Carnival Souls

The Soul Weaver

Lydia rubbed her tired eyes, blinking to clear the fog. As her eyesight readjusted, the two looms she was seeing before her folded back into one. She had been at her work for hours and her backside was sore from the wooden stool she now slouched upon. Bebinn had offered to give her a more comfortable chair, indeed there were many plush poufs and rocking chairs and armchairs in her quarters, but Lydia had refused.

The discomfort kept her awake, kept her focused. Focus was of the utmost importance. That's what Bebinn had told her. Just like herself. Lydia and her work were of the utmost importance.

Lydia stifled a yawn and straightened up, the lengthening of her spine accompanied by soft popping sounds. She flexed her nimble fingers and once more regarded the loom. It was a simple apparatus, six feet high, made of dark wood.

But if you peered close enough you could see all manner of symbols and glyphs elegantly carved into the frame, blending seamlessly together while distinctly not of the same origin. The runes were faded in some places, worn down by years of use, years of fingers passing over them. Bebinn said Genzel would have to re-carve them soon enough, before it weakened too much.

Upon the loom was stretched what appeared to be fabric—looms were for weaving after all. But if you were to lean closer, and you had a keen eye, you would see beads of water quivering upon the individual threads. And between these droplets, linking them together, were thin gossamer strands like that of spider's silk.

Then, if you looked even more closely and perhaps tilted your head the right way, you could see things in these droplets, images and pictures. Lydia wasn't entirely sure what they were—memories or imprints of some kind—maybe something she would never understand.

In this particular soul, towards the top, she could see sunlight shimmering on dark blue water, a minute sailboat rocking gently on tiny waves, the flash of a silver fin, the purple-orange of an ocean sunset. As her gaze traveled down she paused in the middle where there was a cluster of black droplets. Here the stands were broken, frayed around the edges, the strings decaying and curling away in brackish mold.

Carefully, Lydia set to work, picking apart the broken threads, unstitching them slowly from the soul's fabric. If she moved too quickly, pulled the wrong strand, or unraveled too much, she ran the risk of the soul collapsing. Once that happened, there was no way to fix it again.

As she worked, some strings crumbled to dust beneath her fingertips while others she was able to remove in fragments. These she threw into the fire contained in a nearby brazier. The fire would flare, briefly turning a blackish green and giving off a puff of acrid smelling smoke, before settling down. For this reason, Lydia had pots of incense burning around the room to keep the air sweet.

Once she had picked away as much of the damage as she could, Lydia went to her wardrobe, took out a tiny brass key, and opened the double doors. Inside, carefully hung like precious garments with enough space so that they weren't touching, were dozens of souls that seemed to shimmer in the dark, enclosed space. They were organized by hue from dark blue to palest yellow—the way Lydia imagined a wealthy woman's closet might appear.

She took one that she thought would be the closest match to the soul she was mending—a dark forest green—and carried it back to the loom. She held the soul up to the flickering fire light, catching glimpses of memories woven into its fabric. There was a rushing river, thickly growing pine trees, the wagging tail of a dog.

Lydia moved the soul through her small, deft hands, scanning the bottom for a place where the memories stopped. About a finger's breadth from the hem, she saw several bare threads that were just a shade lighter than the rest. Sitting back down on her stool, she spread the soul across her lap like a blanket and picked up her seam ripper.

Lydia flipped the edge up, found the main thread, and with fluent stroke, slit the hem. A great sigh seemed to emit from the soul, setting the tongues of fire flickering and blowing Lydia's hair back from her face. She set to work in her usual quiet and efficient manner, unraveling the bare threads up to the last memory and then tying it off. She would re-hem the soul later, but for now folded it meticulously and set it aside in a wicker basket.

With the clean threads in hand, Lydia turned to the damaged soul and picked up her bone needle. Her small face pinched with the force of her concentration, she set about patching the hole in the fabric. Bit by bit, the soul was stitched back together with only the barest edges of the patch giving away that the soul was anything but whole.

Lydia allowed herself a small smile. With each repair, she was getting better.

Finally, she sat back and rubbed her eyes again. The soul looked as good as new, shimmering in the dark. Gathering the soul in a small bundle that she held protectively against her chest, Lydia stood to bring the soul to Bebinn. 

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So now we have a quick glimpse into Lydia's work. What do you think? Does this change any of your predictions? Do you think this is a good place in the story to reveal this? Please let me know! All feedback is super helpful :)

Thank you as always for reading! :)