Weaver Girl

Once upon a time, in a parallel dimension not so unlike this one, there lived a being whose home lay at the edge of an ancient meadow, nestled next to a grove of shimmering dragon scales lining a river of wonder. The being would gaze at the trees reflecting the breath-taking light accompanied by the most splendid harmonies and be filled with endless waves of awe. But it could not feel the movements that set the scales waving or the warmth of the light. It would wander into the grove, but could not feel the texture of the trees or the sensation of the waters flowing over it.

It felt at once immersed in the exquisite beauty of its home and cut off from it, increasingly tormented by a longing to more deeply experience it.

One evening, as the magenta moon rose to cast darkly animated shadows across the ancient meadow, the being slipped into a profound slumber. As it began to wake, it felt an unfamiliar sensation of pressure beneath it, then rough texture, an earthy smell, the sound of gravel scraping, and prickling heat. As it engaged its sight, it found itself laying on a woven mat on the sandy ground, light slanting in through gaps in the woven branch structure surrounding it.

“Is she still asleep?” a voice called. And then a figure appeared sillouetted in the doorway, holding a steaming bowl and beckoning. She rose, stepping into the light, and was enveloped by a sea of bodies moving in all directions at every speed, and a world of sensation. The sweet and savory stew eased the twisting in her belly, her skin crackled under the sun, and splashes of water brought thrilling relief. As the days passed, her feet became torn, bruised, and then hardened by dancing, her throat sore and then lithe from singing, and her legs aching and then weightless with labor. Her fingers wove reeds into baskets, her palms pounded clay, her tongue watered and tightened from an array of fruits and roots gathered nearby, and her skin tingled from the thrill of sensuous touch.

She felt at once immersed in the exquisite beauty of her home, and in ecstatic reverie of all the things there were to feel.

When dusk came she found herself wandering near the edge of the canyon that lay outside the village, shrouded in thick brush and sense a nebulous, looming dread. When one came of age, the elders whispered, one needed to descend into the canyon and make their way through the shadows, for without what was held there, the village could not survive. She felt fear and unease, knowing her time would come, but without any idea of what she was looking for and without being able to recognize it, how could she ever sustain her home?

One morning she woke to the familiar rough mat and metallic smell, but there was a crisp bite in the air, a gray tinge to the light, and complete silence. She rose, stiff and hungry, and stepped out into the haze. Branch homes loomed ghostly and fire pits smoldered darkly, but there were no other signs of her tribe. Feeling numbly compelled, she staggered towards the canyon, pushed herself through the brush, and picked her way down the rocky path. The haze was so thick and she was so focused on the road, that she was only dimly aware of a growing rumbling in the distance, of a gathering sharp and smoky scent. Suddenly the clouds thinned and she saw straight edges shooting upward as far as the eye could see. She saw blinding lights flashing, and heard a cacophony of grinding, piercing sounds.

Overwhelmed by the unfriendly sensations, she slipped through an open doorway and bumped into a gray and greasy desk, covered with metal boxes and cords and piles of paper. Without looking up, a woman hunched and puckered gestured her back towards a line of dark figures holding plastic trays covered with gaudy packaging. They filed to rows of tables, tearing open the packages and devouring the contents, laughing in a way that made her want to cry. Beyond the tables were beds stacked on metal frames. She staggered towards them dazed and fell into a desolate, dreamless sleep.

She felt at once severed from all sense of beauty and home, and heart-broken over all the things there were to feel.

When she woke, she followed the others rising from the bunks out into the street, onto the bus and then the street car, and then through the massive double-doors of an imposing building with long tables covered with cloth and boxes and moving arms. She took her place, and watched how each piece was woven together. She imitated and reproduced. Her back ached, her brow sweat, her stomach grumbled, but there were no sweet and savory stews, no breath of fresh air. Her fingers tore, but did not heal. Her chest felt heavy. When she tried to sing, she was told to be quiet and focus on her work. When she tried to dance, she was told to stop wasting time. She listened because there was nothing else she could do.

