THE FLIGHT OF THE FLY

The story of the Weaver of Fate is as old as the hybrids. As old as the Immortals.

The Immortals exist in what you hold in your body; that trauma that’s unhealed. The Immortals represent human want. Will. Achievement. The Immortals are everything the humans at that time wanted to preserve and represent and everything else and so much more. The Immortals have cages like armor that may be shed; if you’re lucky. If you’re brave. The Immortals are like fractals. The Immortals are massive. The Immortals are orange.

The Immortals are thoughts and from the thoughts do they become something to respect. Something to worship. Because they are human. Because they are divine. The Immortals first start when one falls full heartedly in love. In love. In love. In love. In love. In love with what? With something enough to preserve it. Preserve. Consume. In love. You want to be near the Immortals. It’s like a hook lodged in your abdomen and jerking you forwards.

They are lights. They are orange. The Immortals are very important. They are hard to not cry in front of. It’s a beautiful thing; to observe love in its final state; consumable. Respectable. Divine. Immortal. It is bittersweet. The time after finite when only the Immortals exist and in them can they share humanity’s ties to passion. Love. Heart. But to fear and to the void. Be wary when you look in their eyes. If you follow them back through the eyes, you find humanity.

The Weaver of Fate is necessary, and like much of the history the hybrids hold dear, it starts in the heart of Sonder; in the center, where the Immortals were born.

All roads in the Underlining will lead to Sonder, if you walk far enough. Sonder used to look better, Nate learned in his Scout meetings. He had never seen Sonder when it was thriving. Even so, standing outside and leaning over the ledge, it was still breathtaking. The bridge under his feet was a large, long one that twisted over a raging river. 20 large statues were erected along the bridge, made of the same ancient material that much of Sonder was. Each statue shines under the grime of a bad era, and each are tall, magnificent, regal. An enormous, old, whispering tree grew beyond, the branches extending and stretching towards and over the sun. At the base of the tree was a large, marble building; the Capitol building. It had so much glass, and arching panels and columns all about. The huge building had a tall, twisted circle that reached into the tree.

And that was only the head of Sonder. Sonder in its fall. Sonder in its deathwish.

Sonder is only as strong as the Weaver of Fate is. The last Weaver died on April 1st, 2001. They always say the new one is coming. Nate has to believe them. Well, he did. He did believe them.

The Prophecy calls for much, but the line that keeps Nate tossing into the wee hours of the morning is about the Weaver. A Weaver Lost in the Lot. A Weaver. Lost. What on Earth could that mean? Is she here now? Is she under all of their noses? Is he not doing enough?

It was his job as a Scout to find her, the next Weaver of Fate. And Everytime Nate asks the Council about her, the next Weaver, what he should be searching for, they all give him the same exhausted, overdone look. The one where they tilt their head to the side and their eyes drop and their lips become pursed. It’s only Councilwoman Stark who tells him anything, and even then it’s crumbs. Nate supposed, bitterly, that that’s all she knew, too. Crumbs. That’s all he’s ever working with. Crumbs.

Hansel and Gretel are children motivated by desire. They lead with their noses, their mouths clamping down with hunger. Gretel still remembers to throw the bread crumbs over her shoulder. They still lack the luxury to go backwards. We finite beings will all be driven by our senses in the abyss of the Woods.

And when you are lost in the Woods, you move forward, your root moving between the hands clasped together with others. It changes. It evolves. It becomes something else entirely.

They were children, guided by desires, as we all are.

But, as Ariel used to say, the stubborn do not get buried.

“Is anybody home?” The children knock at the door and the Witch begins creaking down the stairs, preparing to greet her dinner.

Nate shakes his head, and groans. Crumbs. Crumbs crumbs crumbs. Kierra tells him he gets lost in his thoughts too much. He’ll lay his head in her lap and she’ll use her long nails to twist through his hair and whisper sweet things in his ear. He knows it’s her magic that relaxes him. He doesn’t care.

Can one read too much? Get too many impossible ideas?

Crumbs.

Anyway. It’s April 1st. The Underlining’s Weaver is turning 13 today. It seemed like it would be a nice April. Children of Deuma and the fae folk that dwell in Sonder performed Pilene’s Sanctum ritual the night before, and a good bit of people attended. A lot, actually. It always bodes well, the more people who participate and observe.

Traditionally, the fae folk would perform the music for the ritual. Now, that responsibility lies on the Scouts. This time is different. No one knows why. They accept this.

The ritual begins just after dusk, right on its heels. The Scouts come, two by two, two by two, then four by four, then two by two, then six by six, and so on and henceforth until they reach 20. One high horn shrills and ceases. There is a pause. All the Scouts look ahead. The air is sticky and hot. A lock is glued to Nate’s forehead and his throat is clogged, but he knows the rules. He can’t move. Two high horns shrill and then cease. There is a pause. Behind Nate, the drummers begin. Kierra is back there, but he can not watch her dull beat. They must stare ahead. They begin to march. Left foot first, right foot second. The drums can not change their pace. Nate counts 40 beats, before he begins playing his own trumpet. The trumpets must improvise a tune using the same beats. This is Nate’s favorite part; it begins to feel like jazz. It makes him want to dance. Nate counts 20 more beats before the clarinets begin their improvement over the drums droning on.

