Blue Hands of the Three

This week, I challenged Becky Jones to write on what forensic analysis revealed.

nother Mike, who wrote about Aphrodite riding sidesaddle on a goose, challenged me with this: “He was bent over, praying, with his hands together, when the other hands grasped his in support. He blinked, and then noticed that the hands holding his were blue…”

I sat down intending this to be a monkey’s paw, “be careful what you wish for” story. One in which Jonas wishes to hide his problems, and looks up to find a zombie’s blue, rotting hands happy to distract him. I’ll have to explore undead religious proclivities another time, because this spilled out instead.

Jonas froze in horror, as a resounding crash echoed within the cavernous Guildhouse. The wooden balconies populated with heads poking from each of the cubbies, peering into the open middle where the great loomworks rested.

The loomworks never rested long, only stripped of their precious weaving long enough to deliver the highborns’ work and restring for the next commission. The list of commissions was very long, and the only reason an orphan off the streets had ever been taught to read or figure.

He was one of the few thin, limber, light enough to clamber up to the adjustable fiddly bits at the top and resize the work. He was not entrusted with the weaving. Guildmaster did not permit soiled hands such as his to handle the delicate base fabrics or tapestries hung upon the great loomworks.

He turned, every inch a momentous effort of sheer will, creeping unwilling eyes to stare at the wreckage of wood collapsed upon the lobby. He’d just adjusted the frame, and clearly something had gone horribly, miserably wrong.

No one else moved. The weavers at the small looms on the balconies stared openmouthed. Guild Officials stared from the trading desk, where they displayed sample wares and bargained for gold.

A small, pudgy, redheaded boy on the third floor balcony snickered into the clattering silence, rocking back and forth on elbows propped on the rickety balcony. He clearly knew the punishments the Guildmaster liked to give. No one would spare a thought for the orphan boy’s cries.

Jonas whirled and pelted from the hall, stumbling over limbs grown too long as he tore through the streets. He landed on his knees, bruising them against the cold stone floor the Temple of the Moirai.

He bent over, praying to The Three, aware the Guildmaster would punish him for breaking the great loomworks. He could not even fathom the depth of this punishment, having destroyed the primary source of this Guild District’s wealth.

Worse – if he could no longer climb with impunity, he had no value to the Guild. Jonas shuddered at the faint memory of life on the streets.

Wetness struck his cheeks, and he blinked furiously, unwilling to admit weakness. Now was a time for strength. He needed to prove his value to the Guild.

He just had no idea how to do it.

Jonas closed his eyes, hands clenched together, hoping the three statues’ cold eyes would soften if he only prayed hard enough. He felt warm, rough hands close over his. A man’s voice, harsh with years and commanding, begin the Chant of Respect to The Three. Jonas stumbled over the familiar words.

“…and – and to each our allotment, which we shall not struggle, for we know The Three have measured what – what is to be.” Jonas opened bleary eyes, struggling not to sniffle.

His eyes widened further to see the hands still grasping his. Blue!

“Look at me, boy,” the voice commanded.

Jonas lifted his eyes to see a perfectly ordinary, study workingman. Brown eyes that looked like they laughed often, crinkled at the edges. A tidy beard, streaked with more white than the remaining muddy brown. And hands dyed blue, arms streaked in paler shades up to the elbow.

The man laughed. “It’s from the indigo, boy. The blue dye. You get used to it after a while.”

Jonas lowered his eyes.

“Hey now, eyes up.”

Jonas suspected this man could be heard over a thousand looms if he wanted, but his tone was kind and quiet, not even echoing in the stone-walled temple.

The bearded man took pity on him and released his hands. “Your reaction was interesting,” the man said casually, settling back and studying the statues of The Three.

Jonas studied the statues, shooting the man a sideways glance, uncertain.

“As if you were afraid of the Guildmaster.” The man studied his indigo hands, as if examining the calluses.

Shuddering, Jonas looked away.

“Boy, you don’t have to worry about being strapped for this. Accidents happen.”

He couldn’t stop the panicked mewl that emerged from his throat. Accidents did not simply happen with the Guildmaster. The worst he’d done before now was eat a pear uninvited, and he’d been whipped on a weekly basis or more.

“Someday I’ll share the stories with you, boy. Over a mead, when you’re a bit older. The point is that you learn from your mistakes.”

The man stood up and reached out a hand. “Like learning to build looms from scratch, so you can fix them, and know when they weaken.”

Jonas stared upward, confused.

“I’m the Grand Guildmaster, boy.”

Jonas straightened, tongue-tied. He still didn’t take the outstretched, unwavering hand.

“I’ve heard stories about this district. Bad stories, and too many of them. I’ve come to take control and fix things here.”

Jonas dared to hope. He reached out, tentative and unsure.

The man grasped it in a firm grip.

“And if you’re to become my apprentice, I’ll need to know your name.”