The city sleeps. All of the buildings are dark, save for one small shop, where the orange glow of a candle, flickering cheerfully in its holder, drives back the shadows within. It’s a small, cozy space, with thread and embroidery supplies lining one of the walls, and racks of fabric standing at the ready in neat little rows. The differences among the products are made moot by the dimness of the light. Toward the back of the space, a staircase heading up to the living quarters. On the wall adjacent to the entrance, a door leading to a small kitchen. Near the center of the space, a worktable, and a loom—and the Matron.
She sits at her loom, just as she has every evening long after the world has gone to sleep. Having ensured the door locked and her family safe upstairs, she tucks a few loose strands of gray back behind her ear and returns to her great work.
The tapestry stretches from roof to floor. The candlelight does it little justice, merely illuminating the work just enough for her to continue.
“A little at a time,” she murmurs to herself, passing the shuttle back and forth. “We all have a little time.”
The silence of the shop buckles under the jingling of the bell on the door. Darn lock.
A ragged form stands in the doorway, all but swallowed by a tattered coat. As he takes off his battered straw hat, he fixes his eyes on hers.
“We’re closed for the evening,” she says. “Come back at six tomorrow.”
He doesn’t say anything; almost absently, he hangs his hat on the coat rack at the door, and his eyes scan his surroundings. In the uneasy silence of his nonresponse, she lowers the shuttle some and shifts in her seat, further from the stranger at the front door, closer to the stairs. “I said we’re closed.”
Now that he has moved halfway into the candlelight, she can see more of him. He is tall and thin, and his coat hangs open, revealing all of his clothing to be torn and tattered. Where his skin is visible through holes, she sees muscle; a bit surprising, considering the salt and pepper of his chin and the streaks of gray in his hair.
He finishes his surveying of the space as she finishes hers of him, and he speaks. “Dis cannot wait.” The baritone of his voice sinks into everything—the display racks, the walls, and especially her.
Body tense, she sets the shuttle down with a sharp clack. “For the last time, we’re closed.”
“Den why was de door unlocked?” He tilts his head, smirk spreading across his face, almost an accusation.
She isn’t about to admit the faultiness of the lock. “You can see that the lights are out and the place is empty. Be on your way.”
“It be a quick one,” he insists, stepping further into the shop and striping the coat from his shoulders, “for so skilled a weava.” Before she can respond further, he flaps the jacket out in front of him.
Even in the near darkness, she can see that the coat is an eyesore. More than the hat, more than the rest of his clothing, it wears the scars of age; rips here, holes there. In some places, it hangs in little more than threads. Much of the garment burns an ugly, sullen red, like drying clay, or blood in the dimness of the light. However, these details are not what catch her eye.
On the back of the coat, she sees the edges of a symbol gleaming crimson in the light, shining ever so slightly in a way the rest of the garment does not. She shifts the candle closer to it.
It’s a cross—four limbs, equal in length, each elaborately adorned with patterns of stars, circles, and smaller crosses.
The meaning of it dances just beyond her reach—floating on the edge of her mind, on the tip of her tongue—but she can’t quite wrangle it into conscious thought. Still, the way it gleams holds her attention. This, accompanied by the nigh imperceptible scents that linger—those of tobacco, palm oil, candies, and rum—stirs within her a sort of grave knowing that sends goosebumps scurrying across her skin. Thin ribbons of smoke billow forth inexplicably and swirl about her head and shoulders, stinging her eyes and burning the hairs in her nostrils. Thoughts racing, she looks up at the man. He stares down at her, expressionless, waiting.
“This will take some time to mend,” she tells him. She sets the candle down and painstakingly accepts the coat from him. She can almost hear drums as she runs her old fingers over the timeworn threads.
“I will wait.” He takes two steps back to sit in a chair by the door.
She lays the jacket carefully on her worktable. The scent of it still smolders just a bit in her nostrils, and whenever she looks too closely, the smoky haze returns. But it isn’t just the coat. At the periphery of the light, the candle’s orange paints the stranger as neither guest nor one awaiting a service, no matter how patiently—too patiently—he sits.
Nonetheless …
Or perhaps, all the more reason to.
“Then I shall bring you refreshment that you might enjoy in the meantime.” Gut twisting and writhing, she offers a polite smile.
“Dat would be lovely.”
“Tea?”
“And coffee, if ya would, please.” He smiles, the yellow of his teeth slowly peeking out from the darkness of his lips, like bones rising from graveyard soil.