THE FLIGHT OF THE FLY.

The walk from the Gloom to the Catalyst Courtyard takes about half an hour, and the music can not pause. Each Scout, clad in either white or black, knows to look ahead and continues their assignment.

The Courtyard is made how it should. How it always is, but on the last day of May instead of the last day of April. The fae folk and children of Deuma have made the scene something to behold. Councilwoman Hamblett, as the only member of Sonder’s Council that is of Deuma’s blood, sits on the ground, wearing a brillant, royal purple robe. Her siblings sit close to her and tighten around the large stone circle on the ground. The fae folk stand behind. Everyone else, all those not participating and observing, hold their breaths and think the same thing over and over: ABUNDANCE. ABUNDANCE. ABUNDANCE.

“almost all of this belongs to you,” the woodcutter had promised his wife, the poetry bouncing, pounding around her head. The Scouts make a large circle behind Deuma’s children and the fae and in front of those not performing and hold their instruments tightly. Now, they must be silent. Entirely so. They must think ABUNDANCE. ABUNDANCE. ABUNDANCE. And then, it is the time for the Firebringer to finish her odyssey from the Capitol building and become visible to Nate. Her body is obscured under a shapeless, melting purple cloak. She is tiny, much tinier than those who she’s leading. The rest of the Council follows closely behind the Firebringer, each holding something to sacrifice. They are the only ones called to do so.

Has anyone simply decided; not to die? It’s a construct, isn’t it? Death? Who is to say it is inevitable, if no one has tried to stay alive? And, if we can assume that the human brain is more powerful than the human body, then the body, if the brain wills it, will simply not die. There must always be a first, for humanity. That is simply fact.

The Firebringer’s bare feet twitch at the other side of the circle. Councilwoman Hamblett smiles kindly, and raises her hands to the Firebringer. She gets up, slowly, and walks over to the Firebringer, and everyone is thinking ABUNDANCE, ABUNDANCE, ABUNDANCE. Hamblett lifts a pointed nail and pulls the hood away from the Firebringer’s face. As the folds fall and the pink curls with the roots showing escape from their hiding place and frame the young girl’s face, she is no longer the Firebringer, but she is Maia Torres; Maia Torres, 14, high school freshman.

Poor girl. ABUNDANCE. ABUNDANCE. ABUNDANCE. Seriously.

Councilwoman Hamblett drags her palms along the ground and brings up the caked flesh to Maia’s cheeks and smears them down. Maia stares, her lips pressed together, and Nate knows she is trying not to laugh. This year, her straight face only wavers. Councilwoman Hamblett walks backwards to where she started, and Maia holds her hands together. She stares into the middle of the stone circle. A small flicker of heat creeps from between Maia’s slender fingers, extending out until it’s a small, magical flame, and Maia silently feeds the fire life until it is large enough to sustain, and she shoots the fire into the middle of the circle. Maia stays still, staring into the fire. Everyone else creeps forward, thinking ABUNDANCE, ABUNDANCE, ABUNDANCE. Everyone cheers. A mother behind Nate whispers congratulations! to the infant in her arms. The drawl of the ceremony is completed, and now the party begins.

All of those who participated or observed the ceremony must stay until the fire is dead. One could do or talk about anything their heart desired, but every time one’s thoughts wandered, or they looked into the fire, they must think ABUNDANCE, ABUNDANCE, ABUNDANCE.

When they were allowed to go to bed, it was that time at night when the sky began to turn a brilliant blue, but the sun still had yet to rise. Kierra and Nate walked back to their rooms, and Kierra lingered in his doorway. Nate was ripping off the stupid white outfit he had to wear all night, but Kierra was still wearing the black suit that was required of her. The black was much more flattering on her, but everything looked good on her.

“What?” Nate asked tiredly, his back to her. She closed the door, and locked herself in.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” She asked.

That night, he dreamed of guitars and clovers and snowy forests and he woke up to pressure in his chest.

The Witch presses against the ground. “Who is nibbling at my house?” She asks, smiling.

Nate woke up with his head swimming, and he refused to get up, wondering if he had a cold, and where he could have got it from.

Gretel’s eyes roll to the ceiling of her cage. It is rusted. Her father used to warn her of rusty metal. He warned her of bears, and of men, unknowing she has little interest in them, and of weary travelers. He did not warn her of the dangers of too much. Too much candy. Too much kindness. Too much teeth in someone’s smile.

Kierra got up, and was tightening her bra, when she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Hey,” she asked, timidly. “Do you feel…weird, right now?”

