"Spinner knows everything," the woman says in a rough voice.
Oh. Okay. "I don't suppose you've seen a blonde woman around here, about my age, really fond of cussing? Goes by the name of Faith?" The woman ignores me, continuing on her way, and I jog behind her, absurdly glad that I'm wearing my sneakers as we wade into taller grasses at the edge of the village. It's a mystery to me where we're going, but then at the edge of the woods, I see a small hut with an even smaller trail heading toward it. Ah.
I'm really hoping the spinner is a lady that just likes her privacy and not, say, a wicked witch of some kind.
3
The tall woman approaches the hut fearlessly, which makes me feel a bit better. She bangs on the door with two hard thumps and then calls out. "Stranger's here, just like you said."
"Coming, coming," answers a frail voice, and for a moment, I picture the spinner like a television granny, all gray and black hair pulled into a tight bun, a sweet face, and a rounded figure.
The door opens, and I'm hit with a waft of pure BO. This woman smells like pits, so powerfully that I cough, my hand flying to cover my mouth. A moment later, a little woman shuffles out, short and with crazy white hair and bent shoulders. She's not strong and sturdy like my grandma, but fragile, and as she steps into the light, I see her eyes are completely covered with gray cataracts.
At least…I hope they're gray cataracts.
"This is the spinner," the tall, brusque woman says to me. "Come on. I'll make tea."
"Oh, uh…" I try to think of an excuse to stay outside, so I don't have to go into Stink Central, but my brain fails me. They both head back in, and it's either leave and offend them, or go inside and hold my nose. Because I'm such a coward, I take a deep breath and then head in after them.
The inside of the hut smells even more powerfully than I thought. My eyes water, and I try not to stare at my surroundings, since that doesn't seem polite. The hut is more like a hovel, though. There's two stools by the fireplace, a dirt floor covered in all kinds of nasty debris I don't want to put a name to, and dried plants hang from the walls. The roof seems claustrophobically low, and I swallow hard when I see bits of sunlight drifting in from above. My terror changes to sympathy—how awful to live like this. And I'm expecting these people to give me a handout? Heck, I don't even know if they have enough food for themselves.
"Sit," the taller woman says, pointing at one of the stools.
"Thank you," I murmur, dropping onto my seat and clasping my hands on my knees. "I'm sorry to bother you guys. If you could just give me some directions, I'll be on my way."
"So very polite," the spinner cackles, creeping over to the other stool and then plopping down on it without looking. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?" I ask, because now I'm curious.
"Big tits," she says bluntly. "Not those little things."
I recoil. "Um, excuse me?"
Both women cackle as if this is the funniest shit ever. I resist the urge to put my hands over my boobs. I mean, they're perfectly fine boobs but by no means magnificent. "So, uh, where am I exactly?"
"You are nowhere," the spinner says, peering over at me. Maybe she can see through those thick cataracts, though I don't know how. "And not where you need to be just yet."
"How do you know where I need to be?"
The spinner taps the side of her head. "Because I see it all. I know it all. He's coming soon and you won't be here. You'll be where you need to be for the weave to align."
I'm fascinated by her despite myself. Weave to align? "Who's coming?"
The spinner just smiles.
"Is it someone I'm supposed to meet?" I lean in and whisper, confessing my secret suspicions. "Am I some sort of…Chosen One?"
Both women cackle with laughter as if I've said the funniest thing ever. My face burns with embarrassment. Okay, maybe I'm not the Chosen One.
"Humor. I see why, now. It all becomes clear." The spinner nods. "Humor and a positive spirit. It will be a good balance."
"What will?" I ask.
She waves a claw-like hand in the air. "You did not come to ask me that. You came to ask where you were. I can only help you so much before I must send you on your way."
“How did you know I need help?”
She gestures at me. “It is obvious, little sweetmeat. You are not from here, or there, or anywhere in Aos.” Her clawlike hand waves in the air, pointing in different directions.
Aos. I repeat the word over and over again. At least I have a starting point, and a name. Aos. Wherever I am, this place is called Aos. I don’t know if it’s the town, or the region, but it’s a start.
“Tea,” the big woman says, sloshing the contents of a dipper into a wooden cup. She hands one to me, and one to the spinner, and I notice there seems to be an entire twig floating in mine. Puts a whole new perspective on “tea leaves.” I try to ignore it, sipping around it, and cough at how strong the tea is.
The spinner just shakes her head and sighs. “Far too trusting.”
I freeze. “Did…did you just poison me?”
“No, it’s just tea. But you drank it without asking, like a fool. You won’t last long, mark my words.” She sips her cup and then turns her head, ever so slightly. “Arla, get my threads.”
“Yes, spinner.”
I sit patiently, holding my cup as Arla—the younger of the two women—pours herself a drink and then turns to watch us. I look over at the old woman—the spinner—and realize she's been staring at me this whole time. Creepy. "What is it?" I ask. If it's not poison, why do they keep staring at me?
The spinner just lifts her chin in my direction. "I knew you were coming, but you are yet a surprise. The gods are mysterious."
Well, heck, I'm curious, too. "What do you mean, you knew I was coming?"
"The omens are in the threads," the spinner says simply. "They have been snarled into the threads for months now, but I did not know you were on your way here."
“What omens?” I look around the room, then at Arla.
Arla shrugs, her expression one of boredom.
"You'll see," the spinner says. "Just heed my words and you'll do well. Or not. Only the gods can say." She laughs, the sound reedy and thin and like she's carrying a year of congestion in her throat. I bite back a grimace and sip my tea again.
"So what is this place?" I ask again. "This region, if this town doesn't have a name?"
"You are in the land of Glistentide," the spinner says. "Near Port Tidewater. What are those things on your face?"
My face? I reach up and touch my glasses, realizing what she means. Oh. I take them off and hand them over to her. "They help me see."
The spinner puts them on her face, blinking broadly and peering around the room. "Magic?"
"Just, uh, good crafting. So Glistentide? Is this a good place? Is there a way back home?" She mentioned magic, and I wonder if it's real. Then again, why wouldn't it be real? I got here, didn't I? I watch as the spinner hands the glasses to Arla, who manhandles the lenses and smudges them, then peers through herself. I hold my breath until they pass them back, and I can barely hear Arla mutter something about magic seeing. When I put them on, though, they're just my glasses. A little filthier than they were two minutes ago, but still normal.