Texente Tela Veneris

THE STATUE GLEAMED IN THE LEAFY SHADOWS like a pearl on green velvet, its white stone, unmarred by uncounted years of rain and wind, glowing as though lit from within. No sharp-edged shadow or too-bright glint of sunlight marred its rounded contours, and Jennifer Trenholme, standing transfixed at the top of the long stone staircase that had brought her to its forest setting, thought it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Behind her, her husband Arthur grunted up the stairs, his heavy hiking boots thudding onto the worn granite as though to punish them for being so high and steep. “This had better be worth it, Jenny,” he yelled up at her. “Three hundred and seventy-four steps in this heat had damn well better be worth it.”

She said nothing, but moved forward, out of his sight, suddenly feeling a need to touch the statue, to prove to herself that something so beautiful existed outside her dreams.

The stone felt warm and velvety, like the skin of a child. She rested her cheek against it while her breath and heartbeat, racing from the climb, slowed and gentled. The light breeze died away, and with it the murmur of the leaves, and for a timeless instant the world held its breath.

Then Arthur reached the top of the stairs. “That’s it? That’s it?” His voice boomed across the glade like a cannon shot, shattering the silence. “For God’s sake, Jenny, it’s just another damn statue. A damn statue of an old woman at a loom. There’s a pigeon on her head, for God’s sake!”

“It’s the Weaver, Arthur,” Jennifer said, voice soft, pleading, willing with all her heart that, just this once, he would understand, that he would love a thing that she loved. “Venus’s Weaver. Texente Tela Veneris. She’s ancient. Unique. The guidebook says she was here before the town. She’s the reason there is a town.”

“So what? It’s a shithole of a town.” Arthur stumped over, unslinging his backpack as he came. He dropped the pack at the Weaver’s feet and sat down on her pedestal, back to the statue. He fished out a beer, popped it open, and took a long draught. Then he belched, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and fixed his cold blue eyes on her. “Don’t know why I let you talk me into coming here.”

“But, listen!” Jennifer took off her own pack, and pulled out the island guidebook the hotel clerk had given her. She opened it to a dog-eared page. “‘Texente Tela Veneris is all that remains of what was once a large shrine, unique in the Roman Empire,’” she read. “‘Most oddly, though the shrine was dedicated to Venus, the statue does not depict Venus, but a weaver at the loom. Also odd is the fact that the shrine honoured two seemingly contradictory aspects of the Goddess: Venus Verticordia, the changer of hearts, and Venus Libertina, the freedwoman…”

Jennifer glanced at Arthur, hoping for a spark of interest. But he wasn’t even looking at her: he was glaring at his iPhone. “Damn third-world countries,” he said. He shoved the phone back in his pocket. “No service.”

Jennifer’s lips tightened. She looked back at the guidebook and resumed reading, in a loud voice. “‘Each year, on April 1…’” She stopped. “That’s today!”

“You better not be about to tell me that you made me haul my ass up here as an April Fool’s joke,” Arthur said.

Jennifer took a deep breath, and read on. “‘Each year, on April 1, the festival of Veneralia celebrated Venus Verticordia’s power to change people’s hearts. Matrons would ask Venus for help in affairs of the heart, sex, betrothal, and marriage. Even though this island was far from the centre of the Empire, wealthy matrons sometimes made the long, hazardous journey here for the Veneralia, for it was said that here, through her Weaver, Venus displayed her power to change people’s lives more powerfully and directly than anywhere else.’”

Arthur snorted. “Imagine risking your life traveling here just to beg some hunk of rock for relationship advice.”

Jennifer rushed on. “‘Locals said Venus, pleased by a magnificent tapestry woven for her by a woman of this island, made that Weaver immortal, and gave to her power over the interconnected strands of lovers’ entangled lives. The Weaver, it is said, can knot or unknot them, sever them, even pull them apart so that it would be as though the two were never intertwined…which may be why, over time, a second aspect of Venus came to be celebrated here: Venus Libertina, Venus the Freedwoman (although some scholars think that Libertina is really a corruption of the older Libitina, the goddess of death).’”

“I’m feeling close to death right now,” Arthur snapped. “Death from boredom. Is there a point to all this?”

