Write-off

He poured me a sooty cup of coffee, walked around the counter to replace the pot back into its coffee maker cradle, then returned to the chair opposite me. Meanwhile I just continued to stare incredulous between him and the disheveled group of papers on the dark stained desk. I’d made a mess of the squared up manuscript Blake had introduced me to not an hour past.

“This is amazing. I had no idea that you could go further than just jumping around from one piece of reality to another. How did you come across this?” I asked him.

Blake drew out his pipe from a vest pocket, also drawing out the theatrics of the moment by choosing to withhold a response as he tamped, lit, and slowly coaxed the pipe to life.

“So, how is this possible?” I prompted Blake again, the steam floating from my coffee cup creating a gauzy veil between us. Outside a storm raged about discordantly, usually an event that would have my guts feeling soft and my mind ill at ease. This night however the enlightenment Blake had revealed to me through his work had me completely invested and unaware of the terrible weather. I was fully absorbed and brimming with cursitory to understand the process he’d laid bare in his recent work.

“The nature of my discovery is owed in equal parts to seemingly pure chance and the unflagging desire to pursue a deeper realization of our reality,” he began, “and of course, as a Weaver we are wont to chase a good story, am I right?”

“Yes, I know we all look to seek epics and stories showcasing the best and worst of what humanity has to offer. And even all of the great authors that realize that their writing isn’t just something cobbled together from their id, subconscious, imagination, or whatever name you’d brand it as, this is going an even further step than what we know.” Blake leaned back in his chair, half tipping back onto two legs. I couldn’t decide if his face contained a measure of smug satisfaction at my apparent awe, or of possible contempt. However, his face often seemed on the verge of budding into a sneer when at rest, so i couldn’t be certain. I continued on with what I knew and understood.

“Some writers never open up their minds completely — oh sure, the ability to Weave might be functioning on some tucked away corner of the mind hidden from the light of active awareness, but others like King, and Zelazny or Brimmingham and Tolkien knew exactly what their stories entailed. Some of them even become part of the Weaving, the closer they aligned themselves to the act. King became a center focus for many of the worlds he breached.” I said. Blake smiled and spoke.

“Of course, the simple act of Weaving seems to open more doors than are just apparent at first; not only does a writer connect his world to the one they’re channeling, but by sharing the establishment of Weaving by way of stories this also exposes others to the art, laying seed for potential Weavers to try their own hand and pierce the barrier and make a Weave of their own.”

I nodded, agreeing with his explanation of the unbidden consequences Weaving entailed. Quite a few knew of these matters; they activity voiced it openly in their books. What many didn’t think was how this in turn affected readers of their Weave. Burgeoning writers would in turn make the attempt themselves and would also struggle through to another would, puncturing the nothingness of the void and make a Weave, thereby continuing the process. I was part of this process myself.

As was Blake, casually tipped back in his chair watching me rethink all that I knew about Weaving. He must have known that the many toothed gears of my mind would begin their work once I’d read his discoveries.

Ideas and theories were running amok. I scooted back the chair I sat in, grabbed hold of the handle of the cooling cup of coffee and took a sip. I tried to mentally scoot back from the all too sudden noise occurring in my head. Blake must have seen some of the wild speculation, or had experienced it himself prior to telling me these things, and offered me a cigarette from a pack on the table.

I accepted, procured a lighter from my pocket and lit up, relishing several drags in silence. I listened to the thunderous retorts balanced against the sudden flashes of lightning. When I finally spoke again Blake was in the process of straightening the messy pile of papers I’d scattered about the top of his desk.

“So from what you’re telling me, and what I’m understanding from it, is that not only do Weavers have the ability to allow access from their own world into another that they channel, can travel between worlds or inject themselves into the worlds they Weave into or bring back people and knowledge from one to the next, but we also can be reborn as a new character?” I practically shouted this last statement. The implications were staggering to me. If what Blake had discovered was true, then not only did I have the means to travel between worlds and illuminate events from obscurity, I could cheat death itself. If I so wished near the end of my days I would be able to transfer my own life from one story to another, by channeling my Weaving from one character to another.

Rain rattled the small very square windows evenly spaced about Blake’s office. I gazed about the various stacks of books; thick binders with bits of paper sticking out intermingled with big tomes printed with neat letters, books featuring a wide array of genres, printed out manuscripts and how to books. The man had a small library contained within his study. He had everything minus the appropriate bookcases to display his collection.

Blake tapped the collected papers evenly and squared it up against the edge of the desk.

“Yes. It doesn’t really sound that far fetched though, when you consider what we already do know about Weaving and how it works. Why stop at being able to travel among different worlds, when we can become different people?”

