resume their needlework, but continued talking softly, almost mockingly as they spoke over Silas. “Just you hurry to the gate! So many things to be found! Lost and found both! Such marvels await you beyond the gate. We promise, Little Bird, we promise! You hurry to the gate and see!”
At Silas’s departure, the ladies of the Sewing Circle turned back to look upon their handiwork.
“It’s all redundancy! The same designs here and here and here! I like it not,” said the third, already beginning to pick and fuss at the worn threads.
“ Patterns are our business,” said the first. “What has happened shall happen again. Look here!” she said, pointing to a tree worked out in very old, faded, green silk. Among its roots were stitched tiny bones and little leaves. “Loss shall call out to loss down through the ages.”
“But we cannot lose him now,” said the third.
“True enough,” replied the second.
The third drew forth her needle and quickly embroidered the outline of a comet above the tree.
“What are you doing?” asked the first and second.
“Signs and portents,” said the third, not looking up from her work. “Signs and portents. How else will he find the Mistle Child and come home to us?”
“His path is set. You may not change it, nor add what is yet to come.”
“This little part has happened already, long ago. I am merely catching up with some unfinished work,” said the third.
The first and second nodded, and drawing out their needles and thread, joined their sister at the tapestry.
L EDGER
Of all the omens from the old Northern Lore, the Washer at the Ford was the most harrowing. She would be found in the rivers or streams, cleaning the blood from the garments of some family member or other destined to die. But her appearances were various, for, on rare occasion, she might grant wishes or settle blessings upon those who were making errand to ill places for the sake of ancestral obligation.
— FROM P RIMITIVE AND P A GAN— A N A CCOUNT OF E NDURING N ORTHERN C USTOMS by R ICHARD U MBER
T HE PATH TO A RVALE stood at the very end of Fort Street. So Silas had decided to visit his great-grandfather before taking the short walk to the gates.
As he approached the stream that separated Fort Street from the town, bare trees and sharp-tipped reeds stood their ground against the cold wind. Silas saw a familiar figure standing in the midst of the water.
“Mrs. Gray?”
“Aye, Master Umber.”
“May I ask what you’re doing in the stream?”
“This is the old Washing Place. Farther on in both directions the stream is deeper than it looks. Folks used to come here to cross and for washing, for it is very low just here, and the crossing is less hazardous.” She stood in water up to her thighs and the cold stream swirled her apron about her in spirals and eddies of trailing, threadbare calico.
“Are you no longer working at my mother’s house?”
“Aye. I am. But the house’s needs are few, now that neither you nor your uncle is in residence. I gave the place a good going-over after his departure. All’s well there, I think. Your mother has taken on other help, so really, she has little need of me most days. But don’t worry, young master. I’ve been looking out for her. She is as well as might be expected. Perhaps a little better.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gray. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. I know my mother is glad for it too.”
“Aye, but she don’t say, do she?” Mrs. Gray smiled. “No matter. I know she values good work, even if she’s not the type to say ‘thank you.’”
Mrs. Gray moved slowly through the water, appearing to glide as she got closer to the shore. “Will you be coming across?” she said, extending a hand.
Something in the gesture made Silas shudder, and he took a step back. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Gray. But, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll use the bridge.”
“Suit yourself, Master Umber. To
At Silas’s departure, the ladies of the Sewing Circle turned back to look upon their handiwork.
“It’s all redundancy! The same designs here and here and here! I like it not,” said the third, already beginning to pick and fuss at the worn threads.
“ Patterns are our business,” said the first. “What has happened shall happen again. Look here!” she said, pointing to a tree worked out in very old, faded, green silk. Among its roots were stitched tiny bones and little leaves. “Loss shall call out to loss down through the ages.”
“But we cannot lose him now,” said the third.
“True enough,” replied the second.
The third drew forth her needle and quickly embroidered the outline of a comet above the tree.
“What are you doing?” asked the first and second.
“Signs and portents,” said the third, not looking up from her work. “Signs and portents. How else will he find the Mistle Child and come home to us?”
“His path is set. You may not change it, nor add what is yet to come.”
“This little part has happened already, long ago. I am merely catching up with some unfinished work,” said the third.
The first and second nodded, and drawing out their needles and thread, joined their sister at the tapestry.
L EDGER
Of all the omens from the old Northern Lore, the Washer at the Ford was the most harrowing. She would be found in the rivers or streams, cleaning the blood from the garments of some family member or other destined to die. But her appearances were various, for, on rare occasion, she might grant wishes or settle blessings upon those who were making errand to ill places for the sake of ancestral obligation.
— FROM P RIMITIVE AND P A GAN— A N A CCOUNT OF E NDURING N ORTHERN C USTOMS by R ICHARD U MBER
T HE PATH TO A RVALE stood at the very end of Fort Street. So Silas had decided to visit his great-grandfather before taking the short walk to the gates.
As he approached the stream that separated Fort Street from the town, bare trees and sharp-tipped reeds stood their ground against the cold wind. Silas saw a familiar figure standing in the midst of the water.
“Mrs. Gray?”
“Aye, Master Umber.”
“May I ask what you’re doing in the stream?”
“This is the old Washing Place. Farther on in both directions the stream is deeper than it looks. Folks used to come here to cross and for washing, for it is very low just here, and the crossing is less hazardous.” She stood in water up to her thighs and the cold stream swirled her apron about her in spirals and eddies of trailing, threadbare calico.
“Are you no longer working at my mother’s house?”
“Aye. I am. But the house’s needs are few, now that neither you nor your uncle is in residence. I gave the place a good going-over after his departure. All’s well there, I think. Your mother has taken on other help, so really, she has little need of me most days. But don’t worry, young master. I’ve been looking out for her. She is as well as might be expected. Perhaps a little better.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gray. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. I know my mother is glad for it too.”
“Aye, but she don’t say, do she?” Mrs. Gray smiled. “No matter. I know she values good work, even if she’s not the type to say ‘thank you.’”
Mrs. Gray moved slowly through the water, appearing to glide as she got closer to the shore. “Will you be coming across?” she said, extending a hand.
Something in the gesture made Silas shudder, and he took a step back. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Gray. But, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll use the bridge.”
“Suit yourself, Master Umber. To
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