The Weaver’s Curse, by Mike Neis

Photo by Darran Shen on Unsplash

Esperanza dropped her paddle, pulled her coracle out of the water and cast it aside as she ran to the charred remains of her home. She saw no sign of her family or their boat. She knew in a moment what had happened. Gromley had convinced the island town of Balnigg that her household on the outcrop was a coven of witches, and in a fit of hysteria the people had chased her family away.

All except Esperanza. She had been deep in the mainland forest gathering roots and lichens for her cloth dyes, so now she had no clue where her family had gone. Head down, she walked to the spot that would have been her bed and wept bitterly. She was so young. The women of her family had just celebrated her first moon.

Everyone in her family had a gift. Ptolemy, her uncle, had a gift for making sounds, like the roaring sea or the crashing thunder. He could perfectly imitate all the people in Balnigg. His version of Gromley always made the family laugh. Mama had a gift for weather. She knew when the rains would come. When she was in a temper, the wind would blow in unruly gusts and Papa would beg her to calm down. On her happy days the sea breeze would caress their house under the shining sun, and the world would be at peace.

Esperanza’s gift was weaving. From the moment her fingers could grasp, she would intertwine strands and tie them into decorative knots. Her father, recognizing her gift, gave her a loom for her fourth birthday. From then on, she constantly wove one work after another. Although she exercised amazing skill in crafting clothes, her most powerful work was making tapestries and brocades. She honed her talents under the supportive guidance of her family.

The island community had once relied upon Esperanza’s parents for their knowledge of plants and the ways of the earth. They made powerful elixirs and potions to ease sunburns and earaches. Farmers would seek their advice on crops and the weather.

In the summers, Esperanza would go to the beach with her family, and she would play games with the other children like “seaweed monster,” and “flee the wave.” In the evening, the townsfolk would gather by a huge bonfire and roast candies and play charades. Soothed by the pounding surf, Esperanza would fall asleep in her mother’s arms.

But the town had changed, and now Esperanza was all alone. She pulled together some rocks and branches for shelter. She gathered roots and set shoreline nets for sustenance as her mother had taught her. She repaired what was left of her loom.

Overwhelmed by fear and isolation, the young woman took the strands of her own life and began new weavings. She wove herself into anonymous obscurity so that no one would remember who she was. She wove a fearsome fog that separated her home on the outcrop from the rest of the town.

Finally, she began work on a tapestry unlike any she had made before. Into this brocade she wove all her hurt and all her anger. The brocade portrayed an ugly town, filled with distrustful people, commanded by tyrants. Anyone looking at the tapestry would feel the hunger of the destitute people in the streets and hear the angry voices of neighbors arguing. The grimaces of the people’s faces and the contorted postures of their bodies showed brutality and ferocity. Sure enough, that is exactly what the town itself became, a dark place, filled with fear and distrust. Crying and wailing wafted over to the young woman’s hut on the outcrop, while she, listening in satisfaction, added more misery to her brocade. She wished for nothing more than revenge against the town after it had taken her family and her dreams. Finally, under the crushing curse of the tapestry, laughter itself died.

As the town became increasingly cold and hard, so too, did the weaver’s unfeeling heart, turning to stone. She became quite ugly, for she wore a perpetual scowl on her face. In her attempts to protect herself, her body became hunched over.

Esperanza forgot the importance of family and accepted loneliness as a necessary part of existence. The thought of friendship became meaningless to her. The incessant noise the world made about love and romance was an alien curiosity.

Years passed. Wars began and ended. Somehow, the town endured. It had, in fact, encountered some good fortune, being recognized as a haven from the crowded dirty cities of the mainland. During the summer, the “White Sands Place,” as the people called it, would be mobbed with visitors.

