Topic: Circe

SiannaFraiser

Date: 2009-03-14 04:48 EST
The throng of the city was set at a steady bustle, as late winter sunshine flooded the streets with hope. The air, though chilly, could not boast of winter's bite, the pavers and cobblestones clad in muck with thick puddles coagulating in the dips and crevices.

The twins settled for their mid-morning nap, Sianna had wasted no time in digging her doeskin boots out from the closet. She needed a good stretch of the legs and planned on getting one. The flimsy shoes she'd worn in her late pregnancy had been fine for being a chauffeured passenger only.

Sianna had insisted on walking, and on doing so alone. When questioned, her reasonings had been outlined, in triplicate, before the adults were resigned to the fact that she was not going to change her mind. While they attempted to be coy and discreet about it, they could not hide the fact that they were circling the wagons about her. They were protective and overly so, reluctant to let her do much of anything on her own. Matty saw to all the cleaning and meals with exact precision, Henderson to the buildings and their upkeep as well as all errands, and then there was Katarina. When she wasn't at the theater or with Locke, she was at Sianna's side, poised at the ready to rock one of her cousins, see to the dogs or any other number of things. On top of which, she seemed to feel as if she owed rent and actually tried to convince Sianna of it.

Up until now, Sianna had chalked up their actions to their desire to be helpful with the arrival of the children. Yet, oddly enough, it felt as if things were growing tighter. She was healthy, wasn't she? Eva came three times a week now and seemed more than pleased with her health and saw to her medication. The twins were thriving and growing, their personalities emerging more and more each day. No, the motive driving them was Johnny and Sianna knew it. His absence was the the elephant in the room that no one spoke of, yet everyone thought of constantly. Conversations deftly tiptoed around him for her sake, no one being insensitive enough to bring it up and risk the balance of her emotional condition. And she, just as cowardly, refused to ask for fear of hearing something she did not want to believe.

Suitably layered for the day's weather, she'd walked up and down every row of stalls and stopped in nearly every shop, if for no other reason than to see what was offered and to feel out among the living again. Over and over again, she had to stop and take a deep breath, willing her mind to focus on what was in front of her instead of looping in rabbit holes of suspicion and supposition.

Murmuring her thanks to the latest shopkeeper kind enough to show her all that she had asked to inspect and still invite her back again when she left without a purchase, Sianna stepped back out into the street and turned east. Up ahead, sunlight gleaming off two banks of white caught her attention. They flanked the front of a building that sat on an alley, the sign ahead faded and unreadable at such a distance. Moving through the other shoppers, what first had seemed to be piles of snow was in essence two large stone troughs planted with early spring flowers. Snowdrops.

Sianna crouched low to admire the tender green shoots, the white bell blossoms dancing as a breeze whistled around the building. The creak of chain and wood drew her attention up to the sign, a smile blooming as she read it.

The bell above the door chimed as if perfectly orchestrated, when Sianna entered the fabric shop, into the chatter of feminine voices and the sounds of spindle and shuttle. The weavers were at their work.

SiannaFraiser

Date: 2009-03-20 23:16 EST
We're all met thegither here tae sit and tae crack,
Wi' our glasses in oor hands an' oor work upon oor back
There's no a trade in a' the earth can either mend or mak'
We a' need the work o' the weavers.

If it wasnae for the weavers what would we do
We widnae hae clothes made o' woo
We widnae hae a coat neither black nor blue
If it wasnae for the work o' the weavers.

Noo weaving is a trade that can never, ever fail,
As long as we need claes to keep a body hale
So let us raise oor glasses wi' a bicker o' good ale
An' drink tae the health o' the weavers.


Eight pairs of eyes, framed with heavy wrinkles, peered out beneath wild caps of hair ranging in shades from grey to white, like tufts of dirty lambs' wool. Each woman was a study in opposites, some spindly and bent, others short and rotund. Their clothing seemed to be of patchwork, no two pieces coordinating as if each had been selected for the preference of fabric alone. The crones were gathered about a variety of spinning wheels and handlooms; their tongues only momentarily paused to observe the intruder into their gathering, their hands never pausing a moment.

While they stared agog at Sianna, a heavy thud sounded repeatedly as another emerged from the back room. The proprietress was a massive bulwark of a woman, though not as wizened as the others even for the large gnarled staff in her hand as she moved. The grip of her fingers deceptively loose for all the command that she wielded of it. Hazel eyes regarded the entrant with a cool calculation before a demure smile spread on her lips. "Do not mind the weavers, my dear. They will not bother you while you browse." Her speech was as disconcerting as anything else had dared to be, sounding decades younger than the one possessing it. A final tap of the staff to the worn wooden floor unleashed the chatter of the crones to such a decibel that there was no need for Sianna to speak, and no way for her to be heard even if she had.

Dipping politely, Sianna smiled lightly before turning to the left of the door, bins of ribbon and trim wrapped around small bobbins pulling her attention. Sorting through the top layer in search of suitables for her work basket, she listened half attentively to the chattering crones until her ears hooked on the latest piece of juicy bait being gossiped about. Three voices seemed to command the weft of the conversation, the rest sounding a chorus of murmurs and assents.

"I don't believe it, Indra. Why would a man run off from his new bride?"

"I heard tell that she had all but gelded him, sapped him of his talent and such. Bewitched him with that queer voice of hers and what she called him. 'Mokree'. Can you fathom a man wanting to be called such in ever your born days?"

"Not I, I assure you. And from what I've heard tell of it, queer is not the word for her. Maria told me she saw her to market once and could hardly understand a word she said. She also said it's quite well known that now that he's escaped her, he's never coming back."

"Never coming back? But what about --- ohhhh, I'll wager a month's wages they aren't even his!"

"Exactly what I've heard. She hasn't even dared to show them in public, because it will be obvious."

"Well, if that's the case, I can't say that I blame him for rocketing off world in search of someone better. Those artistic types are prone to wandering and seeking greener pastures. Not to mention not wanting to be foisted with... "

"And the shop's been closed for ages now. I keep expecting to see that the bank has called in the mortgage and the contents are going to auction. You know it can really only be a matter of time."

"Hoping to gain yourself a bit of a bauble from the Silver Lark, are you, Elizabeth? You've always been a crow, haven't you, loving anything that sparkles...."

The bobbins dropped and scattered in a dozen different directions, the force of the door being pulled open sending the bell to the floor with a lifeless clank. Sianna's legs couldn't move fast enough, the entire world seeming to bend and warp around her. Shadows reached out and plucked at her, needles of fear and anxiety pricking her with every gust of wind.

From the shop window, wicked hazel eyes watched with amusement, a smug smirk across the woman's face. The transformation had been successful.


{ The Gaelic endearment "mo chroidhe" which means "my heart" is pronounced: mo kree }