WEAVERS: A GothamX Story

6

I can hear it whispering as I step around the corner and trip over a tower of books that fall into a pile on the floor and I am with them. This aisle of bookshelves is crammed with books to the point where every few steps is another tower or box of books overflowing. I'm surprised my fall didn't cause a domino effect with the other towers. That would've been a disaster.

I take my time stacking the tower that I knocked over until my fingers come into contact with the Atlas that was whispering to me with a name I do not know. I hold it and accept the strange little prickly shocks it sends up my arms. My stomach aches at the nervousness I feel to open it. Uncertainty makes me uncomfortable.

I inhale deeply and exhale slowly before opening it to many blank pages. There's a single page that holds very little; Male. Richard Elias Malakai. Born December 31st, 1999. Death September 19th, 2017. Master Weaver. Chosen.

"Where's the rest of it?" I scowl, taking it to Master Malakai.

"Find something, Miss. Deveraux?" Master Malakai asks as he drifts from one stack of books to another.

"This Atlas is mostly empty," I complain to him.

"Atlases show what is needed to be known." He sighs as he works, "It can also mean that the story within is changing and shifting."

He vaguely explains this thing called Threading; a connection between a Weaver and an Atlas Bearer. He doesn't go much into detail about the connection but suggests setting it down and coming back to it later.

"Find another Atlas." He suggests waving me away.

For some odd reason, I'm drawn to the aisle of towers of books. I realize that it's Master Malakai stacking them into towers- which feels a bit like complete madness to have books on the floor where people can trip over them like I did and then I remember that the only ones in this library are the Keeper of the Great Library and a girl who just learned that they are a Weaver.

Things are different this time around. The names I mouth as I read the Atlases my fingers trace shimmer. I hear the whispers, faint incoherent whispers. And then my fingers stop on the spine of an Atlas that sends a painful shock up my arm. I want to drop it to the floor but it won't let me release it.

"Soren Reign," I say the name out loud as I turn to the front page to read.

Female. Age 18. Born January 3rd, 1998. Death October 12th, 2017. Master Weaver. Chosen.

"What does that mean?" I say to myself as I try to keep reading, only to find, like the Atlas before, her book is almost empty.

"What is it, Miss. Deveraux?" I'm asked as I return to Master Malakai's location.

He's still stacking books into towers along the bookshelves, "What does it mean to be Chosen?" I reply, still holding both of the Atlases.

"Chosen? It means that they are Chosen by the Grand Matron of the Vale and given a special task. It's a great honor and privilege." He replies, remaining back to me.

"Who's Elias Malakai?" I blurt out.

He turns on his heels quickly, he wears a rigid frown with dark swirling green eyes, "How do you know that name?"

"I found his Atlas." I gasp at the cold chill I'm receiving from him.

"I think this will be a good point to stop for the day. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon and night, Miss. Deveraux." He says before limping away.

His response to my question reminds me of his reaction to me asking him about the pain he suffered the first day in the library with him. This is his son's Atlas. Elias Malakai.

Leaving the library, I'm hit with an odd sensation, a combination of bewilderment and clarity that I can only assume is from discovering what I am. This morning I came into the Great Library with a hunger for more knowledge of this place and now I'm leaving it as a Weaver and even though I'm still trying to figure out what that means, I can see it all in a different light.

Three days ago, I was just a girl who reached out to meet a stranger to gain closure for my mother and now I'm a girl who is living in a world that belongs in a fantasy novel on display in a store window, a girl who can hear books whispering and drawn to books that tell the beginning, middle, and endings of people's stories.

The craziest thing is; that none of this feels strange to me and if I admitted that out loud to a normal human being, they would probably have me committed to somewhere like Arkham Asylum.