The Dragon's Tapestry

Marwen put her hand on the windowsill.

“I have some gift with healing, perhaps I could help.”

The woman pushed the little girl away gently with a whis­pered word and faced Marwen.

“Are you from Venutia?” the woman asked.

Marwen nodded. “But my father was Verduman.”

“Come in,” the woman said.

When Marwen’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see, beneath the blankets on the bed, a tall man with black hair, beard, and moustache. He was thin and had an old goiter on his neck, but Marwen could smell no sickness on him.

“She says she’s a healer,” the woman said to her husband.

Marwen sat on a stool at the man’s bedside. The little girl came up behind her and fondled Marwen’s hip-length braid until her mother drew her away.

“You bring no tools or medicine,” he said. His voice was strong and full.

“I bring only my magic,” Marwen said. She sat very still, her hands folded as is seemly for the Oldwife.

“Don’t believe in magic,” he said gruffly.

“Have you no Oldwife nearby? Who did the tapestry for your child?”

“The woman sent for one by way of her sister when her time came. Stuff. That’s what I say—stuff. No such thing as magic.”

He leaned toward Marwen in a confidential manner. “I hear that up north is a dragon who wants to do battle with the ol’ wizard, but the wizard won’t show. Now, maybe the dragon has magic.”

He chuckled and drew the covers up under his chin.

Marwen recited silently to herself from the Tenets on anger. She kept her back straight and her hands still.

“What is the nature of your illness?” she asked quietly.

“Tired,” he said. “Always so tired. Can’t walk. The Oldwife that did for my wife, she gave me some herbs. Only made me tireder. Magic, huh! Stuff.”

Marwen was having difficulty remembering the words of the Tenets. She knew she could cast no spell in the face of such doubt, and her stomach was growling. “Your wife and child are hungry,” she said tersely, and then she took a deep breath. “But you must be hungry, too.” From her apron pocket she drew out a smallish stickstem root, warm from being next to Cudgham-ip who yawned as she took it out. She placed it in front of the man.

“What do you dream of, man?” she said. “Do you dream of roast podhen, pollberry pie, hot grainbread?” The stickstem root assumed the appearance, weight, and smell of each food as she spoke it.

The man reached out and tentatively touched the bread before it resumed its true identity as a root.

“It’s warm,” he said, and his voice was full of wonder. “Woman!” he said, calling to his wife, “are you not baking grainbread with the last of the barrel?”

“Aye,” she said.

He smiled broadly. “’Tis a quick and tricky hand you’ve got there, but ’tis no magic.”

Sure enough, she could now smell the bread baking. She was faint from hunger.

“Come here, child,” Marwen said to the little girl. “Do you have a doll?” The little girl shook her head. Marwen held up the stickstem root.

“This is a toy you might like. Shake it!”

The little girl shook the root and a musical tune played, an ancient tune to which long ago someone had put words about the Taker.

Marwen squirmed uncomfortably at the sound, for which tune the root should play, she had not chosen.

The man’s face showed delight and amazement.

“Give it to me, child,” he said holding out his hairy clublike hand.

The child ran to the other side of the little house and huddled under the table. The man roared and threw back his covers. He chased the girl around the room until, slipping under his reach­ing arms, the child hid behind Marwen.

“Mine, mine,” the little girl whimpered.

Before Marwen could stop him, the man crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the root. He shook it, and again the lit­tle tune played. He danced a little jig and sang: “Hite! Lither! Dollorum dello, the Taker’s feet are shod in yellow.”

“Stop,” Marwen said. He stopped, and she put her arm around the child who was caressing her braid again and pulling on her spidersilk sheath.

“Now do you believe my magic?” Marwen said to the man. “You’re not so tired now. I seem to have healed you.”

The man’s wife bent and drew from the oven a large loaf of grainbread.

“The bread is ready. You would honor us in sharing some,” she said softly. “No gifted one need beg bread in my home.”

Marwen smiled at the woman. But just as Marwen rose, the child screamed a single clear note of pain and terror.

She looked down to see the child taking her hand out of her apron pocket in which the ip slept. On her hand were two round drops of red blood.

“Oh, Mother,” Marwen whispered. “Oh, Mother, help.” She gathered the child in her arms and laid her on the bed.

“What is it?” the woman asked.

Marwen searched her mind for every relevant spell. She spoke them as rapidly as she could—spells for healing, for magic, for growth, for strength. Already the child’s eyes were glazing, and her flesh was hot. Desperately she thought, and desperately she invoked the spells, but something was distracting her.

“Stop that music!” she screamed, whirling round on the man.