nabbing them and putting them in her apron.
“Sorry! I’m so, so, sorry,” Avina cried. A wagon drawn by two horses came rushing down the street, and the driver didn’t slow down as the bounty of fruit was crushed beneath the hooves and wagon wheels.
“NOOOOO! Oh, this is terrible. What am I to do?” she cried.
By this time the merchant was furious and the wife was crying into her apron. He wagged his finger at Avina, demanding payment for their very expensive fruit that they shipped in from a southern province. A baby began to wail in the back of the store and the wife rushed in to calm the crying baby. She returned red faced and teary eyed, the same emotions mirrored on her baby’s face.