Page 51 of Wizards & Weavers
He pointed at the reeds, still softly emanating their ghostly glow as they wavered in the underground breeze. “Because of those plants? I’m guessing these are the same reeds you use for basketry and wickerwork.”
“Very astute. And is it correct to assume that you have some talent for magic as well, Braiden Beadle? Surely you can sense something special about these reeds.”
They grew everywhere along the bank, a plentiful supply within easy reach. “There’s something magical about them, all right. And how convenient that they’re just a hop and a skip away from the workshop and the weavers.”
Mother Magda nodded. “Each of my sisters has a touch of magic running through their blood. Perhaps it was always there, passed down from the first mothers. Perhaps it was a gift from the goddess. In any case, something about the reeds permits the right kind of weaver to place the smallest spells in theirhandiwork. Warp and weft, layer upon layer, every new weave helps to lock in the magic.”
Something like excitement tingled at the base of Braiden’s spine.
“Moongrass, we call it. The crystal passages high above allow the sunlight to tumble down to us deep below, but it is the light of the moon that imbues the reeds with their magic. You’ve seen it everywhere, in everything from humble basketwork to the traps that my gregarious grandson weaves himself.”
Warren’s weaponry. The Pulverizer, that giant swinging ball trap. Of course. The wicker sphere at its core had clearly been woven by hand.
“So with the right incantations and the right intent, the right kind of weaver makes quiet, subtle magic with their work. The workshop weaves cradles to help our younglings sleep more soundly. My wicker chair from the council chamber makes me seem tall and important.”
Mother Magda chortled when Braiden gave her a surprised look.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked. That chair has been there for ages. It helps the Grandest Mother exert an extra bit of authority. Hah. The burrowfolk and our baskets. Some of the older fables like to romanticize it, how our ancestors noticed the pattern of a spider’s cobweb and used that as a base for basketry. I think it’s far more simple than that. Some hungry young burrowfolk saw the moongrass and thought, ‘Can I eat that?’”
She reached for the nearest reed, snapping it between her paws. A puff of glittery silver rose from the break.
“The answer, unfortunately, is no. Moongrass is inedible. But this is where you come in. See the fibers encased within the reed?”
Mother Magda pulled the broken pieces of reed apart. Strands of something stringy clung stubbornly from within,holding the pieces together and hanging on for dear life. That was when it clicked. The tingle in Braiden’s back turned into a crackling thunderstorm.
“You can spin it into string,” Braiden muttered.
Mother Magda sniffled, casting the broken reed into the water where it made a sad, small splash.
“In theory, yes. Not that our people have ever taken that very far. Basketry and wickerwork for the burrowfolk, but breathing magic into threads and tapestry? That is a task for a different kind of weaver.” Her eyes twinkled as she turned to look Braiden straight in the eye. “The right kind of weaver.”
“And you think that’s me? That I’m the right person to make the moongrass work?”
“Come now, Braiden. It is no ordinary human that makes it down here without some way to defend himself. I could smell the magic on your skin, sense it the very minute you walked into the council chamber. My sisters felt it, too. You knitted this lovely hide that you wear on your torso. Here, what was it called again?”
“A sweater.”
“Yes. That. Imagine if you could spin magic into this sweater of yours. Your sweater keeps you warm, but what if it kept you cool on the sunniest days, too? And if your weaving can weather the harsh glare of the sun or the cruel bite of winter, then it isn’t too far a leap to learn how to turn away blades and protect from evil. Imagine all the things you could make, all the lives you could improve in little ways, if only you could breathe the tiniest magic into the thread.”
As if Braiden could get any more excited. The thunderstorm was raging. Permanent magical weaving. The filament could be the answer. But he couldn’t help himself.
“Mutually beneficial, you said. That’s what you told your sisters. But you would be giving me so much.”
She cocked her eyebrow. “Oh? Is it ‘so much’ for us to work together and unlock more of the mysteries of moongrass? Spin the fibers into thread, see where it takes you. Learn what magic you can from the reeds. Then show us what you’ve learned. Teach us the spells you’ve whispered in the weaving. Wouldn’t that be grand, Braiden Beadle? Someone else must have taught you how to weave, once. Who was your teacher?”
The tears came so suddenly, but Braiden caught them in his throat, long before they could threaten to break. “My grandmother did. She’s — she’s not with us anymore, but she taught me everything I know.”
Mother Magda clasped her paws. “What a tale that makes, Braiden Beadle. What a yarn to spin. Humans and burrowfolk sharing stories and spells, from grandmother to grandmother.”
Braiden bit his lip. Granny Bethilda would have loved to play with this moongrass, to take the art of weaving to brave new heights.
“Of course, this all hinges on whether you successfully complete your scouting mission with my grandson. I would prefer for everyone in your party to return unharmed. Warren, especially. Naturally.”
“Naturally,” Braiden breathed.
“Find the source of the danger. Bring my grandson home safe and sound. Then you may harvest as much of the moongrass fiber as you can carry. Oh, and be sure to have some rooty tooty stew before you go. Best thing you’ll taste underground. I guarantee it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Braiden said, grinning at the promise of a hot meal and a well-earned reward.
