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The Weaver's Son
A Fairy Tale


Once upon a time there was a young man who was so interested in everything that he did nothing. He could sit for hours in the middle of an empty room, blood pounding in his ears, feeling the grainy gears of consciousness stare out hungrily at the watching emptiness, just drinking in all the possibilities of the world. His imagined, exciting universe was pure abstract, with no relation to the un-extraordinary details of daily life. This young man’s name was Gral. He is not the hero of this story.

Gral grew up in a small, unremarkable village; the kind of place where no one is a stranger long and everyone knows everybody else’s business. Theirs was a tight-knit yet accessible community, but it had absolutely no idea what to do with the weaver’s dreamy son. Nor could Gral figure them. Not that he tried particularly hard—the out-there feel of possibilities was far more interesting, and comfortingly familiar.

He wondered surprisingly little about the source of what he experienced, asking few “why?” questions at all about anything concerned with himself. Perhaps this had something to do with his notoriously bad memory—not just for names, but for anything, so much that almost every moment and event was fresh, un-judged and unprejudiced for him. He simply received. Naïve and simple, sometimes sweet, the villagers clucked, shaking their heads; just like his dear departed mother.

One evening over dinner, after a particularly trying day for the weaver when Gral was even less attentive to the work of his apprenticeship than usual, that good man asked a difficult question.

“My son, I had hoped it would not come to this, but we can both see you’re no use at weaving, and I must find someone to help me in the shop. The butcher has been to see me about his youngest daughter—she has no taste for hog slaughtering, and is willing to learn my trade. My friend the merchant leaves tomorrow for Beyond the Cliff. Would you like to go?”

A hundred thoughts that seemed like no thoughts at all rushed to Gral’s mind. He sat quiet for a minute, picking at his food, sorting them out. What did he want? He had no idea. He was no good (he already knew that,) his father was trading him for a better son—no one from their village had ever been to Beyond the Cliff before…

Heavy with a sense of duty to his father, a rush of heartbreak for leaving filled his heart. He answered, “Sir, I will go.”

The good weaver, heavy with a sense of duty to his son, nodded his assent, heartbroken.

There were no preparations to be made. Early the next morning, when the sky was still grey and before the birds had begun to sing, the merchant knocked loudly on the door. The good weaver handed a small drawstring pouch to his son. “Some money,” he explained. “All my savings.” Gral hugged him tightly. The weaver reached again into his coat and revealed a second small pouch. “For home,” he said. Gral pressed his hand. One more pouch the weaver withdrew. “For your future,” he whispered. Gral kissed his cheek, stowing the pouches away in his traveling pack with the food, blankets and extra clothing. The merchant knocked loudly on the door again, and Gral went out to meet him.

The merchant was a loud, red-faced, bawdy man in good humor, still half-drunk from the night before. His cart was tiny but the wheels were strong, and his mangy mule looked like it could walk around the world at least twice more before he collapsed, well aware of every twist and turn in the familiar path. It was a cheery, intoxicating sight for the new traveler, and the party set off in good spirits at a brisk pace.

Gral’s village sat between the sheer drop of an impassable cliff and a difficult path up, the one village outlying the Seven Friendly Neighbors, other villages high in the mountains above. No one from this fellowship of trading villages had ever dared to find a way down the cliff to reach the plain distantly glimpsed at the bottom. But many years ago the first merchants from Beyond the Cliff had arrived, offering strange wares and wrapping a cheerful, conspiratorial silence about their method of passage. Now two or three came every year, but Gral was the first to be granted passage with them. He wondered if he was the first to have ever asked.

Gral was so intent on happily absorbing the sights of the village, on experiencing everything in its glory and potential, that he barely noticed when the merchant turned off the road and began edging through the trees for one of the sharpest edges of the cliff. Why should he notice? Everything simply was, and was good—things happened, and he absorbed them. But even Gral was startled when the merchant drove off the edge, the mule stepping calmly down into empty air.

Or not so empty—a crudely hewn platform was beneath their feet. Gral gaped, half-terrified, as it lowered them through the air, bumping gently against the mountainside, dislodging dirt and pebbles. The merchant laughed in his rumbling way at Gral’s amazement. “Pulleys and counterweights!” the merchant announced proudly. Sheepishly, Gral forced his tightly curled fingers to release the edge of the cart. But he could not slow his galloping heartbeat.

