Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

"Let's bring this upstairs. Maybe we'll find some answers."
    The Texo Vita lay open on her desk, illuminated by a greenish pool of light from the adjustable lamp. Outside, the wind rattled against the dark pane of the window as Tessa turned the crisp yellowed pages with a gloved hand. The lines of black script were so small and ornate, they looked like spiders crawling off the page. She could make out some of the letters here and there, and some dates. That was about it.
    Opal leaned over Tessa's shoulder. Will paced behind them, finishing the last of a ham sandwich.
    "Do you recognize any of this writing?" Tessa asked him, turning and leaning back in the chair.
    "No," said Will, giving the book a brief glance. "Should I?"
    "I suppose not." Tessa closed the book with a sigh. "I don't know how this can tell us anything."
    Will stopped pacing. He reached over her and plucked the book away. "I said I did not recognize it," he said quietly. "That does not mean I am incapable of reading it."
    Tessa gave him an exasperated look. "You might have said so."
    "You might have asked."
    "Okay, kids," said Opal under her breath. "Let's all get along."
    Will read the cover aloud. " Texo Vita. "
    Tessa recalled the conversation with her father. "That means 'the weave of life,' right?" she asked.
    He ran a considering hand over the letters. "More precisely it means 'to weave life.' "
    "Okay. That makes more sense," Tessa murmured. She looked at the tapestry. "Not in a good way, but more sense."
    Will gripped the book by the spine and began to riffle through it.
    "Hey!" Tessa cried. She peeled off the cotton gloves and shook them at Will, but he only turned away, completely absorbed in scanning the pages. She tossed the gloves down with a sigh. The book had survived for five hundred years. A little spicy brown mustard probably wouldn't hurt it now.
    "It looks like a diary," he said after a moment. "Where shall I begin?"
    "Anywhere," Tessa said.
    Will put a finger on the page and read rapidly:
    Thirteenth December , 1506
    A baby born last night in village to whey-faced daughter of Winna Humphries. Girl child. Darkling Well-formed and red-faced, took teat. I was paid four eggs and a plank of dried fish for delivering .
    The weaving becomes harder. My joints ache so, and I am clumsy with the fine work. But I must keep working. I must find a way to obtain the threads .
    Will turned a number of pages slowly, his eyes scanning the scrawled writing with apparent ease before reading again:
    Dunnington. Nineteenth April, 1507
    Guinea hens not laying for four days. Killed one for dinner and ate with mashed peas and soaked trencher of manchet. Teeth are hurting most painfully and bleeding some .
    But it does not matter. I have discovered the key to obtaining my desire. It was sold to me by an Arabian trader .
    The key was discovered on the shores of an eastern sea. I now have the key. I have the craft. I shall soon have what I seek .
    Seventh July
    Have not yet mastered the way to bind them .
    Harvested ten canes of young ash sapling. To be cured in sea brine and char wort, then thistle-smoked and dried on untouched stone. This shall be the frame. The path of the thread must pass through the center of the crossing weft .
    Wove four cubits of linen broadcloth and sold at market cross for five shillings .
    Will shifted his stance and his voice slowed:
    Fourteenth June, 1510
    Must find proper manner of warp fiber to contain the thread. Saw a fine, long-legged calf in John Haysmith's pen. Sinew?
    Will stopped abruptly and looked up. "There's no doubt of it. Gray Lily wrote this," he said. "This is the diary of the witch who trapped me." Will scanned quickly through several more entries. Then he stopped and read silently.
    "What is it?" asked Tessa, going closer and peering over the edge of the page.
    "This--this is some years later," he said in a low, hoarse voice.
    Opal stood on his other side. "That's weird," she said. "The handwriting looks the same. But it's clearer. Less wobbly than the earlier pages."
    "Read it," Tessa said. She glanced at Will's face and added, "Please."
    In a slow voice Will began:
    Hartescross. Twelfth September, 1511
    The hunt is complete. I thought the older son, Hugh de Chaucy, would kill the unicorn. He is as brawny and stupid as a young bull. He thought of nothing but vengeance for his brother. I do believe he thought me mad with my laughing. 'Twas only that he did not know the jest. He cut a gash over the creature's