She stiffens a moment, then steps into the other room. After setting a small pot upon the stove to boil, she fetches mint, cinnamon, nutmeg, and coffee beans from the cupboard.
It is odd that a stranger would come calling so late. She shakes out some coffee beans into a grinder and sets to work. The small thing rattles like old bones dragged across a cobbled road.
Odder still that he would allow such a fine garment to fall so far into disrepair … She pours the coarse grounds into a paper filter and places it in the mouth of a small cup. In the shadows of the kitchen, the yawning maw of the cup threatens to consume the filter entirely.
… And only now let its mending be a priority. So patient, and yet so insistent. Who is he?
Her thoughts boil over with the kettle. With a ladle, she scoops a portion out and pours it upon the coffee grounds. One ladle. Two. Three. Then, she dumps two handfuls of mint leaves into the boiling pot, adds a bit of cinnamon, and stirs. After letting it sit for a time, she pours the water into a teapot. She lifts the coffee filter, and checking that the cup has filled, she sets it on a tray. She returns then to the main room carrying the tray complete with the teapot, the coffee, two small cups and all the fixings upon it. She sets it down beside the stranger, then pours his glass full, and hers too.
"Dhank ya," he says, his voice deep but soft. He holds the coffee up to his nose and inhales deeply, never taking his eyes off hers. The wisps of steam stretch with his breath, and disperse upon his exhale.
“Lemon? Sugar?”
“Dis be plenty.”
She takes her own drink and returns to the worktable, her attention now upon his jacket. “Beautiful coat.”
“Aye.”
Touching the garment has left few clues to its composition. At a glance, it seems like leather, and yet to her fingers, it more resembles denim.
“What is it woven of?”
“Any thread will do.” Now that he has settled into the chair, his voice sounds a little deeper, and the shadows consume all but his eyes and the one hand holding the coffee. Then, even that retreats into the darkness. A bit of steam escapes.
Wordlessly, she pulls open a drawer of spools. Jute, kenaf, wool, hemp, roselle, linen, raffia, urena, abaca, palm fiber, sisal, and still other threads of various textures and blends. Her fingertips land on her finest thread; a spool of high-quality cotton. She lifts it for a moment, and then places it back. The cotton, in all its finery, captures not the heady sense lingering in the jacket’s rough fibers. She takes up the raffia instead.
As she closes the drawer, the spool slips from her fingers. Despite her desperate grab, it tumbles to the floor, and rolls away from her—
Into the darkness, and closer to the stranger.
There is a moment of silence, where all she can hear is her heart pounding in her ears. From the darkness, she can see only his eyes, on hers, waiting.
Picking up the candle, she rises from her seat to retrieve the spool. She takes a slow and quiet breath, and then a step. Another breath. Another step. The floor creaks. His eyes gleam. No words are spoken. Another step. Another breath. With each step she takes, the candlelight seems dimmer, as if receding through the rigor of her journey.In fact, the candle sputters weakly, as if it will go out any moment.
She imagines it: total darkness, the last wisp of smoke drifting away into nothingness, while the presence of the stranger remains …
Then the spool rolls out of the shadows. It innocently bumps into her foot, now well within the soft radius of the candle’s light. She hesitates a moment, and then picks it up. Back then, to the worktable, and quickly so. She sits and breathes for several rapid heartbeats, turning the spool over and over again in her trembling hands. It appears unharmed, no worse than it had been when she had taken it from the drawer.
The silence has only grown fuller, and his endless gaze in the midst of it picks at her skin like dull needles. “You’ve had this garment a long time.” She draws out her measuring tape and lays it beside the first of many tears. Carefully, she measures.
“Many, many years.”
She waits, her next breath slow and even, her hands steady. “What brings you here?”
He leans forward some, and as their eyes lock, his glint just a bit in the flickering flame.
“I be seekin’ life,” he says. “And, I mind fate.”
Her thoughts travel to the babies upstairs. Her daughter and grandchildren. Her son. No. Not them.
As if reading her thoughts, his gaze drifts to the stairwell. As it lingers for the briefest moment, there’s a quirk of his brow. Then, he returns his attention to her.
“Well surely, you shan’t conduct any business with your garment undone,” she says quietly. Her fingers are swift now, straightening the garment upon the table, unspooling the thread with practiced precision, though perhaps a little more rigid.
“Oh never,” he returns with a grin, his teeth yellow in the candlelight. He nods to the coat. “T’ has many stories, ya know.” He leans forward further. “Tell ya what. T’ pass de time, I tell ya a story in three parts. Three parts, three mends. Agreed?”
