13th Hour Read online

  The temptations with what we could do with the strands we've been given are bad enough, but to be able to consult with other Weavers and see how our strands interact would make this temptation even greater. It would give us too much power. That power is left for the Knowers.

  My first life ends as dully as I had expected. As the Head Knower appears by my side, I twist and tie off the braid sealing off the life.

  "All done?"

  "You should know," I quip. The Knowers know (hence the name) just how long it should take even a rookie to weave their strands – approximately two weaving minutes per year of life. My Knower knew this one would take me about two and a half hours for the man's seventy-five years.

  "That joke is old, Rookie." He holds out his hand for my strand. "But you kept to the expected time, pretty good for a first try."

  "Thank you, sir." I hand over the shining braid.

  He examines my simple project with an intensity I find a little silly. I know our tasks are important, but some Knowers take it a bit too seriously. I mean, they're Knowers, implying they should know what will happen, right? Not really, it's an easy to assumption to make. Knowers foresee a person's life through the end when they first touch a Fate Strand. They know which other pieces to grab for the Weaver to assemble the life, but Knowers cannot bring the strands together. The Tome calls this the Circular Conundrum: Do Knowers need Weavers or do Weavers need Knowers? My mentor's pride in being a Weaver burned bright whenever he presented this lecture:

  "Knowers are powerful, that is to be certain, but they aren't allowed the knowledge of Weaving to prevent too much power from resting in any one set of hands. If Knowers saw the life and the outcomes of that life it would be too easy to change it. [Again he would regale with the Hitler Strand Example – what Knower wouldn't have crimped that strand early on?] Weavers are given the strands that go together. Our nimble fingers run down the Fate Strand for each life sensing moments the Knower’s fingers cannot. The Knowers can't sense where to add in the strands of work, love or accidents they provide us. Knowers may see the life, but we as skilled Weavers bring the lives together."

  We can also screw up. One mistake, say a fingernail catching and snagging a strand can change the course of that life. Pulling too hard and breaking a strand will instantly end a life. Weaving a side strand in at the wrong moment may result in missed opportunities. Two people meant to meet as young adults will not have the same interaction if they meet as six-year olds or sixty-year olds. Our strict adherence to detail and focused attention is bred into a Weaver along with the delicate finger sensitivity.

  "It's good. Just as I saw.” He puts away the braid, then passes me a new Fate Strand with a packet of smaller filaments. “Here's a harder one. Don't mess it up."

  This strand tests more heavily against my fingers, but not much more than the previous. Caressing the tops of the others in the packet, flashes come into my mind and I can see the weight of the main Fate Strand will come from the influence of these side strands. In other words, left to her own devices this person would be as dull as the previous, but people and places will add to her life and she is willing to be guided by these influences in a way my first never would have been. Weight signifies neither good nor bad for us, it is simply a measure of the complexity of the braid at the end. This one will require more than a strand-over-strand weave. Her influences should mesh together like weaving of a piece of fabric.

  I move my fingers down as the child grows from girl to woman. I then pull other strands from the packet and weave them in at the right moments. My interest in this one peaks higher, but my mind drifts somewhat to my mentor and his lecture on how Weavers can do their job with such precision. He instilled in me a sense of pride in my actions.

  "How is it we Weavers know just how and just so?" I hear his rhetorical question as if he said it yesterday. "Our work is complex on a scale no other of the Fate Workers will understand. But it is also simple once you learn to trust your own fingers. The Fate Strands are formed in the Knower’s mind during the mother's pregnancy. A Weaver’s first touch is baby's first breath and as one hand, the Guiding Hand, moves down it reads the person's every moment ensuring the life follows the course set out for it. Our other hand, the one we call the Intuitive Hand, hovers over the string at a later point in the life than the Guiding Hand. The Intuitive Hand almost touches, but not quite. When a new piece is needed to be braided in, there is a blackness in the life story. This is where our work is so crucial. If the proper strand isn't woven in at the precise moment it is needed, the person of the main fate line will feel this emptiness we see as black, a feeling like they are missing out on something or that their life is incomplete. Conversely, put in any strand too early and the person feels as if they are in over their head; too late and opportunities may pass by. The teaching I will give you will train your fingers to detect these moments of black with delicate precision. Remember, the Knowers see lives as they should be, but only Weavers have the responsibility and skill to make it happen."

