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Authors: Tee Morris Pip Ballantine
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and relished the treat’s saltiness. The chips would have been a reminder of home had she been able to top them with malt vinegar. When in Rome, or in Bruges, she lamented as she joined the flow of tourists towards the Grote Markt.
The town square was a vast cobbled space, surrounded by pointed-roofed brick buildings gleaming with water. It bustled with far too much life even in the chill of winter. Many a meeting of vapid and dull tourists was conducted here, and the spot was positively rabid with little horse carts.
And these locals were so bloody cheerful .
Then there was the plethora of little tables and chairs set out for French, English, and even Americans to sit about drinking coffee and show how urbane they were. On the other side of the Markt, local vendors had set out fresh produce and handmade trinkets to bilk the tourists with. The Belfry of Bruges loomed over them all, with the grey-towered Provincial Court and Post Office finishing off the officious, dull nature of the place. In front of the court were two statutes of some Flemish heroes. One was a butcher, the other was a weaver.
“ Typical,” Beth muttered to herself. “Even their heroes are dull.”
Deciding it was safe enough for her to circle about and return to her hotel—just in case any Ministry operatives were to happen upon her by chance—Beth set her weary feet on the path back to her room. That was when a gleam of brass in front of the court snagged her gaze. Quite the contraption had been set up in front of the grey building, and a small crowd was gathering. On one side of the stage was a gleaming brass and bronze contraption resembling a five-foot wide metallic spider. Unlike an arachnid, though, this device held spun wool in all of its multi-jointed arms. It was hard not to admire the mechanical cleverness of it.
On the opposite end of the stage was a loom. The contraption, looking ancient in comparison to the other, was made of polished wood. Beams were bolted together to frames and limbs, all of these connected to a variety of cross beams that eventually led to a series of foot pedals set before a long bench. Threaded through hooks and stretched between two of these beams were many colours of wool strands.
Beth curled her lip and wondered why two such incongruous designs were placed so close together. The loom belonged in the museum, the brass device in a humming factory. The answer was quickly revealed when a tall, handsome gentleman stepped up on the stage next to the brass machine.
“ Ladies and gentlemen, gather round…gather round,” he said cheerily, his voice holding a light French accent, “I see many visitors in amongst the ranks of the more curious citizens of this lovely canal city, yes? You all are strangers, but strangers united through one commonality.” He held up his index finger and slowly drew it across the crowd, his eyes holding contact with random people, his smile never faltering. “Curiosity.”
A showman obviously cut from P.T. Barnum’s cloth, Beth thought with a wry grin.
“ You see upon this stage the trusted tools of a trade,” he said, giving his hands a slight flourish as he motioned to the loom, “and the wonders of modern technology,” and his hands flickered towards the brass spider. “I am here today to give a demonstration of my latest invention, an innovation for artisans here in Bruges and for those of you travelling abroad. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I present the Weaver’s Web!”
As if on cue, the clouds parted, allowing for slivers of sunlight to illuminate its brass body.
Beth craned her neck, and noticed a line of round little businessmen standing at the front of the crowd, observing the showman with hawk-like intensity.
“ To show how soundly my device trumps any human in skill and speed, I have one of your city’s finest weavers to compete against.” He turned towards the stairs, and a woman shambled up onto the stage. The tattered dark blue shawl and
The town square was a vast cobbled space, surrounded by pointed-roofed brick buildings gleaming with water. It bustled with far too much life even in the chill of winter. Many a meeting of vapid and dull tourists was conducted here, and the spot was positively rabid with little horse carts.
And these locals were so bloody cheerful .
Then there was the plethora of little tables and chairs set out for French, English, and even Americans to sit about drinking coffee and show how urbane they were. On the other side of the Markt, local vendors had set out fresh produce and handmade trinkets to bilk the tourists with. The Belfry of Bruges loomed over them all, with the grey-towered Provincial Court and Post Office finishing off the officious, dull nature of the place. In front of the court were two statutes of some Flemish heroes. One was a butcher, the other was a weaver.
“ Typical,” Beth muttered to herself. “Even their heroes are dull.”
Deciding it was safe enough for her to circle about and return to her hotel—just in case any Ministry operatives were to happen upon her by chance—Beth set her weary feet on the path back to her room. That was when a gleam of brass in front of the court snagged her gaze. Quite the contraption had been set up in front of the grey building, and a small crowd was gathering. On one side of the stage was a gleaming brass and bronze contraption resembling a five-foot wide metallic spider. Unlike an arachnid, though, this device held spun wool in all of its multi-jointed arms. It was hard not to admire the mechanical cleverness of it.
On the opposite end of the stage was a loom. The contraption, looking ancient in comparison to the other, was made of polished wood. Beams were bolted together to frames and limbs, all of these connected to a variety of cross beams that eventually led to a series of foot pedals set before a long bench. Threaded through hooks and stretched between two of these beams were many colours of wool strands.
Beth curled her lip and wondered why two such incongruous designs were placed so close together. The loom belonged in the museum, the brass device in a humming factory. The answer was quickly revealed when a tall, handsome gentleman stepped up on the stage next to the brass machine.
“ Ladies and gentlemen, gather round…gather round,” he said cheerily, his voice holding a light French accent, “I see many visitors in amongst the ranks of the more curious citizens of this lovely canal city, yes? You all are strangers, but strangers united through one commonality.” He held up his index finger and slowly drew it across the crowd, his eyes holding contact with random people, his smile never faltering. “Curiosity.”
A showman obviously cut from P.T. Barnum’s cloth, Beth thought with a wry grin.
“ You see upon this stage the trusted tools of a trade,” he said, giving his hands a slight flourish as he motioned to the loom, “and the wonders of modern technology,” and his hands flickered towards the brass spider. “I am here today to give a demonstration of my latest invention, an innovation for artisans here in Bruges and for those of you travelling abroad. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I present the Weaver’s Web!”
As if on cue, the clouds parted, allowing for slivers of sunlight to illuminate its brass body.
Beth craned her neck, and noticed a line of round little businessmen standing at the front of the crowd, observing the showman with hawk-like intensity.
“ To show how soundly my device trumps any human in skill and speed, I have one of your city’s finest weavers to compete against.” He turned towards the stairs, and a woman shambled up onto the stage. The tattered dark blue shawl and
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