“Three mends, three stories, and then …?”
He glances to the stairs again. “Den I be off.”
“No more business here?” Not them.
Their eyes meet again, his face expressionless. “None,” he says. “None more den fate dictates …”
She stares at him a moment longer, and then, resigned, takes up the needle. “I would be honored.”
He smiles that slow, sharp grin.
“Me maam be a dreama,” he begins. “She be inna trance, utterin’ ta us ‘bout de tings she sees.”
“A sleep talker?”
“A storytella.”
Nodding, she feeds the raffia through the needle’s eye, feeds the needle through the fabric of his jacket. She secures a knot at the far end of the thread, and then draws the needle back through again. As she works, back and forth, back and forth, her eyes fall upon the coat’s sigil. While everything else about his dress speaks of disrepair, the cross, in all its finery, tells a very different tale.
“When she went ta sleep, she told me she dreamt o’ a gift,” he continues. “A gift o’ love and life. A beautiful l’il seed. A seed ta bloom inta a sea o’ flowers, precious saffron and sandalwood. A seed ta nourish valleys and jungles, fed by rivers and perfect soil.”
“Beautiful,” she says.
“Yes. Now, I be a dreama too, ya see. So when I awoke, I went lookin’ for who would get my mudda’s gift.”
Another pierce, and the strand of raffia drawn through. Two crimson shores bound together. She pulls the thread taut, cuts it, and ties it off. One tear mended, two more to go.
After another breathy exhale, his hand emerges from the darkness and sets the coffee down. It takes up the cup of tea and vanishes back whence it came; the bitter scent of mint invades the air, along with the sound of loud, strong gulps. Somehow, the small space seems a little brighter, a little warmer, almost hot, even.
“I followed de dirt road ta a land o’ golden grass, where beautiful blue-green rivers flowed. A village inna perfect circle. In dis village, alla de people worked togedda. Dey be lookin’ afta each otha n makin’ sure e’eryone got full bellies n warm homes. E’ery day de jeliw be singin’ songs n playin’ de drums, kora, bafalon … N at night, dey be gadda’d in the squares n meetin’ places, tellin’ stories n celebratin’ one anotha.”
He speaks of these things with a lightness in his voice. All the while, his eyes gleam, and his crooked teeth seem more silly and harmless than the daggers they resemble. She finds herself nodding slowly as she prepares the next stretch of thread.
“De people, dey took care to plant n ‘arvest wit de seasons, neva takin’ more den dey need. Der huntas be de same, careful ta take de ol’ n de sick, usin’ de whole beast, givin’ tanks e’ery time. Dey recognized demselves stewards o’ de gift, stewards, not mastas.”
His voice deepens once more as he continues, and some joviality slips away as well, replaced by a slow, reverent accounting.
"Dis mindfulness unified de people in protectin’ n supportin’ each otha. Dey saw de harsh n hot sun dat be breakin’ people as a test o’ dey commitment, n dey kept movin’ in workin, n meditatin’. Dey found relief in de cool winds dat blew, n such relief made dem darin’ n free. Dey sustained demselves wit de water in de rivers n learned how ta bring it up from de wells buried unda de earth beneath dey feet. Dey looked ta each otha de same, workin’ ta bring out each o’ dey’s hidden talents. N o’ course de earth, my maam’s gift, sustained dem, helped dem ta grow strong. Among dem were many so gifted wit deese forces, dat dey could invoke my mudda’s blessings directly. Wit dey will n heart n prayer, dey could move rocks witout touchin’, dey could create fire, bend rivers ta dey will, move de air dis way n dat!”
As if to demonstrate, he whips his hand back and forth across the space, a sharp motion that causes her to flinch. If he notices, it doesn’t show. “But my searchin’ revealed de daughter most suited, I discovered her barren. Though she had received de gift of creation, she had, in reverence, surrendered it for de sake o’ her people.”
She gathers herself with a deep breath, responding in kind with the same reverence. “Unfit for the gift, but still celebrating her people …”
“Yes,” he says. “Stewardship be in many forms.”
The light provided by the candle has diminished, and the shadows wobble about the room at angles and paces out of time with the flame. She measures the second tear, and, securing thread to needle, sets to work again. The silence should bring comfort, a moment of peace that holds but her and the craft. However, the further along she progresses, the thread looks and feels less a strand, and more a twisted, pumping vein, scarlet in the light. She recoils just a bit, and in the corner of her vision, she can see him sit up, curious, watching. What does he want?
