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Member
Join Date: Apr 2008
Gender: Female
Posts: 1
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The Last Year of the Linnen Maker
There is an old man here. He is old beyond admirable, old beyond respectable. He
has past the numbered year that is revered by the growing-older, and has become one of
the unconsidered, almost-dead. But he is not dead.
The world is failing with him. Old age has softened it to dull greys and browns, it
is always wet, and never raining; the world is waiting to die.
__________________________________________________ ______________________
The stairs are wide and deep and cold and almost never-ending. Almost. Two men
were on the stairs, walking step by step in perfect unison. Their progress was slow. The
Tailor did not bother to hide his irritation at the elder man’s inability to keep up a faster,
steadier pace; but to arrive without him would be pointless and foolhardy.
The garment the pair carries between them was wrapped in purity cloth; soft white,
yellowed and softened with age. Yes, the years have grown longer of late.
The garments of the Tailor were not so old as the cloth which he carried. They
were beautiful clothes; ruby read pants belted in at the ankles with pitch black silk, a
black top to match, in silk oh so fine, with red shot through it like the veins of a leaf. But
it was the head piece that was the most impressive; a towering turban, purple like rage,
punctuated with beads and jewels, stuffed into the folds with determination, and stitched
onto every free surface. From underneath, the Tailors grey, shiny-slick hair laid in aged
submission.
She was at the top of the stair, in her room. As with every week, she was
waiting. As was her custom, she was wearing the dress from last week.
“Your highness,” spoke the Tailor “I think you will be very pleased with what I
have brought you.” He stole a quick glance at his decrepit companion.
“You, Tailor? Not alone, I hope.” The Queen turned around, and upon seeing the
older man, the tense muscles in her lovely face relaxed.
The Queen was growing old. No, not old, but older. She had passed her thirtieth
year; but idleness had safeguarded her youth. As she turned, she glanced into the mirror
on the gilded table beside her, dimmed with layer upon layer of undisturbed dust and
nodded approvingly at her own nearly invisible reflection.
“The shade must be perfect, as you know. I cannot tolerate anything that
highlights a single, solitary, line on my visage. How will the people take strength from
their Queen if they see her aging?”
“The people, majesty?” Said the Tailor, striving to hide his surprise. “But her
majesty does not venture out among the common folk.”
“Our world is changing; we are becoming modern. As the old world parts, so too,
must old traditions; I will give the speeches in the place of my husband. He now finds
himself to tired and too busy to perform the duty.”
The Tailor glanced at the old man, but his eyes were grey and impassive.
“Well, bring it to me.”
The pair obeyed, and moving forward as one, they brought the garment to the
queen and lifted off the white covering.
Under the sheath of elderly white was a gown. A gown of the finest colours
imaginable. It was green and sharp, like the underside of a leaf, trimmed with the rocky
blue-grey of pebbles beneath a stream. The fabric seemed to shimmer slightly as it
twisted and turned, falling over the arms of the two men.
The queen nodded, and the two men laid the gown upon a chair; they turned to
leave.
“Linen maker,” Addressed the queen. The stooped, thin old man turned to look
upon the queen. “The King is in need of a new suit and cape, the other set was damaged.
If you need to check the colours, he can be found on his throne.”
The King was seated on a chair. The chair was in the middle of a room lined with
windows, between each of the windows was a mirror, so that the room seemed never
ending. The windows dripped with orphaned moisture; a pale blue-green light ricocheted
off each tiny sphere of water. The air was heavy. There was no sound heard. And no one
was listening.
If someone had stood on the left side of the room and looked into the mirror
through the dust and though the window behind them at just the right angle, the fortunate
individual would have caught sight of the wooden room. The wooden room, completely
lined with that which had once been alive, seemed to draw the last gasps of energy from
those sorry once-were trees that covered its stone walls. In stark contrast to this shadow
of nature was the machine. The machine was called the Ocu-cerebrine. It was constructed
of millions upon millions of tiny wires that were interwoven between pillars of deep,
black metal. On each of the wires were a dozen or so sliding beads; these beads slid up
and down the wires, weaving between them soft-shining thread. In time to the clicking
and whirring of the Ocu-cerebrine was the sharp breathing of the Linen Maker. With
slow, purposeful hands he shifted the levers and gears on the table at which he sat, and as
he did a cloth of the finest weaving began to take shape. In the very back of the room, a
pot was hissing and boiling.
The Tailor was, at this time, also at work, but it was work of a different kind. He
was kneeling before the throne of the King. His stance seemed reverent. His face seemed
repulsed. He lifted the boot-shod feet of the King carefully and pulled from underneath
them a small, metal box. The box shook in the Tailors hands. The lid fell back on
fractured hinges; the jewels caught the sickly light.
The Queen stood at the foot of a great stone statue. The dress shimmered in the
sun that broke tiredly through the clouds; its fantastic shades, a tribute to the Linen
Maker’s talent. Around her, machines moved of their own accord, not working, but
breaking; falling to pieces from lack of love and care.
There might still be people in the houses.
The air was thick. The stench hit the back of her throat like an avalanche, but she
couldn’t acknowledge it. She couldn’t feel it.
There was water in the streets.
The Tailor’s aged hands slipped. The box fell with a clang. It echoed through the
hall like a rocket.
The Tailor gasped slightly at the shattered silence.
The King didn’t move.
The Linen Maker’s hands moved the levers at steadily increasing speeds. The
Ocu-cerebrine groaned. The clicking and spinning increased to a roar. The pace
quickened. The old man’s heart strove to keep time.
The Queen’s voice was like a bell, it cut through the quilted atmosphere. Her
dress was beautiful. Her subjects were bowing. Her subjects were dying. Her
hands were crusted red-brown.
Beside the King was a table. Beside the table was a sceptre. Beside the sceptre was a knife.
The Linen Maker was making new robes for the King. The old ones were stained.
The King didn’t seem to mind the red.
The pot behind the Linen Maker began to boil over. The Linen Maker was a
proud man. He would not let that blood stay in place. He’d boil the robes clean. Boil the
blood out.
The water poured over the top of the pot, hissing and heaving like a great beast.
The Tailor stood up, his hands filled with jewels. It does not matter whether or not
they were real. The Tailor would weave them and work them and squish them inside the
pieces of his elaborate wardrobe.
The jewels shifted and clicked together in the tailors hands. It was only when he
stood up and was still that he noticed what was happening.
The Queen looked around her. The buildings were painted beautiful, vibrant
colours, all children of the linen maker’s genius. The houses were stacked one on top of
another in friendly camaraderie, in the windows there were curtains of the finest fabrics
and patterns imaginable. The square before her throbbed with human life, people, dark
skinned, light-eyed people, all in gorgeous hues with sashes and ribbons intermingling in
the bustling crowd. They were lovely. They were for her.
Suddenly, the walls of the wooden room echoed with shrieks of machinery. The
floor was burning and boiling. The Linen Maker laid down his head. The Ocu-cerebrine
died with a scream and a sigh. The smoke rose into the darkening sky.
When the rain began to pour from the heavens, it quenched the fire the came
roaring from the pointed roof of the tower. The Tailor watched as the flames surrendered
to the torrent that attacked them so passionately. He thought of beautiful colours.
The Queen was dazzled. She did not notice the fire. All she saw were the hues
darkening as the water fell onto the robes of her people.
And the rain fell. And the world was dull and grey and wet. And the only person
the drops touched was the Queen.
1543 words
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