The Young Gods (The Young Gods #1) [NEW DRAFT]

•capítulo siete // chapter seven•

 On one rare occasion, as a small child, Malina left the walls of the mountaintop temple she grew up in. Her uncle Paolo was her only escort, glued dutifully to her side as they ventured into the village below. Though they had the cover of night, he kept a cloak over her head, hiding her red hair from view, a child's eyepatch over her right eye.

One of his thin hands came to rest at her shoulder as he steered her about the narrow streets. Malina watched, eye darting around to observe the goings-on. Someone was harking passers-by to their market stall. A pair of stringy boys stood by a pretty girl who smiled and fluttered her eyelashes at them. A spotted dog barked at uncle Paolo, sniffing at the air.

Malina paused to stroke the dog's soft fur, reaching out for it. It was staring- perhaps eagerly- at her, tail wagging. Her hand came close. Then it slipped over something she couldn't quite see, something that felt almost like a loose thread. It burned and stung at her little hand, and she recoiled just as it caught on her fingers.

The dog fell to the ground in the next moment, yelping and convulsing. Foam streamed from its mouth. Blood leaked from its nose.

Uncle Paolo pulled her away and into his strong arms.

"Don't look," he urged. "You'll have nightmares."

Tears pricked at her eyes. "Uncle," she began softly, "what did I do?"

His hand was soft on the back of her head, but his voice was flat and cold. "Dogs aren't good company to keep."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Just the day before, she'd been inspecting a butterfly that had wandered into her bedroom. She went to let it onto her hand in one gentle movement- but instead, she'd caught one of those strings, and the butterfly had crumpled before her very eyes. Another day, she'd made a bird fall out of the sky. They was a plant she'd uprooted just by moving her hand the wrong way. Flower petals opened and closed. Mice feared her deft fingers. Even the monks who inhabited the temple were wary of her.

Lately, she'd been catching the weave too many times to count.

That was what uncle Paolo called it, anyway. The weave, like some sort of fabric. He told her that the weave was everything, and everything was the weave. He called her a Weaver. He called her powerful.

It was funny to Malina at the time. She was a girl. She was not powerful, especially since she did not know her parents or her last name or practically anyone but her uncle. He was the only family she had. What power could a person have, anyway, that their family name could not give them?

Malina tore her gaze away from the dog, and uncle Paolo carried her into a narrower street where it reeked of unpleasant things. Malina covered her nose with a tiny hand.

Uncle Paolo paused in front of a hut that seemed to be falling into the one beside it. Its thatched roof was made of palm fronds and banana leaves, all tied together with fibrous rope. Its only window was a hole in the bamboo wall with a frayed curtain strung up in front of it. Where a door should have been, there was only a doorway leading into darkness.

"Lola Diwa?" her uncle called.

Malina knew the word lola. It meant grandmother.

Something shuffled around in the shadows beyond the doorway. Malina clung to her uncle, sure that there was a monster within.

Instead, a withered old woman poked her head out, back hunched with age. "Paolo," she rasped. "I was wondering when you'd get here. They've been whispering in my ears for hours."

"Yes. I'm sorry. She was a handful."

Lola Diwa's shifting black eyes rested upon Malina. "This is the Weaver, then. She's awfully pale."