I leaned back in, my excitement nearly causing me to drop the cup of coffee when placing it back onto the table.

“Unlike you, I don’t enjoy a good mystery. You have to tell me how you found this out!” Blake removed the pipe from his mouth and offered me an indulging smirk instead.

“Well, I hate to already spoil it for you Reeves. But I know how worked up you can get, and this does carry quite a bit of import, so I won’t design to keep it a secret from you for long. However at least hear out my tale, Weaving you could say, as to how I found out about this lost art.”

As far back as I’d known Blake Malley, he’d always been an avid collector of old books and stories. He wanted to attempt to chronologize the history of Weavers as far back as he could manage.

“I’d always been curious as to what source we sprang from. As best I can summarize Weavers have always been a focal point for the crossing of worlds. Books, prose, literature has always been a constant companion of humanity and other races similar to us. Somewhere, somehow by some means it seems a Weaver exists in every connection of the Weave.

While finishing a story that had Weaved a character named Jarle who chased about his royal lineage by tracing his royal blood back to its first predecessor, Blake had struck on sudden inspiration on the origin of Weaving.

“Somewhere, and some point in the whole arc of all interconnected existence, there had to be that first story teller, the point from where the first Weave took place from one solitary world to another.” He said, embarking on the ruminations that had led him to innovation. “Either some very archaic type-setter or particularly bright neanderthalic brute decided to put down rough characters or runnels of thought and sentence into the shape of a story. Maybe from there it became infectious between the two connected worlds, more Weavings springing from both and connecting other worlds, forming the web we are aware of now.” He’d tapped out his pipe and busied himself on packing and lighting it anew, continuing on. “I’ve also considered that oral storytelling may work similar to how writing does for Weaving, though I’ve never been able to find any evidence of this.”

I considered his lean, almost gaunt features. I could see his personality being the type to become so completely fixated on such a notion. But reality as was known was a deep, many layered beast that held more secrets than could be guessed at. I could appreciate the allure of threading its darker waters in search of knowledge.

“I agree that trying to pinpoint the first story teller in a younger and more primitive would would initially be first course of investigation you would want to take. Remember though that in Weaving it’s been proven that worlds with all sorts of time lines exist, with ancient advanced civilizations millennia old to rough hut dwellers scarcely starting out. There are all sorts of people, histories, and ways of setting words to paper that Weaving can be accessible to many sorts in all periods of time.” I said.

“Exactly. I came to that conclusion shortly after embarking on discovering the first Weaver. I knew then I’d have to start blind and begin tracking and cataloging all known Weavers that had passed away, or Weavings that have been accessible to the Weave for hundreds or thousands of years.” He lit a match and held his pipe nearly sideways to allow the lick of flame to ignite the packed tobacco leaf. Outside the rumbles of thunder had stilled to a bare murmur, the afterimage of lightning only a remembrance. The storm had passed. Blake continued after drawing out streamers of smoke from the pipe.

“So, I began to count. I quickly moved on from writers that had been known for a couple hundred years to thousands, and even came across others tens of thousands of years. It seems Weaving is a most ancient art.” He said.

“Maybe it’s endless.” I proposed. I stood and threaded around the stacks of books and helped myself to a refill of the strong coffee as Blake continued.

“Possibly. Though as all stories have a beginning, I like to believe that literature mirrors the scheme of reality and that there’s also a beginning to be found, as distant as it may be.” After I sat down at the desk he also rose and helped himself to coffee, cleaning out the now empty coffee pot at the small sink hanging from the wall.

“But I digress. I spent a couple years trying to trace the lineage of Weavers to the first of us, though the trail turns cold enough to numb you after you’re down to references of hints mentioning old tale tellers in books nobody knows of anymore. It’s all just too old! No, what I did stumble upon, though a very old series of stories in itself, was another mystery just as intriguing.”

Holmes. Weaver of several volumes of gritty mystery focusing on an austere and stark industrial country careening on the brink of economical collapse.

“His prose is simple, yet very stark in his manner of laying naked imagery and bare emotions that sometimes had the ill effect of a feeling of friction on your nerves.” Blake said. “He writes bluntly, though contains a simple enough eloquence that I find appealing. I had thought he could lead me deeper into his Weave and discover an older vein of writers from bygone days — in several of his short novels he alludes to an older country that contains old stores of works collected and studied.”

Blake returned back to sit across from me. I’d squashed out the stub of my cigarette out in the glass ashtray set aside on the desk. I continued to sip coffee, quietly and fully absorbed in his recounting.

