The Final
© 02.18.10 By Elisa Williams
Nesta knew the hour was late when she heard the melancholy tolling of the cowherd's bell. She straightened quickly. The light inside the room had grown dim. Deep shadows filled the corners and an Autumn chill had crept into the slate floor. Nesta wound the loose threads around the silver needle and pinned them to the tapestry she worked. Rising from her stool, she stepped from the cottage.
Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, bathed red in the light of the setting sun. Approaching on the narrow pathway was Hans the cowherd, trailed by six velvet-brown cows.
"Hans, what news?"
Hans, a man of unidentifiable age and fair, wind-blown hair stopped in front of the cottage door. "Only bad, Mendosa, " he replied gravely. "The Mongrogan have taken Plenor Fields. We hear no word from the sisters." Hans turned toward the township of Latherham, spread out below in the soft greens and golds of the valley, shading his eyes from the setting sun. "No word, only smoke." He raised a hand and pointed.
Nesta followed his gesture. A thin finger of smoke rose from beyond the hills skirting the valley where the monastery of Sacred Genevieve lay. Nesta pulled her shawl tight across her shoulders.
Sister Margaret, Sister Betha . . . Their familiar faces glowed in her mind. The scent of wintergreen and baked apples came unbidden, filling her throat with tears. Orphaned at birth, Nesta had been taken in to be raised by the sisters of Sacred Genevieve and the monastery had become home to her. When it had become apparent she possessed the talents of a Mendosa she had traveled to and fro between the monastery where she had learned her letters and the art of rising bread and to the village of Plenor Fields that nestled at its foot, to the weaver's cottage where she learned to thread her silver needle and sew her spells around the village. Her needle was the only thing she had taken with her into the spells cocoon, on that last awful day of her training. She had lain in a space no wider than a coffin, her only illumination light from the silver threads that bound her. And all around her the horrible inviolable silence of an infant universe.
Nesta fought away the suffocating memories, putting her mind to other tasks to calm her racing heartbeat. She turned her mind outward, feeling for the tapestry of her spell, like fingers running along a seam. Through the wood and field, up hill and over water, circling the township, a weaving of protection and prosperity, the spell held.
"Mendosa?"
"Thank you, Hans." Nesta whispered. "Please tell Kathleen's mother the Moessa should be here for her teaching as usual." The cowherd nodded, hesitating a moment before calling to his cows and moving on.
Nesta stood alone long after the golden tones of the cowherd's bell had faded. Arms folded across her body, fingers flat against her ribs, she watched the thin line of smoke grow dark against the bloody sky.
Tomorrow they would come.
Nesta stepped inside the cottage and closed the door with a firm hand. From an oaken chest carved with harts and hounds Nesta chose her threads. Green and grey, lavender and white. From a loop of thread she began, her previous weaving forgotten. The cattle fields could wait to be replenished. A deeper and more pressing magic called her fingers. Nesta had seen the weaving only once, but it was the spell a Mendosa heard first, one she longed for and feared to weave. It was her last spell.
Nesta set her jaw and drew the silver needle through her tapestry. Kathleen should be there to watch, she knew. But the silence of the room enfolded her and the whispering song of the spell called her fingers to dance.
The beeswax pooled and ran under the flame till Nesta took a candle from the shelf and lit it from the drowning wick of the other. The moon still hung heavy in the western sky when the sound of shouting and horses hooves drew Nesta from her weaving. The beat of hooves drew nearer and then passed by. The threads were changing now, shimmering in the flickering candle light like the inside an oyster shell. Down in the valley, the chapel bell began tolling.
A horse was coming up the path to the cottage at a fast trot. Nesta rose and went to the door to listen. The horse stopped and there were footsteps. A child was sobbing quietly. Nesta opened the door.
"Mendosa," the young man greeted her nervously. The slight figure clothed in scarlet and rabbit's fur that clung to him now detached itself and straightened, one hand wiping away tears. Even at her young age Kathleen knew the responsibility she carried as Moessa, Mendosa in training.
"Why is the bell being rung?" Nesta asked.
"The marauders set fire to the western fields and several of the houses nearby . . . "
Nesta felt a spark of fear flare in her gut. She sent a whispering touch out over her weavings. They held true. "How was it done?"
