Stephanie Gail Eagleson, "The Weaver"

“Woman! Where are you?”

She started up, peering at the doorway. The voice sharpened his outline against the night sky. “Here,” she mumbled; then more loudly—“here, in the corner.”

“Suits you. Why is the lamp out?”

“I was saving the oil.” She scrambled to collect what he kicked toward her. “To work more tonight.”

“Hmph. I brought you some. You could have used what you had to light my way. Instead, you left me to break my neck!”

“I am sorry, imyr.” She pawed through the sacks, pulling out bundles of flax and a loaf of days-old bread. She sniffed and bit as a spark caught above her.

“Ugh,” he exclaimed. “Take yourself elsewhere. Move, wretch!” He kicked her head, and she scurried into the dark, catching up all the bundles. He might have called her “beast” or “monster.” Perhaps even he respected the work of the goddess.

“Bring me a seat and wine.”

Her woken stomach barked, but she dropped her meal and attended him. He inspected her, slant-eyed, as she knelt.

“You're smaller. Thinner, I think. Not that you were round to begin with.” He raised drink to stained teeth while she loosed his sandal straps and lowered a foot into the basin.

“Tula's plump.” He smacked. “And she fancies me.”

The girl kept her eyes down and gave no response. Of course he would take a new wife. Since the transformation he hadn't touched her but to shove or strike, but she had not been sure he would continue to refrain. Another distraction could only help.

She let out a sigh, toweled one foot off, and began to wash the other. He spat wine into her hair. “Good girl. Keep yourself useful, and we'll both be happy.”

Khankin still felt too full of wine by the time he met with the priest next morning. Cursing the sun and the color of sand, he trudged into the shade of the portico, dropped the bag of dressings, and rubbed his eyes. Nheren better hurry. Keeping to schedule on a lord's mastaba seemed prudent when the lord in question lay on his deathbed.

Nheren appeared at Khankin's shoulder. “Good day, imyr. These the linens?”

“Yes.” Khankin winced. Their voices echoed painfully. “Twelve large sheets, five gowns, two loincloths, eight bundles of wrappings. Meticulously crafted, each pristine enough for the Pharaoh himself. See?” He pulled out a fold of cloth for Nheren to examine.

The priest puckered his lips and held the fabric up to the light. “Ah yes, very fine. You continue to bolster my faith in our arrangement.”

“All to serve Lord Nurhep. It was not easy, producing such finery on short notice. But I understand how to motivate my workers.”

“You always have. So then. Thirty pieces, yes?”

Khankin's jaw slacked. “Ah. I believe it was forty. Forty or forty-five, wasn't it? To account for the added rush.”

“Ah yes, I recall. Thirty-two.” Nheren dropped a purse onto the table and tossed two coins over it. “For your trouble.”

The wine would not pay for itself. “Surely you miscounted?”

“No, I think not. After all, I cannot exceed the allowance Lord Nurhep has given me.” Nheren looked his overseer up and down and added, “Your wares may be superior to most, and more conveniently provided; but you are hardly the only linen supplier in the city. My lord's taste for such things has grown as generous as his coffers in his old age. Be grateful for the attentions you have received.” He picked up the sack of linens and turned to leave.

“Make sure the workmen have the main room finished by sunset. I have already assured his lordship it would be.”

The portico shimmered with heat waves and curses in the priest's wake.

A spindle dropped from the girl's hands, its thread catching light from the tomb entrance. Another pair of hands plied rods to lift the warp yarns of her loom while yet another hand coaxed a shuttle between them; a final hand steered the crook to push the weft snugly into place. The cloth grew beautifully, evenly under her care.

Her back was to the door, so she did not see the shadow cast across it until it reached the edge of her loom. She straightened instantly, terrified. Khankin had no reason to return this soon; no one else had any business here. Either a dire mood drove her husband back—or someone had discovered her hiding place. She spun around and squinted into the light.

“Hello, dear. It's just me, come by for a visit.”

“Why have you returned?” Arachne fumbled with the wine skin, spilling several drops in her haste to pour a draught for the deity perched in the corner. The girl had only now found her voice. Athena had just finished airing an assortment of minor grievances regarding the length of her trip and the dryness of the southern climate, prior to which she had complimented her protege's work and offered a critique of the loom (“Truly, dear, there are simpler ways, you know”). Once Arachne realized she was not immediately to be transformed again, this time into a hippopotamus, she managed to reconstitute herself out of the puddle of awe she had become instead. The goddess gaily accepted her ministrations. Upon hearing the girl speak, however, she paused and eyed her keenly.

“You are not using the gift I gave you.”

“Gift?” Arachne sucked the impertinence back into her mouth, too late. “But, madam . . . did you not intend to curse me?”

“Oh, no. Silly child.” Athena tutted and sipped her wine. “The curse was for him. The terrible one with the stained teeth. He was supposed to have to do without you, without all your lovely talent once he disowned you. No man deserves credit for the golden eggs he wrings out of the goose.” She took another mouthful and spat it gleefully. “Especially if he boasts that they're his eggs, laid out of his very own tuckus.”

