Tragedy Mill

Fantasy, a Swells Over Still Water stand-alone

The most important part of a Finger Weaver’s act is not the intricate puppets, it is the stage itself. A four foot wide box with an open front and back. The puppets are a focal point for the audience, but only if the stage creates a window to a different world. Debinaud understands this. It must be fashioned so the arms of the Weaver can reach through the black curtains that cover the open back, to manipulate the puppets into every inch of the 4 foot platform. Deb crafted his own stage, knowing the importance and the placement in every knot of wood. He put care into each inch, building concealed drawers and hidden compartments, fitting in pulleys and levers and switches. He made it from the lighter wood of the Broadfell trees, then stained it a dark subtle color so it disappears in the act. He has seen too many Weavers bend forward during the final act of their performance from the weight of the stage on their chest. A true Finger Weaver wears the stage, not the other way around. Deb understands this too.

The leather straps on Deb’s stage have worn thin where the weight rests on his shoulders. He tugs on them, testing their strength. Though he is young, it has been a long time since he created this stage. As he moves through his ritual of checking each lever, string, and switch, his hands shake and his stomach quibbles with his heart. This will be the largest crowd he has ever performed for, and likely ever will, yet that is not why his insides feel taut. He is no stranger to crowds or even high-born families, though he has never performed in front of them. No, he is anxious because his father will be there, and he has never seen him perform — he doesn’t even know he is a Finger Weaver. He will after tonight. Deb’s black Weaver veil will hide his face, but it will not mask his voice.

Deb runs his fingers along the dark wooden grooves of the miniature stage, internally tracing the lines of his thoughts. If he can say the right words, then perhaps the night will not end in disaster. He mindlessly tests the pulley system for the curtains, staring down at the black shark puppet next to his stage. The idea for the act has been fermenting for a while; he has all of the necessary props, and knows all of the lines, yet he doesn’t feel ready to show it. Some of the maneuvers are still tricky for him to accomplish, and no Weaver has attempted to use flame and smoke and light in their act. Still, if not now, then when? Will he ever feel ready to share his innermost self? To trace out those fine lines of thought and feeling on display for all? Deb picks up the puppet of the boiler shark, moving it toward the candle lighting his space. A small flask of millie juice is coaxed to life by the heat, and the shark puppet begins to glow red from within. He stares at the heat breathing in the puppet’s gills, his greatest creation yet, and makes his decision. There is only the craft, the art, the performance. It doesn’t matter who is on the other side.

Part of Deb’s draw to the Tapestry and the art of Finger Weaving was its anonymity. The Weaver remains veiled while the performance is displayed, and that appealed to him. He never expected to become popular for his work, perhaps respected among peers at most. He always created without thought to the reception of his performance, and yet he continued to gain renown. When the Royal festivities were announced to celebrate the 75th anniversary of Wonum’s Law, Deb thought little of it. Until King Bornidin sent for the preeminent Finger Weaver of the Kingdom, requesting a performance at the festivities. Deb knew all too well that a King never requests anything, so he obsequiously accepted. Now, as he dabs red whale oil onto the joints of the shark puppet, he wonders; would he have started his journey at the Tapestry if he knew this would happen? He never wanted fame. He wanted to create.

Deb sought out the Tapestry in secret, his father would never allow it. To him, the arts were a feminine thing. Deb’s father was prone to anger and not accustomed to disobedience. The Tapestry allowed him in under certain restrictions. He had excelled at the craft and was quickly given his own stage. He began to write his own plays and became increasingly popular, something he did not expect. Yet, as he tests the joints of the shark puppet, Deb knows he would do it all again, despite being forced to confront his father. These moments of performance have been the best of his life.

Debinaud sets down the puppet of the boiler shark, its glow slowly dying away. A peace settles over him with his decision. He will perform The Boiler Shark and the Fisherman’s Son and through it, he will say all of the things he has been forced to keep quiet. His father may rage, may even hate him, but Deb is no longer afraid of him. He assembles the supplies he will need for the performance, mentally rehearsing lines of verse. Lastly, he unwraps two glass vials of storm squid ink. He sits them inside a drawer with a slanted bottom and allows them to roll and clink together. They brood and flash with the brilliant white of a lightning storm. He wraps them again to ensure they do not contact each other before the right scene. Once he has every prop and puppet assembled, he practices.

Deb slides his arms through the straps, bringing the stage up onto his chest. The weight of it hangs on his shoulders familiarly, the leather straps creaking kindly. Lastly, he dons the black veil every Finger Weaver wears. He breathes slowly, banishing all thought. When he pushes his hands through the rear curtain at the back of the stage, the sensation pulls him out of himself and into the performance. He does not see puppets being moved by his hands, but watches living things dance; he does not hear the subtle creaking of wooden joints, but listens to the crashing of swells. Deb moves through the play, reaching the moment when the boiler shark must be made to glow, but a fleeting thought of his father distracts him. He knocks over the candle in its concealed drawer and curses, putting out the flame before it does damage. This will be the trickiest part of the play. He nearly wishes he never thought to make the shark actually glow, but he knows it will be worth it if he pulls it off. When he pulls it off.

