The sun was just the smallest winking hint on the horizon, heralding a new day of light, color, sound, and mood. The Taleweaver stood at the door of his hut, looking out over the valley as the others finished their morning meals and set to their daily tasks.
The sun would set far too soon. He had much to do, and very little time.
Turning, he walked across the main room of his small but neat hut, passing the dishes that were washed and set in their places. He passed the laundry that was dried and folded, settled on the shelves. None of the mundane tasks of life would beset him today. He had to focus.
Settling in his favorite chair, he drew his loom close, and considered the basket at his side. The basket was always kept full, of course, and well-organized. The brightly colored balls of Plot, Character, and Setting were interspersed with the darker balls of Intrigue and Suspense that he used for contrast. These, he would always use lightly. He did not like tales that were woven mostly of dark threads. The children would have nightmares if he was too heavy handed with such tales.
Taking the ball of Plot in hand, he set his loom and wove some thread onto a shuttle, passing the threads back and forth. Shuttles of Character and Setting, with their rich variety, soon followed. The weaving was coming along nicely. Here and there, in just the right places, he would twist the threads of Plot. He couldn't help chuckling now and then as he added shimmering patches of Comic Relief, and a tear came to his eye as the thread of one Character was cut short in a terrible tragedy.
As the sun passed overhead at noonday, he paused, examining his work with a critical eye. It was coming along nicely, but he couldn't help the uneasy feeling that he had missed something. Was it a Plot thread out of place? Another Character thread needed for balance? Perhaps a Setting thread was too heavy early in the weaving...
He couldn't tell. He called on his wife and friends to examine his work, but they could not find the error, either. As usual, their support warmed his heart, but he still had the feeling that something was not right.
At last, he decided that whatever it was, it wasn't important enough to be addressed if so many could not find it. He continued his weaving, humming to himself as the colors mixed and shimmered, seeming to sing to him in the light of the afternoon sun. This would be one of his finest tales, the greatest of his works. The children would be so pleased.
The last of the threads were woven in place and neatly tied off, the balls of threads returned to the basket, and he sat back to examine the tale. It was beautiful, as he had hoped. His wife brought his supper to him, and, as usual, it was excellent. Her Validation stew, with just the right spicing of Positive Reinforcement, and Constructive Criticism, would give him the strength he needed to examine the tale one more time before he could present it to the others.
His thoughts slowed as dawning horror arose. There it was... a Plot Twist out of place. It seemed small, but as he examined the rest of the weaving, he could see how that one twist left the tale crying out hopelessly for missing context. And the weaving was complete... how could he repair it now?
Perhaps if he just removed that one twist. It was so small, it could have but little effect. Drawing his knife, a tool that seemed to ring out with sharpness, he nicked the single Plot thread and carefully removed the twist.
But as he did so, the rest of the tale came tumbling down into his despairing arms in a tangle of lost hopes and dreams. The one twist had been too tightly woven into the tale, and without it, the rest was meaningless.
His friend came in. "The children are gathered at the fireside. Is the Tale..." his voice broke off as he saw the mass of sadly broken threads, in the arms of the equally broken Taleweaver.
"Oh dear. Is there any way to fix it?" he asked gently, coming forward and helping the weaver out of the tangle.
"Not easily. In fact..."
The words were difficult to speak. So difficult, the weaver nearly choked on them. But they had to be said. With a heavy sigh, he shook his head.
"I'm sorry. But this tale will not be told tonight. It isn't... right. I can't tell it like this."
"The children will be so disappointed," his wife said, coming up behind him.
"No more so than if I present a tale not worthy to be told," he insisted. He examined the fallen tangle of threads once more, and determination rose within him. Resolutely, he took up the knife and began to separate the threads. While this tale had been a failure, it had its good points. He would not discard the threads. He would use them again, somehow.
Taking up the basket, he wound the loose threads of his failed tale neatly onto the balls. "I will have a tale for them tomorrow, far better than this," he promised. "But I will not tell them a tale that does not bring me joy to tell."
"We understand," his friend assured him, turning and walking out to join the fireside.
The weaver was saddened to lose so many hours of work, but he knew that in the end, his tales would be all the better for it. And if he started now, perhaps he would have time to weave an even longer tale for tomorrow's fireside. He still had a few threads of Plot lying loosely around his loom. Threads that were simply too good to just add back to the balls.
Taking up these threads, he loaded his shuttle, considered his loom, and began to weave.
