Magic Realism - Mature Audience
3 min
Woven
Alina Rios
Alina Rios
Alina Rios is a playwright, and the founder of Bracken magazine. Her fiction has appeared in On the Seawall. Her plays have been produced on both sides of the Atlantic. Her monologue We’re People Too, received an OnComm nomination. More at alinarios.com.
I walk by this Weaver often, quickening my pace, hands tight in my pockets, for all Weavers are thieving bastards and will steal your memories when you aren't looking. Sometimes, even when you are looking. Sometimes, in fact, right in front of you.
Years ago now, I talked to him—a mistake, but I was young.
"Tell me," I said, "what do you do with them really? After you steal them I mean."
He wanted to see mine first, to know he could have them in exchange for this "small talk." It wasn't small by any means. I was trying to find my father.
"Look," he said, chewing tobacco that smelled of my first trip to the fair, "it's simple. I take the Present and the Past and I weave the Future."
That seemed simple enough, except...
"But how do you know what to...weave?"
"I don't. Not till I've made it."
"That sounds a bit...I don't know...irresponsible? I mean that's a lot of power."
"I know," he grinned with tobacco all over his crooked teeth. "Like that kiss in the dark stairwell you've got in your left pocket (which is part of my fee I'll have you know), it means nothing on its own."
"Well not nothing," I started to protest.
"And the sound of the door slamming after your father walked out, well that would make..."
I held my breath.
"Don't," he said, and spat out the tobacco. It landed at my feet.
Something was glistening in the spit. Something gold.
I looked at him.
"Dem wisdom nuggets. Don't look it do they? Always in the muck."
He inhaled, "So. Curious?"
"Yes but."
He moved swiftly, face close to mine now, endless eyes.
"Are you curious or aren't ya?"
"I am."
"Then hand them over."
"For good? I mean I need to know. Before I..."
He retreated. "I'm done answering. I'm the Weaver for crying out loud."
I was half here half in his tunnel eyes at this point. There is no way out but through, I thought.
I nodded.
In one fluid motion, he reached in both my pockets, and pulled out thin whispers of smoke.
He worked fast, twisting them, folding, flipping them, pausing to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead, then on to pulling and stretching until it all became something he deemed finished judging by the satisfied sigh that came out of his chest. My future hung between us. Holding my gaze, he gave it a little shove with his hand. It flew into my chest and disappeared. I lost my breath.
"Now scram," he said.
I forced my lungs to inhale and ran. I was craving my room. My books, my notebooks, my pens. Some tea, yes some hot tea and a biscuit or two. Up three flights of stairs, my breath coming out all broken, key in, wiggle through the mechanism, throw the door open.
Silence.
Unusual.
"Hello?"
Suddenly many voices from the kitchen. "Here, come here."
I came. They were all huddled round a teapot and a typed letter. They looked up, faces an odd mix of fear and excitement, and sadness.
"What's going on?"
"We're moving," Mum said.
"Moving? Where?"
"America," she said proudly. Then quickly, "If Grandpa agrees of course."
He did agree.
*
It takes me twenty years to find the Weaver again. I have a score to settle. Obviously.
"Hello there," he says and I can tell he knows. "Ready for your future to be woven again?"
"Bite me. You brought me here."
"What's wrong with here?"
"It's. It's as far away from my father as I can imagine. You knew I wanted to find him. You knew and...I'm not a stupid girl anymore. I won't fall for your tricks."
"Won't you? Now what's in those pockets? Mmmm. A broken heart. I can work with that."
"No."
"Suit yourself then."
"Really?"
"You betcha."
Confused, I turn to leave.
"You do know he's not coming back."
I stop. The hairs on my neck prickle. I turn slowly. Look into his eyes. A mistake, I know, but have you ever been around a Weaver? It's impossible not to look.
"He's not coming back," he repeats slowly, chewing every word. "So you might as well live."
"He's not coming back," I repeat, as if hypnotized. I let the words in, feel them settle low under my ribcage. Then it dawns on me. "Are you my father?"
"Still the Weaver.
Now.
Ready to live a little?"
I grin and take my hands out of my pockets, spread them out, palms facing him.
He gets to work.
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