“I just want you to understand,” Jennifer said, hearing the pleading note in her voice and hating herself for it, but she did want him to understand, wanted him to at least pretend to be interested in the things she was interested in, the way he had been when they’d first met...surely that hadn’t all been an act. They’d been so happy in the early years, but recently… “We’ve come halfway around the world to experience a new culture. Don’t you want to learn about it?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and drained the last of his beer. He pointed the empty can at her. “You’ve got one more minute, then I’m out of here, with or without you.”

Jennifer felt a familiar tightness in her chest. Her voice sounded strained in her own ears as she continued. “‘It is said no one ever found the Weaver on their own. Only a few select individuals, chosen by Venus, ever truly met her...’”

Arthur burped loudly. “Yeah? You found her easily enough.” He turned and crushed his empty beer can against the Weaver’s white knee. “Look, so did I.” He tossed the can into the shadows of the surrounding trees.

Promising herself she’d pick up the can before they left the glade, Jennifer resumed reading. “‘To those granted access to the Weaver, Venus sent a guide, who could take various guises, sometimes animal, sometimes human. If the Guide led you to the Weaver, she would show you the tapestry of your own life. You could ask her to change your life by altering that tapestry, but those attempts almost always ended badly. If you simply left the weaving to the Weaver, however, you might well find your life substantially improved.’”

Arthur snorted. “Superstitious horseshit.” He struggled to his feet, the effort bringing forth another prodigious belch. “Time’s up. We’re out of here.”

“Just a few more minutes, Arthur,” Jennifer pleaded. “Look, I’m done reading.” She shoved the guidebook back in her pack. “Can’t we stay just a little longer?” She touched the statue, looking up into the old woman’s sculpted eyes. Peering down at the loom, they also peered down at her: at her, and, she felt, into her. A slight chill made the hair on the back of her neck rise, though it was a hot day. “Think of all the people who came here on this same day, year after year for decades, maybe centuries, pleading for help from the Goddess. Think how old this thing is, yet it’s still in perfect condition…”

Arthur snorted. “I’m not getting any younger myself, and I’m not in perfect condition. And it’s not the same day—the calendar has changed since then.” He took an impatient step toward the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder at her. “Come on, Jenny.”

“Arthur—”

Arthur spun and grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her bicep. He yanked her away from the statue. “Now!” He shoved her toward the stairs, then bent over to grab his pack from the statue’s base. “We’re heading to the casino. It looks like the only place in this godforsaken dump to have any fun.”

“Happy Veneralia,” said a man’s voice. Arthur jerked upright, dropping the pack.

The new arrival stood at the edge of the woods, holding Arthur’s empty beer can. Neither old nor young, with the olive skin of the locals, he wore a simple white shirt, loose-fitting grey pants, and sandals. In his pierced left earlobe a pearl gleamed, the same milky white as the statue.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Arthur demanded.

“I live here,” said the man. His English had only a trace of an accent.

“Were you spying on us?”

The man smiled. “Spying? No. But I saw you here, and came to offer my services, as I have done for many visitors before.” He tossed the beer can to Jennifer, who, though surprised, caught it out of the air. She pushed it into her pack as the man spread his hands. “I am a guide.”

“I can find my own way to the casino,” Arthur said.

The guide’s smile widened, revealing teeth the same pearly white as his earring and the statue. “I would not be so certain. The island paths can be confusing. According to one local legend, they shift in the night,.” He pointed at the steps. “Except these, which are always here.”

“Really?” Jennifer blurted.

Arthur glared at her. “Don’t be stupid, Jenny. It’s just superstition. Like this Weaver thing.”

The guide laughed. “Exactly like ‘this Weaver thing.’” He stepped forward, then, and ran his fingers over the statue’s smooth surface, as though caressing the skin of a lover. “My people would not be here if not for the Weaver—or, at least, those who weave. This island is renowned for its woven goods. I am told that in America one of our tapestries can fetch a very high price, but few have ever been taken there: our weavers’ work remains largely undiscovered.” He looked up at the statue’s face. “I know a woman who, like this woman whom Venus honoured, is a master of the craft.”