“I actually spent considerable time reading his work. It became just as much enjoyment as research for me. Though as I kept notes on his old style who-done-it murder mysteries, I noticed a peculiar character that recurred throughout the books. A old man would always be called to witness or be present at some of the murder scenes; there were a few instances where the convicted parties would try and accused the old man of the misdeed. After several books and several pages of notes, I correlated that a strange old man or similar unknown figure seemed to be involved in many of the murder stories. The bulk of Homes’s literary work could be seen as a macabre misunderstanding of events that led to the innocent party being arrested and tried for nefarious deeds committed by this ambiguous character.” Blake said.

I drew back and placed the nearly empty cup back on the table.

“So, you came to the conclusion that the actual murder was not done by the various characters cunningly frame, but rather this enigmatic older man that would be present during the events?” I said. Blake emphatically pointed his pipe at me in growing excitement.

“Exactly! The more I read, and the more detailed my notes became, it dawned to me that really each killing was left arguable as to the actual perpetrator of the crimes. Also, each killing was a violent act; never once did I record a poisoning or hanging, something more subtle employed to wipe away a person’s existence. Always it ended in blood, messy in the victim’s throes. Always a queer character lurking in the background of a scene or conversation amongst witnesses.”
I held up a hand to indicate Blake should pause in his story. He appeared flushed, one hand raised skyward, the other holding his pipe, the stem clenched tightly between pursed lips. I noticed then that his face was covered in sweat; a sickly pallor accompanied his heated demeanor. His eyes appeared like distant stars burning behind great clouds of dust. I began to take in the disheveled study in a new light. It appeared more the accumulation of a recluse’s horad than a dynamic attempt at research. I began to feel fearful for my friend. I spoke in between his momentary hush to get an important point across to the Weaver.

“Even if this is true, and in your explanation you’ll soon reveal how you unearthed this old Weaver’s secret; even then, what led you from the suggestion of a secret serial killer to an author actually stealing lives to extend his own?”

Blake peered back at me, grinning at me through wisps of pipe smoke.

“Easy. I went there and chased after Holmes myself.”

The relations of the mysterious old man to the murders became an obsession for Blake. Feeling the tug of intrigue, he dug deep into the world Holmes had Weaved into sight. He himself wrote stories of that grim monochromatic smokestack world and discovered that the murders involved in Holmes stories typically took place between a period of 40 to 50 years. The world was an old, settled place that saw little change even over the course of centuries. Many people were born, lived, and quickly died in the harbor villages and polluted cities crusted along the coastlines like weathered barnacles.

He traced the acts of butchery from village to city, beginning with the earliest known in Holmes books. He wended his way along the coastlines, riding tides of diminished humanity and ground slick with blood until he reached the revered place of books and tattered manuscripts that had led him to that Weaving in the first place.

“I reached into the Weave; it took considerable effort and quite a bit metaphysical aches and nausea occurred when I Weaved myself into the story to seek help within the ancient library. Dusty monks tended to the countless rows of shelves containing all sorts of ocean charts and scattered typical lore each world contains. I gathered that the Old Wcyk Vault was one of a kind; many other places of learning had been shut away or their stashes of writing had been transferred to the last known site of literature. Here Holmes left his trail open to any who could follow.” Blake continued his narrative; intermittently getting up for short bursts of energetic pacing before landing back into his chair.

His present nervous attitude continued to worry me; I took it as bottled excitement finally released after finally having the chance to unwind from his dedicated efforts.

“Not only were most of his work available at the harbor library, he’d also left an innocuous looking book tucked away in storage.” Blake said. A realization had just occurred to me, and I was unable to prevent myself from interjecting my exclaim at this point.

“Blake, did you really write yourself into that particular world? I know it’s seldom done, only a handful of Weavers have successfully attempted it. I’ve never tried it myself, I’ve heard the stories of ensuing madness or strange sicknesses that can befall a Weaver that passes through the void and meta-writes themselves into another world.”

“Yes, it was difficult at first, the void put up a strong resistance. Once i broke through the churning sensations, I was able to visit the seaport and obtained his left behind books, writing myself back home.” He said, appearing more than a bit cross at having to explain. His furrowed brow and disorderly appearance make me think that the effects of transferring from one section of reality to another and back may have left lasting damage to his psyche. I recalled reading an essay on the study on Weaving through to other planes of existence, and how it eventually drove you mad. It’s believed that this is what led to the demise of Poe, and Lovecraft. I pulled myself from my thoughts just in time to catch what Blake had just told me.

