"Tapestry" - Prologue

I thought of this while at Universal Studios Halloween Horror Nights. I had thought about if Fate was an incarnation, what a strange horrible job it would be. Who are these servants that they would be allowed to control the strings freely? What would happen if they disobeyed. The spiderweb might be an interesting image I would use later in this story, but for now, I think embroidered skin seems a lot more personal. No longer could the Fate be impersonal, for their own skin would bear their work. And it also makes the fates finite and replaceable as they become more and more covered.

The silhouette of his small house could be seen between the trees. Snow had fallen a few days earlier, and the ground was soaked.

“It is not my place to judge.”

The path leading back and forth up the hill was littered and lined with fist sized rocks. No matter how often they were pushed to the side, the earth insisted on coughing up more of them.

“We have always been content to write.”

The trees became thick along the path, and one had to duck to squeeze between them. Though dirt covered the majority of the path, a thin, golden tracing could be seen peeking out here and there.

“We do not touch ink. Our gift was always with needle,”

The path became very tight – almost lost among the branches which reached to one another for support.

“And thread.”

One must crawl the last several meters or suffer the scratches of the pines.

“The lines and the messages are written out for each generation. Those whose names I bear are measured and cut. All of this done unquestioningly.”

The door into the abode is heavy, cracked wood. The house itself formed of the same rocks that filled the path below. It is as though the mountain gave birth.

“The people down there believe in fate. The people down there believe in destiny. Not I.”

The door pushes inward, its large black iron bands providing it strength and weight. The floor inside is a cobblestone of pebbles. The shading provides an intricate pattern that cannot be grasped from this vantage.

“I make the fate. I give the power.”

An impossible distance forward, impossible given the dimensions of the home from the outside, is a fireplace.

“But I have always obeyed.”

In front of the fireplace is a cloaked figure. His arm reaching upwards, hovers, then gracefully descends.

“I have always followed the plan. The plan they give me.”

In his hand is a needle. As one approaches, the man’s flesh can be seen beneath the cloak. His skin seems riddled with scars.

“But they are corrupt. They are not worthy to guide my needle. Today, I disobey.”

But they are not scars. Upon closer inspection, one sees that they have pattern. They have rich colors and textures. They are embroidery, beautiful and horrifying.

“Today I write the name of my choosing. Today I change it all. Today fate will be ripped from the cloth.”

The figure pushes the needle into his bleeding skin, feeding red and gold thread back and forth across the wound. He is writing a name into his palm.

“Today I fear, will be my last.”

He completes the name, and bites the thread with sharpened teeth.

“Claire, I have chosen you.”

He drops the needle, and as it hits the floor, a baby cries out.

“Congratulations, Gina, you’re a mother!”

The doctor pulls the baby free and the nurses attend to her.

“It’s a beautiful girl, Gina, you’ve done it!”

Gina smiles, exhausted, and receives her husband’s affection.

“Have you picked a name?” Asks one of the nurses.

The mom, through tears, cries, “Yes. Her name is Claire, after my mother.”

“Well, good morning Claire.” One of the nurses sings, as she brings the newborn to her mother.

The baby makes a little cough. And then another. The nurse, concerned, checks Claire’s mouth with a finger. “Oh, the poor thing has a—“ She pulls a small length of string, red and gold. “That’s strange.” She puts it on the table without much more thought.

“She’s going to do great things.” Her proud mother exclaims. “I love you, Claire.”