Jennifer saw Arthur’s expression sharpen and shift, from irritation to keen interest. But the guide laughed and turned away from the statue. “I am sorry. Here I am boring you with stories of tapestries when you are interested in the casino. And it is true, to go there, you do not really need a guide.” He pointed toward the stairs. “In fact, from the top of the steps you can just see its roof. You must go through the plaza and past the church with the—”

“Never mind that,” Arthur interrupted. “Tell me: just how much would one of these tapestries fetch in America?”

The guide shrugged. “I know very little about such things.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Guess.”

“Perhaps... several thousands of your dollars?” The guard turned his hands palms-up. “So I have heard.”

Arthur’s attention was now fixed on the guide like a cat’s on a bird. “Perhaps you can help us after all, Mr....?”

“My name would be difficult for you to pronounce. Call me...Dux.”

“I’m Arthur Trenholme, Dux, and this is my wife, Jennifer.” Arthur held out his hand, but rather than take it, Dux bowed. Arthur frowned and drew his hand back.

“Is it really Veneralia today?” Jennifer asked. “I know it’s April 1, but Arthur’s right, the calendar changed…”

Dux smiled. “We go with the times. It is April 1 by the calendar we use today, so yes, it is Veneralia.”

“But does anyone still…”

“Jenny,” said Arthur, without looking at her, “Shut up.” To Dux he said firmly, “Take me to this weaver you know. I’d like to see her work.”

Dux raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It is a considerable distance, and you were complaining of being tired...”

“We’re fine,” Arthur said.

“But, Arthur,” Jennifer ventured, “we have dinner reservations in—”

“Shut up, Jenny.”

Dux looked from Arthur to Jennifer, then nodded slowly. “As you wish. If you will follow me...”

Arthur took a step, then stopped. “Wait a minute.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s this going to cost?”

Dux shrugged. “Nothing.” He smiled at Jenny. “It is my gift to you. A Veneralia gift.”

“You mean you get a cut of the sales,” Arthur said.

Dux’s smile vanished. “The Weaver does not sell what she weaves, though you may take it, if you wish. This way.” He turned and walked toward the woods.

“It’s free?” Arthur looked at Jennifer and grinned—the first time he’d looked happy all day. “Holy hell, Jenny, we’re going to make a fortune!” He hurried after Dux.

Jennifer followed, more slowly. She knew she should be happy Arthur had suddenly taken an interest in local culture, even if it was entirely because he thought he could make money. But what Dux had said made no sense. The Weaver would give you a tapestry if you asked? How did she make a living?

I’ll ask her, she thought. She quickened her pace. At least they weren’t heading to the casino.

The breeze didn’t penetrate the trees. After five minutes, Jennifer’s whole body was damp. Up ahead, Dux looked as fresh as ever, slipping through the forest so skillfully he seemed to not even disturb the leaves. Arthur, on the other hand, sweat glistening on the back of his neck, ploughed through the undergrowth like a bulldozer, which at least left a clearer path for Jennifer.

After what seemed like at least half an hour, Jennifer glanced at her watch, only to see that it had stopped. Ahead, the trees thinned, and a few moments later they emerged into a clearing...with a white statue of a woman at a loom at its centre.

Arthur stared at it, then grabbed Dux’s shoulder and spun him around. “What are you playing at?”

Dux stepped back, somehow freeing himself from Arthur’s grip without even seeming to try. “The path is complex. You must trust me. We still have some distance to go.” He touched the statue’s cheek, then led them out of the glade again, in a different direction than before.

More trees, more leaves, more heat, more sweat. Again, they emerged into a glade; again, at its centre stood a white statue. The white statue. Arthur turned on Dux, fists clenched. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” he exploded. “It’s the same damn glade for the third damn time. Or are you lost?”

“I do not get lost,” Dux said.

Arthur snorted. “Yeah? I’d like to see you find your way around Chicago.”

“I have never left this island. I never will.”

That startled Arthur out of his anger. “You’ve never been off this rock?”

“This is my home. I have no need to leave it.”

Arthur shook his head. “Place like this sucks all the energy and ambition out of a man. I should know, I grew up in the shittiest one-gopher town in Minnesota. Better to head for the bright lights. That’s what I did. That’s where the action is.”

