Emmi Itäranta - The City of Woven Streets

The corridor throws echoes of our footsteps at us as we walk along it towards the Halls of Weaving. The looms stand tall and silent in the dark. We are careful not to touch them. I do not wish to cross the square again, but we must walk the short distance between the Halls of Weaving and the dormitory building outside. After we have passed the dormitories we can turn and exit through the door that will take us nearest to the web-maze.

I open the folding door slightly and peek out to the square. Darkness rests mute against the stones. I am about to start towards the door at the end of the dormitory building, when Valeria clutches my arm.

‘What is it?’ I whisper.

She points towards the dormitories. At first I see nothing. Most of the windows that side of the square are the empty, black windows of the dormitories, hollow and quiet. Yet above them runs another, sparser row, built to bring light to the corridor. At first I think it is some kind of reflection, but as I follow it, I see clearly how the orange-glowing light moves from one window to the next.

Someone is moving towards us along the corridor.

Valeria pulls me back into the Halls of Weaving and closes the door soundlessly. She begins to drag me with her. We cannot stay in the halls. There is nowhere to hide in here. With his lantern, the killer will see us from the doorway. There is no exit at the end of the Tapestry Rooms. We have barely made it into the corridor when I hear footsteps outside, the same two-phased beat as before: ta-tap ta-tap ta-tap. The folding door on the side of the square opens, the same by which we stood mere moments before.

‘Weaver’s study,’ I whisper to Valeria.

We run.

The key to the tall wooden door is gone. I cannot lock it from within. We must simply leave it closed. There is one hiding place in the room, one possible way out.

‘The corner,’ I whisper.

I pull Valeria by the hand behind the tapestries. Our Lady of Weaving looks the other way, does not know her face will conceal or reveal us.

There are footsteps in the corridor. An orange glow draws a line under the door, a sharp-edged cut in the dark. The door begins to open.

I push the worn wooden surface and wish.

The low door lets us into the darkness and closes behind us without sound. Valeria stiffens against me.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ I whisper very close into her ear. ‘I’ve been here before.’

But the truth is I am afraid, too. Not just of the killer on the other side of the door, but also of the creature in the dark. There is no sound at the other end of the room. I wonder if Spinner has already left the house, perhaps the island. Perhaps the world itself. For what do I know about her in the end, except that she is older than time and history, at least the time and history I am able to comprehend? Maybe Spinner is climbing the Web of Worlds at this very moment, seeking other skies, other lands in which to settle and spin her webs. Other spaces inhabited by people wiser than us.

Webs undulate around us, translucent and persistent.

We must move away from near the door.

I begin to thread through the webs towards the dark end of the room. Valeria follows. I lead her as best I can, although I am about to get tangled in the webs myself. They grab me like greedy hands reaching for prey. Estimating the distance turns difficult in the dark; I half-expect my extended arm to meet the large body of Spinner, a part I may not recognize at first touch. I do not know which thought is more frightening: that it will move, or that it will not.

Yet there is nothing ahead but webs. We make it to the end of the room, where it is empty and quiet. I begin to feel the wall. At the same moment when I feel the seams of the door under my fingers, a wedge of light cuts into the room behind us.

I pull at the door. It opens slowly. The stone scratches my fingertips and cleaves my nails. Together with Valeria I drag the door open. I push her into the tunnel ahead of me.

‘Down the stairs,’ I say.

The glow-glass slips from Valeria’s hand. It does not break, but begins to roll down the stairs. I hear it knock against the stones further away. Its echo climbs the walls. Then I hear a splash. I grab Valeria’s hand.

I knew, and yet I hoped. The tunnel has flooded.

At the top of the stairs a wide figure holding a lantern steps to the doorway. Behind him follows another, like a shadow.

Orange light glistens on the long blade of the knife with thin shreds of webs caught on it, reveals

the tale still told on the island.

This is how it goes:

Our Lady of Weaving started with the sky.

She stretched the space with her limbs until the jewels of the Web of Worlds shone through. In their light, under the stars she sighed life into the air, and far below she drew the dark ends of the earth.

Between the sky and earth she made warps of sunlight and rain, tall and taut bones of the world.

Then she began to dream.

From her sleep rose those who walked on four feet, and those who walked on two, and those who did not walk at all. She dreamed oceans and islands and trees. As she dreamed, silk spun from her many fingertips and began to weft its way through the warp binding heaven and earth together. Her dreams wove the thoughts and desires of those who walked under the stars, their gaze and their blindness, for them a will they could follow. And her dreams wove what they began to call a soul.

This is the world she made. This is the world she shelters with her limbs. One day, when she grows weary of those she brought to life, she will pluck a thread and pull, and all will unravel the moment when

Biros’s face is a landscape of light and shadow. He places the lantern on top of the staircase. Lazaro stands behind him, unmoving. The knife in Biros’s hand is long and strong-bladed, like a sabre. The kind butchers use to cut the throats of goats. He takes two steps downwards.

‘Too bad,’ Biros says, ‘that it has come to this.’

I look in him for any trace of something to seize. Hesitation; indifference that might make him turn away and take the knife with him. Or caring. Maybe he has a family that knows a different side of him: a wife, children, perhaps elderly parents.

Nothing breaks in his posture. Nothing stirs in his expression. The lantern burns behind his outline, and his eyes are two black wells that do not reflect light.

‘The island is in chaos,’ I say. My voice trembles, although I try to keep it smooth. ‘No one would know if you let us go.’

Biros does not reply. Lazaro shifts on top of the staircase. The gleam of the fire makes his features even more angular. I try to imagine him holding a child in his arms, or writing in his notebook late at night in the light of a candle, wearing small nose glasses. I notice it is not difficult.

I intend to direct my next words at him, but he speaks first.

‘We would,’ Lazaro says. His low voice echoes in the walls of the staircase.

I understand I do not have a chance to reach behind their masks. Whatever there is, they have closed it out of reach, for other times and places. Right now the face they wear is their only one. I recognize it, because I too have lived like this. And while I never wish to do so again, I see I cannot change their minds.

Valeria clings to me. We do not move. I hear her ragged, panicked breathing, and the beating of my own heart.

‘Did Weaver send you?’ I ask. My voice is a mere whisper at the heart of a storm, shattered by the surrounding breeze even before it leaves my lips.

‘Does it matter?’ Biros says.

‘Why?’ I ask.