The White Sands Place had big signs, noisy arcades, and stores painted in bright colors. The end of the Great War brought renewed traffic, as if the crush of crowds were an attempt to make up for lost time. The summers were once again filled with the sound of beach goers yelling at each other, and the scent of ointments to ease sunburnt skin. Hordes of people crowded onto the beach’s boardwalk. White sand burned bare feet and the ocean shone in a mesmerizing sapphire blue. The waters were warm as bathwater, and children would play in the lapping wavelets through the whole day without getting cold.

Although they found their hosts humorless, the people from the mainland would never guess at the town’s terrible curse, because the locals kept it a secret. The summer visitors would take a quick look at Balnigg’s main street because it was a tourist attraction. Finding it quaint but creepy, they would quickly retreat back to the sunny beaches.

Sustained by the power of her gift, the weaver lived through generations. She built rooms onto her hut. She replaced her small loom for a giant one, and from her porch she would create ponderous tapestries and brocades. Tyrants and political leaders from distant countries had found out about her craft and would commission her to make portrayals of themselves. Her brocades showed them at seats of power, young and strong, or victorious in war.

It was said her brocades brought good fortune to their purchasers, and so she charged princely sums for her wares. Her tapestries were so masterfully woven that onlookers would stand and gaze at them for hours, spellbound. They would want to shout praise for the dictators featured in them. They would cower before the pictures of advancing soldiers. Their hearts would ache at the sight of the beautiful maidens holding flowers.

Balnigg, stricken by its terrible curse, changed little with its stone streets, and dwellings that had endured beyond memory. The twin spires of Saint Jerome’s glowered down at the town from gothic heights. The cemetery had gravestones with markings that were well-worn from the passing generations, and some of the stones could not be read at all.

During the winter, the White Sands Place would become an entirely different area. Devoid of all life, the stores would be boarded up against the brutal gusts from the dark ocean. Waves, awesome as boulders, would pound the beach, while fog shrouded the buildings in a gray gloom.

Despite her separation from the town, the old woman still clung to the beach. In all seasons, warm or cold, she would walk its desolate shoreline at the morning’s first light. It was on just such a walk in the dead of winter that she found an old drifter dressed in rags. The beach had drawn more of such people with the hard times. The old woman saw something different in him as he pathetically tried to take shelter by the boardwalk against the ocean’s bracing wind. She knelt beside him and saw in his eyes a condition she herself knew well--outcast. What’s more, she could tell he had a gift. She did not know what his gift could be, but his bearing revealed his true nature to her.

His face was wrinkled, and his whiskers were grizzled. His body was wiry like a vine. His name was Bentley. Without hesitation she brought him to her outcrop and made him her gardener. He took up residence in a small hut at the water’s edge.

The old woman’s tapestries sold well, and she became wealthy. She built a large house on her outcrop. Bentley, out of respect, called her his “Lady of the House.” He would not speak of his past, but it seemed he had at last found his place as a gardener. Although quite old himself, he worked the outcrop’s rocky soil vigorously and with a sparkle in his eyes. He lavished such care and attention to Esperanza’s grounds, that it miraculously burst with life and flowers. He built a large boat for fishing.

The old weaver, from the hidden shadows of her window, would watch him working on the shrubs and trees. Although she felt a piercing ache as she gazed, she could not tear her eyes away from him. When she was not looking at him working in the garden, she was thinking about him: his lovely baritone voice, his sparkling eyes, the lively things he said. Sometimes, when he was handing her fruit from the garden, his touch would jolt her like electricity, and the ache would surge fresh from deep inside of her. She had never experienced such feelings before and wondered what they could mean.

One day the old woman was returning from the town market where she had purchased supplies. A cruel despot from a country in the south had commissioned her most awesome work yet. She passed a missionary from the mainland speaking to a throng in the square. This man infuriated the woman. He reminded her of Gromley, the man who had made the town drive her family away. “Bah!” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and she was just about to be on her way, when the sound of a young choir replaced the missionary’s voice. The children were well-rehearsed and sang in harmonies smooth as cream.

