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 Patterns In the Chain
Steven Piziks
Even ogres knit to pass the time.
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
A shadow drifted across the mouth of Mother Berchte’s cave.
She waited and rocked, careful to keep her tail away from the stone rockers of
her chair. White sparks snapped from her needles.
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
The shadow drifted closer, and Mother Berchte lost patience.
“I see you,” she growled. “Get in here.”
The shadow froze.
“Yes, I mean you. Move it.”
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
The shadow hesitantly stepped into the light thrown by the
fireplace. The girl was young, not yet twenty. She held a short sword before
her with a farily competent air, though her grip was so tight Berchte was sure
she was leaving permanent fingerprints on the hilt. The girl’s red-blond hair
had recently been hacked off. Probably with a blunt dagger, if Berchte was any
judge.
“Well?” Mother Berchte prompted in her harsh voice. “What’s
your name, girlie?”
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two. Berchte’s
needles glowed like angry volcanos. The girl tried not to recoil, and Mother
Berchte grinned. Berchte knew full well she was an imposing sight, almost eight
feet tall with horns on her head and fangs in her mouth and claws on her
fingertips. And a tail, of course. The latter was a bitch if she wasn’t careful
with the rocking chair.
“Jeweline,” the girl said timidly. “My name is Jeweline.”
Of course it is,
Mother Berchte thought. “And?” she said aloud. “You didn’t climb all the way up
here just to tell me your name.”
Jeweline took a deep breath. Although the inflation of her
chest did nothing for Mother Berchte, it earned an admiring snort from
Nassirskaegi in his corner. Jeweline’s head snapped around and her eyes widened
for a split second before she could school her features back into impassivity.
Berchte awarded her silent points for quick recovery. Many people reacted badly
to giant goats the size of horses, but few hid their surprise so quickly.
Nassirskaegi yawned, revealing yellow teeth.
“Um...r-raiders attacked our holding,” Jeweline said. “My
parents were slain, my brothers murdered. My sisters were taken. I need to
rescue them.”
“With that?” Mother Berchte pointed scornfully at Jeweline’s
sword with her chin. Her knitting needles flashed through another row, and the
swiftly growing shirt clinked in her lap.
“With your help,” Jeweline said. “If you’ll give it.”
Mother Berchte nodded and rocked, knitting without
answering. Jeweline shifted uncomfortably. A drop of sweat trickled down her
face.
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
“Well, why not?” Mother Berchte said at last. “That’s a hell
of a climb, and you deserve something for it. Choose one.”
Jeweline peered about the dimly-lit cave. “Choose one what?”
Mother Berchte blew at the fireplace. The flames blazed up,
throwing the cave into almost painful brightness. Dozens of mail shirts
glittered and sparkled from every wall, each with a unique style and design.
Different types of wire knitted artfully into the weave created patterns and
pictures. This one showed a silvery dragon breathing copper fire. That one
portrayed an exquisitely-rendered griffon leaping into a star-flecked sky.
Another twisted the eye with a fractal pattern of falling red-gold leaves.
Jeweline gasped and lowered her sword. “You made all these?”
Mother Berchte grinned with crooked teeth and briefly held
up the half-finished hauberk in her lap before returning to work. The needles
sparked and flashed. Friction and tortion softened the wire, making it easier
to work.
Jeweline whistled under her breath, sheathed her sword, and
went over to examine the chainmail shirts. Mother Berchte watched her until the
girl’s eye fell on a shirt hanging in a dimly-lit corner half-hidden by a stout
wooden wardrobe. The shirt was old and rusting. It looked like moths had been
at it, though what kind of moths would go for solid steel even Mother Berchte
didn’t care to think about.
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
Jeweline put out a finger to touch the old hauberk, and a
sly smile stole over her face. Mother Berchte narrowed her eyes and kept on
knitting. The girl had obviously heard some of the old tales. Either that or
she had been down to the river talking to Father Fluss. Slobbery bastard. And
Jeweline was just the type to set him slobbering.
“What about this one?” Jeweline asked, holding up the rusty
shirt.