Deb begins again, running through the play and perfecting the movements. He reaches the scene where the shark begins to glow. He attempts to bring the puppet down to the candle to coax the millie juice into a red glow, but he focuses too hard on the shark puppet, forgetting to dust the toskar root over the flame with his free hand. He runs though the play again, closing his eyes as he brings the shark down to the hidden candle, letting the heat guide his hands. As he does, he hears a knock on his doorframe. Deb looks up through his veil to see it is time. Hours of practice have flitted by unnoticed. He repositions the stage to his back, resembling a Filkish fabric merchant, their packs burgeoning with cloth. He leaves the black veil over his face. The journey to the palace is familiar and well-trod by Deb. Without thought, he arrives and is granted entry to the palace, then the Throne Room. He does not look up, not to see the dais where the Throne of Seas is, not to view the gleaming white arches of Saintstone in the vaulted ceiling, and not to glimpse his father or his brother. Deb knows he will remain a shrouded mystery until he speaks, and he tries to find comfort in this. He will be revealed to them, to his family, but so will his heart. Whether they express understanding or outrage is beyond his control.

The festivities begin. A band plays delicate instruments and intricate melodies while the feast is served and ravenously consumed. The Royal Win-Bor has outdone himself on the meal, the tables piled high with tall fruit sculptures, large bread bowls of desserts, roasted beasts laying across lengths of massive tables, and glowing fountains of millie juice and wine. Debinaud does not partake. His stomach recoils at the idea of food. Instead, he watches and calms his nerves. When the meal reaches a close and the people have had their fill, a troup of jugglers and dancers performs while the bulk of the food is cleared away. The King taps his scepter against the Saintstone throne, which rings out in strange tones, filling the hall with a high humming buzz. All sound ceases from those in attendance, and the King’s Right Hand announces Debinaud under his stage name.

“Finger Weaver, Tragedy Mill.”

Deb walks forth to the elevated area below the throne and stands in front of the crowd. He is given the floor to the left of the throne, so everyone might observe the performance. Deb shifts the stage from his back to his chest, tightening the shoulder straps and finding comfort in their familiar creaking voice. He opens the drawers on the back of the stage, eyeing the props inside. Deb’s veil flutters silently with his breath as he implements the first Tapestry teaching: make the silence yours. He reaches his hands through the rear black curtain and tugs the pulley to open the red curtains at the front of the stage, then attaches the twine to his belt. Deb waits, taking in the silence and feeding it to his nerves. He will not look for his father, he will not think of his brother. He will say what is in his heart. Debinaud speaks and his musical voice washes through the room.

“Once there was a fisherman who held a taste for pain.

He, the ship — his fury, the wind, and it did blow untamed.

He reveled in the gutting, took pleasure in the gore, enjoyed the heft of spear.

The blackened hull of the fisherman’s ship, did every creature and man, fear.”

Deb bobs the wooden cutout of a fishing vessel on waves of blue Filkish cloth, and the room rustles with an unseen whisper of wind. No one moves or mutters, and Deb has gone to a place where they do not exist.

“The fisherman was only matched in vile spark, by the fire of the dread boiler shark, which did steal his catch and net.

The blackened hulls would swell with heat, the fisherman’s net be pulled down deep, and he, pulled down into debt.

The sea roiled with the anger of the fisherman, the sky filled and swirled with oaths spoken in haste.

Those he knew told of his doom, and his son watched him wither and waste.

One fateful day, when death and folly had their way, the fisherman set out to fulfill his vow.

He sailed away, without a word to say, naught but a sharpened spear in his bow.”

Deb moves the puppet who clasps the glinting spear, up onto the cutout of the ship, sailing it away across rippling fabric. The fisherman’s son is left alone on the prop docks. Deb moves his right leg backward and the curtain is pulled silently closed by a line of twine running from his belt to his foot. He switches out props with masterful swiftness, trading the ship for a smaller version and removing the docks from the scene. When he moves his right leg forward again, and the thin twine hisses through its rivets, and the red curtains bunch away neatly, and the crowd cannot wait any longer, the scene is set.

A small vessel rides a massive undulating wave of cloth. Deb lets the vials of storm squid ink clink together, they spark with a dramatic lightning flare. A cool breeze pushes its way through the attentive crowd, it smells of a distant storm. Deb lets the ship flounder on the cusp of the fabric, making the silence his own, before he brings forth a looming black fin. Then he speaks, his voice harsher than before.

“The sky cracked and the wind wept when the fisherman found his prey.

The boiler shark, large and dark, scared his hand to stay.

The yawning maw opened wide, the ship was stoved, and the fisherman fell within.

The son sensed the father die, the mouth was closed, and the ship sank down, unbid.