Soon she began to hear the bosses speaking. They admired her diligence and efficiency. They moved her to a brighter area with her own desk. She could talk to others and when she talked about how the pieces were woven together, they liked what she had to say. They asked her to tell other people how it all worked and she got to travel beyond the imposing building to other buildings. She began to feel invigorated by all the different parts of the city and ways of traveling between them. She felt less overwhelmed by the lights and smells, and began to feel the rhythm of the rumbling moving through her. She moved into her own set of rooms at the top of a building where the light was brighter and the air fresher. She wrapped herself in exquisitely soft and luxurious fabrics, basked in warm and bubbling baths, and marveled at the expansive flavors and textures and fragrances of the delicacies people brought her that began to fill her home.

And when everyone left and the lights dimmed and the silence rose, she felt a profound sense of emptiness, a feeling that she had lost something, but couldn’t remember what it was.

One day, as she swung down from a slowing street car, drumming to the beat spilling from the open window of a passing car and thinking of the oysters she was on her way to indulge in, a subtle movement caught her attention. Beyond a crumbling stone wall and rusting iron gate, a single leaf was waving, catching and reflecting the light in a way that made her catch her breath. She stepped through the gate and the noise of the street dimmed, and she heard the soft movement of the surfaces of the leaves sliding past each other. The light slanted down between the branches in an eerily familiar way. She felt as though a melody was rising and then slipped away. She felt both transfixed and unnerved, and although she wanted to lie down in this grove, she dashed back as quickly as she could towards her tantalizing lunch.

The sense of emptiness she felt in the evenings began to spread into her days, accompanied by a restlessness. She began to stay out later at the clubs, dine on more extravagant foods, clothe herself more ornately and seductively. She felt at once thrilled by the shower of erotic sensations and the beauty of her home, and cut off from it, increasingly tormented by a longing to experience more deeply something that eluded her.

Waking one morning in the arms of a lover whose face she couldn’t remember, head throbbing and heart aching, a fragment of dream began to take form in her mind. She had been standing at the edge of a vast green field. A line of trees shimmered in the distance, reflecting the light in a way that filled her with an indescribable sense of joy and well-being. She rose both shaken and enlivened, staggering bewildered through the streets until she found herself again by the broken wall and the rusting gate. Aching for something she could not articulate, she lay herself down under the trees. As she gazed upward through the branches, watching the light dance, she realized the soft grass beneath her was folded layers of fabric, her body cradled in an immense lap. The branches above her began to stitch together into the reeds of a woven basket. She heard a soft voice whispering of a deep, dark canyon and she suddenly remembered with a sense of relief and grief that that was where she was.

She began to tell others about her dream of the shimmering trees and her vision of the basket weaver in the trees, but the words didn’t come out right and people looked distracted or condescending. “Just come out for a drink,” they coaxed. “Don’t let this affect your work,” they cautioned. “Think of everything you have to be grateful for,” they counseled. But she could not forget anymore, and one by one the invitations and the visitors stopped coming. All she could bear to do once her work for the day was finished was lie at the foot of the trees and sleep in hope of catching another glimpse of home.

One day, she was distracted from her reverie by a movement near the rusting gate in the crumbing wall. A dark figure slipped through the opening, unsettling her for she had never seen anyone else there. As it approached, the hood slipped from its head and she saw dark curls cascade around a youthful but melancholy face, eyes averted timidly. The girl settled nearby the lap of the grove and drew from her robes an exotic, angular instrument with strings and hammers and began to play upon it an eerily evocative melody that drew a timeless and intuitive harmony from her throat. Her dream and her image became poetic lyrics and as the music fell into silence, these two women passed through the gate as one and never returned.

Some say they traveled from town to town singing music that put people into ecstatic trance, healed their wounds, and brought them good fortune. Some say they had an argument over a lover or recording contract and went their separate ways – one a cocktail waitress at a strip club and the other working the assembly line of a clothing factory. Others are certain they got lost wandering in the forest above the canyon outside of town and were eaten by cougars or coyotes or maybe just died of starvation and were dismembered by vultures.

I like to think they found their way back to the village with the treasure their people needed to survive. And that somewhere in a parallel dimension not so unlike this one, a radiant being is waking to dawn light spreading under a setting magenta moon and a grove of shimmering dragon scales at the edge of an ancient meadow washed with a sense of deep contentment.