"They have a goodly number of catapults." The young man, whom Nesta vaguely recognized as a hired hand of Kathleen's family, was clearly nervous. Nesta understood his fear. It was rare for a band of marauding Mongrogan to bother with such heavy and cumbersome machinery.
"Master Pelarman thought the Moessa would be safer here."
Nesta looked to where her student sat on the hearthstone, taking comfort from the fire, seemingly oblivious of the conversation. "She will be safe." The young man nodded and backed toward the door. Below the bell continued it mournful tolling.
Nesta listened to the sound of the horses hooves fade and seated herself again to take up her weaving. Kathleen removed her hood and watched in silence. The only sound to be heard was the snap and crackle of the fire and the muffled call of the chapel bell. After a time, without looking up from her work, Nesta spoke.
"I have spoken to you of the Final before, have I not?"
"Yes, Mendosa." Kathleen was watching the silvern threads move through and through the weaving. "You said it was how you survived the rasing of Plenor Fields when the Mongrogan came the first time."
"Yes, that is so." Nesta swallowed and forced her focus back to the threads she worked with an even flow of her own power.
"But they didn't burn Latherham. They left before they burnt it." Kathleen's voice rose in desperation. "Mightn't it be the same this time?" There were tears in her words.
Nesta looked up at the young face of her student, thin and pale with fear and a sleepless night. "I too wish it so. But we must be ready." Kathleen nodded.
"Tell me of the Final," Nesta said softly. The threads took a turn here. The candle light showed them in a rainbow of color. Kathleen folded her legs under her and settled back to begin, the familiarity of lessons recitation calming her.
"It is our last spell."
"Go on."
"It is unlike the spells of protection you weave around the village. Still, unlike the spells you use to keep the rats away from the grain and the bats from the barns. It is the only spell of it's kind."
The bell had stopped tolling and while its silence seemed to reassure Kathleen, it sped Nesta's fingers on their way.
"The Final is a Mendosa's tomb; and her bridge way. It . . . " Kathleen's brow furrowed. "It carries her to the green lands . . . but Nesta, how are you here when you were woven into the spell?"
"The Final is a porthole," Nesta explained. "It is a matter of where the porthole opens." Kathleen nodded, watching the silver needle work. "The porthole I went through was to an unborn land and after a time the porthole drew me back out."
Kathleen's eyes were wide, her lips parted in an expression of horror.
A brushing touch, a gentle tugging; the touch of foreign magic. Nesta paused in her work, her breath catching in her throat. The press became harder, more insistent, like a fist in her gut. The war-mage had arrived.
Nesta's hands stilled, her focus drawn to the invisible web that wound through the trees and the township's bordering fields. Guarding against retaliation, she reached in to assay her challenger's strength.
Like a whip across the cheek the lash of magic jolted her to toes. There was a ringing in her ears and it took a moment for Nesta to realize the sound was outside of her head, an eery whistling echoing off the ceiling beams and slate tiled floors of the cottage.
Kathleen was standing before what had been a brightly burning fire moments before but was now only cooling ashes, her slender frame shaking with more than chill.
Nesta stood unsteadily, needle still clutched in her hand.
"Mendosa?" Kathleen whispered. The silence was eating.
Nesta looked down at her hands, bleeding from the prick of the needle. There was no way she could fight and conquer an enemy like this war-mage. Her defenses around Latherham would stand only so long.
"Kathleen, put on your coat and hood," she said in an even tone, taking up the weaving of silvern threads and tucking the needle into her girdle.
"Are we leaving? Can we get my family? Nesta?" Kathleen called as Nesta disappeared into the bedroom.
Nesta pulled on her coat and woolen hood and tucked gloves into a pocket. From beneath folded clothing she took two short-blades, the handles inlaid with pearl and deep green tsavorite.
"Nesta!"
Kathleen's scream spun Nesta around, the lid of the trunk slamming closed.
"They are burning it, they're burning everything," Kathleen sobbed. She stood at the round window, dressed again her outerwear, hands clutching the wooden sill. Outside the glass and beyond the trees, flames lit the night.
"Catapults," Nesta said. The border had not been breached. She took Kathleen by the shoulders and turned her toward the door. "We cannot stay here." The weaver's house was the first place the war-mage would come once he had breached the border.