But the tale of the fisherman was not yet finished, for his son was made to continue his business.

The anger of a boiler shark, like blood in the water.

A love of hurt and death and pain, caught the son from his fisherman father.

He hooked his prey and he slew his enemy; he made the sea to boil.

He baited the kind and he kicked the weak; he sowed ash into soil.

He beguiled the sea and had not a friend to speak of.

Vengeance for his fisherman father was all he could think of.”

Deb pulls his right leg back and draws the vermillion curtain closed on the first Act. The audience lets out a collective breath but doesn’t move. During the time between Acts, it is common for a Weaver to allow an intermission, but Deb has never held a crowd so completely bound to his performance. Despite himself, he turns to gaze at the King. His countenance is a foreign language; distant and unknown. Deb looks away, readying the props and puppets for the second and final Act. He removes the boiler shark puppet and lights the candle in the drawer, ensuring the flame cannot be seen. From the top of his stage, he lowers the model of a keel. Finally, he moves the blue Filkish cloth to act as a veneer across the front of the stage. The crowd remains silent, not a susurration to be heard. Deb breathes out, his veil flutters, and he enters the liminal space of performance. He moves his right leg forward and the crimson curtain recoils to reveal the window to another world: dark waters below the floating keel of a fishing vessel.

“The son cared not for his fisherman father, but was furious for his life being consigned to net and spear.

He sought revenge on that fiery beast of water, and so stepped into his father’s ship without fear.

The fisherman’s son hefted his sharpened spear and made to thrust it down into the shark’s boiling gill.

But the black shark began to glow and set the sea to boil and overflow, gnashing its shining teeth for the kill.”

Deb exhales, soothing his nerves and closing his eyes. Deb brings the shark puppet down closer to the flame of the candle, letting the heat guide his hand in the familiar path. There is a brief moment where he fears it hasn’t worked, then he hears the soft gasp of the crowd — audible amazement and visual wonder. Deb understands this, he loves this. His eyes open and the boiler shark glows red. He remembers at the last second, and with his free hand, he sprinkles a pinch of toskar root into the flame, creating a steam-like visual. He hears the crowd gasp louder, pulling the air from the room. He grabs the puppet of the fisherman’s son, then continues to perform.

The fisherman’s ship overturned, and the fisherman’s son fell to the sea.

The glowing water churned, and the fisherman’s son could not see.

The shark attacked the sinking son, its teeth sank into his lower half.

The son thrust his spear into the dark eye, burying it to the shaft.

The sea ceased to boil, the thrashing shark ceased to roil, the life fading from its eyes.

The fisherman’s son ceased to toil, his anger proven disloyal, his strife dying away with his cries.”

Deb slides his right leg back slowly, dramatically shuttering the stage curtains, ushering his entranced crowd back into this space. He speaks the final verses of the play as he does so, smothering the candle. The ferocious glow inside the black shark puppet begins to dull behind the curtain, and smoke from the candle drifts out around the stage. The final images are the silhouettes of a large curled shark, a fisherman in its mouth and a spear in its eye, the fisherman reaching up weakly toward the surface. This fading silhouette is coupled with Deb’s soft voice.

“Take heed all ye consumed by anger, lest ye be devoured twice.

For the boiler shark and the fisherman’s son both died of this vice.”

Debinaud stands motionless, and the room sits silent. With only the complaints of leather, he shifts the box-like stage onto his back. No one claps. No one moves. He looks up toward the King who sits impassively slouched back, idly twisting his scepter. The King lifts it imperceptibly and lets it clink against the Throne of Seas. The tingling high note sings out and the King’s Right Hand steps forth. Deb doesn’t hear anything the man says, his mind fixated on the task of deciphering the weathered King’s face, the unknowable language of lines and thought. Without pomp or ceremony, the dessert’s are ushered out. Vast, overburdened trays of sweetbread and feecakes and other delectables. Deb dislikes the opulence of the palace, and he makes his way out of the throne room unnoticed.

When he passes through the outer gate, he hears his birth name called as a question,

“Debinaud?”

He turns to see the favored prince, Bornidin the younger. Deb goes still and the Prince approaches to a distance almost conversational, yet still removed. The prince points a thumb over his shoulder, “You’re lucky father didn’t recognize your voice.”

Deb shifts the weight of his stage, “He never spoke to me enough to learn the sound of it, I suppose.”

A ghost of pain squirms across Bornidin’s face. “Is that what you think of him then? The whaler.”

“Fisherman.”

Bornidin grips his forehead and sighs, “I’m sorry, Deb. You know how he is, though.”

“I do, I only hope you do too.” Deb watches his older brother for anger, but he does not see it. “You don’t have to share any more than his name, you know?”

“I know…”

Deb stands, the city at his back, and watches his older brother, the palace at his. He turns and walks away, not saying anything more. Bornidin watches him go, but before Deb is beyond hearing, he calls out, “It’s a good play.”

Deb pauses, smiles to himself, then walks on and away.