Page 50 of Wizards & Weavers
Chapter
Nineteen
The elderly burrowfolkwomen sat around the room, weaving all sorts of objects from long, slender bits of reed. It was all so calming, seeing these masters of the weaving arts lost in their own little worlds.
This was the same craftsmanship that produced so much of the wickerwork Braiden had spotted around the Underborough: baskets for produce, the chairs in the elder chamber, but most notably, the village council’s enormous table.
Some of the women worked with fibers and fabric instead. A few of them clattered and puttered away at wooden machinery stationed at the far end of the room, their practiced paws working to create wonders that Braiden found all too familiar.
And comforting, too. One woman concentrated on a tapestry of a moonlit landscape, her wooden loom emitting a satisfying, rhythmic clack. There, another sat at a spinning wheel, producing a continuous length of thread as she spun.
All heads turned toward the threshold, several pairs of dark brown eyes growing lustrous at the sight of a new face. The burrowfolk women abandoned their stations, cooing and twittering as they approached the human stranger. A friend not yet made, surely, for why else would the village chief, theGrandest Mother bring him into the Underborough’s beating, click-clacking heart?
The bevy of burrowfolk grandmothers descended on Braiden, a huddle of warm fuzz and fur closing in around him. Old, experienced paws reached out to examine his lovingly woven sweater, others pausing to stroke the rarely encountered hairless human cheek.
Part of him wondered whether he should consider this all somewhat inappropriate, but the part of him that missed Granny Bethilda leaned into the press.
“Sisters,” Mother Magda called out. “Please. Let’s not overwhelm our human guest before he’s had a chance to look around our workshop.”
Braiden felt the slightest pang of loss as the wall of grandmotherly fur retreated, but he caught muttered words and snatches of sentences that made him smile all the same.
“Such craftsmanship,” one woman said, referring to his sweater.
“Very handsome, for a round-ears,” said another.
“This one didn’t scream,” said a third.
“Braiden Beadle is a visitor from the surface world,” Mother Magda continued. “As I’m sure you’ve observed, he is a practitioner of the weaving arts. I have a feeling that his short time in the Underborough may yet prove mutually beneficial.”
Murmurs of approval went up from around the room as the burrowfolk returned to their work. Mother Magda swept her paw forward, indicating that Braiden was free to walk about as he pleased. He marveled at the speed and grace of the burrowfolk as they interlaced the reeds and switches, weaving baskets and stools and cradles as naturally as breathing.
“I hope you’ll forgive my sisters for fussing so much over you. It isn’t often that we receive human guests.” After a moment’sthought, she continued. “Ones that aren’t too bound and gagged or frightened to mingle, that is.”
“It’s really no bother at all,” Braiden said, and meant it. He rubbed his face, filing the sensation of a velvety paw on his cheek next to all the memories of Granny Bethilda doing much the same thing.
“Your baskets, even your spindles and your looms,” he continued. “They all look so much like the tools we use up above.”
Perhaps all cultures arrived at the same conclusion given enough time. Or maybe it was a less esoteric matter of trade routes and intermingling civilizations, a question of technologies passing from one people to another.
“Flatbread,” Granny Bethilda had told him once. “It all comes down to flatbread. The Gwerenese wrap up their meats and grains and vegetables in one convenient roll and eat it all up that way. In Il-venesse, they scoop up delicious dips and dishes.”
Braiden found it more satisfying — and maybe a little romantic — to believe that everyone was connected. The people of Aidun had all somehow tapped into the same well of knowledge that birthed the world’s greatest innovations. The wheel. The knife. The hammer.
And flatbread. Always flatbread.
Mother Magda led him past the click-clack of the burrowfolk women at work, chuckling softly as he marveled at the machinery.
“We have so much more in common than you think, Braiden Beadle. And there is plenty more that I wish to show you.”
She gestured toward the back of the room. In his short time in the village Braiden had already become accustomed to the sight of so many tapestries and wall hangings, thinking nothing of yet another pair of them on the far wall.
He should have noticed the way they faintly fluttered. As they approached, he felt the whisper of a warm breeze on his face and caught the scent of fresh air. Mother Magda parted the curtains with one fuzzy paw, beckoning for Braiden to step out with her.
They emerged in a spacious garden, much of it untended, the vegetation left to sprawl. A pool of water at its edge stretched off beyond the grounds of the great tree. This pool did not bubble, but it did give off a faint, silvery glow.
That same silver radiated from the reeds that grew on the pool’s edge. Something about the radiance made the little hairs on Braiden’s body bristle. His nape prickled with gooseflesh. The reeds, the water — this strange garden quietly pulsed with magic.
“This is only one of the groves and grottoes we use for growing what we need,” Mother Magda explained. “There are more scattered throughout the Underborough. But can you guess why I’ve brought you to this one, Braiden Beadle?”