Her breathing, once calm and controlled, catches violently in her throat. Between her hands, the torn space is a gaping wound, seam and thread beating in time to her rapidly accelerating pulse. Mortified, she dares not look away from it, or worse, at him, no matter how the thread writhes and pulses, instead keeping to her work until the second rip has been mended.
He pours himself a second glass of tea; this time, he helps himself to some sugar as well. When he drinks next, the air has found a balance: cool and refreshing, with a sweet warmth. He continues speaking the moment she finishes.
“I den followed de road ta a concrete jungle dat be much like dis one, where love n light had birthed a child.”
The coolness of mint spills across the darkness like a sea of stars, and the scent of the sugar spreads like firm land. Amid the shelves and racks of the shop, she can see inklings of a city, tall buildings, bustling streets, a small apartment eclipsed in a warm glow.
“De boy possessed a spirit o’ great tings, de blessin’ o’ Bondye, handed down through his ma.”
The outlines and images swirled about, and between the weaver and the stranger appears the silhouette of a man, thin and dark. His opposite, a woman, bursts with radiant energy. This glowing figure reaches down to touch the small form between them, and it too begins to glow.
“Dat gift be a piece o’ de Creator’s powerful light, de wisdom dat know n make all tings. A piece o’ de pure energy to fuel n fill all tings … Wit dis light, one might express de truth n majesty o’ de Creator through dey works. Dis boy’s ma gave ‘im dat gift, let it nurture in him.”
The father and mother specters coalesce into the boy, all of the dark and most of the light … yet a little of the latter lingers in the air, swirling in fragments above the boy, who spins into a man; upon his shoulder, a burning gleam of golden light, held aloft like a wing. Shadows rise and fall around him, some like hulking beasts, others frail, cowering figures.
“Wit it, ‘e did great tings. Slayin’ evil spirits, savin’ dhose in need. N dat gift o’ light ‘is ma gave grew mighty indeed.”
The golden wing grows and grows, traces of that light spilling into the greater whole of the man. Then, those lingering golden fragments, and the tawny tones of the mist, once complemented by the candlelight, shift to cold blues and grays, devoid of heat. That frigid light warps together into the mother figure, which descends upon the man.
“But doh dat light be powerful, dere be no warmth, n doh it be pure, dere be no love, n doh it be true, dere be no right.”
The mother figure drifts toward her son with arms outstretched but the hands split and sharpen into hideous claws. Her talons stab into the man, and the shapes swirl away into nothing.
The Matron, eyes wide, stars at the dissipating shapes; even the work is inert, lifeless.
“I learned dat precious baby be but a pawn in ‘er endgame,” he continues. “Ta be subsumed for ‘er own glory.”
“So she had a blessed child because she wanted to steal the blessing for herself?”
“Dat be so.”
“How cruel.” The Matron shakes her head, eyes shut.
“No maam who be dinkin’ of ‘er own flesh n blood so be deservin’ o’ so sacred a gift,” he says gravely. “So I traveled elsewhere.”
She measures the final rip—-the largest of the three—and begins to spool out the necessary raffia. The humble thread appears much thinner, more ragged than it would in daylight, almost as immaterial as the steam from the tea. In fact, the unraveling raffia spins into a frayed trickle, the bold strand whittled away into a fragile thread. Watching it unwind, a notion fills her head … Years, decades of life passing … An occurrence that transpires in the time it takes her to blink. There’s a flash of warm youth, the tangle of brilliant mercurial shapes unfurling in a stream. As the thread frays, the shapes likewise deteriorate, now tarnished, slower, colder. A stream of fading existence. The full measure of a life, withered away. This transformation gives her a jolt, which subsides into a grim horror settling into her gut. The pale gray shapes in her mind deepen into a looming darkness, and all the while the strand keeps trundling right along into that yawning emptiness …
The image weighs heavy upon her, drooping her shoulders, belaboring her breath. She is certain that the thread, frail as life, will snap any moment, unleashing all manner of ill omen.
But it doesn’t. As she weaves this thread into the coat, into the greater whole, that string, that life transcends such singular existence, binding the ruddy crimson halves, themselves threads, together. It is a bridge, a gateway, between but one life and the whole of existence; a bond broken and yet restored by time.
At last, she secures the final knot upon the finished work. Tension is flooding away from her shoulders, and as she beholds the garment in its completion, a small smile buds on her lips.
“Dat be what brings me ere, ya see.”
His eyes narrow. Her pulse quickens.