“You don’t want that one, girl,” Mother Berchte replied
evenly. “It’s old and poorly made.”
“I don’t want to be greedy,” Jeweline said in a modest
voice. “I’ll take it.”
Mother Berchte shrugged without missing a stitch. “It’s your
life.”
Jeweline pulled the hauberk over her head, leaving wide
streaks of rust in her hair, and hurried for the cave’s entrance. At the last
moment she turned back. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, and left. Mother
Berchte watched her go.
Nassirskaegi bleated once.
“Sunrise, I expect,” Berchte answered.
oOo
Something clinked and clanked at the mouth of the cave.
Jeweline entered, sword at her side, battered chainmail revealing more than it
probably should. She was covered with cuts, scratches, and bruises, and her
movements were stiff. Behind her, the sun was chasing the last of the stars
away from the pale blue sky.
“Didn’t work, did it?” Mother Berchte said mildly. Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
“You tricked me,” Jeweline cried. “This shirt is worthless!
If Father Fluss hadn’t given me flashflowers to blind the bastards, I would
have been killed.”
“I told you not to take it, girl,” Mother Berchte growled.
Jeweline opened her mouth to protest, but Berchte cut her off. “Let me guess.
You thought that the best shirt in the bunch would be disguised as a rusty
piece of junk. You thought this was some stupid fairy tale to put the kiddies
to sleep.”
Jeweline snapped her mouth shut and set her jaw. “I just
want to get my sisters away from those...men.”
“Then do something sensible,” Mother Berchte scoffed. “The
first lesson you have to learn is never settle for less than the best.”
Jeweline squared her shoulders. “All right.” She shrugged
out of the rusty mail shirt, marched over to the wall of chainmail, and chose
another, one tightly knitted from the stoutest steel, yet light enough to wear
easily. A two-headed eagle glowered defiantly in the design, and the shirt
gleamed softly in the firelight as Jeweline pulled it on. Mother Berchte
watched with interest.
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
“Thank you,” Jeweline said curtly, and left.
Nassirskaegi bleated a question.
“Sunset,” Berchte replied.
oOo
“You filthy, lying old bitch,” Jeweline spat before Mother
Berchte could say a word. Outside, the sun touched the horizon and turned the
clouds a brilliant scarlet. “You told me not to settle for less than the best.
Now look at me!”
The mail shirt was bloody and torn, and new scratches tore
angry lines down both her arms. Mother Berchte bared her teeth and growled low
in her throat at Jeweline’s tone of voice, but Jeweline stood firm and matched
Berchte’s glare. After a moment, Berchte nodded approval.
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
“Let me guess,” Mother Berchte said. “Father Fluss gave you
blastberries to let you get away this time.”
Jeweline stared at her. “How did—?”
“I’m not stupid, girlie,” Berchte snapped. “But you are.
Start paying attention to the pattern and maybe you’ll win.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jeweline snapped
back. “There isn’t any pattern.”
“Of course there is. It’s why you haven’t rescued your
sisters yet.”
“You’re crazy as a cat in a violin shop.” Despite the angry
snarl in her voice, Jeweline had edged forward until she was right next to
Mother Berchte’s rocking chair. Her head barely reached Berchte’s chest, even
though Berchte was seated. Nassirskaegi admired her from his corner and nibbled
a bit of hay in an extremely suggestive manner.
“Look for the pattern.” Mother Berchte’s needles clicked
faster and faster until her fingers were a blur. “I’ve already given you the
first lesson: never settle for less than the best. The second lesson is that
everything happens in threes. You’ve had your third visit with Father Fluss, if
that pouch at your waist is filled with sleepyseed like I think it is. This is
your third visit to me. And in a moment you’ll be making your third try to
rescue your sisters.”
“What about the armor?”
“You’ve already destroyed two sets, girlie,” Berchte
grumped. “You’re on your own there. I don’t knit this stuff for free.”
“Is it true that you take your goat to bed with you?”
Jeweline asked abruptly.
Berchte stopped knitting for a moment and lashed out a hand.
