Clack, clack, clack.
I was a carpet weaver.
I worked in a small, strangely lit factory. I had never been outside. I lived in that factory for years. How many years, I did not know. I still find myself wondering.
If we did a good day’s work, we got an extra helping of food and maybe our names. I did not yet know my name. I wonder if anyone was ever given their name, or if the possibility was simply bait — something to keep us in place.
The taut yarn burned my fingers, and my face scrunched up. The day was hopelessly long. My spirit should have shattered long ago, but my youth made me wanting, hungry, and hopeful. I hoped for everything I could not have.
The weaving stopped. My hands were red, skin cracking at the joints. The carpet was not yet finished. I failed. My head hung and I waited for the older boy’s hand to touch my shoulder. I waited. My shoulder felt cold.
I nudged the girl beside me. She watched as I gestured to the boy’s spot in our lane, regarding my frantic pointing with a bored blankness.
“The boy,” I croaked, my seldom used voice scraping my throat. “Where is he?”
The girl shrugged. “Gone?”
I shook my head as she turned away. Gone? How can someone just be gone? My nose prickled as I glanced down our lane.
“No, but . . . ” I began to say, my vocal chords chafing against each other. “How — ”
Nails dug into my collarbone. They stabbed into my skin, sending biting red pain crawling up my neck and into my arm.
I looked up. A woman in a crisp, stiff black uniform stared down at me. She was our lane’s keeper. Each lane had one. They paced up and down all day, their watchful eyes a shadow behind all of us, punishing us if we broke the rules. And I had broken one of them.
I stared at the long wooden stick with three iron ropes attached to the end that the keepers used to discipline us. But our keeper was different. Never once had I seen her punish our lane. Instead, she gazed at the weaver with a friendly iciness and led them away. While the other lanes cried and pleaded with their keepers, our weavers returned with a transfixed wildness in their eyes. So I was not scared when our keeper led me away, as the others gawked after us, and as we drifted past the curtain — the curtain at the head of the factory, where our names were said to live.
The room was dim, the darkness swamping my vision, drenching the two of us. I searched through the shadows. Maybe our names would be in a chest on a throne. I’d launch myself at it, struggling to take what was ours. But there was no chest. Just a barrel filled with water and a second curtain, velvety and luxurious, hanging behind it.
That’s strange. I hadn’t expected two curtains. Do the others know? Have they seen what I see? Have they . . . ?
The water filled my nostrils as the keeper dunked my head in. I squirmed and thrashed about, gripping the mouth of the barrel as my scream was lost in the bubbles.
The water was hot. Then it was cold. Hot. Cold.
The light at the bottom of the barrel came and went. Iridescent blues and whites melded together and bubbled towards me. Then the light went out and I was lost in watery blackness. On, and then off.
Between the pulsating light and the buzz of heat and prickle of ice on my face, I began to sink into the barrel, my feet lifting off of the ground. The keeper released my hair, letting me drift towards the light and the darkness, letting me sizzle and freeze, letting me disappear.
The keeper yanked me from the barrel. Water shot up my nose and throat. I doubled over, coughing and gagging on the stone floor.
The keeper pulled me to my feet. My knees shook and my mouth quivered as she wrapped me in a towel. I shivered into the warm, fuzzy cloth. The keeper pushed back the strands of hair plastered to my forehead, her arms wrapping around my head, locking me against her body. I sunk into her embrace, quietly gasping. The safety in her arms was the strangest thing I’d ever felt — like not trusting her was a rule to be broken.
“Where is he?”
The keeper rested her hand on my head. “Where is who?”
“The boy. The one in my lane. The one who’s not there anymore.” I sniffled, holding back a sneeze.
“Well,” she said. “you’ll all have to go somewhere someday.”
My heart crumpled against my ribs. “Even me?” I asked, looking up.
The keeper met my gaze. “Even you,” she replied.
I felt the towel leave my head. The air was cold against my scalp as the keeper led me back towards the curtain.
“Get back to your lane,” she said. “Eat your food.”
I nodded and stuck my fingers through the parting in the fabric.
As I walked towards my spot, I trembled at the thought of the keeper and the barrel and the second curtain. Others returned with a sense of purpose and holiness.
I returned with a sense of dread.
