Read Online The Ghost Rebellion by Tee Morris Pip Ballantine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tee Morris Pip Ballantine
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bent back of this decrepit creature didn’t speak much to her skill. If she was making any money as a weaver, she was not spending it on herself.
Beth let out a little snort of derision, however the crowd was watching the weaver keenly. She sat before her loom, adjusting its bench so that her feet were at a comfortable distance from the pedal array. The salesman missed this reaction from the locals, but Beth could easily label it as respect. Whoever this weaver was, she had a reputation.
Their Master of Ceremonies, wrapped in the confidence of his ilk, yanked back a cloth, revealing an over-sized hour-glass. His grin looked fit to break his jaw.
“ Both your local artisan and my Weaver’s Web will have half an hour to show how much they can create in that time. Your very own mayor will be the judge to the quality of the work.” His glance at the old woman dripped with dismissiveness. “Are you ready, madam?”
The old woman gave the slightest of nods, but did not even look in his direction.
He blew the silver whistle, flipped the glass over, and then stomped on a pedal by his foot. The metallic spider leapt to life as it began clicking and clacking, the legs spinning, retracting, and reaching while on the other end of the stage the old woman began smooth, practiced movements of her own. The audience cheered on the old maid and the machine, the locals cheering a fraction louder for the old woman that seemed undeterred by the strange machinery weaving without any signs of slowing. At first Beth was riveted by the hypnotic dance of the device’s eight legs. The way the thread moved and spun through the abdomen was entrancing, each retraction and extension appearing as if this collection of metal, pistons, and bolts had served as an apprentice to the greatest of weavers. The rug that was being crafted was a beautiful scene of the market itself.
Then Beth glanced over at the old weaver, and swiftly realized she had been missing the true wonder on the stage.
She sat quietly at her loom, her eyes neither glancing at the audience nor at her competition, as the shuttle flew backwards and forwards between the threads. The old crone embodied determination and focus, her own patterns in the rug appearing conservative in comparison, her chosen colours whites, greys and blue.
As skilled as the old woman appeared, Beth could see the showman’s creation was swifter, moving at a pace a flesh and bone creature could not possibly match.
Despite her love for mechanical wonders, she felt a sharp pang for the crone, and a part of her demanded that she turn away from this old woman’s fall. It was evident how the people of Bruges revered this weaver, but the mayor and other rotund gentlemen in attendance remained preoccupied with the Weaver’s Web. In a matter of moments, this salesman would collect a fine commission while the accomplished artist would fade into obscurity.
Beth had half-turned away to find her hotel, when cries and gasps of horror rippled through the crowd. She spun around to see the old weaver slump. Her hands and feet still worked the loom but fatigue was taking hold. Was this old woman to breathe her last on the stage before them? The weaver was waving the shuttle in one hand over her head, her hand shaking, and her body trembling.
Dramatic.
A bit too dramatic for Beth’s liking.
Her gaze narrowed on the weaver’s other hand, which hung lifeless, as well as upstage of the action, and obscured.
The weaver’s limp right hand twitched once, then again.
Then she let out a tiny cry and pulled herself back up, the crone’s eyes finding their focus again. Her teeth gnashed together and her jaw set as she continued her motions, commanding the loom to continue; and in her emerald gaze, she would be satisfied with nothing less than victory.
Those hard, emerald eyes…
Just when that realisation flashed into Beth’s mind, the contraption’s clicking grew louder. Then harder. The clockwork precision was
Beth let out a little snort of derision, however the crowd was watching the weaver keenly. She sat before her loom, adjusting its bench so that her feet were at a comfortable distance from the pedal array. The salesman missed this reaction from the locals, but Beth could easily label it as respect. Whoever this weaver was, she had a reputation.
Their Master of Ceremonies, wrapped in the confidence of his ilk, yanked back a cloth, revealing an over-sized hour-glass. His grin looked fit to break his jaw.
“ Both your local artisan and my Weaver’s Web will have half an hour to show how much they can create in that time. Your very own mayor will be the judge to the quality of the work.” His glance at the old woman dripped with dismissiveness. “Are you ready, madam?”
The old woman gave the slightest of nods, but did not even look in his direction.
He blew the silver whistle, flipped the glass over, and then stomped on a pedal by his foot. The metallic spider leapt to life as it began clicking and clacking, the legs spinning, retracting, and reaching while on the other end of the stage the old woman began smooth, practiced movements of her own. The audience cheered on the old maid and the machine, the locals cheering a fraction louder for the old woman that seemed undeterred by the strange machinery weaving without any signs of slowing. At first Beth was riveted by the hypnotic dance of the device’s eight legs. The way the thread moved and spun through the abdomen was entrancing, each retraction and extension appearing as if this collection of metal, pistons, and bolts had served as an apprentice to the greatest of weavers. The rug that was being crafted was a beautiful scene of the market itself.
Then Beth glanced over at the old weaver, and swiftly realized she had been missing the true wonder on the stage.
She sat quietly at her loom, her eyes neither glancing at the audience nor at her competition, as the shuttle flew backwards and forwards between the threads. The old crone embodied determination and focus, her own patterns in the rug appearing conservative in comparison, her chosen colours whites, greys and blue.
As skilled as the old woman appeared, Beth could see the showman’s creation was swifter, moving at a pace a flesh and bone creature could not possibly match.
Despite her love for mechanical wonders, she felt a sharp pang for the crone, and a part of her demanded that she turn away from this old woman’s fall. It was evident how the people of Bruges revered this weaver, but the mayor and other rotund gentlemen in attendance remained preoccupied with the Weaver’s Web. In a matter of moments, this salesman would collect a fine commission while the accomplished artist would fade into obscurity.
Beth had half-turned away to find her hotel, when cries and gasps of horror rippled through the crowd. She spun around to see the old weaver slump. Her hands and feet still worked the loom but fatigue was taking hold. Was this old woman to breathe her last on the stage before them? The weaver was waving the shuttle in one hand over her head, her hand shaking, and her body trembling.
Dramatic.
A bit too dramatic for Beth’s liking.
Her gaze narrowed on the weaver’s other hand, which hung lifeless, as well as upstage of the action, and obscured.
The weaver’s limp right hand twitched once, then again.
Then she let out a tiny cry and pulled herself back up, the crone’s eyes finding their focus again. Her teeth gnashed together and her jaw set as she continued her motions, commanding the loom to continue; and in her emerald gaze, she would be satisfied with nothing less than victory.
Those hard, emerald eyes…
Just when that realisation flashed into Beth’s mind, the contraption’s clicking grew louder. Then harder. The clockwork precision was
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