The Weaver

He specialised in lies.

White lies he could do with his eyes closed, hands behind his back, though honestly (pun intended), most people could come up with their own and he didn't get much demand these days. Grey lies were his stock-in-trade, from pale dove-grey all the way to deep charcoal. The kind of lies most people felt a tug of guilt at telling and couldn't pull off quite convincingly enough. Pesky consciences. Black lies were a challenge. The intricacies of a good black lie rippled in effect, so they always took him longer to weave. Financially, this was hardly a problem. The customers who demanded them were willing, or desperate enough, to pay asking price. And he didn't come cheap.

 It was the end of a quiet week, the latest in a winter of them. His last appointment of the day was delayed, which afforded him time to think. Recently, business had been slow. The older the world got, the more cynical the people in it became, it seemed. Used to be, a man would pay a good price to clear the stigma of a guilty conscience. Now they came to him and haggled. The cheek.

He was startled out of his reverie by a noise outside. He looked up just as she walked in, the wind howling at her back before the door closed on her scent. Vanilla. She was pretty enough, with a wide forehead, long black hair and a generous mouth. She greeted him with a smile that failed to reach serious brown eyes.

“I’m Lucy.”

His name was simply Les. (“Like my craft, you see” he’d usually joke to customers. “ ‘Cept I’s not in it.” They never laughed. ) Something about this woman stopped him from using his worn-thin introduction.

Her voice seemed older, sombre. “I need your help.”

He was used to this request and only nodded in response, looking her over. He enjoyed doing this with clients. His silence disconcerted them as he tried to guess their sin before it was revealed. It was a little game he played. He’d gotten pretty good at recognising the distinct nuances between the faces of the cheaters, the gamblers, the embezzlers, the thieves. They came to him for succour and he delighted in his gift, in the power he held over them.

Something about this woman was different to his typical client, however, and it took him a moment to pinpoint it exactly: her face lacked the frantic panic he usually saw when prospective clients walked through his door. There was only a sad sort of remorse; only the guilt, with no fear of getting caught. Whatever truth she wanted covered, Lucy seemed more concerned with making amends than having it varnished. Which begged the question: Why was she here?

“Do you understand the weaving?” he enquired. When she hesitated, he went on to explain perfunctorily, “Price will be determined by the strength of the lie and the number of people who currently know the truth. The web needs an anchor, at least one person who will recognise its existence. That would be you, the client. The weaving does not make the lie a reality - this is very important. It is still a lie and as such, can be untangled. You need to understand that. I have never had that happen,” this stated proudly, “but there’s always a first time.”

Lucy nodded. She understood.

“Now, please explain your situation,” he requested. “The more I know, the stronger the web I can weave, the more believable the lie.”

She looked down at her lap, breathing quietly, thinking. Long minutes passed. He simply watched her, waiting, intrigued. Why was she here?

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked eventually, still staring at her skirt.

He flinched, shocked out of his impersonal curiosity. This was the last thing he’d expected.

“Err… I’m not sure what this-”

“Have you ever noticed,” she continued, avoiding his gaze, “that in every relationship, there’s always one who loves more? That it hurts them both to know it?”

“You want someone to love you?” he asked, confused. “That’s not what I do. I can weave li-“

“NO!” She was suddenly all fire. “I want you to make me believe I’m the one who loves more. I want the lie to be for me!” She finally lifted her eyes. Anguish and despair pooled in tear-soaked lashes. “Don’t you see? I need to stop feeling guilty for not loving enough!”

He was momentarily mute. The force of her pain was a palpable presence in his office. She had lowered her face into her hand, shoulders shaking with breathless sobs.

“It wont be true” he murmured gently, compassion an uncomfortable, seldom-used mantle on his shoulders.

He saw her spine stiffen. Saw her visibly collect herself, slowly pushing all the emotion, all that agony, back out of sight.

“It will seem true to me” she answered, tears still staining her voice. “And if I believe, I can make him believe also.”

He saw the logic in what she said.

“Who will be the anchor?” he didn’t want to disappoint her, but the web needed structure if the lie was to be strong enough.

The look she bestowed held such raw yearning, he couldn’t look away.

“Please,” she begged. “Help me.”

He couldn’t look away. He could not look away.

At last, he stood up and walked to her side. With an arm around her shoulder, he walked her to the office door. He felt her sigh, felt hope sliding away as they neared the exit.

“I will anchor,” he spoke quietly, opening the door.

She gasped, surprised, then threw her arms around him in a warm embrace, face against his neck.

“We’ll work out the details this week” he told her, awkward over her gratitude.

Moving away, beaming through renewed tears, she squeezed his hand as she walked past the door.

“Les?” she hesitated at the threshold. “What colour is it?”

He stopped in the process of closing the door.
“It’s golden,” he informed her. A pause.  “And it’s free.”

A blinding smile that reached her eyes, and she was gone.

He had never thought he would feel noble in his work, yet now he did. He had never thought he would be envious of the beneficiary of one of his webs. And now he was. He had never imagined he would wish someone loved him enough that they were willing to commit to the gravest of lies, to delude themselves. For him.

But lies were all he had.