“The wind, the wind, the heavenly child,” Gretel recites, her eyes dull, her mouth only breaking briefly away from the metal.

“Yeah,” Nate sighed, and squeezed her hand across the sheets. “You think we’re sick?”

Gretel is stupid, but she has a decision to make.

Kierra turned away and began to put on her clothes from yesterday. “Maybe.” She paused. “Yeah, probably.”

It’s April 1st. It’s sunny out. Happy 13th birthday, our Weaver. Nate hoped it was sunny wherever she was; children of Pesilos don’t do the best in non-sunny weather.

He made it to the bridge outside the Capitol building, with the waterfall and the tree, when Nate got dizzy. He leaned against the first statue, where Siema stood with her chin raised, her hands extended in front of her stomach. Her bronze fingers were cracked under the surface with ice, that cold blue that he knew if he touched would make him feel hot.

She, like Pilene, has not been active for a good, long time. Some hybrids, some, blame Ariel for this. The Council, especially Councilman Vaughan, will not humor this “conspiracy theory.” Nate doesn’t have a very strong opinion on it, but sometimes the Scouts will get around and talk about what Ariel could have been like; what role she actually played in the Leader and the Princess being lost to time. Everytime they talk about it Nate sees people in his peripheral vision and must turn around to confirm the person he was convinced was there was a plant or some other nonsense.

He would be dismissed if the Council heard him. All of them would be.

“Bread crumbs,” Hansel shakes his head, thinking of his sister’s odd decision to leave a trail everywhere they went. How silly.

Nate was at the edge of town when he was convinced he was getting worse when a group of Red hybrids were fucking around and ceased when they saw him. Joaquín, a buddy Scout of his, pushed out of the group and made a face.

“Something’s wrong,” Joaquín said. He shook his head. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah…,” Nate rubbed his neck, and then stared at the sky, changing from blue to a cool orange as he shifted districts. “I do.”

It was only 11 when Nate had made it to Spice n’ Nice when his Covalent Centrifuge strapped to his wrist started buzzing. He flicked his hand out and saw–albeit, expectedly–the floating red holographic messages from Councilwoman Stark floating in the air. Report to the Atrium. and then, Immediately.

Kierra had changed her outfit from when she had left Nate’s room this morning. Her hands were up when she spoke, trying to ease Councilwoman Stark like she was a wild animal.

“Look, I know this is bad–,” Kierra tried to say to her sister, her voice oozing with charm. The other’s snarl grew uglier.

“You know this is bad?” Stark yelled. She looked over her shoulder, to Vaughan, who shook his head with his arms crossed. She turned back to Kierra, and got too close to her face. “You think this is bad? This is earth shattering, devastating news! This is–,”

“Excuse me,” Nate edged, putting a hand on Stark’s shoulder and cutting between the two of them. “What’s the problem?” He was trying to make his words as drippy as possible, dripping clarity and straightness, pouring his magic into her. His magic is shoddy at best on himself, but he’s gotten half decent at using it on others. It’s one of the main reasons he’s a Scout and not some other useless job.

That, among a few other important things.

Stark’s back was squared and she dragged her head to look Nate square in the face. Her forehead was creased and her eyes deranged.

“They found her.”

“Oh,” Nate breathed, and dropped his hand from Stark’s shoulder. He felt his face get hot out from his nose and his smile stretch over his face, but Stark stared at him with cool rage, Vaughan with remorse, and Kierra stood behind both of them with a warning look, chewing her lip. His smile faltered. “That’s…that’s good, right?”

Stark’s nostrils flared and she tilted her head back, and behind her Kierra was shaking her head vigorously and waving her hands in front of her face. Vaughan paused, turned to look at Kierra, and she stood rigid like she hadn’t moved at all.

Councilman Vaughan sighed deeply and slumped his shoulders, and then flashed Nate an exhausted look over his glasses.

“They have found her, Nathan.”

And then he understood. He must have made a face–a stupid, gaping face–because Stark launched into hysterics again.

“You don’t believe us?” She yelled, then barked a cruel laugh at Vaughan. “He doesn’t believe us!”

“Councilwoman,” he eased, pushing his words out that he knew was right because all the words that were coming to him were fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “It’s just…how do you know?”

The vein in Councilwoman Stark’s forehead looked dangerously close to rupturing, but Vaughan was more relaxed and jumped in before she could. He flipped out his own Covalent Centrifuge and a grainy, black text that he had never seen before danced in the air.

A WEAVER LOST IN THE LOT

“Do you think our trail is still there?” Gretel asks her brother over a loaded breakfast. It’s the most food they have ever eaten at once, and they were consuming greedily.

“Enough with the breadcrumbs,” Hansel answers, breaking a cookie in half.

“Do you understand?” Stark asked, quietly. Nate tore his eyes from the message in text he had never seen before, and felt bile racing up his throat again.

“I…,” No, I don’t understand. How could you have been wrong? “Yes, yes, I do.”