Root (17 page)

“
Karla!” I shouted. “You in
there?”

Something grumbled in the tunnels, its
vocalization rising in pitch like an inquiry.

“
Karla?”

A dimple formed on the dome, bulged out into a
blister and a hatch popped open. A man with a long face and a beard
like a billy goat stuck his head out.

“
And what do we have here? A
gentleman caller?”

Startled, my toes lost their grip and I
slipped down the side of the dome.

“
Egads, lad!” said the man, looking
down on me. “Weave yourself a loin cloth. Have you no
shame?”

There was something wrong with that face. It
seemed too grotesque to be human. This was a living caricature of a
man, with clown-like tufts of auburn hair, a beaky nose, stark pits
below his cheekbones, eyes the pale blue of glacial ice.

He reached down and his bony fingers gripped
my blood-slickened hand and he pulled me through the hatch into
Karla’s abode.

I crumpled to the floor at his feet. He was
tall. Not NBA tall, circus freak tall. He wore a suit of something
black and satiny, with a brilliant white shirt and a red bow tie. A
top hat and a cane rested on Karla’s table.

He pulled out a handkerchief and daubed at the
blood I had smeared on his insanely long fingers. I glanced about
the chamber. Several of Karla’s tapestries had been torn down and
shredded. Some of the roots that had comprised them had reverted to
their native state, inching out of the wreckage like a swarm of
caterpillars.

“
Who the devil are you?” said the
man.

“
I’m … James.”

“
James?” He narrowed his eyes
severely. “James, do you know I am?”

“
Um … no,” I said. “Should
I?”

“
Preposterous! You can’t just barge
into places like this without an invitation. You need to come
prepared to pay the proper respects.” He leaned in close. “You need
to know who you’re dealing with.”

He straightened up and perked his ears. “Ah,
here she comes.” He strode across the room, tore down another
tapestry and blew a gash in the wall with a swipe of his
hand.

Karla stood staring on the other side, a sack
slung over her back.

“
Luther? What are you doing here?
What did you do to my house?” She stepped into the
chamber.

“
Quality inspection, my dear, and I
must say, I am terribly disappointed. These hangings are horrid. I
can’t allow them. I must say that is the most awful replica of an
historical tapestry I have ever seen. The Battle of Hastings?
Really? What made you think this might pass for décor?”

“
It is from my memory. I happen to
like it.”

“
It’s not the topic, your execution
is the problem. It looks like a child’s impressions rendered in
crayon. You can do better, is all I am suggesting.”

“
This is my chamber, Luther. I can
decorate it however I want.”

“
Run my darlings, run!” he said to
the inchworms escaping from the savaged murals lying crumpled on
the floor. “Before she weaves you into something even more
hideous.” Colored strands turned brown and rough and crawled
towards the gash.

“
I thought we agreed,” said Karla.
“No surprise visits, especially when I am not here.”

“
I expected you to be home. Do I not
have a right to call on my filial spawn now and then? And what
about him?” He extended a bony finger towards me. “Was he
expected?”

Karla emptied her sack on the table. There was
silverware in it this time, along with a pair of wire-framed
eyeglasses.

“
Out scavenging again, eh? Like a
magpie, you are. Collecting your pretty little baubles, not to
mention … interlopers.” His gaze hunted me down and pinned me like
a butterfly.

“
If you don’t understand why I do
this,” said Karla. “You never will.”

The tall man swept his hand in a wide loop
over the remnants of the fallen tapestry and it disintegrated into
cottony puffs like milkweed seeds. They swirled away in a
cloud.

“
Get out!” said Karla. “Out of here.
Go trash your own palace. Leave my stuff alone.”

The tall man ducked through the gash and
turned to face us. “One hour. Bring the interloper to the square.
Mandatory assembly … for introduction and … inspection … and if he
passes muster … assimilation. But please slap some clothes on the
poor lad first.” He reached up and motioned as if to grab an
imaginary zipper pull. He brought his hand down and the rip in the
wall sealed behind him.

Karla’s had altered her hair drastically. It
was long now where it had been shaved close to her scalp, shorter
on the side where it had brushed against her shoulder. A large flap
of bangs still concealed one eye.

“
I am so sorry about this,” she
said. “And sorry that you are back.”

“
Sorry?”

“
Coming back means life is bad. You
are not happy. Is just … I wished for you … better.”

“
Oh,” I said, remembering the
prickly object in my palm. “Here.” I unclenched my hand and
displayed the earring. “This is for you.”

“
A gift? For me? How
nice!”

Her eyes glistened. She came over and pecked
my cheek and cooed over the cheap earring as if it were pure
platinum set with diamonds.

She looked around the chamber, spotted the
kilt I had worn the last time, and tossed it to me.

“
You see? I save this for
you.”

“
Uh. You wouldn’t happen to have a
pair of jeans, would you?”

“
Ah! Who am I? Your tailor? You want
pants. Weave them yourself.”

“
Yeah, right. I’ll make do with the
dress for now.” I slipped it on and settled down onto a Persian rug
with a dense and spongy pile.

Karla rummaged around her heaps of belongings,
picked up some crumpled thing that looked like a dust rag and
tossed it to me.

“
This is your shirt from before.
Sorry, it is a bit wrinkled.”

I shook the shirt open, finding it smudged and
ripped as well, but that was the least of its issues. One of the
sleeves had migrated to the center of the back and the other arm
hole had knitted itself closed.

“
How the heck am I supposed to wear
this?”

“
Oh!” She took it back from me, all
embarrassed. “It is shifting. It is not stable. This happens when
the Weaving is not firm. Everything comes apart. I am not so strong
a Weaver.”