After what felt like an eternity, the weight-and-pulley-guided platform set down on a narrow outcrop of land jutting out from the cliff side. The merchant didn’t even have to touch the reins; the mule, looking bored, ambled onto the rock, and the cart went jerkily after. Gral deliberately avoided eyeing the edge. The merchant hummed contentedly to himself.

Before too long the path dwindled away, or seemed to; the merchant gestured to a fissure in the side of the cliff, and as they rounded the edge of a huge stone Gral saw it was the mouth of a cave. “A tunnel,” the merchant corrected. “Our path.” Gral swallowed nervously. His companion laughed uproariously at his young charge’s discomfort, slapping Gral’s back heartily. “Onwards, then!” he cried cheerily, shaking the reins. “Far to go to not go far!”

Gral had no idea what that meant, but he tried to relax as they rode under the stalactite-dripping opening. The merchant reached into the box beneath his feet and withdrew two lamps, lighting them with a carefully struck math and hanging them on twin poles driven deep into the seat of the cart. The flickering light cast strange, jumpy shadows on the walls, illuminating little but themselves and the merchant’s shining eyes. The air was still and undisturbed, save for the squeak of the harness and creaking wheels. Gral closed his eyes and sat quietly, swaying with the rocking of the cart.

Minutes or hours—maybe days, but Gral told himself that was ridiculous—of rolling through the thick darkness passed before the merchant finally brought them to a halt. “Be right back,” he muttered. Gral nodded, eyes still shut. The merchant shook the whole cart getting down, setting off a clanking echo that followed him—Gral opened his eyes—past the edge of lamplight visibility.

There was a distant splash. Gral sang softly under his breath, staring into the flickering dark, utterly distracted, even calm—

—How long had it been quiet? The flames no longer flickered. The utter stillness stilled him, shallowed his breathing, his heart slowed. Where was the merchant? Just how long had he been waiting here like this?

Convulsively, Gral grabbed one of the lamps from its hook and set out in pursuit of the merchant.

He found the man face-up not far from the path, frozen hands clutching futilely at his chest. A heart attack. Gral made his way back to the cart and dug for the money pouch his father had given him. With two of the largest coins he weighted the merchant’s eyes. Not knowing what else to do, Gral assumed the merchant’s seat in the cart and picked up the reins. “Hyah,” he said, softly, so as not to disturb the darkness, and the mule moved on, placid as ever.

Gral trusted the mule to continue following the right road; he couldn’t see far ahead, and didn’t know what to look for in any case. But the mule plodded on the twisting, downward sloping road without hesitation or difficulties, and an endless age later, when Gral was sore from sitting and the shaking and his eyes watered from peering into the dimness, a waft of fresh air touched his face, gusting so hard the lamps sputtered out.

The narrow tunnel road widened, and a pale light filtered down from somewhere up ahead. The road sloped up, and his slack fingers tightened again on the reins. They rounded a corner, and he shielded his eyes, slowing the mule to a halt until his eyes adjusted. It was a large cavern with a huge entrance and a great, grassy hill rolling downwards beyond.

A tall, slender girl stood silhouetted in the entrance of the cave, a long, well-wrapped bundle cradled in her arms like a child. Gral stared. The mule stopped of its own accord.

“Hello,” she said. Gral suddenly felt very self-conscious. “Hi,” he replied awkwardly. The girl peered intently at his face, looking faintly confused. “I don’t remember you,” she said thoughtfully. Pulling at the wrap around her bundle, she considered the various objects—Gral saw tips of swords, tools, amulets, even a crown—but, shaking her head, she re-wrapped the bundle. “I don’t have anything for you. I don’t know why. I have something for everyone. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Gral assured her. “I don’t need anything.”

“Well… if you’re sure,” the girl said slowly. “Pass freely, stranger. I hope you may not regret the lack of a gift.”

“Thanks you, ma’am,” Gral said shyly. He went to urge the mule on, but hesitated. The girl looked at him curiously. “I’ve never traveled this way before,” he explained. “Could you give me directions to the nearest town? I don’t want to get lost.”

She smiled. “Follow the straight road down,” she replied, gesturing to the hill outside. “Do not stop until nightfall. Whether you stop at the city or not…” She shrugged.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Grail said again, and the mule started forward of his own accord, emerging into another grey dawn.