“The manuscript contained precise instructions one could follow to envelop another life into your Weaving, and at the terminus of the story you then physically take the life; by writing of the sudden death and release of one’s vital energy, the harvester is able to absorb it into themselves. Holmes wrote of the process as an actual fountain of youth. If his records are correct, he lived over ten times the typical span of his people’s average lifespan. Just think of the longevity we could obtain!” Blake finished by slamming his fist down on his desk. Cups and saucers rattled about in the disruption. I flinched at the sudden noise, and flinched again when a shout of thunder from the passing storm seemed to answer in retort.

“It would be great to live longer than our allotted lifespan, Blake, but remember in doing this you’d have to take a life! If this is all true, then you’d become like Holmes: a dirty old man coveting extra years of time and willing to frame and murder others to do so.” I said. I’d recovered back some of my composure and thought it prudent to voice some reason. I could hear small taps of rain pelting the study windows; the storm had become embolden and returned like the tide battering the shoreline.

“I also had had thoughts that such heinous acts were too costly for the gift of additional years. But Holmes writings spoke of agreed with my inner character: that the exceptional work Weavers perform for the structure of reality is worth the minimal sacrifice of a handful of lives. We are the ones that bridge the gap separating the worlds! Even the least influential of us have more import upon the web of existence than any mere king or president of one country, remarkable or not.” Blake said.

The longer he continued this discussion the more alarmed I became. I’d known Blake for nigh twenty years; we’d been colleges and Weavers for just as long. From what I’ve gathered it’s an uncommon find to not only meet a Weaver aware of their ability within your home domain, but to become fast friends is an even higher rarity. To me the concept of killing to lengthen your own life was already a cold and evil act of self preservation in the first few droughts I’d had to swallow while listening. Now I’d had to taste the bitter realization that the man might actually be serious about attempting the vile art to extend his own life.

“Regardless of how you might feel about the lives contained within each strand of the Weave, and whether or not they aren’t as much value as ours apparently is; think on why this information was so hard to uncover?” I tried to approach this from a practical standpoint and persuade Blake. “Maybe the reason Holmes had buried his crimes so deep in a remote place was to prevent anyone else from discovering his secret? What if he had been founded out, and that’s why he seems to have vanished in present times? With all the workings of Weavers on scales of distance and time both great and tiny, could not he had been apprehended and punished?” I said. Blake pushed back from the desk again, giving me a dubious look.

“I greatly doubt that he was imprisoned or punished by other Weavers. The scale of such a Weaving would be impossible. Do you think that we can be monitored so easily, Reeves?” He said, plucking at the helm of his jacket sleeve with nervous fingers as if he hid beliefs of that very notion.

“Maybe not watched…but his work must have been read by others such as yourself. How would Holmes even know if he were being tracked by a Weaver writing a story about him? For that matter, how would we even know if the same were happening to us? The people and events focused upon in stories rarely ever have any sort of awareness of every action chronicalized, so the same could be said of us being just as unaware.” I said. The thought of my actions amounting to a sequence of letters and spaces on a blank manuscript gave me a shudder. The prospect of being merely a character in a story drawn out by an author impartial to my fate was chilling.

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Blake conceded to me with a anxious nod, “however who would be doing Weaving like that to fit us into this exact moment discussing our actions unfolding before the eye — writing down this very sentence I speak-”, the door that connected Blake’s study to the back lawn kicked open from a rough gust of wind. The cold gust scattered the loose papers stacked about the room, sending them aloft and riffling through pages of open books. The air carried the smell of damp earth and the first drops of rain. Blake reacted sooner than I, knocking back his chair in a clatter as he rushed across the desk and over to secure the open door.

I rose with more caution, placing a saucer on the loose pile of parchments beginning to shift around on the desk top. Blake cursed loudly as he fought to close the door and force the storm back outside. The fire in the ornamented stone hearth flared back to life from its pit of embers. I looked about to make sure none of the lit candles strewn about the study had fallen over. Thankfully all the candle holders I could see appeared to be intact in their resting spots. I relaxed when I couldn’t detect the snapping noise of burning paper or the stench of smoke.

“Awful mess that stirred up.” Blake said, shutting the patio door with a bang and locking it against the elements. “Also quite an odd occurrence to happen right in the middle of a conversation about being part of a story.” He said, eyeing me as if I were privy to such information. This visit with Blake worsened with each passing minute.

“It’s been noted that Weavers also can influence certain events, or bring about certain things, when writing. Of course most times the writing is about characters that cannot provide any proof whether or not their actions or words are solely their own. It’s a scary notion really.”

“Terrifying or not, it stinks of intrigue. I think I’m going to quickly check the rest of the house to make sure no other windows or doors are open to let in the weather. Make yourself comfortable, I should be back in just a few minutes.” Blake said, throwing me an indecipherable look as he went out into the adjoining hallway that gave access to the rest of his home.