“My lady—” Arachne's mouth ran dry. “He will not be happy to find his wine lessened, much less spilt.” She wrung her hands.

Athena stood up, lightly scraping the tip of her helm against the low ceiling. She was a good three times as tall as the mortal-made-unhuman, and she bent low to gather up all those sets of tiny hands in her own.

“Dear girl,” she said, “you do not owe him happiness. You owe him nothing. Not work, not prosperity, not your body—not fear. I gave you these hands so that you might make a life for yourself, as you see fit. Other adjustments will come to help you into that new life; they take time. You needn't stay here waiting for that to happen.”

The goddess dropped dozens of shivering fingers and straightened. Her odd helmet swiveled, and a long, imperious arm pointed firmly to the door. “Leave tonight. Find your way through the shadows into the city. There make a home for yourself wherever you please. Any corner in any house, great or poor, will accommodate you. You will thrill the people there with the splendor of your work. None will see you, and none will command you. Go, and be at peace.”

Arachne shielded her eyes and gasped; Athena's figure disappeared into the glare of sunlight.

“Goddess,” the girl whispered, “how can I?”

She spent the rest of the afternoon packing, obediently. The sun sank close to the horizon; fear sunk deep into her heart. How could she? Betray him? Flee, to where? Live on her own, yet—among others?

She turned to look about the tomb. This was her home. Strangely, she loved it. She loved the space that was her own and the tools she cared for. The loom could not go with her, and it had been her only true companion for many years. She stroked the half-finished cloth resting on its frame. It would sooth her to complete the piece and end her time here as she had begun. She moved her lamp close and set to work.

Time passed quickly. She lingered, savoring the tension in the strings and the tucking of the weft. Before she was ready, the linen was complete. She cut it carefully from the loom, folded it, tucked it into a bag, pulled a string of small white packages over her head, and turned to go.

Khankin stood in the doorway.

Her breath died in her throat. She had not heard or seen him, but he had seen her: the bags on her shoulder, the shoes on her feet. He had come from drinking—sour after his encounter with Nheren, angry at the thought of her indolence while he clothed and kept her—incensed at her refusal to create linen of greater worth than any in Egypt. He roared and flung the flask across the room.

“Where do you think you're going?”

She ducked, trembling. She could not deny her behavior and not, not now, forsake it.

He barreled across the tomb floor, crashing through the limbs of the loom. A strike across the face sent her sprawling, but he was off-balance with wine and rage. She ducked underneath him and raced for the door. He fell after her and seized her heel, pulling her down flat in front of him, and she screamed.

“What will you do now, little wretch?” he wheezed, dragging her body toward him. He stood and dangled her upside down by her ankle, for she now only came up to his waist. “Run from me? You are an insect! A worm! A pitiful woman with no use, no purpose in life but to serve me, and this you have failed. This you have refused!” The cruel amusement in his eyes turned once more to rage. “I will crush you!” he seethed.

Anger devoured his voice; terror flamed up in her heart. He would kill her. She gasped and sunk her teeth as deep as she could into his side.

He screamed. He dropped her, reeled, and fell to the floor.

She landed on her head and rolled a few feet away, still gasping, now crying, before a second scream yanked her attention back to him. He was clutching his side and convulsing, foaming at the mouth. His face turned blue, then purple. He gurgled—a long, low, ghastly sound—and lay still.

She would have screamed herself, but fear kept her from it. It might rouse him.

Several minutes passed as she waited for him to move. She did not think of running and could not have said why. The color of his face did not change, and she realized that she could not hear him breathing. Stiffly, she crept to where he lay and prodded him with a weaving rod. Then a finger. At last she leaned over his face to catch any trace of breath.

He was dead.

The cloth she had woven that evening became his burial dressage.

Why she stayed to lay him out and perform the wrapping, she did not know. It was not as though his body had been prepared for the afterlife; it would reek within days. But she found she could not leave him staring into the cold fate of his murder. She did what she could to give his body peace, though his soul might never find it.

It was deep night before she had finished, doused the lamp, and left the tomb. She wished she could close it and give him final rest, but she had no such strength. No one ventured out here anyway—no one but the goddess, who would understand.

The stars blinked as a strange, small shadow skittered rapidly over the sand. They had never seen a beast like that before and watched to see where it would go.

Nheren woke early, as he often did, to walk the bounds of his home and gardens. The breeze was fresh and cool off the Nile this morning. It would be a good day for hard labor. Others' hard labor. He smiled as he strolled to the portico where he had met with Khankin yesterday. Funny man—harsh, demanding, and remarkably effective at soliciting quality craftsmanship. Nheren respected this, even as he preferred the less confrontational, more genteel nature of his own occupation.

Lost in these thoughts, Nheren nearly collided with the translucent webbing that covered half of the portico threshold. The sparkling of dew on the strands caught his eye at the last second, and he stopped, mouth open, stumbling back two paces.

“Merciful Isis!” he gaped.

The web was pristine, perfect. Vespers rocked it gently. In the center rested the most colored gem of a creature he had ever seen. Its legs and arms were long and elegant; its body glinted gold and red in the morning light.

“Now this,” murmured Nheren to himself, “this is the finest weaving in all of Egypt!”