  I smile to myself as I picture my mentor's hands flourishing in the air with this lecture. My second Fate Strand comes together smoothly and the woman's life leads its course. I tie it off as the Knower returns to inspect my work yet again. I hold it out to him before he even reaches my station.

  "Think you're pretty good, don't you?"

  "Top of my class, sir."

  "School is merely practice, Rookie. Rehashing dead people's strands isn't anything like working with the real thing."

  I bristle at the insult to my training and my mentor.

  "No, sir, but I am doing rather well for a first day. Even you have to admit that."

  "Yes, I have to agree your work is impressive. No loose pieces like most rookies. All your lines are tightly woven and well timed. Feel up for a challenge?"

  "Without a doubt, sir."

  "Here it is. No mistakes."

  "Rule Three – Each strand is vital."

  "This one especially so."

  I begin to weave with my fingers gliding over the filament. The thought of how easily these shining hair-thin strands can be broken is never far from my mind. Too much pressure will snap the piece. It's a thought that eliminates some apprentice weavers; they find themselves unable to accept the responsibility of working with something so fragile yet so important, thus rendering their hands impotent.

  The pieces fit together well and I see this woman's world taking shape. A natural leader, excellent student and her ambitions will be achieved without hurting others in the process. A moral standard becomes ingrained in her fabric as I weave it – environmentally aware, culturally intelligent, repelled by violence – and when she wins her home state's senator seat I can't resist the temptation The Tome strictly warns against.

  My mentor lectured us on this temptation repeatedly. Because the implications of seeing a life’s ending are hard on the Weaver, it is strictly advised against. We know our strands will be tied off in the end, much as a farmer knows his prize pig will be up for slaughter one day, but it doesn't make the separation any easier. We all want our braids to be tied off peacefully. We are not meant to be involved. Seeing the future of a life, beyond reading for the black moments, is a recipe for involvement. It is akin to stepping into the realm of the Knowers.

  But with this one I can't help it. This woman is so magnificent and interesting that I can't wait the few minutes it would take me to weave down her future. I'm like a human who can't resist reading the end of a book mid-way through the story.

  When I see the woman’s future I smile for her and for myself. Pride surges through me for no reason except that my weaving will make it happen. The woman becomes a world leader, an example to other nations. I move my fingers down a bit more hoping to see the changes she enacts, to see the species her work saves, to see the world at peace. If anyone can do it, it is this woman.

  Instead, I see the fear on her face as a car plowed into her. Her strand grows thin after this. The signal of a slo
w, painful death.

  I can't let this happen. Her life according to the Knower is written to end early, but my mentor instilled in me the confidence that Weavers are in full control. We can change outcomes. She needs to make the world better; she needs to live.

  I take the strand of the other driver and weave it in a moment sooner than it should be. The driver will hit a telephone pole instead of my woman's car. She'll see the accident and be thankful for the timing of it, knowing that had it happened a moment later she would have been killed. My fingers move down and the only affect of the accident is to hold her up in traffic for an hour as they clear the damage.

  I quickly weave my way along. The Knower will be coming soon since, according to his calculations, the braid should be ending in only a few moments. If I can get her to begin the work I want her to do, he can't unravel it. Rule Four: What is woven cannot be changed.

  Unfortunately my fingers aren't quick enough as I stumble over the side strands I have available. My Knower rushes over to me and yanks my braid away. He snaps the end. Her life is over. Even Knowers can manage that much.