“Thus spake the moth drawn to the candle flame, to his brief but painful regret,” said Dux. He touched the statue’s knee. “Our island contains world enough for me. That is why the paths wind and twist. They have a very long way to go.”

“A straight line is the shortest distance between two points.”

“Is it?” Dux smiled. Something about that smile made the back of Jennifer’s neck tingle; no warmth from it touched Dux’s eyes, whose pupils, despite the sunlight, were as wide, black, and fathomless as a starless sky. “Our island is alive. Only things that have never lived have straight edges. What does that say about your Chicago? A large dead thing is still a dead thing, and is not made more pleasant by virtue of being large. Rather the opposite.”

“I’d still rather live there than in this backwater,” Arthur growled.

Dux looked up at the sky. Blue when they had set out, it was now overcast, a thin layer of cloud turning it pearl-white, like the statue, like his earring. “A backwater is a place for quiet contemplation, the home of beautiful plants and creatures that need solitude and silence. The world would be a poorer place without backwaters, Mr. Trenholme.” He lowered his gaze. “Shall we proceed?”

“Yes, dammit,” Arthur snapped. “But if you lead us in a circle again…”

“Arthur,” Jennifer said. “You’re the one who insisted—”

“Shut up, Jenny!”

Dux looked from one to the other without expression, then turned and led the way back into the woods, once more taking a different direction than before.

Jennifer trudged after the guide and her husband, the thick underbrush tugging at her legs as though trying to pull her down. She kept tripping over roots, and having to dodge branches Arthur pushed out of the way, then released to spring back in her face. He never looked back at her. The day grew hotter with every step, it seemed, and Jennifer was soaking wet and gasping like a grounded fish when, at last, another glen opened in front of them.

For a moment, she thought it was the same glen, yet again, for at its centre sat a woman in white: but then she realized this “statue” was alive, hands and feet moving as though working a loom—

—but there was no loom to be seen.

Arthur stopped so suddenly Jennifer bumped into his back. “What the hell is this?” he roared at the guide. “You dragged me around in circles on this damn hill in 100-degree heat to see a crazy woman pretending to work an invisible loom? Who are you going to take me to see next—Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Do not assume that because you cannot see a thing, it is not there,” Dux said.

Jennifer’s breath suddenly caught as, looking past the woman, she recognized a bush laden with white flowers. “This is the same glade!”

Dux’s black eyes flicked to her. “Yes.”

“But we walked miles!”

“It is always a long journey to this place.”

“Then… where did the statue go?” Jennifer’s heart was pounding. She stared at the woman, remembering what the guidebook had said: To those granted access to the Weaver, Venus sent a guide…

She turned suddenly wide eyes on Dux. “You’re not a guide, you’re the Guide...” she breathed.

“Shut up, Jenny,” Arthur snapped. “He’s a con artist, is what he is.” He walked past Dux to the weaver. “Hey! Hey, lady, there’s nothing there!” He waved his hand through the air where the loom would have been, had it really existed—and snatched it back. “Shit! Some damn thing bit me!” He sucked on his middle finger.

“The spindle is quite sharp,” Dux said.

Arthur ignored him. He pulled his finger out of his mouth and looked at its wet, shining tip. “Must have been a mosquito. Hey, you got malaria around here? Zika?”

Through all of this, the Weaver wove on, undisturbed. She had not looked up when Arthur approached her. Jennifer, drawn to her, stepped closer, brushing past Arthur, ignoring his glare. “Hello?” Jennifer ventured.

The Weaver did not react. Jennifer glanced at Dux.

“She does not speak, but she knows you are here,” said Dux. “The Goddess told her you would come. She is weaving for you even now.” He turned to Arthur. “You wanted a tapestry, Mr. Trenholme. If you ask for it, she will give it to you. Free of charge.”

Arthur snorted. “She will, huh? All right, I’ll bite.” He shoved past Dux and stared up into the Weaver’s face. “Hey, weaver-lady, can I have my tapestry?” he said, his voice mocking, childish. “Pretty-please with sugar on top?”