I strongly believed that Blake no longer trusted me. Either he thought that I may try to expose his new morbid fascination, or that I may make off with his secrets for myself. Either circumstance it sadden me to find this sudden rift between myself and my friend. I had known Blake for a long time, and was shocked at the sudden change in his persona. I wondered if the mantle of mortality hung that heavy about him that he would be so unscrupulous in his pursuit of longevity.

I decided to attempt to smooth over the feathers I’d unintentionally ruffled by gathering up the papers that’d scattered about. I moved about the study trying to reorganize bits of paper back into the semblance of order Blake had had. I moved away from the desk and towards a pile near the corner of the room. A tall wooden cabinet held rows of books; several had fallen out to the floor. Loose papers scattered about like fallen autumn leaves. I started to gather up the pages, thinking to place them back on along the cabinet shelving along with the books. As I did I noticed that all the fallen pages were written in longhand, faint smudges streaking along the pristine white as if a palm had accidently swiped along the ink of the letters. I remembered that Blake was left handed, and that I’d observed before how he’d leave patches of ink whenever he wrote out by pen. I was curious to see what he’d been Weaving, and decided to read the beginning lines at the top of the page. It read:

Loose papers scattered about like fallen autumn leaves. He started to gather up the pages, thinking to place them back on along the cabinet shelving along with the books. As he did Reeves noticed that all the fallen pages were written in longhand, faint smudges streaking along the pristine white as if a palm had accidently swiped along the ink of the letters. He remembered that Blake was left handed, and that he’d observed before how his college would leave patches of ink whenever he wrote out by pen. Reeves became curious to see what Blake had been Weaving, and decided to read the beginning lines at the top of the page. He read the first paragraph, his brow furrowed. He had a curious sensation of deja-vu, as if he’d read all this before. The quizzical feeling that had him reading on with racing eyes soon bloomed into alarmed confusion, then finally into a terror that froze the pit of his stomach as he comprehended he was just now reading the very event unfolding for him at that very moment. He began to become sick, a headache starting to pulse at his temples as he continued along the page. He was riveted to the procession of words and sentences; a dread fascination overcame him to do what he was reading about what he was doing as he read — it became too much to contain in his head and with a sharp intake of breath he let the page fall from hi-

I let the page fall from my hand, making a noise in the back of my throat. Bewildered, I kneeled down to scoop up other papers sent to the paneled flooring by the disruptive wind. They were all written out in longhand; I quickly scanned fragments of paragraphs, my eyes careening along the tidy narrow columns of writing. Snatches of imagery stood out; my entering Blake’s manor scarcely ahead of the storm and being shown through the foyer and into the study only hours pass; Blake severing me coffee and lighting up his pipe; our heated discussion regarding the author Holmes and his vulgar approach of extending his life. The entire night and our actions, words, possibly thoughts records and accessible by any reader.

But why? Why was my long time friend incorporating me into a Weave? Was it just an experiment to see if Weaving another Weaver into a story would work? How much of my actions tonight were actually mine, or partly influenced by his story? I wondered if my current thought process was exposed on one of the discarded papers lying in the heap about me. I grew dizzy. The musty air of the study compressed upon my senses, suffocating and close. I wheeled about from the corner the book shelves were leaning against, intending to make for the patio door and out into the wet night.

I turned and began to take a step in the direction of the door when I crashed into the silent person standing right behind me. The impact was like turning right into a humanoid statue. I landed hard against the cabinet, dislodging books and causing more loose papers to drift down like feathers about me. Standing over me was an old man, brow and face etched in deep wrinkles. He wore a loose brown robe with voluminous sleeves. The sleeve of his left arm was hanging loose around his elbow; the arm itself held high with a wickedly curved knife clenched in his gnarled age spotted hand. Beyond the old man I could see Blake standing in the entry way of the study, pensive and looking ready to bolt.

“What’s this about? Who are you?” I asked the old man. His eyes were set deep in the sockets of his face, tracing a faint outline of his skull. He must have been impossibly old. I thought I knew who it was I faced, though it did little to alleviate my fear.

“My name is Abram J Holmes, and though you’re involved in what I’m about, that’s still my business.” He said, his voice raspy and dry. I didn’t think a man of such advanced age would be a threat to a bigger middle aged man such as myself. I recalled how running into him had been similar to bumping into an unyielding brick wall. The scrawny arm went higher, the blade shining in the wavering candlelight.

“And besides, what’s the fun of spoiling it all by just telling you? I always do enjoy a good mystery.” With a flash, the blade streaked down towards me.