They followed the straight road down the hill and onto a great green plain, unlike anything Gral had ever seen before. The gentle ups and downs of the landscape went on as far as he could see, with a few distant dark smudges on the horizon that may have been trees or towns. They traveled all day, and, just as the girl had said, as dusk was falling they reached the first walls of a great city.

There was no one at the open gate. The streets were deserted. The sun edged inexorably downwards, and the shadows grew colder as they grew longer. Gral stopped in the main square, next to a great round well. He un-harnessed the mule, drew up a bucket of water for the tired animal. He sat down to eat a meager supper from the food he had brought, and waited to see what would happen next.

Just as the final blackness of night fell, all hell broke loose.

People burst out from everywhere, screaming and waving torches and home-fashioned weapons of every kind. Gral darted for refuge under the cart, huddling with his back against the well, watching the battles and building-destroying chaos erupt around him.

After what felt like an age, Gral noticed the riots were becoming fewer, and less energetic; the square emptied, and a few lonely fires burnt themselves out on the uneven flagstones. Perhaps he slept, but if he did he didn’t notice. At long last, a thin daylight broke through the morning mist, and the silence was complete. Gral emerged to stare at the destroyed city in wonder. What kind of a place had he stumbled into?

A thin, ragged man staggered out in the square. Gral tried to duck behind the wagon again, but he wasn’t fast enough. “You there!” the man called. “Stranger! Fare thee well?”

Gral thought about this, watching cautiously as the stranger approached. “Is it over?” he asked finally, as the man reached the cart.

“Naturally, naturally,” the man replied easily. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Visitors usually receive a more courteous welcome. But the Revolution was a long time coming, and couldn’t be put off any longer.”

“A revolution?” Gral repeated wonderingly. “Against what?”

A fire seemed to light in the man’s eyes. “Injustice. Corruption. A top-heavy hierarchy of pious bureaucrats too intent on their own money making to notice the stench of their own hypocrisy, their—” he cut off abruptly, hand raised, staring madly into space, quivering like an arrow let loose from a bow. Gral just looked at him. Abruptly, the man collected himself, returning to a calmer stance with a small cough of apology and dredging up a tired smile. “But you aren’t a part of our problems. Come, I will find a place for you to rest, and eat. There will be something set up while the reconstruction goes on.”

Gral gladly hitched the mule to the cart and followed his new guide. They wound their way through narrow streets full of debris, the man calling out greetings and offering encouragement to all the cheerful laborers they passed. Finally they came to one door that looked untouched. The mule was stabled comfortably, the cart set down with him, and Gral welcomed his own room and soft bed gratefully. His guide promised to return when the day’s labors were over.

When he woke again, it was to the red light of a heavy sun just about the horizon’s edge. There was a knock at the door; his guide entered. “Good, you’re awake,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve come to offer you a meal and speed you on your way. It is not wise to linger here more than a night.”

Obediently, Gral went to fetch the cart and mule. The man guided him through the emptying city, and he suppressed a shudder at the eerie quality of that creeping silence. The man’s eyes flicked about jumpily, as though he were afraid of being attacked at any moment. They reached the gate; the man pointed a long, trembling finger out down the road. “Straight on,” he said, and vanished back inside the walls.

Gral looked behind him at the dangerous city, ahead at the darkening road, and then down at the drooping ears of the mule. In a rare moment of quick decision, he drove a little way off the road into the shade of some trees, tethering the donkey there, and crept back into to the city.

It began the same as the previous night. The wild rush into the streets, the fighting, the torches and destruction—and now, at the head of one group, more controlled than the rest, Gral could distinguish his tight-strung guide, arms spread wide beseechingly, his powerful voice carrying even over the clamor. “Stop, stop! We are here to build anew, not destroy! Cease to be a rabble and heed the march of truth!” But the fighting continued, drawing in even those stoic people.

Gral crept away again, and spent the night under the sheltering trees next to the warm bulk of the mule, the cart providing a sturdy roof.

Dawn woke him. Dew drenched everything. With a sudden surge of energy and purpose, although he had no idea where he was going, Gral left the city of destruction and rebuilding firmly behind him.