I was a carpet weaver.
I worked in a small, strangely lit factory. I had never been outside. I lived in that factory for years. How many years, I did not know. I still find myself wondering.
If we did a good day’s work, we got an extra helping of food and maybe our names. I did not yet know my name. I wonder if anyone was ever given their name, or if the possibility was simply bait — something to keep us in place.
The taut yarn burned my fingers, and my face scrunched up. The day was hopelessly long. My spirit should have shattered long ago, but my youth made me wanting, hungry, and hopeful. I hoped for everything I could not have.
The weaving stopped. My hands were red, skin cracking at the joints. The carpet was not yet finished. I failed. My head hung and I waited for the older boy’s hand to touch my shoulder. I waited. My shoulder felt cold.
I nudged the girl beside me. She watched as I gestured to the boy’s spot in our lane, regarding my frantic pointing with a bored blankness.
“The boy,” I croaked, my seldom used voice scraping my throat. “Where is he?”
The girl shrugged. “Gone?”
I shook my head as she turned away. Gone? How can someone just be gone? My nose prickled as I glanced down our lane.
“No, but . . . ” I began to say, my vocal chords chafing against each other. “How — ”
Nails dug into my collarbone. They stabbed into my skin, sending biting red pain crawling up my neck and into my arm.
I looked up. A woman in a crisp, stiff black uniform stared down at me. She was our lane’s keeper. Each lane had one. They paced up and down all day, their watchful eyes a shadow behind all of us, punishing us if we broke the rules. And I had broken one of them.
I stared at the long wooden stick with three iron ropes attached to the end that the keepers used to discipline us. But our keeper was different. Never once had I seen her punish our lane. Instead, she gazed at the weaver with a friendly iciness and led them away. While the other lanes cried and pleaded with their keepers, our weavers returned with a transfixed wildness in their eyes. So I was not scared when our keeper led me away, as the others gawked after us, and as we drifted past the curtain — the curtain at the head of the factory, where our names were said to live.
The room was dim, the darkness swamping my vision, drenching the two of us. I searched through the shadows. Maybe our names would be in a chest on a throne. I’d launch myself at it, struggling to take what was ours. But there was no chest. Just a barrel filled with water and a second curtain, velvety and luxurious, hanging behind it.
That’s strange. I hadn’t expected two curtains. Do the others know? Have they seen what I see? Have they . . . ?
The water filled my nostrils as the keeper dunked my head in. I squirmed and thrashed about, gripping the mouth of the barrel as my scream was lost in the bubbles.
The water was hot. Then it was cold. Hot. Cold.
The light at the bottom of the barrel came and went. Iridescent blues and whites melded together and bubbled towards me. Then the light went out and I was lost in watery blackness. On, and then off.
Between the pulsating light and the buzz of heat and prickle of ice on my face, I began to sink into the barrel, my feet lifting off of the ground. The keeper released my hair, letting me drift towards the light and the darkness, letting me sizzle and freeze, letting me disappear.
The keeper yanked me from the barrel. Water shot up my nose and throat. I doubled over, coughing and gagging on the stone floor.
The keeper pulled me to my feet. My knees shook and my mouth quivered as she wrapped me in a towel. I shivered into the warm, fuzzy cloth. The keeper pushed back the strands of hair plastered to my forehead, her arms wrapping around my head, locking me against her body. I sunk into her embrace, quietly gasping. The safety in her arms was the strangest thing I’d ever felt — like not trusting her was a rule to be broken.
“Where is he?”
The keeper rested her hand on my head. “Where is who?”
“The boy. The one in my lane. The one who’s not there anymore.” I sniffled, holding back a sneeze.
“Well,” she said. “you’ll all have to go somewhere someday.”
My heart crumpled against my ribs. “Even me?” I asked, looking up.
The keeper met my gaze. “Even you,” she replied.
I felt the towel leave my head. The air was cold against my scalp as the keeper led me back towards the curtain.
“Get back to your lane,” she said. “Eat your food.”
I nodded and stuck my fingers through the parting in the fabric.
As I walked towards my spot, I trembled at the thought of the keeper and the barrel and the second curtain. Others returned with a sense of purpose and holiness.
I returned with a sense of dread.
To read Part Two, please click here.