It caught Jeweline squarely across the face. She cried out and stumbled
backward to mouth of the cave.
“Don’t be rude,” Berchte told her mildly. She tried to pick
up her knitting, but ended up staring down at her lap in puzzled astonishment
instead.
“Over here,” Jeweline called.
“Shit,” Berchte muttered into her lap.
“You’re good at guessing,” Jeweline continued. “I’ll bet you
can guess what I want next.”
Berchte glared across the cave to the entrance where
Jeweline was brandishing the missing knitting needle. “Maybe I’ll take up
crocheting.”
“Yeah, right. Come on—you know what I want. Three lessons,
three meetings, three rescues. And three shirts.”
Berchte met Jeweline’s eyes for a long moment. Then she
nodded once and jerked her head at the old, rusty hauberk Jeweline had
abandoned on the stony floor. It was still rusty, but when Jeweline picked it
up, the holes vanished and the rust fell away, revealing glowing chain links
that crackled and hummed with power. Jeweline tossed the needle toward Berchte’s
chair. She snatched it out of mid-air and slid it back into her knitting.
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
“I’d have given it to you anyway, you know,” Berchte said.
“Uh huh.” Jeweline shrugged out of the ruined shirt and into
the good one.
“Like you said,” Mother Berchte told her, ignoring the
sarcasm, “three visits, three rescues, three shirts. All part of the pattern.
You also have to make a third choice.”
Jeweline blinked. “What were my first two?”
“To try rescuing your sisters and to seek the help you
needed.”
“And my third?”
“Whether you want to stay in the pattern or not,” Mother Berchte
said. “Whether you really want to rescue your sisters.”
Jeweline narrowed her eyes warily. “What makes you think I
don’t?”
“You’re the youngest. You’re probably the prettiest. And
they picked on you all your life because of it, didn’t they? Now you’re going
to show your sisters once and for all that you’re the smartest, the bravest,
and the most resourceful. Do you honestly think your sisters will be grateful
and pile affection on you? That they’ll kiss your fingers and beg forgiveness for
all the nasty things they’ve done?” Mother Berchte spat into the fireplace and
the flames flared green. “I guarantee you they won’t. They’ll blame you for the
raid. They’ll blame you for your brothers’ and parents’ deaths. And they’ll
blame you for not rescuing them earlier. Oh yes, girlie—they will.”
“I have to rescue them. They’re my sisters,” Jeweline said
stoutly, though there was doubt in her voice.
“And sisters can be the cruelest of all,” Mother Berchte
said. “They made fun of you for learning sword work from your brothers, didn’t
they? They called you names and gossiped about you and spread rumors that you
handled your brothers’ blades as well as their swords, didn’t they?”
Jeweline flushed and looked away.
“Meanwhile,” Berchte continued, knitting needles still
clicking on her lap, “you have a man waiting for you in the river at the bottom
of this mountain. And maybe if you kiss him, you’ll see he isn’t as ugly as you
thought.”
“He isn’t ugly,” Jeweline said quickly, then blushed again.
Berchte gave a knowing nod. “The fool likes you, girlie. He
never gave me blastberries and
sleepyseed. So choose: your ungrateful sisters or him. Or walk away entirely.
No one’s forcing you to complete the pattern.”
“You’re a bitch,” Jeweline said suddenly. “A horrible old
bitch.”
“Life’s the bitch, girlie,” Mother Berchte said affably. “That’s
your third lesson. You can leave now.”
Jeweline gave Mother Berchte once last look, then spun and
marched out of the cave. Berchte picked up her knitting again. Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.
Nassirskaegi bleated a question.
“She’s going to rescue her sisters, of course,” Berchte
replied gruffly. “But I don’t think she’s going to stay with them. Not anymore.”
Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two. Wire
unwound steadily from Berchte’s cable spool and Berchte allowed herself a heavy
sigh. She had gotten a young girl to start thinking for herself, and that was
nice.
But she was really going to miss Father Fluss.
Copyright © 2000 by Steven Piziks
First appeared in The
Chick’s in the Mail by Esther Friesner (Ed.), Baen Books, 2000
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