This side of the city, the land looked different. There were more trees, and it all sloped gently downwards, pooling into a great valley of lush foilage, rambling brush and tall, deep green grasses. It just after midway, when he was looking for a place to rest, that he came across the camp.

It was like stepping into a rainbow. Carts and stalls were everywhere, bustling with equally colorfully dressed people. Gral’s arrival caused a great stir. Leaving the cart and mule to the side, he walked among them and they offered their wares.

A tall, toothless man held out a gleaming bottle that sloshed, giving off a beautiful smell. “An aid for the interpretation of portents,” he promised. A portly gentleman grabbed his hand and brushed his fingers over some soft silk cradling a broken shard of mirror like a frame. “See the future,” he urged Gral. A heavily pregnant woman tugged at his sleeve from her seat, holding out a large golden leather-bound book. “Understand the present,” she whispered. A shifty looking man with a long dark coat on murmured in his ear, “Choose a spell, any spell, wear power like rings, power to see, to change, to choose…” his voice dropped, fingers playing enticingly, protectively, over his coat pocket. “To love…”

On the far side of the market, an ancient, bald man sat cross-legged on the ground beneath a simple cloth roof supported on poles. He had no cart or stand or magical items. Gral sat down in the shade with him. “Sir, what do you offer?”

“Nothing you can afford.” His voice was weak and wavery.

Gral thought about this. Thoughtfully, he made his way back to his cart, returning with his pack. He dug through it to the money pouch his father had given him, but… it was strangely light…

There was no money left in the pouch. Gral stared at it, uncomprehending. “It must have been taken in the city,” he said finally.

“The city that is destroyed each night and rebuilt each day,” the old man confirmed.

“Why do they do that?” Gral wondered, sitting down again with the old man, the empty moneybag between them.

“Why do these merchants sell their wares?” the old man responded. “Why do you try to give me money? Why do you travel with a mule and cart that does not belong to you?”

Gral did not know what to say to this. He and the old man sat together in silence while the sun moved slowly across the sky.

“I think I have to be going,” Gral said at last.

“Goodbye,” replied the old man.

The road ran on, up and out of the valley, right into a dark forest. Gral hesitated before driving in because he didn’t want to be in the forest when night fell, but there seemed no way around it, and no reason to stop now.

It was cool and dark under the trees. Soon he came to a small river. Guarding the small bridge that crossed it was a young boy who looked about Gral’s age. He stood firm with a thick walking stick in his right hand. His left hand was crossed over his chest, holding a large shield with a strange design on it: a circle quartered by a red and black cross.

“Hail, stranger,” the boy called as Gral neared the bridge. “With what business do you travel the forest?”

Gral could not think of any, and said so. The boy hesitated, but then stood firm. “Then you cannot pass,” he declared.

“Why not?”

“You must have holy work to pass through the forest and over the bridge.”

Gral thought about this. “Could I pass through if I were looking for some?”

The boy considered it. “Well… I suppose so,” he answered reluctantly. He stepped to the side, and gave a short, stiff bow. “You may pass, stranger.”

“Thank you,” said Gral, and drove through.

He saw the tree house as the last daylight faded. It was perched in the wide arms of a giant tree, and a girl was standing in the doorway.

“Are you tired, traveler?” she called down to him.

“Very much, my lady,” he answered.

“Then stable your animal and come have dinner with me,” she replied, and disappeared inside. Having no other plans, Gral did so, and climbed up the rope ladder swaying in the breeze.

It was surprisingly spacious inside. The floor was bare, but rich tapestries hung on the walls, though he could never quite focus on one enough to see its design. There was a well-crafted table with slender legs in the middle of the room, and two chairs. The girl stirred a steaming pot, and carefully ladled out two bowls of thick soup. Gral had never been so hungry in his life. They ate quickly, refilling their bowls until the pot was empty. The girl poured them glasses of clear, cold water from a pitcher, and they sat in a companionable silence.

“Why are you traveling?” she asked him eventually.

Gral shrugged. “It’s just what happened,” he replied.

“Are you tired of it yet?”

Gral considered. “It has its disadvantages,” he said eventually.

The girl clapped her hands delightedly. “Then stay with me! There’s so much work to be done, I could use the help.”

Her smile and her excitement were infectious. Gral found himself taking her offered hand, and they shook as if it were a solemn vow. “But for now,” she pronounced, “sleep.” She showed him a comfortable couch, and withdrew behind a curtain to her own. Gral slept better that night than he had in the whole of his adventures so far.