“Som’ere in dis city is a flowa in bloom.” He pours himself a final glass of the tea; weak and watery, if the heap after heap of sugar he adds is any indication. Either way, he drinks it down with that slightly crooked grin of his.
“Tell me,” he beckons. “What do ya make o’ fate?”
She watches him carefully, rising some from the worktable. Her movement is slow, her face straight, her tone even—a stark contrast to her thoughts, her heart. “I believe that fate is written by higher powers.”
He chuckles. “Ya not be too wrong bout dat. Now,” he leans forward again. “Dat bloomin flowa? She be a creator all ‘er own. She a dreama’. Bring tings ta life all ‘round. Act already as if she got de gift o’ me ma in ‘er.”
Her shoulders settle some. “You haven’t found her yet.”
“Na!” he barks. “Tis ma point. Stewardship, blessin’, curse. Ya neva know what fate will bring ya!”
The candle flickers dimly now. Just as well; the coat is done. He sips on his coffee in silence for a time, and once the cup is empty, he stands. “I appreciate ya hospitality.”
Wordlessly, she holds up the jacket, offering it to him with mostly steady hands. The cross on its back gleams rather playfully in the fluttering flames, and the scent of tobacco: she wrinkles her nose, trying to ignore both.
He steps into the coat, accepting her assistance with the sleeves, and just as he finishes putting it on, the bell jingles as the door swings open once more. She can’t see over his shoulders, nor around his torso.
“Samedi!” he shouts, full of mirth. “What ye be doin’ ere?”
Samedi? She stiffens. No. No! We had a deal! She glances back to the stairs, retreating little by little from the workspace.
“‘ey, Legba!” comes the response. “Me and Brigitte be collectin’ offerings! Dere be some rum left yet!”
Legba chortles. “Dat so?” He moves towards the door, straightening his coat, and still looking every bit as disheveled. “Count me in!”
Now that Legba has moved, she can see a short man, all in black, with a tall hat. He looks gaunt, hardly more than skin and bone—and perhaps less than even that. His flesh is dark, so dark that it bleeds into the shadows, and she is not sure that he has any at all, instead consisting only of the too pale, too perfect skeleton wreathed in dapper finery. The sight freezes the blood in her veins, and she suppresses a most violent shuddering.
But then, a flash of vibrance catches the Matron’s eye. It’s the shawl of Brigitte, who stands tall beside the Baron. She wears the garment like a wreath of vivid green matched only by the purple paired with it. Rivulets of the same colors spiral throughout the lavish black dress upon her person. Ultimately, the hues of her garb, and even the paleness of her skin shine all the more brilliantly next to the grim dusk of the Baron. Brigitte tips her head, festooned with feathers of violet and jade, just so to the Matron and whispers:
“Be at peace.”
And suddenly, the Matron can breathe again. Her heart still pounds, but no longer thunders violently in her ears. At least for a moment.
“Who dat wit’cha?” Samedi calls.
At his voice, the thundering returns, and Matron retreats another small step, avoiding eye contact with the Baron.
“Me weava,” Legba replies. “We be talkin’ ‘bout fate.”
Both of the newcomers laugh; despite the chill of the night, they do so quite warmly.
Legba smirks at the Matron. “See dat?” as he turns back to Samedi, he adds “Tell ‘er, Baron—you don’ any work tonight?”
Samedi leans so to look past Legba into the shop. He tips his tall black hat to the Matron. “I ain’t dug no graves tonight.”
She pauses. “No graves?”
“Like I tell ya! We be here for de rum!” Saying so, Samedi offers one arm to Legba; the latter accepts it, and sweeps his hat off the rack with his free hand as he turns.
Legba plants the hat firmly on his head. “Don’t forget ta call, hear?” He glances back to the Matron, and for but a moment, his eyes flicker to the stairs. “N ya be sure ta nurture dat seed.”
She follows his gaze and thinks of her loved ones. She thinks of the village, with the stewards and their gifts, the community they forged. Though her bones ache with weariness, there is a warmth, a peace budding inside her as well. When she turns back, Legba and his companions are gone. The door shut, locked. The candle, sputtering in a puddle of wet wax. On the worktable, beside her untouched, yet still warm cup of tea, a small card, embellished with Legba’s cross. The Matron picks up the card and lets out a breath that she feels she’s been holding the whole night through. Smile on her face, she lifts what remains of the candle, and starts for the stairs.
Originally published in Voodoonauts Presents: (Re)Living Mythology (Android Press, 2022)