The people stood spellbound, watching the singers, led by a choir mistress in a gray robe. They could appreciate the beauty of the children’s voices even if they could not understand their ancient lyrics. Esperanza, however, having grown up with the old language so long ago, understood every word perfectly. They sang of mercy. They sang of tenderness. They sang of love. The old woman became still as a post. She hardly breathed, clinging to every word as if her life depended upon it.

When the choir finished singing, the missionary resumed his speech, and the old weaver went on her way, again with a dismissive wave of her hand.

But she could not forget the song. Its curious lyrics and silken harmonies rolled through her thoughts like a wide river, and an idea sprang to her mind. She decided to make a brocade unlike any she had made before. Her heart pounded and her steps quickened as she worked out every detail in her head. Upon arriving home, she was ready. She did not rest nor eat but sat immediately at her loom and began—not on the commissioned brocade, but a completely different tapestry.

Night and day she worked, with little food and no rest. The shuttle flew, the warps pulsed, and the heddles pounded. Her fingers labored with the dexterity of a young girl. Bentley grew anxious, as he watched his Lady of the House wither with each passing day. He tried to tempt her with his freshest strawberries and apples from the garden, but even that could not stir any hunger within her. What’s more, her eyes burned with a fire he had never seen before, so he kept his worries to himself.

At last, after a month had passed, the brocade was finished, and Esperanza called to Bentley so that he too, might look upon the fruits of her labor.

The tapestry depicted the town. The gardener recognized the White Sands Place and the town streets. What filled those streets, however, was wondrous and new. Gone were the fear, distrust, and horrors that had torn at the town. In its place were prosperity and happiness with people showing patience and mercy toward each other. Laughter was in the eyes and mouths of the children and adults alike. In the center of the town was a procession, and leading the procession was the choir, exactly as the weaver remembered them.

Bentley and Esperanza embraced and wept with joy upon seeing the completed brocade. “Now, at last, you can rest and enjoy your work,” he said.

But the old weaver shook her head. “No. I cannot forget the lovely sound of that choir and the beautiful faces of those children. Their absence is a terrible pain to me.” Indeed, the old woman’s face was contorted in agony, like a mother who is barred from seeing her own children.

Bentley did not want his Lady of the House to suffer. “Do not despair. I shall find that children’s choir and bring them to you. Then you can see their earnest faces and hear their beautiful harmonies, and you will be well again.” After delaying long enough to gather food and his walking staff, he climbed aboard his boat and set out for the mainland.

Esperanza slept, ate, and regained her health. As the hours passed, however, she grew restless. In this state of mind, she visited the old hut which held her terrible brocade.

The hut was quite broken down, with large gaps in the roof and the walls. The tapestry had been subjected to years of weather, so it had grown worn and brittle. “This brocade of mine needs maintenance,” the old woman said, and with her expert hands she set the tapestry on a high frame outside the hut, so that she could evaluate her work in the light of day.

Esperanza wanted a closer look at a part of her tapestry, but it was stuck at the top of the frame, so she tugged on it. The frame snapped, and the full weight of the tapestry fell upon her, knocking her down, burying her in its folds.

At that very moment Bentley had landed on the shore with the children’s choir and their choir mistress. They watched in horror as the heavy brocade fell upon the brittle old woman.

“Hurry, children!” said the choir mistress. “We must help that old lady before she suffocates!”

And so, the children, their choir mistress and the gardener made haste to the brocade where the old woman struggled to escape. “We must get her out, children,” said the choir mistress. “Hurry!”

As the children tugged at the old tapestry, it tore in their small fingers. Strands blew away in the breeze. Finally, they freed the old woman. As she stood, she saw what was left of her work.

“Oh!” she said and leaned heavily against the gardener. Her terrible brocade was in tatters and would now be impossible to repair.

“Oh!” she said again and brought her hand to her chest. The destruction of her work was more than she could bear, and her heart of stone was breaking.

The children and the choir mistress looked on in horror as Esperanza collapsed before their eyes, but Bentley knew what to do. “You must sing, children. Sing. That is the only way to save my Lady of the House.”