The night was frosty, the ground frozen hard underfoot. A fretful wind blew, carrying the heavy smell of smoke. Nesta made for the stand of trees uphill from her cottage.
Below, human shapes were moving among the darkened houses. Beyond the fields and scattered trees the Mongrogan fires burnt bright. Nesta felt for the silver needle in her corset.
In a grove of gorse and willow, they stopped. The silver thread unwound like silk ribbon between Nesta's splayed fingers. Kathleen watched silently, her eyes reflective pools in the dark. Nesta felt the now distant bite of magic against her borders and she withdrew further; she would not waste her strength fighting a war-mage like her Mendosa had, leaving her only enough strength to weave Nesta into that coffin-like porthole when she saw the battle was lost. The village had been razed.
Now Nesta spread the tapestry of her spell, the corners whispering out, silver fire in the blue-shadowed shade. It built over the first of the rooftops, a gossamer web. Hands up-stretched, she stepped forward, drawing the porthole with her. Kathleen stayed by her side, eyes wide with fear and wonder.
Down the hill and past the first houses. A dog was barking, short and frantic yaps, and a child was screaming in fear, the sound carrying over the low roar of flames from the burning buildings and hayricks.
Nesta tripped on the streets uneven surface, mud frozen in ridges and ruts. Arms above her head, she stumbled a few steps before regaining her balanced. If she lost her hold, the weaving would unravel, the dozens of thread slipping away. Nesta felt her way forward, weaving the porthole wider with each step.
"Mendosa!"
"The Mendosa works a spell!"
The cries penetrated Nesta concentration. Fleeing townspeople now stood in groups, staring, their flight arrested.
Nesta spoke quickly to Kathleen. "Tell them to stay inside the porthole, to call back those who are fleeing. Tell them they will be safe, but they must not leave."
Kathleen, her young face pale, nodded and hurried toward the grouping townspeople. Nesta heard her shouting to be heard over the roar of flames and confused flight and then her mind was again filled with the music of her weaving.
A catapult missile arched through the purple night sky. An explosion of flames and cries of fear bore a witness to its accuracy. Distantly, Nesta felt the pounding blows raining on her border-protection, but she ignored the twinge of pain, exerting no strength to resist the attack.
The last of the threads were between her fingers. She paused, searching the flame-lit darkness for Kathleen. A white-trimmed hood bobbed toward her and Kathleen was by her side, breathing lightly after her run.
"Everyone is gathering near the chapel, Mendosa, to try and avoid the catapults. My Mum is there and Da is coming," she added, her eyes following Nesta's fingers and the silver needle in and out of the weaving. Reflectively, her small hand strayed to her girdle, where her own needle was tucked.
Nesta looped the threads, her fingers straining to tie off and complete the spell. An icy knife in her gut announced the war-mage's breach of her borders. There was no time left. Her tired arms shook as she prepared the last loop, her silver needle already pressing into the cut.
Kathleen gave a sudden cry of dismay, her fingers clutching the embroidered cloth where her needle should have been. Nesta, the point of the needle sharp in her fingertip, caught a silver glint out of the corner of her eye. Kathleen's silver needle, bright among the frozen grasses, not half a dozen yards away, just outside the porthole opening.
Kathleen darted forward, focused on the needle. "Kathleen!" Nesta screamed, spinning toward the child. But her needle was already pushing through the loops of spell thread.
Kathleen, hand reaching for the missing needle, stepped from the porthole.
Like a sliver of ice, Nesta's needle dropped, loosed from its threads. The porthole spell, in the blink of an eye, wove closed and opened, a thousand designs and details, like the most intricate of lace or lattice work, forming and dissolving.
Sunlight. Warm breeze; summer breeze. Nesta's scream hung in the air.
Field grass brushed against her hand and Nesta turned to see the village of Latherham awkwardly spread over rolling, golden meadows. Excited shouts of amazement echoed from near the chapel where the townspeople gaped in awe at the sudden transformation.
Nesta's legs failed her and she sat abruptly on the ground. One low sob wracked her body and she covered her mouth to stifle more. Down among the tall grasses, sunlight caught and sent a glint off the silver needle lying there.
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