He stayed with her many days, so many that he lost count. Every day there was something new and exciting happening, expanding the tree house or playing games in the forest. The mule grew grumpy and lazy with nothing to do but rest and eat all day, and Gral rarely thought of all that had come before. The one exception to this was the day he remembered the second pouch his father had given him. “Close your eyes,” he told the girl. He undid the clasp, and—he didn’t know, couldn’t have known—but it could not have been more perfect if he’d had and planned it. A beautiful woven rug was inside the pouch, with colors and scenes such as he had never seen before. Gral felt with certainty his parents had made this. Reverently, he unfolded it and set it one the floor—and kept unfolding, and kept unfolding. The rug grew bigger and bigger until it covered the whole floor of the tree house with beauty. The girl opened her eyes and clapped in joy. “It’s perfect,” she said warmly. And Gral was content.

The days went by and their friendship grew. Gral even nearly forgot that he had been journeying on at all. The first day he truly had no thought but the girl, their plans, the tasks at hand, was the last day of his happiness. The next morning, he woke alone, on the ground, with no trace of his friend or the lovely tree houses in sight. And his beautiful rug was gone with them.

There could be no cure for this grief. He sat still, stunned, feeling the weight of his loss. For three days and three nights he lay under the cart, ignoring rain, bugs, and the nagging mule. He neither ate nor drank, nor could even wonder how to bring everything back—it was simply gone, and the most important part of himself seemed gone with them.

It was the thirst that drove him back to a dry kind of consciousness. Everything was grey. He felt aware for the first time of an aftertaste to the feeling of loss, betrayal; like waking up from the most beautiful dream you’ve ever had, a sweet taste turned sour.

In a daze, searching for the words, feeling not wrapped in silence but muted, muffled, he led the mule, slowly dragging the cart behind, on through the road in the forest. Eventually the trees thinned, and the grass grew sparser; rocks and dirt were the chief inhabitants of this landscape. One afternoon he looked up and realized clearly for the first time that he was in a kind of desert.

On the eighth day from the time he first left the forest, without the cart and mule, Gral left the road and his pack behind to quench his thirst in the desert.

He sought for the words. He remembered his father asking him to leave, the merchant bragging about his pulleys; the strange man who built, destroyed, and rebuilt his own city, again and again, talking about hypocrisy; the magical wares he had been tempted to buy, the unanswerable questions of the ancient bald man; the strange ideas about holiness of the boy with the shield on the bridge, and… the girl… Try as he might, their words were all flat and useless to him, and he could not remember the words or the face of his friend at all. Eventually, he slept.

But he didn’t. How could be sleeping but still so exhausted? He had no dreams anymore, he could not be dreaming. But here he was, in this strange place, a whirling grayness of dirt and rock whipping around him. There were voices in the wind, voices he couldn’t quite catch… but a place within him the words didn’t touch, he couldn’t tell if it was something solid or something entirely different… he was spinning too fast, too fast…

He woke to sun and birds and the sweet smell of overturned earth in freshly cut grass.

It took him a moment to reorient himself. Finally, he gave shape to the awareness of the internal difference—he was no longer empty, hollow. There was simply space inside of him. A quietness. This place of his own silence filled him up, and although his heart ached as he remembered the vanished girl, something akin to his first, untouched here-now, experiencing-this, existence had been returned to him. And he was grateful.

Gral finally began to look around at where he had ended up, the spirit of adventure again kindling in his heart.

He lay in the shade of a great tree on a wide, grassy hill. Warm yellow sunshine played over everything. Birds called to one another; a dog barked in the distance. At the bottom of the hill a simple wooden fence ran crookedly along the bank of a small, gurgling stream. Beyond the fence, row after row of tilled earth stretched into the distance; small green shoots of life were already poking up here and there. In the very far distance, past the fields, there was a long, elegant little house with a wide porch and windows with their shutters thrown wide. Gral could just make out a distant figure walking around.

The figure was headed towards him. Gral watched the man approach, wiping his broad, tanned hands on faded overalls, adjusting his patched hat; pausing to throw a stick for the playful puppy romping at his feet. As he reached the tree, the man raised one of those capable hands in greeting, and a wide, friendly smile broke across his face like sunshine.

