The Giant's Almanac by Andrew Zurcher (black female authors .txt) 📕

‘No,’ said Dina, sitting forward. She was agitated.

‘I will tell you a story that my grandfather told me,’ said the Master. ‘For this board belonged to him before it was – before this time. The wood from which this board was made was cut from a tree in a very distant place, in a city that is as old as any city on the earth. At the same time that this board was made, from the same wood another beautiful thing was made – a machine of unimaginable intricacy and wonder. Every piece of that machine was crafted from the wood of this tree; some pegs and joints from the hardest parts of the heartwood, other more flexible working arms from the pliant boughs and the new growth that the tree, when cut, wore as it were upon its waist. This wondrous machine was called the Great Loom, and upon it stories were made by an artist whose hands were equal to its potential, whose vision was equal to the instrument he wielded. Ordinary weavers work at looms of ingenious construction, and they, too, can produce beautiful work – carpets, tapestries, cloths of different kinds. But their work is slow, and the constraints on their creativity, labouring with an everyday instrument, are many. Sitting at the Great Loom, a true master can weave a story that – believe me, for my grandfather who was very wise said so to me – a story that you would not wish to end. Do you think a weaver would sit at such a loom, if there were a risk that the work could never be completed?’

Dina was silent. She was furious.

‘Yes,’ said Fitz. ‘But I think more than this. I think the true weaver, like the true master of this game here on the desk before us, always hopes to begin a story that will not end.’

‘What could be more satisfying than the end?’ said Dina, sharply.

‘Let me show you a mansūba of this kind,’ said the Master. ‘It is called the Giant’s Almanac.’ He began to rearrange the pieces on the board in front of him. ‘You will see an image of the Great Loom of which I spoke before. I need but to set this piece –’

‘No!’ cried Dina. She reached forward and with the whole of her forearm swept the pieces from the board. They clattered on the table. The Master and Fitz were both shocked; although the Master didn’t move, Fitz, startled, sat back in his chair, which scraped against the floor. Dina was evidently embarrassed by what she had done.

She stood. She seemed about to say something. Instead she left the room. They heard her feet on the stairs, and then – nothing.

The moment the sound of Dina’s footsteps had died away, everything about the Master changed. His brows clamped and furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and he appeared to be grinding his teeth. His hands began to shake, and Fitz feared that he might be about to have some sort of seizure. Fitz sat up, as if he might stand and offer the Master his arm, or get him a drink. But the Master motioned for him to be still. His hands danced in the air, as if he were planning or projecting something. They made sharp and jerky movements, the stutterings of ideas or actions undertaken in contrary minds, the lunges of a man at war with himself and with the world.

‘We haven’t got long,’ he said at last, gasping out the words. Fitz hadn’t realized that he had been holding his breath all the while. ‘They’ll come for me in a few – minutes, at the most. The Heresy has plenty of prisons – no end of prisons – but there’s only one cell, here, where they can hope to hold me. It’s in the high tower in the south-west corner of the House of the Rack. Unlike your room, unlike this room, it has no hatch in the ceiling – of course. And the windows are barred – there’s no way in except by the key. But it has another door, to the north, one that opens on the air; the drop to the court below is more than two hundred feet, and prisoners usually don’t exit that way by choice. When the time comes, you’ll have to get me out that door. I don’t know how; you’ll have to dream up something.’ While he was talking, the Master had collected the pieces Dina had scattered on the table, and had begun to rearrange them on the board. With a few focused adjustments, he finished.

‘This teaching, child – it has kept you safe. Meanwhile, I have made my preparations. The time will come very soon when this game – all of this – can be ended.’

Fitz was dazed. Outside, at the bottom of the tower stairs, there was shouting.

‘For now, child, I am sorry, that while I am locked in the Rack’s prison, I cannot protect you. Trust the Jack, trust the Keeper; since we have returned to the Heresy, they have been my friends. They’ll be yours. Which of the Apprentices will help you?’

‘Navy. Dolly.’ He hesitated. He wanted to say Dina’s name.

‘No,’ said the Master, reading his thoughts, ‘not Dina. She is – too angry. Call on the others for help, then, if you need them. You must manage until a week from tonight. Until your birthday.’

My birthday. He had forgotten. When I come of age. They will come for me.

‘Just a week,’ said the Master. ‘Whatever you do, don’t eat the stack – you’ll need –’

‘I haven’t been eating it for the last few weeks,’ said Fitz.

The Master was stunned. For a few moments he was silent. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. It reminded Fitz of his dream.

The Master held his hands out over the board. ‘Do you see this? This mansūba – the last one I wanted to show you?’

Fitz