Lies, Truth, and the Color of Faith
short fiction by Gerri Leen, artwork by Gary McClusky
The web changes. Grandmother Spider guides my hand, and I follow the thread as it glides over the course of history, into worlds and out again, tracing the possible paths of our ship, the repercussions of our potential decisions.
Possibility collides with possibility, and one way is strong; it draws me in, takes me over, rushing through the Weaving like the rivers through the mountains in the North-lands.
It has been too long since I have ridden the rivers, and I miss them. For a moment I am there, feeling spray on my face, remembering how my mother took my hand and held on tight.
“Enjoy this, child,” she said, and then laughed, delighted by the immensity of the water. We come from a dry land; our rivers run gently, if at all. Water is never something to take for granted.
The web shifts under my hand, drawing me out of my memories. The pattern sings of conquest, of people who will not fight but have much to lose. “Oh,” I say. Then “Oh,” again as the thread turns red like the Bayeta cloth my ancestors wove.