“I’m glad to see you so well recovered,” he said with a deep, pleasant voice. “My wife and I were worried, you looked so pale.”

“I have had a hard time of it lately,” Gral answered, taking the offered hand and pulling himself to his feet. “My thanks, for giving me shelter here.”

“You’re welcome to stay quite as long as you like,” the farmer replied easily, “until you’re sure you are well. Your mule was hardly used, as well; I’ve stabled him in the barn with our animals and seen to his comfort. Your cart is also safe in the barn. Will you come and have dinner with us?”

Gral found himself smiling widely. “I would love to.”

The farmer’s wife was plump and rosy-cheeked, full of laughter, and an excellent cook. Gral ate ravenously, and although the kind farmers asked no questions, he found himself wanting to explain his situation to them. He told them his father had sent him out to seek his fortune, and how he came to have responsibility for the cart and mule; that he did not know if he had any future plans, or what should be done with the goods.

“What was the merchant selling?” asked the farmer.

Gral looked at him wonderingly. “I never asked.”

So after dinner the three of them went out to the barn to check on the mule, and discover the contents of the merchant’s cart.

The mule had never looked happier or better taken care of. Gral carefully opened the lid of the cart, and brought out its contents for inspection.

“Here we have several bags of flour; some tools, for what I don’t know—they wouldn’t be good in the mountains where I live. A bag of nails, all sizes; a bag of… I think these are seeds for fruits and vegetables… Books of recipes… Lamp oil…” Gral sniffed a strange looking box. “And a whole box of spices.” There were many other things packed tightly into the bottom of the cart, but Gral stopped digging through it to watch his benefactors. The farmer and his wife were looking at each other with shining eyes. “I’ve just been needing some nails to repair the west fence,” the farmer said. “Our flour barrel is nearly empty,” his wife replied.

Gral considered this; he looked to the happy mule, then back at the contents of the cart that he would never use. “Why don’t you keep it all?” he suggested. “I don’t know what else could really been done with any of these things.”

“You’ve made us very happy,” the farmer said. “Thank you.”

Later that evening the farmer and his wife showed Gral to their guest bedroom where he could spend the night in comfort. But unable to sleep, Gral took to sorting through his pack, taking stock of his dwindling food supplies and threadbare clothes. He wondered if perhaps he might just stay here, on this beautiful farm with these wonderful people. He could think of nothing happier than that.

Then, at the very bottom of the bag, he found the last pouch his father had given him: for the future. With a feeling of inevitability, half hoping for some kind of sign, Gral undid the strings.

The bag was empty.

His heart fell. Bitterly disappointed, Gral packed everything away again and curled up in the comfortable bed, waiting for dawn and thinking of his father.

Next day, he explained to the good farmers his intentions to go on. “It has been a very long time since I’ve seen my home. I want to see my father again,” he explained. The farmer’s wife nodded her head, understanding, and the farmer himself suggested, “Perhaps you could delay for a day or two; we can repair your clothes, prepare food for you to take with you.”

“Thank you very much,” Gral told them. “You have both been very kind.”

On the seventh day, Gral left behind the happy farm, traveling alone on foot.

It wasn’t very long before Gral noticed a dark shape ahead on the horizon. Too still to be a cloud, he finally identified it as he fuzzy outline of a mountain. The straight-running road seemed headed right towards it. Many uneventful days later, Gral reached its abruptly rising edge, where the road ran into the rock and simply stopped.

Gral camped there that night, considering his options. At dawn, as he looked up, craning his neck, towards the top of the mountain where it disappeared into the clouds, he thought he saw a kind of path snaking its way up the sides. Careful searching did not reveal a way up to it except by straight climbing; but once reached, it would make passage up much more simple. This decided, Gral shouldered his pack and set about searching for handholds.

It took him one exhausting week for him to reach the top. For a long time he just lay on the grass, drained, legs dangling over the edge, eyes staring up at the puffy white clouds drifting overhead. It took him a while to realize he was being watched.

Eventually Gral sat up and turned to face his silent companion. “Hello,” he said, looking at the man curiously. He was ancient and bald, and looked surprisingly familiar. Gral reached back into his past for the right question. “What do you offer?”

“Prayers,” answered the old man. His voice was young and strong.