  "What are you doing?" we yell simultaneously.

  We stare at each other, glaring as if the fury can undo what the other has done and force out an answer.

  "You could have ruined everything," he grumbles.

  "You did ruin everything," I shout. Other Weavers glance up but then return immediately back to work knowing any mistake might be punished tenfold at the moment.

  "Rookie Weavers. Idiots. I should have never trusted you with this. You'll be weaving deadbeats the rest of your career."

  "She had work to do."

  "You think you know better than me?"

  "I know she shouldn't die. She would have changed the world."

  "Her death was the best thing for the world."

  "Why? So humans can continue with corruption and destruction?"

  "Her death was necessary to stop that. Do you think it’s all haphazard what the Knowers do? I know you're trained to think Weavers are the end all and be all of existence, but you're not. Knowers have plans, we see more than one life at a time unlike you. We know."

  "How can her death be necessary? Her work hadn't yet begun."

  "Power was corrupting her already. That car trip was to make a deal with the worst of the agribusiness conglomerates to allow a lapse in regulations and environmental laws in exchange for campaign financing. Allowed freedom from overseers, their genetically dysfunctional seeds and poisons would have destroyed crops, fields, water supplies and ecosystems for generations; large-scale famine would be guaranteed. No one knew of this deal except them and her. Everyone else saw her as you did - perfect and promising. The accident you wove and the resulting traffic jam slowed her enough to prevent this meeting, but had she been allowed to live her corruption would eventually have undone everything you were hoping for."

  "And her death?" I still fumed.

  "Her death will become a rallying point for liberals and conservatives the world over. Her charm and likeability won her many allies. These allies will continue what she said she stood for. They are the ones who will make the changes you wanted her to make. She never would have accomplished anything on her own."

  His statement forces the realization of my own arrogance. An arrogance that lead to disobedience and nearly undid all that my weaving hoped to accomplish. I had overstepped my bounds.

  "I apologize."

  "You'll be weaving meaningless lives from now on, you realize that don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "It's a shame. I saw great things coming from you."

  I hang my head, too embarrassed to meet his eye. As my mentor said, Weavers make the life – even their own - and what I had woven could not be undone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Apple

  "APPLE" IS A melancholy post-apocalyptic story inspired by a first line contest, a long run of abnormally cold springs in the Northwest and having just read The Road by Cormac McCarthy. The Doc's actions seem cruel, but he's practical since having children when you can't provide them food is never a good idea. This story won Second Prize in the Mary Mackey Short Fiction competition.

  ***

  The road wasn't on the map, but that didn't stop The Doc from looking anyway. He rotated the map until the arrow with the N pointed in the direction he felt certain was north and traced his finger along the route they'd traveled. No matter how tightly he squinted, this road just wasn't there. As he tried to work out how they'd lost the charted road, Amy shuffled around kicking at pebbles.

  "I'm pregnant," she said as if telling one of the little stones she was thirsty.

  The Doc's fingers clutched the map and he urged himself to relax. He couldn't tear the map. Who knew if they'd find another.

  She couldn't be pregnant. Not now. Someday maybe, but not when they barely had enough food for one person let alone three. Sure, they'd been making love with a desperate frequency out of boredom, a need to stay warm and the simple comfort of being naked together, but with so much death he hadn't dreamed she, or anyone, could harbor new life.

  He relaxed his grimace and looked up from the map to Amy's hollow face. He recalled how he winced when her hips ground into his during last night's sloth-slow intimacy. He remembered the sense of loss and helplessness when the flanged bone of her pelvis, covered only by a hint of skin, jutted into his.

  They were starving and another mouth would make it worse.

  Supposing, of course, they survived another nine months.

  But she couldn't be.

  "Are you certain?"

  "Yeah. How could I not know?"