The Weaver reached... somewhere. Though only a few feet away, Jennifer didn’t quite see where the Weaver’s hand went, but when it returned, it held a piece of woven cloth the size of a tea-towel. The Weaver handed the weaving to Arthur, though she never looked at him, then resumed working on her invisible loom.

Arthur held up the bit of cloth. Knotted and rough, it looked like a piece of gunny sack. Ugly colours, blue and black and muddy brown, ran through it in random streaks, like polluted rivers through an industrial wasteland. Arthur’s face turned bright red. “This is crap!” he roared. “I could weave better than this using a couple of paperclips and a glue gun!”

Jennifer looked nervously at the Weaver. “Arthur, don’t—”

Arthur strode over to Dux and shook the tapestry at him, inches from the tip of his nose. “What the hell is this?” he yelled, face purpling. Jennifer wondered if he were about to have a stroke. “Dragging me in circles through the forest, showing me a crazy woman, now trying to sell me this? Look at it! Look at it! I wouldn’t use it to wipe my ass!”

The Weaver turned her head, and for the first time Jennifer saw her eyes clearly. They were white and opaque, the colour of the statue, the colour of the stud in Dux’s ear, the colour of the sky. Despite the heat, Jennifer felt a chill, cold as Chicago’s wintriest wind.

“Look at this!” Arthur bellowed. “This thread is barely even attached. And it’s the only decent thing in the whole piece of crap.” He grabbed a thread that glinted gold in the milk-white light. “I can yank it out like—”

Jennifer climbed the worn granite steps up the thickly forested hillside. Sunshine reached through the leaves to dapple her face; she smiled up at it, enjoying its pleasant warmth.

Ahead, she heard voices.

“I’m not paying you a cent!” a man yelled. He sounded upset; she stopped. She didn’t want to ruin a perfect day by encountering an angry stranger.

“Mr. Trenholme, I have never asked for money,” said another man. His voice, smooth as chocolate, held no rancour. Just hearing it made Jennifer feel calm and safe. She stayed put, listening. “I told you I would guide you to this place, and so I have. If it does not please you, you are as free to go as you were to come.”

“Then I’m leaving!” the angry man shouted. “I’ll get my wife and...” His voice trailed off. “Why did I say that?” he said after a moment.

“What, Mr. Trenholme?” said the other man.

“‘I’ll get my wife.’ I don’t have a wife. I’ve never been married.”

He suddenly sounded much calmer, no longer so threatening, though sorely puzzled. Relieved, Jennifer resumed climbing. She dearly wanted to see the other man, the one with the soothing voice.

She had almost reached the top of the stairs when a big man, wearing a sweat-stained golf shirt, shorts, and expensive hiking boots, appeared above her and started down. They bumped arms as he passed. “Sorry,” he muttered, without really looking at her, and continued down the steps.

Not bad looking, Jennifer thought, glancing after him, but something about the way he’d held his mouth had rubbed her the wrong way. Not my type, though. She put him out of her mind. Instead she continued up the stairs, and stepped into a forest glade.

At its centre, an old woman in a white shift sat on a stool, her hands and feet still, her blind eyes gazing at nothing. Suddenly she remembered: this woman was a weaver. She’d been promised a tapestry. And Dux, the man who stood by the old woman, had guided her here. How did I forget that just now? she wondered. “I… I guess I went for a bit of a walk,” she said, and even as she said it, she remembered that that was exactly what she’d done. “Is it ready?”

Dux smiled at her. “There has been a slight delay,” he said in that wonderful voice. “I’m afraid the Weaver will have to begin your tapestry all over again. It may take some time.”

Jennifer smiled back. “I’m on vacation. I’ve got all the time in the world. I’ll watch.”

“An excellent idea,” said Dux. “I, too, enjoy watching the weaver work, even after all this time.” He reached down and plucked something from the grass at Jennifer’s feet. “Your tapestry will begin with this thread.” He stretched it out before her eyes. It glowed a soft, buttery gold in the sunlight. “It was pulled from another, for which it was entirely unsuited.”

Jennifer had never seen anything so beautiful; she laughed and clapped her hands. “Perfect!” she cried. “But how much will I have to pay for this tapestry?”

“It is a gift,” said Dux. “Happy Veneralia.”

He handed the thread to the old woman. She took it, and began to weave.