Gral thought it over as he rested, stretching his sore legs. He thought about all the things he had seen, his time in the desert, and the good farmers. “No thank you,” he answered at last. The old man smiled, and Gral, shouldering his pack, moved on, following the straight road.

Not very long after, he came to a village. It, too, seemed oddly familiar. Gral entered slowly, looking around; the inhabitants stared back at him, pausing in their daily tasks as he made his way down through the center of town. Then one of them cried: “Why it’s Gral, the weaver’s son, back at last!”

And then Gral threw back his head and laughed, because he knew where we was; this was the last village on the top of the mountain on the far side from his own, the seventh of the Seven Friendly Neighbors.

A messenger was swiftly dispatched down to his father in the far village to say that Gral was at last come home, and to prepare for his arrival. Gral’s passage through the small town became more like a party than anything else, and he was peppered with questions about his journey. He answered as best he could as he was jostled along, but he had one of his own. “I don’t understand how I ended up back here,” he kept saying. “The road ran straight, the whole way.”

It was as he caught sight of the house of this village’s weaver that someone, laughing, finally answered. “Well the world is round, of course! Still the silly weaver’s son…”

Taking leave of his welcomers as best as he could, Gral ducked into the weaver’s shop. The old woman smiled at him. “Welcome back, Gral.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I was wondering if you had anything I might take to my father?”

“I know just the thing.” With a secret smile, the old woman shuffled to the far side of the room and unlocked a special chest. “Take these,” she said, pushing spools of brightly colored thread into his hands. “Be careful what you weave with them.”

Gral reached into his pack for the empty future pouch his father had given him, and carefully stored the spools inside. “I will, ma’am.”

It took all day to travel down the mountain, stopping in each village along the way. Everyone wanted to celebrate his return and hear all about his adventures, but Gral had only one thought. In each village he stopped in the shop of the resident master weaver and repeated his question: “Is there anything I might take to my father?” One gave him strange, crumbly ingredients to make rare and beautiful dyes, and one, a handful of tiny, intricate parts for building more skilful looms. Whatever they gave him, the empty future pouch held them all.

As night was falling, Gral came at last into his own village. He walked the familiar streets as though he had never seen them before. Though they felt intimately familiar, they also seemed very far away from him. His own house had candles lit in the windows. He entered slowly, hardly daring to believe it; and there at the table sat his father, just as the day he had left.

“My son.” The good weaver welcomed him with open arms. “My dear son.”

They embraced for a long time. Then at last, father and son sat down to dinner, and Gral began to explain, as best he could, his past adventures. He described the death of the merchant and the darkness of the tunnel; he gestured wildly to emphasize the chaos in the city of destruction and rebuilding, and spoke so softly his father could barely hear him when he confessed his beautiful lost friendship. Of the desert he gave only the barest details, but shared warmly the kindness of the farmers. The good weaver listened to everything sympathetically.

As he came to the end of his story, Gral stretched to find the right words. At last he said, “My moneybag was stolen, and the beautiful rug was lost; but here,” and he pulled out the future pouch, “see, I have brought back the empty bag you gave me for the future, and filled it.”

The good weaver’s eyes filled with tears of joy, and he embraced his son.

Their talk eventually turned to how the weaver had fared while his son was gone, and just as Gral was about to ask about his replacement apprentice, a beautiful girl entered the room. “Sir, I have finished my tasks for the day,” she said to the good weaver. She smiled shyly. “Welcome back, Gral.”

He stared, amazed. This girl looked stunningly familiar…

“This is the butcher’s daughter, my son,” the good weaver explained. “She came to work for me when you set out on your travels. I hope,” he continued, watching them watch each other, “that now we are all here, even more good may come out of my weaving shop.”

Gral laughed aloud. “Sir,” he answered, “I also hope so.” And so the three of them talked late into the night, trading stories and laughter, shaping plans for their future. 

As the weeks went by, Gral settled into life in his village again. He worked hard in the shop, learning well the trade that had baffled him before. He and the butcher’s daughter became very good friends, helping each other improve their skills and competing to create the best work. Not so many years later, they were married. They lived with the good weaver until his death, growing old together happily and raising their own children. And everyone who saw Gral’s strikingly designed rugs, made sometimes with scenes from his past adventures, or simply of colors and space and light, agreed that they were the most beautiful rugs around; but his skill never surpassed that of his father.