Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

he couldn't say what.
    Will drew closer, intrigued by the scene. A castle was on a distant hillside. The old woman must have used Hartescross as inspiration, Will thought, for it looked identical. In the foreground was an empty, sunlit clearing of grass, surrounded by dark trees and brilliant flowers. Small creatures were tucked here and there among the greenery. Will spotted a snake with yellow eyes that clung to one branch. It seemed to stare at him.
    Will blinked. " 'Tis fine work," he remarked. "But--"
    The woman stepped forward. "You think it's missing something," she said. She pointed to the center, the clearing. "There."
    "That was not what I--"
    Will broke off, staring at the tapestry. He felt an odd dizziness. He took a step away from it. With the distance it seemed to him that his head became somewhat clearer. Curious.
    "Have you seen a girl here?" he asked, turning to the woman. "I think she ran this way. She may be lost. She has blue eyes and long, dark hair."
    The old woman's mouth closed, her lips flattened into a grim line. She threw a watchful glance to the opening of the hut. "Your sweetheart, is she?"
    "No," Will replied. The remark annoyed him somehow. "She is a girl from the village. She may be lost."
    The old woman smiled and raised a finger to her lips in a playful, secretive gesture. "I've not seen her," she whispered. She shuffled closer. "Here, now." She reached out. In her hand she held a small lump. A waxy-looking yellow stone. She pressed the stone to his chest, over his heart.
    Will looked at the old woman in surprise. The poor old thing was mad. She was staring fixedly at the spot where the stone touched him, whispering something.
    With a short laugh Will reached up to push her hand away. But he found he couldn't move his hands. He couldn't move at all . The realization sent a deep bolt of fear through him. He tried to back away and run. He stayed. He was fixed to the ground as if nailed there.
    "What--"
    That was all he could say. His voice was silenced as if an invisible gag had been jammed down his throat.
    "As I said, young lordling," the crone whispered while Will struggled silently, "I am a simple weaver. But the threads for my loom are priceless indeed. We are each given but one. One life. One thread."
    Now the old woman's mouth opened wide. Her lips didn't move, but sounds came out. Not words, but foul grunts and guttural cries, like nothing a human voice should ever utter. The noises poured out of her gaping mouth, a language from Hell. Will's whole body shook with disgust as they washed over him.
    Her touch was hurting him. Piercing him. Will stared down at her hand. The old woman still held the small, dull, yellowish rock to his chest. Through his shirt he could feel it, burning him with a searing pain. Not from hot or cold, but burning all the same.
    Slowly, as Will stared, the old woman drew her hand away. Will staggered, his eyes wide. Something drifted out of his chest. A faint wisp of silvery thread.
    Gray Lily let out a delighted cackle of laughter and spoke. "That's it. Come out." She took hold and pulled the silver thread, and as she did, Will felt himself being drained, being emptied. Of everything. Meanwhile, the woman's lightless eyes twitched back and forth and her tongue flicked out from her black mouth. The cold yet fiery pain seeped through Will's chest, and he could only stare as Gray Lily wound the thread over her hands, faster and faster.
    The thread was his life, and as the thread left him, his body grew thinner. His flesh withered. His muscles shrank. The color left his cheeks, his hair, and finally even his eyes. For a moment he was a pale wraith. Then he was gone.
    Only the old woman remained, clutching a skein of shimmering thread. "Strong young thing," she said, nearly cooing to it. She spoke as if the young nobleman still stood before her. "Your life is mine now." Her gaze drifted, became thoughtful. "I have been waiting for the proper thread to complete my work." Her gnarled fingers stroked the thread. "One such as you. Handsome, young and proud." Suddenly her black, lusterless eyes widened. She started to laugh. "You shall remain so. Forever."
    The laughter changed and turned back into the dreadful sounds of her incantations. Her hands plucked and pulled at the strand of thread as she worked it. Faster. "This is the part I like best," she grunted. "I am creator now. Not them. "
    She worked the beautiful thread, using only her dirty, crooked fingers