Weaver of Misfortune

Penelope twisted the rough yarn against her fingers, lamenting the way it would eventually leave her with tears and scabs that would take weeks to heal, just in time for her to once again reopen the same wounds. She had lost count at this point, accepted that whatever deity looked down upon her was cruel, and this was their way of punishment. On the rarest of occasions, she received wool as soft as when it was on the lamb, the rarest silks on others. But her major export was made of this unfortunate thread which was only invented thanks to humankind’s incessant need to be innovative. Some days, she took wicked pleasure in watching those ant-like creatures writhe and squirm - they were the reason she was stuck with fabric that felt like something they used to scrub the sheep’s hooves with, but she mostly felt pity.

She was something of an outcast here on Utopia - she had once tried using the term ‘black sheep’, like the humans she watched over to express her concerns, but that only made Wicaran, the leader of the black sheep tribe, stomp his hoof and proceed to create a stampede. The incident did not help, but the Weavers of Misfortune were never an accepted bunch in the first place. Especially now that Penelope was the only one left of them, no thanks to her mother who had turned 500 just decades ago, and decided to flit off to live with those phonies on Lucky Lane. Five centuries was far off for Penelope, she was less than a hundred, stuck with the worst job on their island, and very much alone.

Being one of a kind was apparently favoured amongst humans, but she never saw the appeal. Chatting to tiny specks off in the distance did not soothe her solitude, neither did it improve her standing amongst those who actually bothered to visit her. She always wished her mother would visit more often, but ever since she had forgotten how to handle the Yarns of Misery, Penelope realised she had less and less to discuss with the woman who raised her. She did not know if the curses humans laid upon her name actually reached her, but she imagined her life was manifested by the same rotten energy she weaved into the world.

Her only reprieve to this lonely life was her only confidant and (hopefully) friend - Ariadne. The equation between the two was always up for much debate, because how on earth did the sweet and selfless Ariadne ever liken herself to.. Penelope? Perhaps Penelope weaved a net of misfortune to trap poor Ariadne! Most certainly not, because if given the choice, Penelope would have wrapped herself in that net and flung herself into the ocean, in the hopes that some unfortunate fisherman would take her away from Utopia.

The day was two weeks from winter when Ariadne knocked on her door. Penelope had begged everyone to just walk in, it wasn’t as if two people entering her house for a grand total of two times a year was going to bother her, but her friend always insisted on rapping her knuckles soft enough against the wood that it took Penelope ages to even hear it in that widespread mansion. She liked to change her knitting location every now and then, just for the fun of it.

The door swung open, revealing a figure shrouded in the darkest of cloaks, swimming in the fabric that went beyond the five steps and ten others Penelope had added to her house’s entrance after her mother left. Usually, she did not like people stealing her style (how else would children on the street run away in terror when she went to pick up groceries?), but even she had to admit, Ariadne looked like she was born to wear this outfit. Which was of course, untrue, because she was born to wear the Dress of Divinity, and even draped in black, the ethereal glow of her face was not dulled, in fact, it only seemed to glow further.

Penelope walked across the grand hall, drawing curtains, curtaining her mirrors before turning to the glow in the dark lamp, still standing on her doorway. ‘Hey Ari!’

‘Penelope. I’ve asked you a million times to never call me that.’

‘Sorry,’ she winced, ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Ariadne slowly trailed the wide expanse, slowly melding with the darkness, but never invisible. She hummed a soft tune, swaying every now and then, until she and Penelope were face to face. The cloak had not moved an inch, and neither did Ariadne for what seemed like an eternity. But all it took was Penelope collapsing onto the nearest sofa to open up, and as the black garment fell to the floor, a blinding light caught her right in the eyes. Two voices immediately became three as a sharp cry went up in the air, and Penelope opened her eyes to see a squirming bundle cradled in Ariadne’s arms.

‘What is that?!’

‘A baby, Penelope - are you unaware of such a simple fact?’

Ariadne’s sarcasm probably caught her more off guard than the tiny human being in her arms, but a sneer overcame her the minute she was over that slight. ‘I meant,’ she swallowed, ‘how did you get a baby Ari?’

It was her frenemy’s turn to snarl, but Penelope just smiled. ‘If you must know, I gave birth merely days ago, and this is my daughter. And I would like to leave her with you.’

Penelope would have toppled onto the floor in laughter if it weren’t for her confusion. There were no men on the island, not even a lost sailor or stranded lord, and unless Ariadne had brewed some potion to have a child by herself, this should be impossible. But everyone on Utopia knew better than to deal with brews and liquids, that was better left to the maidens of Euphoria, so this should be impossible. Yet, a crying child, only days old, was currently proving her wrong.

‘Will you quieten her?’ Penelope yelled, prompting Ariadne to gather her cloak before placing it on the baby who immediately began to drool and babble.

‘Take her and raise her until the day you have lived for five centuries. After that, it is her own will that will guide her forward.’

‘What?’ Penelope stammered, ‘Raise her? No! Explain how this happened or you can say goodbye to coming over and riding my horses!’

‘Trust me, I shall never set foot in her after this day,’ she laughed, which only sent Penelope into a further rage, ‘Surely, your mother must have informed you of your origins? Surely, you did not believe children were just placed onto doorsteps to be raised by those living there?’

She had no answers. The blank stare in her face must have been apparent because Ariadne just seemed to be more and more pleased by the minute. ‘This child’s parentage must be fabricated - if anyone questions, you are her mother, and her father was an unknown deity. You need not worry, no one cares about you anyway.’

Penelope opened her mouth, ready with some choice words, but in an instant the black bundle was placed onto her, and Ariadne, a vision in white was floating out of the door. She did not spare even a last look for the child she had apparently birthed, now fully awake and blinking, looking between her mother and her new caretaker.

She sat there for hours, unmoved by everything, until the girl’s crying got too loud. She summoned a pitcher of sheep’s milk which appeased the sobbing, and before long, the small creature was asleep in her arms. She stared at the child’s perfect features, slowly coming to terms with everything that had just happened. There was a new presence in her house, she was a mother and laying the baby in the yard so that whatever creature may pick her up seemed too cruel even for her, the person who created misery.

The glow off of the child’s face was too much, but the more she looked, the more she liked her. A tiny fist suddenly wrapped around her and she gasped, and in that moment, she made a decision. This girl would be raised as hers. It did not matter that her real mother was mere minutes away, or who her father might be, she was Penelope’s daughter. There was finally a second Weaver of Misfortune on Utopia.