  How could she not? He pondered back to the last embarrassing time when, for lack of any feminine hygiene products, she tore up a t-shirt to catch the flow. Of how, even then, her underwear was so loose on her wasting frame the elastic couldn't hold the t-shirt shreds tight enough and blood dribbled down her leg. That had been so long ago. Or had it? Through the hunger, he couldn't keep track of time. Survival after The Disaster he could handle. Keeping track of time? No. The red-legged incident could have been last month or even three months ago. What he did know is since that occasion, she hadn't torn up any more shirts.

  "When was your last period?"

  "I dunno. A couple months ago. I didn't say anything the first month, but I missed it again. You know how regular I am."

  Oh yes, the half moon. Her period always came at the half moon. He noted to himself that using the moon as a way to keep time would be a good idea. It was so regular, so unaffected by Earth. Even if the Earth's gravity held it, the moon had more effect on the planet than the planet did on its cratered satellite. His gut grumbled and the thought floated away.

  "We need to turn around. This road's not on the map and I don't want to get lost."

  "Why? Even if where we're going is on the map, it's not as if anything's going to be there."

  "We don't know that. Besides, it makes me feel better knowing we're on the road to somewhere. Does that make sense?"

  "Yeah."

  "And old houses and stores appear more frequently on mapped roads. We need to find more food. You need to eat more if you think you're pregnant."

  She stopped trailing by his side.

  "You don't think I am. Just because you used to be a doctor—"

  "I am a doctor," he said more harshly than he intended. His hunger magnified every irritant. Knowing they had to retrace their path grated him like a jagged piece of glass coated in lemon juice grinding into his foot's sole.

  "If there are no hospitals, then you're only trained in medicine. Plus, you were only a naturopath, not a real doctor."

  This used to be joke between them back when they joked with each other, back when their world didn't feel covered in heavy clouds. He knew it was time to stop talking. They didn't have the energy to waste on arguing, but the no-longer joke scratched at his nerves.

  "I believe you've gone into amenorrhea. You've lost too much body fat for your
uterus to waste resources prepping for a baby."

  "So you don't think I'm pregnant."

  The words sounded so stupid he wanted to walk away and leave her to her own devices on this damn uncharted road. But he remained civil. They could get back to the main road by dusk if they turned around now. And there'd been an apple tree just as they turned onto this road. At mid-summer, the apples wouldn't be quite ripe, but they'd be edible. He knew they needed fat, but any calories would do. They needed to get moving.

  "I think it's unlikely," he took her hand, "but not impossible."

  Her smile took hostage of her bone and skin face. He wondered how she could want to bring a baby into a world where they scavenged and starved every day. A world where even unripe apples seemed like Thanksgiving.

  ***

  The Disaster had been bad. Still, with seven billion people on the planet, there'd been enough survivors to continue. Electricity was non-existent, but human power was enough to turn fields and plant crops. For Amy and The Doc, as The Community began to call him, it had been almost idyllic until the final few years. Things turned a wrong corner and crops wouldn't grow in The Community's gardens. The climate shifted making it too cold and too wet for too long for warm-weather crops to thrive. And cold-weather crops struggled as if something in the soil strangled the life out of the leaves and shoots. Without external sources of food, The Community starved, buried their dead and hoped next year would be better.

  When a third May in a row started out cold and wet, The Doc knew it was time to go. He and Amy packed what they could into backpacks and panniers and left on their bicycles. The Doc kept their direction always south and always east. He hoped down there it might be better - warmer with a longer growing season. After the years of increasingly colder Northwest weather, a hot humid southern summer sounded like perfection.

  They scavenged and did well with the little camp stove he'd bought back when it was a cozy and quaint to be without electricity during a winter storm. The few people they encountered were wary but friendly, always willing to point on his map where they were. They'd been making good time until a group of men stole the bikes. The Doc was thankful they didn't seem interested in Amy's emaciated body, but he regretted the loss of the stove he'd stashed in the panniers. Hot water, a meager soup of leaves, even just a light in the dark all went with the stove.