“
Not a problem,” I said. “I can go
without. Not like it’s cold in here.”

She spread the blouse in her lap and ran her
fingers over it, guiding the sleeve back where it belonged, mending
the tears, rubbing out the dirt. “So how are things with you? Not
so good, I expect?”

“
Not so good. But hey, isn’t it that
way for everybody? I mean, isn’t that why we’re here?”

“
True, but after some time, we learn
the coping. It makes life easier on the other side. We only need to
stay alive.”

“
Coping?”

She sat down across from me and brushed her
bangs down to cover her left eye more completely.

“
Coping. Surfing. They are skills
for maximizing our time in Root,” she said. “You seem already to be
making progress. You escape your pod and found my house by
yourself, no? Or did Luther help you?”

“
Nope, it was all me. It was easy
this time.”

“
I thought so. It is not at all like
Luther to intervene. He likes to keep the Reapers well fed, he
says. But he does respect those who show … eh … what is the word?
Initiate?”

“
Initiative,” said. “What’s the deal
with him tearing down your embroideries?”

“
His is picky about my craft. I
don’t know why he cares so much. It is not like we are selling
them. What a fool! He thinks I have bad taste. Do you see how he
dresses? He looks like the Abraham Lincoln. Bah! I think his
aesthetic is kitsch. He should not hold his nose so
high.”

“
So who is that guy? Is he like in
charge of things here or something?”

“
Luther would like you to think so.
He thinks he is boss of our colony. The place he
makes—Luthersburg—it just another big cave. Souls collect here only
because it is the first place we see that feels like home. But Bern
says there are other colonies, bigger and grander than Luthersburg.
Maybe someday we go see.”

She handed the blouse over to me and I tried
pulling it on. It was in much better shape now, but it was still a
couple of sizes too small.

“
It … doesn’t fit. And the buttons
are on the wrong side still. And ... uh … can we lose this frilly
collar?”

“
Ah! I am not your seamstress. I am
only trying to help. You want something better, Weave it
yourself.”

“
Yeah, but … how?”

“
Take this shirt and change it. How
you like.”

“
How?”

“
Tell the threads what you want them
to be. Make them move and change. They will listen. They exist to
serve us.”

“
Make—me—a—T-shirt,” I
droned.

“
No, not like that. With your mind
and heart. Remember something real, how it looked and felt in your
hands. Pass this to the roots. They will follow.”

What came to mind was my old brown ‘Firefly’
T-shirt with the spaceship ‘Serenity’ silk-screened on the front.
That had been my favorite shirt for years until Mom finally
intercepted the faded and hole-riddled thing in the wash and put it
out of its misery.

I closed my eyes, laid my hands on that wad of
cloth and conjured the feel of that shirt fresh out of the dryer. I
remembered the hole in the sleeve I had made worse by poking and
twirling my finger into it when I was bored.

Something changed in the wad, but not in the
way I wanted. I lifted my hands to find a bristly, writhing mass of
roots. Instantly repulsed, I fought an urge to cast the whole mess
away.

“
Keep at it! It is working. You are
doing it!”

Could have fooled me, but I took her word for
it, and went right back at it, remembering the time I had rescued
that same shirt from the Goodwill box, crawling inside with a
flashlight after mom decided to get all charitable with my prized
possessions.

Things began to happen. The bristly mass
flattened and softened. I could feel the fibers divide and merge
and weave in and out each other. I kept it all going by keeping the
image of that shirt alive in my mind and nudging its properties
towards my goal.

When I opened my eyes, everything slowed. Some
of the fibers curled and reverted back to roots.

“
Don’t look!” said Karla.

I jammed my eyes shut and the process
continued until I had a faded brown T-shirt full of holes draped
over my hands. The patchy ink on the front of it was barely
discernible.

“
Wow … I am impress,” said Karla,
slack-jawed.

“
Dang it. Why isn’t it brand new?” I
said. “I wanted a new one.”

“
Your feelings must be stronger for
the old one.” She reached out and stroked the shirt. “I have to
say, I am amazed by the level of finishing. And it feels stable.
There is nothing for me to fix. I thought I will need to teach you
but you … you already have it. This is very unusual. You are …
special.”

I was too busy slipping on the T-shirt to be
impressed with her flattery. “Yeah … well, that was a lot of work
for a crappy shirt. I think I almost popped an artery in my
brain.”

“
It will come easier with time,” she
said. “You are clearly destined for great things.”

Her voice had taken on this breathy, fawning
tone as if she had just discovered I was a movie star or something.
It really bothered me. It was like I had become a different person
in her eyes. I wanted to tell her to cut it out, that this was
James Moody she was looking at, not some dang celebrity.

She passed her hands over the material, not
quite touching and the holes in the sleeves patched themselves. The
tightness in the shoulders relaxed. “Remember, hands are good for
weaving too. Use them to project your intentions. They are an
extension of your mind.”

“
Will do,” I said, pushing her hands
away gently. “That’s enough. I just wanted the holes patched. A
little bit of wear and tear is fine. Adds character.”

Karla got off her chair and sat across from me
on the rug. “Now I teach you about the surfing,” she said. “Tell me
… what is going on in your life? On the other side?”

***

I caught Karla up on everything that had
happened to me since the last visitation. It felt weird, saying
everything out loud, and having someone listen to the whole thing.
Things that had been swirling in my brain all tight and tangled
seemed to loosen up. I began to see things that had been obscured
before.

“
That is all?” she said, when I was
done.