The children assembled themselves, and the choir mistress took her place before them and raised her hands. They sang of mercy. They sang of tenderness. They sang of love. As the curious harmonies enveloped the old weaver, the scowl on her face softened, and her body relaxed, becoming less hunched over.

The children’s lovely voices pierced the fog and enveloped the town. The people overcame their fear of the outcrop and crossed over to see what was happening. Upon emerging from the fog, they were drawn to Esperanza’s beautiful new brocade. As they gazed, the people could feel the acts of mercy and kindness portrayed in it. But what held the people in stupefied wonder was that they saw themselves—not as who they had been, but as who they could be. They were so overwhelmed with this vision, that their arms hung down and their eyes glazed over, as if they were looking at a glorious kingdom from a high mountain.

When the choir finished its song, Esperanza lay quite still, as if she were dead. Bentley bid them all goodbye so that he could attend to his Lady of the House. The choir, at the pleading of the people, went to stay in the town.

Esperanza had drifted off in the gentle arms of the choir’s music. On and on they sang in her dreams, bearing her up like the warm breath of the south wind. She dreamed of sacred song carrying her high into the heavens. Clouds caressed her cheeks as she ascended. She felt as though she could touch the moon and the stars as the firmament turned towards the western horizon. Vast throngs of angels flew by, beckoning to her. As the stars vanished to the west, the first light of day burst forth. The warmth of the sun spread across the land.

Esperanza opened her eyes.

She lay on a divan in her porch with the loom. The rays of the morning sun stretched across the floor, making light seem to come from everywhere. As she sat up, she felt none of the aches she had known for many years. She looked at her hands. Her skin was smooth and clear. She touched her face. The softness of youth had replaced the hard folds of her many wrinkles.

A young man sat across from her.

Esperanza stood up in alarm at the sight of this stranger. “Who are you?” she said.

The man’s eyes sparkled. “You do not know me?”

Indeed, the woman knew the voice and the eyes. Her heart began to pound in a way she had not felt since she was very young. A wave of dizziness passed over her as she struggled with the meaning of what she was seeing and feeling. She took hold of the divan's arm and shook her head. “I do not understand,” she said.

The man put his face down. “Forgive me,” he said. He spoke in a hushed voice and became still as a monk at prayer. “My Lady of the House. There is nothing I have loved so much as seeing you work at your loom. In my presumption I would hide in my garden just to watch you. I would sit and stare for hours when I should have been working. Forgive me. But as I have watched, so also have I learned. Last night I wove some new things into your tapestry. I did everything exactly as you have always done. Look!”

The woman looked upon her tapestry, and her eyes were drawn to the two people in front of her big house. She knew in an instant she was seeing herself and Bentley—not old and frail, but young, beautiful, and deeply in love. As she approached the brocade, her face was frozen in wonder. She reached out and touched the work.

Bentley grew anxious. “Are you angry? Did I do it wrong?”

The old weaver, who was actually a young woman now, flung herself into the gardener’s arms. “My darling and my life!” she exclaimed. “You have saved me!” And she kissed him, as a bride kisses a bridegroom.

At that moment, a gale-force wind swept across the island, dispersing the fog that had separated the outcrop from the town. Esperanza and Bentley beheld the lovely old dwellings and the golden beaches and caught their breath in astonishment.

They heard the music of the children, carried by the sea breeze across the water. They looked at the town’s main street and saw the choir leading a procession, exactly as in the tapestry. The sounds of bells and horns filled the air.

Esperanza and Bentley drew close to each other, and another noise, which they had not heard in a long time, rose from the town: the sound of laughter. And so, they too, laughed and sang.

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Mike Neis lives in Orange County, CA and works as a technical writer for a commercial laboratory. His work has appeared in Amethyst Review, Rind Literary Magazine and elsewhere. Besides writing, his outside activities include church music, walking for health, and teaching English as a second language.